How to Trap a Tycoon(10)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Adam crossed his legs and rubbed at a spot on his shoe. "I will, once you start saying something that doesn’t make me want to throw up. Hey, I had sushi for lunch. It could get ugly."

Lucas gazed down at his drink, then ran his thumb slowly, thoughtfully, along the rim of the glass. "I want to do a story on her, Adam."

"Why?"

"I have my own reasons."

"Care to tell me what they are?"

Lucas glanced up and met his gaze levelly. "No."

Adam studied the other man with much interest but didn’t pursue the matter. Not because he wasn’t curious about whatever was going on in the wily head of the hotshot writer, but because, suddenly, he began to get a pretty good idea of his own for a story. Before he could stop it, the idea had taken root, and even more quickly, it began to blossom.

It was a good idea for a story, he thought. A really good idea. One that would definitely appeal to his readership. Because it was, without question, elitist. And sexist. And snobby. And it was also, he had to admit, not a little sensationalistic.

Okay, so sensationalism had its uses, he conceded. Elitist, sexist snobs were only human. In their own unique sort of way.

"Fine," he told Lucas, even before the idea was fully formed. "Let’s do it. Let’s do a story on Lauren Grable-Monroe. But," he quickly interjected when he saw Lucas snap to attention again, "it’s going to be on my terms. With my spin."

The other man’s disappointment was almost palpable. "Oh, come on, Adam. That’s not fair."

"My magazine. My rules."

Lucas gazed at him sullenly.

"Don’t worry," Adam told him. "You’re going to like this. Because you, my fine, young, ruthless writer, get to go hunting."

The younger man shook his head, still looking ticked off. "I don’t like the sound of that. You know how I feel about the cruel and senseless slaughter of innocent animals."

"You couldn’t care less about the slaughter of animals," Adam said. "But not to worry. For this assignment, you won’t be hunting an animal." He smiled with grim satisfaction. "You’ll be hunting a woman."

Lucas brightened some. "Oh, well, in that case, I’m your man."

"Good boy."

"Now, then. About this assignment," he continued, dipping his head forward with much interest. "Will I, by any chance, be hunting a woman in lingerie?"

Adam chuckled. "Hey, if you want to wear lingerie when you go hunting, it’s none of my concern."

"You know what I mean."

Adam eyed him thoughtfully. "I guess it depends on how successful you are in your hunt."

"I’m always successful, Adam. You know that."

"Yes, I do. Which is why you’re going to be the perfect candidate for writing this story the way I want it told."

"And the story the way you want it told would be…"

This time Adam was the one to smile the predatory smile. "Lucas, since you’re such a fan of the book, I want you to use it to go out and trap yourself a tycoon."

Lucas’s rapt interest suddenly shifted to vague suspicion. "Come again?"

"The way I see it," Adam began, "even though Ms. Grable-Monroe wrote her book for women who want to land themselves a rich husband, there’s no reason why a man can’t use the book to land himself a rich wife."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Lucas objected immediately, raising his hands before himself palm out in a gesture of what was clearly self-preservation. "You want me to go out and trap a rich wife? Are you crazy? I don’t care how much money she has. No way do I want to be married and miserable for the rest of my life."

"Not a real wife," Adam told him. "You don’t have to marry the tycoon you trap. Just use the instructions in the book to snag yourself … you know … a sugar mommy."

Lucas shuddered visibly. "I think that’s the single most revolting thing anyone’s ever said to me. I do not want to go there."

Adam ignored the comment. "Look, just write me a story for the magazine that offers a man’s view of this whole thing. I want to see what happens when a young, ambitious guy like yourself reads the book and takes the advice to heart in the quest for a rich woman. It should make for a nice piece."

"A nice piece," Lucas repeated flatly. "I’m not even going to touch that comment."

"Hey, you don’t have to touch anything you don’t want to. No reason to get tawdry. Just get me a good story out of this," Adam reiterated. "One that will appeal to our readership."

"Oh, I can definitely do that. It should be really interesting," Lucas said blandly. "And, gosh, really fun, too. And, whoa, very educational. And it should put to rest once and for all my father’s theory that it’s as easy to fall in love with a rich woman as it is with a poor one. Would that he had followed his own advice," he added in a voice that prohibited further probing.

"You say that because you don’t believe in love, period," Adam said.

Lucas tilted his head to the side. "Excuse me, but I’m only a twenty-four-year-old bachelor, unlike the thirty-nine-year-old bachelor who is also sitting at this bar. Is it just me, or does this seem like an odd statement for the old guy to be making to the young guy in such a situation?"

Adam ignored the comment, thinking he was getting pretty good at ignoring Lucas. Now, if he could just be as effective in getting the kid to shut up in the first place, he’d be okay. Of course, the fact that Lucas refused to be shut up was probably what made him such a good journalist to begin with.

Damn, Adam hated these catch-22s. But he did love the way Lucas worked.

"I’d still like to expose Lauren Grable-Monroe," his hotshot writer said. "How about I write an exposé on her as a companion piece to this story?"

Adam opened his mouth to tell Lucas no, to state quite adamantly that such an exposé had no place in Man’s Life magazine. And when he did, the oddest thing came out instead.

"No way, Lucas," he told him.

"Why not?"

Unbidden, a feral little smile curled Adam’s lips. "Because," he said, "Lauren Grable-Monroe is mine.

Chapter 3

"What do you think, Dorsey? The blue or the green?"

Dorsey heard her mother’s question and told herself it would be polite to answer. Unfortunately, she was far too busy doing other things—things like, oh, panicking, reeling from shock, quaking with fear, choking on terror—to form an adequate reply. She couldn’t even bring herself to glance up from where she had buried her face in her hands after collapsing onto the edge of Carlotta MacGuinness’s pink-satin-covered, king-sized bed. Because one terrible, terrible sentence kept echoing and spinning through her brain.