How to Trap a Tycoon(38)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

If she hadn’t set herself up for that comment, Dorsey would have slapped him silly for making it. "I, uh … I wore one to a Halloween party once," she told him, feeling stung by both his blatant ogling and the fact that she’d come up lacking—in both his eyes and her own bra.

"Mm," he replied noncommittally. Then he added, "Actually, if you must know, Desiree doesn’t wear a Wonderbra."

A little stab of jealousy pricked Dorsey’s ego—oh, all right, a huge, razor-edged broadsword of jealousy rammed itself right through her heart—and before she could stop herself, she replied, "No, I didn’t must know, actually, but since you told me anyway, it sounds like you’re speaking from experience."

He grinned at her with a little malice of his own. "Maybe I am."

Once again, Dorsey realized she’d just set herself up for being torn down. "Oh," she said in a very small voice. "Well. I see."

Adam sighed heavily, then rubbed a hand over his forehead as if warding off a wicked migraine. "Look, Mack, I’m sorry. I invited Desiree before you and I…" He expelled another restless breath. "Whatever I had with her—it was a long time ago, okay?" he told her.

Dorsey eyed him suspiciously. She told herself to drop the subject, that he’d said all he needed to say on the matter, that it was none of her business, that she was only setting herself up for more disappointment if she pushed the issue. In spite of all her admonitions, however, she heard herself ask him, "How long ago?"

He hesitated before responding, then, "Months," he said. "It was months ago."

"How many months?"

"Lots of months."

"How many?" she repeated.

He expelled an impatient sound, then said through gritted teeth, "So many, I can’t remember."

After another thoughtful moment, Dorsey said, "I’m guessing it was two months."

He rolled his eyes but said nothing more. Nor would he meet her gaze. Bingo, Dorsey thought. Men were so transparent. "I’m right, aren’t I?" she cajoled. "It’s only been two months since the two of you—"

"All right," he conceded. "It’s been two months."

"Two months isn’t very long," she observed.

"Not in woman years, maybe," he conceded. "But in man years, Desiree might as well be dead."

The difference in opinion heartened Dorsey not at all. "I suppose you’ve changed your mind about wanting me to stay late tonight after everyone else goes home."

He met her gaze levelly. "No, I haven’t."

"But with Desiree here—"

"Desiree won’t be here."

A little flutter of something warm and hopeful skittered around Dorsey’s heart. "She won’t?"

"No," Adam told her very decisively.

"Oh."

Evidently, this was something he had yet to discuss with Desiree, because, as if she’d been conjured from thin air by their speculation, she appeared magically at his side. Then she pressed herself into him as if she were trying to absorb him through osmosis. It soon became clear, however, that it was an entirely different scientific experiment that she wanted to perform on him this evening. Not osmosis so much as metamorphosis.

"Adam," she said petulantly, twirling her empty glass by its stem. "When are we going to get married?"

Adam went absolutely rigid beside her, mimicking Dorsey’s own icy posture. Married? she thought, horrified by the prospect.

"Married?" Adam echoed, clearly horrified by the prospect.

The petite blonde nodded and, although Dorsey would have sworn such a thing was totally impossible, she crowded her tiny body even more closely into his. "Yes, married," she said insistently. "For the last four months, I’ve been setting my tycoon trap for you, and you still haven’t stepped into it."

Wow . If Dorsey had thought Adam was angry before, she was severely mistaken. Because at Desiree’s casually offered comment, he suddenly went utterly still, utterly silent, utterly…

Uh-oh.

"You, uh … you’ve been setting a tycoon trap since you met me?" he asked very softly.

She nodded. "I’ve done everything that Lauren Grable-Monroe told me to do. I found you exactly where she told me I’d find you, and I did all the things she said to do in her book, but I still don’t have you trapped. I mean, you didn’t even notice the new diaphanous gown I wore the last time I was here." She turned her face up to look at him and—unbelievable, Dorsey thought—didn’t even seem to notice that he was absolutely livid.

"Do go on, Desi," he said, once again speaking in that soft, scary voice.

"So, Desiree, looks like you could use a refill," Dorsey cut in quickly, hoping to defuse the tension. She reached across the bar to snatch the woman’s empty glass out of her elegantly manicured—and, inescapably, pink—fingertips.

Desiree smiled her gratitude. "Thank you. You’ve been so considerate and so helpful tonight. Adam’s so lucky to have you." For a moment, Dorsey felt guilty for all of the mean-spirited thoughts she’d been having all night about poor Desiree. Then, "Good help is so hard to find," poor Desiree said.

Dorsey’s fingers tightened on the glass. "So, Desi. You were saying something about luring Adam into your tycoon trap. And here I’ve been thinking that he’s the kind of man who would chew his own foot off before he’d let something like that happen. I do wish you’d go on."

The other woman brightened. "Oh, have you read How to Trap a Tycoon?" she asked.

Dorsey nodded indulgently. "Chapter seven had me glued to my chair," she said.

Desiree’s expression clouded. "That’s funny. Chapter seven had me squirming in mine. That whole crème de menthe thing was just so…" She squinched up her pink little face in something akin to deep thought, then added, "Although maybe if I’d done the crème de menthe thing, Adam would have proposed by now. And then I wouldn’t have to do it anymore, because wives aren’t expected to be so inventive. All they have to do is lie there and—"

"Desi," Adam interrupted. He intercepted the drink that Dorsey had eagerly extended toward her and set it back down on the bar. "I think you’ve had enough. God knows I have. I’m going to find Lucas Conaway and ask him to drive you home."

It was at that point that Edie Mulholland, who had been working alongside Dorsey much of the night, returned to the bar to refill a serving tray with flutes of champagne. "What are you, nuts?" she interjected when she heard Adam’s statement, drowning out Desiree’s halfhearted protests. "You get Lucas Conaway to take her home, she’ll never get there."