How to Trap a Tycoon(11)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Lauren Grable-Monroe is mine.

Adam Darien’s proclamation still made Dorsey shudder when she replayed it, even though a full weekend had passed since she’d heard him utter it aloud. She’d spent the entirety of that weekend trying to convince herself that she was worrying over nothing. That there was no way the two men could possibly uncover Lauren’s true identity. That her editor and publisher were more than capable of maintaining her anonymity—they had, after all, promised. That her life, as she knew it, was going to be just fine.

And now, on this bright, sunny, cheerful Monday afternoon, she realized she had wasted her entire weekend. Because she knew she was lying through her teeth.

She’d spent the bulk of Friday evening listening to Adam Darien and his trained python, Lucas Conaway, as they’d gleefully outlined the downfall of Lauren Grable-Monroe. And because both men had been completely clueless that they were unfolding their plans in the company of their very quarry, they had been quite vivid—and inventive—in completing their plotting.

And oh, what plotting it had been.

Between the two of them, by evening’s end, they’d had Lauren stripped na**d and covered in honey, staked out spread-eagle beneath a blazing desert sun, with a big ol’ "Come ‘n’ get it!" sign posted for a nearby platoon of hungry army ants. And although she’d had to admit that the na**d and covered with honey part had held a certain, odd, oh … allure … in its initial state when Adam Darien had proposed it—she hadn’t even minded the staked out spread-eagle part, really—Lucas’s introduction of carnivorous insects had pretty much spoiled the fantasy.

They were going to expose her. They were going to investigate Lauren Grable-Monroe and find out that she was really Dorsey MacGuinness, almost Ph.D., sociology professor wannabe at utterly respectable Severn College . That, she decided, was a given. It was only a matter now of how long she could hold them off and what damage it would do to her credibility in the academic community—and in every other aspect of her life—once it happened.

Dorsey had read Man’s Life magazine, in spite of its elitist, sexist snobbery, and she knew that Adam Darien and Lucas Conaway, when left to their individual devices, could be formidable. Combined, however… She didn’t even want to think about what they could achieve.

All in all, it had made for a rather gloomy weekend.

And the mood had carried over to today, because Dorsey had walked home from Severn to catch a late lunch before going to work at Drake’s only to find that she had absolutely no appetite whatsoever. The unmitigated terror that filled her belly at being exposed by Adam Darien left little room for something as mundane as ham and cheese on whole wheat.

Her mother, of course, didn’t suffer from so grave a condition as fearing for one’s way of life. After all, nobody was threatening to expose her. Nobody was going to stake her out na**d under a burning desert sun, oh no. Because she wasn’t the author of How to Trap a Tycoon, was she?

No, Carlotta MacGuinness was only the driving force behind it. The impetus. The genesis. The reason for its very existence. That was all she was.

Therefore, the only condition plaguing Carlotta this crisp autumn afternoon was whether to wear the blue or the green. Forcing her hands away from her face, Dorsey made herself look up at her mother’s reflection in the bedroom mirror, if not at her mother herself. As always, she found Carlotta looking cool, composed, and cosmopolitan. Her platinum blond hair was blunt cut to chin length, and not a strand of it dared stray out of place. She was dressed in her stay-at-home leisure uniform of velvet leggings and tunic, having opted for lavender today. The color highlighted the pale blue of her eyes, and the cut of the outfit showcased her trim, petite figure spectacularly well.

No one would ever guess that there were twenty-five years separating them, Dorsey thought. Carlotta MacGuinness was doubtless as fit and beautiful at fifty-two as she had been at twenty-two. In many ways, she was probably more stunning now than she had been three decades ago. Because now she had a knowledge and experience of life that women of twenty-two could never possess. And over the years, she had used that knowledge and experience in a way that most women—of any age—would never understand.

Dorsey fell into that "most women" category. Although she loved her mother dearly—in spite of those occasions, frequent as they were, when Carlotta’s behavior threatened to drive her stark, raving mad—she would never, ever understand any of the choices Carlotta had made over her lifetime.

"The blue, I think," Carlotta decided without further consultation with her daughter.

Well, except maybe for that choice, Dorsey amended. Blue really was a better color on her than green. Other than that, though, most of Carlotta’s life decisions made no sense at all. And making decisions on her own was pretty much par for the course for Carlotta. She was very much her own woman, in spite of having spent her adult life being kept by so many men.

"The blue is nice," Dorsey agreed. If a tad shorter than most fifty-something women would wear. Carlotta, she was certain, would pull off magnificently the brief, sleeveless silk, sheath.

"Where are you going tonight?" Dorsey asked her.

"Hollis Barnett is celebrating her fiftieth birthday this evening with what promises to be great excess," her mother replied.

"Wow," Dorsey said. "That’s some milestone."

Carlotta held the green dress before her again, just for good measure. "I suppose," she replied blandly. "But it’s a bit anticlimactic, seeing as how Hollis actually passed said milestone seven years ago." She spun around and, clearly still undecided about which dress to wear, she tossed both carelessly onto the bed beside Dorsey and contemplated them from that angle instead.

"You could come with me," she said, smiling sweetly. "You could wear the green. It would look wonderful on you."

Dorsey eyed the even briefer strapless cocktail dress that was—almost—made of shimmering emerald satin. Then she drove her gaze down over her standard teaching assistant-post-grad student uniform of blue jeans, hiking boots, and nondescript flannel shirt. "Gee, I don’t know, Carlotta. Somehow, it just doesn’t scream me."

Her mother sniffed indignantly. "It could, you know, if you’d just forsake those awful jeans and sweaters and"—she shuddered for effect—"flannel shirts. Honestly, Dorsey, you dress like a lumberjack. You should change your name to Lars."

"Lars?"

Belatedly, Dorsey realized she had spoken the comment aloud, and immediately, she wished she could take it back. She’d learned long ago not to encourage her mother to elaborate on such remarks. Too often, Carlotta’s elaborations went on for days.