How to Trap a Tycoon(5)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Edie blushed as she made a grab for the book in question. "Hey, it’s headed straight for the best-seller list," she said in her defense. "Everybody says so. Lots of women are reading it."

"What is it?" Straight-Shot asked.

Unwilling to give the man any insight into Edie—especially insight like this—Dorsey pretended she hadn’t heard the question and handed the book back to her coworker. But Edie evidently had no qualms about letting Straight-Shot know what she was looking for in life, because she turned the book face out toward him.

"How to Trap a Tycoon," she said.

Man, Dorsey thought, she didn’t even have the decency to sound embarrassed about it.

"By Lauren Grable-Monroe," Edie added.

She didn’t stuff How to Trap a Tycoon into her backpack with the other books, however, only turned to hand it back to Dorsey, who, not surprisingly, was reluctant to claim it. "I’m leaving it for Renee," Edie told her. "She wants to read it. And then Alison wants it after Renee." She smiled knowingly at Dorsey. "You want me to put you on the waiting list?"

Dorsey shook her head. "No, thank you," she said blandly.

Edie chuckled. "Yeah, that’s our Dorsey. The last woman in the world who would want to trap herself a tycoon."

"And why is that?" a second male voice piped up.

Dorsey spun around at the remark, only to find Adam Darien gazing at her with much interest—way more than usual, and that was saying something—from the other side of the bar. He smiled before adding, "Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re already married, aren’t you, Mack?"

As much as Dorsey MacGuinness hated to be called Mack, she never challenged Adam Darien on the nick-name. She told herself it was because of Lindy’s rule—give the customer what he wants … or else. But really, it was because the way Adam Darien spoke the name, the way he murmured it low in that rough, husky voice of his, that voice that reminded her of very good cognac pooling in fine crystal and warming in the palm of a gentleman’s hand, the way he wrapped his tongue around her name and fairly purred it, so that it sauntered indolently into her ear, leaving a ripple of heat in its wake that traveled down her throat to her br**sts and points beyond…

Ahem.

Well, suffice it to say that when Mr. Darien called her Mack, it just didn’t quite bother her as much as it did when others called her Mack, that was all. Because, hey, considering the way her social life had been lately—or, more correctly, the way her social life had not been lately—the heady thrill she received from hearing the way he spoke her name was about as close as she was likely to come to sexual fulfillment for some time. Not to mention that, quite frankly, the way he said her name gave her considerably more sexual fulfillment than most women probably received in a lifetime. Certainly more than Dorsey had received in her own.

And my, but wasn’t it warm in Drake’s this afternoon? she thought further, reaching up to loosen the knot in her necktie. What did Lindy have the thermostat set on, anyway?

"I have to run," Edie said, giving Dorsey the perfect opportunity to avoid responding to Mr. Darien’s comment—or the call of his libido. Whatever. Edie ducked underneath the bar, then, realizing she was still holding How to Trap a Tycoon, she tossed the book easily back to Dorsey, who caught it capably in one hand.

"You better not let Lindy catch you doing that," Dorsey said. "Or else."

But Edie only grinned as she lifted a hand in farewell and hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. "See you Monday. Have a great weekend!"

Straight-Shot turned completely around on his bar stool to watch her go, never uttering a word as he did. Dorsey shook her head in disbelief. How obvious could the guy be?

Only when Edie had passed through the door and was out of sight did he spin back around to stare at what was left of the vodka he swirled in the bottom of his glass. "That girl needs someone to take care of her," he said before swallowing the last bit.

"And I suppose you consider yourself a likely candidate for the position," Dorsey replied sarcastically, quietly, the response intended for his ears alone.

It was the kind of comment—spoken in the kind of voice—that could have gotten her fired if Straight-Shot complained, but Dorsey couldn’t quite stop the words from coming. If he did decide to say something to her boss, Lindy would be matter-of-fact and in no way hesitant about inviting Dorsey to clean out her locker. Pronto. Lindy Aubrey stated flat out at the interview that her workers, in addition to being attractive young women, should be thoroughly willing to be dominated by the exclusively male clientele. Or else.

To her credit, however, Lindy paid her employees very well, certainly well enough to make submitting to such a rule easier than it might have been in another establishment. Nevertheless, the membership of Drake’s was generally of the variety that very definitely enjoyed dominating. A lot. Straight-Shot, she was certain, was no different. But somehow, Dorsey couldn’t quite help putting her friendship with Edie first.

To her surprise, however, Straight-Shot didn’t seem to be put off by her remark. Instead, he placed his empty glass back on the cocktail napkin before him and offered her a mild smile.

"Maybe I do think I’m a likely candidate," he said. "Edie’s a sweet girl. Why wouldn’t I want to take care of her?"

Dorsey’s gaze fell pointedly to the thick gold band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. But she said nothing more. No sense pushing her luck.

"Ah," he said, dropping his own gaze to the accessory in question. "Yes, that does rather complicate things, doesn’t it?"

"So then maybe Edie should be looking for someone else," Dorsey said.

"Judging by her choice of reading material, it would appear that she is."

Dorsey nodded and pretended that the two of them were on the same wavelength. "Well, if she trapped herself a tycoon, that would certainly take care of her troubles, wouldn’t it?"

She gazed back down at the book in her hand as she uttered the question that invited no response. The cover of the paperback was bent in a couple of places, the spine cracked, suggesting frequent handling and heavy reading. The swirling, dark-crimson words How to Trap a Tycoon took up most of the pink-tinted background of a satin, tasseled pillow. And a single row of words at the bottom, in the same color, stated the author’s obviously phony name: Lauren Grable-Monroe.

All in all, it was a harmless-enough looking package, she supposed. Still, she was beginning to get a very bad feeling about things.

"I do believe I hate this book," she muttered.