How to Trap a Tycoon(3)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

And if her tips had always been a bit lighter because her customers thought she was married, well, that was just the price she had to pay. She made less than the blond bartenders, too, but that hadn’t made her want to color her hair. And anyway, she wasn’t working at Drake’s because she needed the money, was she?

Although it wasn’t yet four-thirty in the afternoon, the club was bustling. Well, as much as a bunch of buttoned-down and uptight, overfed and underjoyed old guys could bustle, at any rate.

Dorsey marveled, as she always did, that anybody could be as dry and stuffy as the pin-striped clientele of Drake’s without being mummified. Then again, there were one or two who might have given Tutankhamen a run for his money—in both the gold and the shrivel departments. Honestly. A good, stiff wind would have blown some of them away like the parchment upon which they’d written the Declaration of Independence.

Independence for men, anyway, she thought, seeing as how women had been completely excluded from the document that had made this country what it was today, by God. And if these guys had had their way—and now that Dorsey thought about it, many of them did still have their way—women would continue to be neglected possessions left at home, overseeing the polishing of the silver of generations and squeezing out heirs to inherit it.

A healthy handful of men was scattered about the luxuriously appointed club room as Dorsey passed quickly through it. Some were seated in leather wing chairs reading newspapers and annual reports, while others relaxed on strategically arranged burgundy leather sofas. Many were murmuring into cell phones, no doubt looking to buy some stock or place a bet on the seventh race at Saratoga or line up a date with someone other than their wife.

As questionable as she found the appeal of Drake’s clientele, though, Dorsey certainly couldn’t criticize the decor. Lindy Aubrey, the woman who owned and operated the place, had utterly impeccable taste and knew exactly how to make a man feel comfortable and pampered. Fine English antiques and oil paintings of hunt scenes complemented the elegant furnishings, and Persian rugs and crown molding further enhanced the mood. The effect, on the whole, was one of old money, old bloodlines, old boys.

Other than Lindy, who was pretty much an old boy herself, the only women allowed here were the ones who served—quietly, unobtrusively, and without complaint. Frankly, that was the toughest part of the job as far as Dorsey was concerned, being obsequious and pleasant. But doing so suited her needs—for now, at any rate. She wasn’t above—or below, for that matter—sucking up for the few more months it would be necessary. Once she had achieved her goal here, she’d happily kiss goodbye—and kiss off—the illustrious Drake’s. Until then, however, like women everywhere, she was content to do what she had to do.

The posh European decor carried from the club room into the bar, which was also filled with men, even so early in the evening. Then again, it was Friday, she recalled, and most of these guys could afford to leave work early and get a head start on the weekend. Because, by and large, these guys owned the weekend. Not to mention every other day of the week. They were the men in charge, unlike the majority of working stiffs who had to punch a time clock. And, by God, they rarely let anyone forget it.

They sat lining the bar like thumbtacks, each affixed to his stool and nursing a drink. Dorsey noted all of the usual suspects as she passed by them, identifying each by what he drank.

Seven-and-Seven sat next to Salty Dog, who was followed by the gin twins, Gimlet and Gibson. After them came Anchor-Steam-Draft, Heineken-in-a-Bottle, and Kir Royal.

Kir Royal, Dorsey mused, not for the first time, as she considered the huge, hulking, dark man who cradled a delicate wine glass in his hand. Honestly. He was the CEO of a trucking company, for heaven’s sake. If the guys driving the big rigs ever found out what he drank, they’d mutiny.

Next in line came the Scotch brigade—Rob Roy, Rusty Nail, Scotch-and-Water, and Dewar’s-Straight-Up. And then, at the point where the bar began to curve around, seated in his usual spot … Dorsey bit back an involuntary—and very wistful—sigh.

Then came Oban-over-Ice.

Oban-over-Ice was, hands down, Dorsey’s favorite of her regulars, which wasn’t saying much, because she didn’t like any of her regulars except for Oban-over-Ice. Still, she did like him—probably more than she should.

Outside Drake’s, his name was Adam Darien, and she’d learned quite a bit about him over the course of her month-long employment at the club. He was, after all, in the bar more evenings than not, and he often ate his dinner seated right where he was now. They’d shared more than a few interesting and often animated conversations.

She knew that he was the editor-in-chief of Man’s Life magazine, which, in her opinion was really far too elitist and sexist a publication for any self-respecting woman—rich or poor—to condone, but it did usually contain a very nice fiction piece, and once, she’d found a great recipe for a Manhattan in there, and the arts section was far superior to anything she found in any other publication. But other than that, the magazine was pretty much an affront to womanhood everywhere. Even if Janet Reno and Gloria Steinem had both given profiles in the magazine recently. Really good ones, too.

Dorsey also knew that Adam Darien had just recently purchased a new, jet-black, Porsche 911 cabriolet. She knew that, because the two of them had discussed at length the pros and cons of that car and the new Jaguar roadster. Mr. Darien had been leaning toward the Jag until Dorsey had assured him the Porsche was one fine piece of automotive machinery, and when you compared German and British engineering, well … say no more. Unless he was willing to import a mechanic named Nigel, he was much better off with the 911.

Had Mr. Darien been any other kind of man—one who wasn’t incredibly handsome, successful, intelligent and self-aware—she might have thought his frequency at the club was a result of loneliness. But there was no way—no way—she would ever believe a man like him was lonely. Doubtless he simply enjoyed the camaraderie and excessive testosterone levels at Drake’s. After all, he always left well before bedtime. Even if he didn’t wear a wedding ring—something she just happened to notice one day when she hadn’t been looking, honest—she was sure there was some woman, or perhaps women—he did rather seem that type—waiting for him at home.

But that was all beside the point.

Because Mr. Darien was, when all was said and done, a member of Drake’s. He was a suit-and-tie-wearing, establishment-supporting, stock-and-bond-owning, woman-objectifying … man.

And anyway, regardless of how much she knew about him, she scarcely had time to think about him, had she? He only braved entry into her brain once or twice—or ten or twenty—times a day, and only during those few—or several—off moments when she had nothing else to think about. She especially didn’t have time to think about him while she was here at Drake’s, even if, every time she turned around, she saw him sitting there staring at her.