How to Trap a Tycoon(33)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

She jutted a thumb halfheartedly over her shoulder, hoping the gesture looked casual. "I, um … I really do have to go," she told him, taking a step back. "I have an eight o’clock class in the morning."

He nodded, though somehow she could see that it was less in understanding than it was in resignation. As if he’d expected this reaction from her and was for the most part content to let it go.

Strange, she thought. She suddenly felt guilty for cutting out on him. It wasn’t like the two of them were friends, she reassured herself. And it certainly wasn’t like she owed him something. Until tonight, they’d barely spoken a civil word to each other. Just because he’d had a few too many drinks and had revealed a side of himself she’d never seen before… Just because it was a side of him she found oddly endearing somehow… Just because it was a side of him that, under other circumstances—like maybe if she’d lived an entirely different life from the one she had—she might honestly want to explore…

Well, just because of all that, it didn’t mean she had to do as he asked. It would be lunacy—idiocy—for her to stay here and share a cup of coffee with Lucas Conaway. Not just because there could be no future in it, but because her past was in it. And her past being what it was, the evening would only end badly. Of that, she had no doubt.

"I, um … I’ll see you at Drake’s," she told him, taking another step back until she found herself framed in the open doorway.

Only then did she recall that she still held his keys and, with a quick shake to warn him, she tossed them the length of the room. He caught them capably in one hand, no easy feat seeing as how his eyes never left hers as she performed the action. So handsome, she thought. He was so handsome. Intelligent. Funny. Interesting. Really, it was just too bad that—

She cut off the thought with a deep sigh and lifted a hand in halfhearted farewell.

"Edie," he called out as she turned away.

Reluctantly, she spun back around.

"Thanks," he said softly. "For everything."

"No problem," she replied.

He emitted a single humorless chuckle. "No problem," he echoed unhappily. "Yeah, right. That’s what you think, sweetheart. That’s what you think."

Chapter 8

A week after telling Adam she couldn’t see him, Dorsey sat in the locker room at Drake’s and marveled at how very accurate her prediction had been. Because during that week, she had seen neither hide nor hair—nor suit nor tie—of him anywhere. When she’d told him that night on her front porch that she wouldn’t be able to see him, she’d meant socially. Romantically. Personally. She hadn’t meant she wouldn’t see him at all.

But it was actually kind of a relief, because she had no idea how she was supposed to act around him now, anyway. She felt so odd about things. Before last week, their roles had been clearly defined, and they’d both been reasonably comfortable playing those roles. Now, however, the line between them was blurred. Whereas before, she’d had no trouble toeing that line, now Dorsey had stumbled off of it completely. And she couldn’t rightly say on which side of it she had fallen. But what was most troubling of all was that no matter where she landed, Lauren Grable-Monroe would be right there with her.

There was no way Dorsey could start something with Adam—or anyone else, for that matter—without Lauren getting involved in it, too. And even though Lauren’s baser nature would probably relish the idea of a threesome, Dorsey just wasn’t that kind of girl.

Of course, the night that she had kissed Adam, for those few moments that she lost herself in his arms, she sure had felt like that kind of girl. Not a day—not an hour—had passed since their embrace that she hadn’t relived in her head those two searing, combustible kisses. He had felt so good, so exciting, to hold onto. It had been like corralling wild energy, unrestrained force. Like clasping a cyclone to her breast and pulling some of its limitless power and vast fury into herself.

In addition to arousing her sexually, powerfully, kissing Adam had made Dorsey feel strong, potent, infinite. That such a man would lose control over her, lose control with her, was a heady sensation indeed. She’d never felt anything like it before. Something told her she would never feel anything like it again. And the realization of that had just made her miss Adam all the more.

But she’d also missed their friendship. She’d missed their easy banter and mildly dangerous flirtations. She’d missed his low laughter and reluctant smiles. She’d missed his totally erroneous masculine assumptions and his laughably misguided chauvinist deductions. She’d even missed the pangs of wistful melancholy that invariably shot through her every time she had to stop herself from reaching out a hand to run her fingers through his hair.

She’d just missed him. Very much. And she couldn’t stop thinking about those two kisses they had shared on her front porch. She couldn’t erase the memory of how his hands had felt curling over her bottom, how his mouth had felt rubbing insistently against her throat. She recalled every sigh, every scent, every seductive sensation. And more than anything in the world, she wanted to experience it again. All of it. And more.

But she also wanted to recapture their familiar camaraderie. And she couldn’t come up with a solution that would combine both a romantic and a friendly relationship with him. Certainly not while she was leading a triple life as Dorsey MacGuinness, sociology prof wannabe, Mack, the bartender, and Lauren Grable-Monroe, cultural icon. It was just too weird to think about it all right now. All things considered, she supposed it was just as well that she hadn’t seen him for a week.

But she sure did miss him.

Then again, the week had passed in such a blur, she hadn’t seen much of anything at all. Lauren Grable-Monroe, it seemed, was hitting the peak of her popularity. In one week she had signed books at a shopping mall in Schaumburg , had spoken to a group of sex therapists in Champaign , and had still fitted in an early-morning radio talk show in Chicago .

That last event, having occurred only yesterday morning, was still fresh in Dorsey’s mind, and she was still feeling a bit uneven because of it. Whereas she had gone to the radio station thinking she’d be fielding the usual sorts of questions for Lauren—fun, frivolous queries about the book or the author’s fictional personal life—some of the callers had been a bit less than enthusiastic in their responses. True, there had been the usual assortment of giggling schoolgirls cutting class, but there had also been disenchanted housewives shouting over squalling babies and frustrated men berating Lauren for ruining women everywhere. Dorsey had left feeling slightly smudged. As if the smooth, clean lines of Lauren Grable-Monroe’s self-assurance had been soiled and stretched and damaged.