How to Trap a Tycoon(19)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Only then did Adam recall that he had sort of announced his intention to investigate the elusive author himself way back when he’d assigned Lucas his story. Somehow, though, he’d never quite gotten around to undertaking that investigation.

Why not? he wondered now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had been more than a little enjoyable sitting at the bar that night plotting Lauren Grable-Monroe’s downfall with Lucas—particularly that part about staking her out na**d and covered with honey, spread-eagle, beneath a hot desert sun. It was an image that still crept into Adam’s thoughts from time to time, and at the oddest moments, too, especially since he’d seen her publicity photo, because then he’d been able to put a face—a gorgeous, seductive, alluring face—on that body—that lush, rounded, bronzed, naked, sweaty, honey-covered body—and … and … and…

And where was he? Oh, yeah.

Other things had come up, so to speak, and his plans for Lauren had been put on hold. Recalling the honey-covered image again, however, Adam couldn’t begin to imagine why he had let other things prevent his investigation. And now that he’d seen the author in the flesh—and quite nice flesh it was, too—albeit from a distance, he discovered, not much to his surprise, that he suddenly wanted to undertake his investigation again.

"I’m on the case," he assured Lucas.

"Yeah, you’re on something, all right," the other man said.

"Yeah, and it’s not Viagra, either."

"Are you going after her, or what?"

Adam turned back to where Lauren Grable-Monroe had been sitting mere moments ago and smiled. "Oh, yeah. I’m going after her. I’m going to find out who she is, where she comes from, and what the hell she was thinking to write a book like How to Trap a Flaming Tycoon."

"And then?" Lucas asked enthusiastically.

Adam hesitated. "I’m not quite sure yet. But I have a couple of ideas." One included honey and stakes and a hot desert sun, he realized. And the other…

Well, the other was nowhere near as polite.

"Lucas," he said, still preoccupied by his thoughts, "help me find out where they keep the books on the Gobi Desert and carnivorous insects."

* * *

Dorsey nibbled her lip anxiously as she flicked her gaze to Fran Schott, the publicist Rockcastle Books had assigned her for her book tour. "Are they gone yet?" she asked the tall young blonde who had entered the small stockroom.

Fran shook her head as she closed the door on a murmur of voices that slunk in from the other side. "There are still about a dozen people out there who want a few more words—or something—with Lauren. Most of them are male. And few of them look respectable."

Dorsey sighed fitfully. "Tell them Lauren has left the building."

"Believe me, I have," Fran assured her adamantly. "But a couple of Lauren’s fans saw her—you—pass through this door, and they’re not leaving until they see her—you—come back out again. You’re—she’s—just going to have to wait them out."

Dorsey didn’t want to wait. She couldn’t wait. If she had to be dressed in her Lauren costume much longer, she was going to scream. Her wig itched, her clothes pinched, her cosmetics weighed more than Mount Rushmore, and her Wonderbra made her feel like she was going to fall forward face first and suffocate on her own foam rubber inserts. Still, all things considered, her first public appearance had gone surprisingly well, especially in light of the fact that she’d been utterly terrified during the entire episode. Now, however, she just wanted to go home, take a bath, and return to Dorseyhood.

"You might as well make yourself comfortable," Fran said.

"I’d rather go home to be alone. I feel kind of … strange."

"I’m not surprised. These things can be nerve-racking in the best of situations." The publicist smiled sympathetically. "And I don’t imagine this is the best of situations."

Fran Schott had been apprised of the actual situation when Rockcastle Books had assigned her to escort Lauren on her book tour. She’d also been apprised of the fact that should she reveal the truth to anyone, she’d never work in publishing again.

Now the publicist shrugged apologetically. "I had no idea it would be like this," she told Dorsey. "Had I suspected, I would have had a car waiting for you outside. I just assumed that once the signing concluded, everyone would scatter." She tilted her head toward the door. "They might still, if you go out there and exchange a few more words with them."

Dorsey shook her head. Vehemently. Through much practice and rehearsal over the last month, she had managed to pretty much master the art of deception in creating Lauren Grable-Monroe. After she and Carlotta had collected a suitable vamp’s wardrobe from the department stores and couturiers along Michigan Avenue and had amassed cosmetics the like of which Dorsey hadn’t even realized existed, they had spent the better part of an afternoon creating the physical manifestation of Lauren. With the addition of blond wig and brown contact lenses, with the application of two or three—or ten—layers of eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and whatever else filled those little tubes and tubs that Carlotta had insisted were essential, with the body-altering Wonderbra and stiletto heels, Dorsey had seemed to become someone else entirely. Dorsey had become someone else entirely. She had become Lauren Grable-Monroe.

Until she opened her mouth.

That part had taken a bit longer to master. She’d had to mask her voice, and she had been obligated to master the art of—she shuddered now to think about it—repartee. Most difficult of all, she had been forced to get in touch with her sexuality, something she’d never really bothered to do before.

It wasn’t that Dorsey didn’t like sex. On the contrary, on those few occasions when she had experienced it—long ago, in a galaxy far away—she was reasonably certain she had enjoyed herself. She was simply opposed to using sex as a marketing tool, that was all. Especially since she was the one carrying the toolbox. So to speak. Lauren needed to be presented as a sexual being. Dorsey was not a sexual being. Therefore, she could only sustain the illusion for a brief time.

And besides, her wig really did itch a lot.

She remembered then that she had changed her clothes and donned her makeup at Severn earlier that evening before meeting Fran on campus, and that the publicist had then driven her to the bookstore. Now Dorsey’s blue jeans, hiking boots, and lumberjack sweater were packed safely away in her backpack. The backpack which—hey, what do you know?—just so happened to be leaning haphazardly on a shelf right behind Fran. Dorsey also recalled that there was a tiny employee washroom behind the door to Fran’s left.