How to Trap a Tycoon(58)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

But she had tried to tell him the truth, really she had. A dozen times she had opened her mouth to say, "Adam, we need to talk" or "Adam, there’s something you should know" or "Adam, I’ve been keeping a secret and it’s time you knew the truth."

But each one of those times, she had chickened out, or he had initiated some seductive action that blew her concentration completely. And every time she’d failed to tell him the truth, it had only made it that much harder to try again.

When they parted ways Monday morning, it had only gotten worse. Because the last thing Adam had asked Dorsey to do before kissing her good-bye near her classroom at Severn was to—gulp—meet his mother. Actually, he hadn’t quite phrased it that way, but what he’d invited her to do would require meeting both the elder Dariens. They were hosting a holiday open house the following weekend at their Gold Coast estate to herald the arrival of December, and Adam wanted Dorsey to attend it with him.

So now here she stood in the entry hall of his parents’ house, a dwelling seemingly larger—and doubtless richer in bounty—than some sovereign nations, immersed in what had formed and molded Adam from day one. As her gaze drifted about the massive, tastefully ornate interior, she could scarcely believe this was the environment in which he had been raised, the environment to which he belonged. The place was like a palace, huge and opulent and classically decorated. The colors were unapologetically bold, the furnishings rich and luxurious and traditional—much like the family, she couldn’t help but think. The place just screamed good breeding, good manners, good taste.

According to Adam, five generations of Dariens had lived here, loved here, died here. And Dorsey wouldn’t be a bit surprised if many of them still walked these hallowed halls. Because as beautiful and luxurious as the house and its furnishings were, there was a definite creep factor at work, one that made her stomach pitch and roll.

Or maybe that was just a result of her own discomfort, she thought, a result of her own feelings of not belonging here. Wearing her mother’s black velvet opera coat, dressed in her mother’s strapless, emerald-green cocktail dress, in her mother’s pearl choker and her mother’s pearl drop earrings, Dorsey felt like… She felt like … like… Well, she felt like her mother.

Oh, fine . As if she wasn’t already troubled enough.

Ever since she was old enough to understand what her mother did for a living, Dorsey had struggled to be as different from Carlotta as she could be. It wasn’t because she disapproved of her mother or her mother’s way of life, that had caused the reaction, however. Although she had never understood Carlotta’s choices, Dorsey had never passed judgment on her mother or her mother’s lifestyle. It wasn’t Dorsey’s role to tell people how to live. Carlotta was her own person, responsible for her own actions, responsible for the results of those actions. She had made that clear from day one, and she had raised Dorsey to adopt that same attitude of personal responsibility. As a result, Dorsey had always accepted her mother’s lifestyle in the same matter-of-fact way that Carlotta lived it. She didn’t understand it. But she accepted it.

And she swore to herself that she would never, ever end up the same way.

From the time that she was a child—and just as Carlotta had taught her to do—Dorsey accepted complete responsibility for, herself. And as she’d grown and matured, she had done everything necessary to ensure that she would always be her own person and would never have to rely on someone else to make her way through life. She had worked hard to develop her brain and exploit her intellectual resources. She had played down her physical attributes to discourage unwanted attentions from the opposite sex. She had avoided romantic entanglements that might lead to dependency. She had relied solely on herself in every aspect of her existence. She had created her own happiness, her own prospects, her own opportunities, her own life. She’d never needed anyone else.

But even after all this time, after all her efforts, deep down inside, Dorsey couldn’t quite erase the fear that someday she would end up just like her mother. And as much as she loved Carlotta, she didn’t want to be like her. She didn’t want to end up alone and unfulfilled and fearful of what the future might—or might not—bring. Then again, considering the way she was living her life, she might very well end up all of those things. But at least she would be alone, unfulfilled, and fearful on her terms. She would be that way because of her own actions and not because others had rejected her.

For some reason, though, Dorsey found little consolation in the realization.

As if conjured by her thoughts, Carlotta whizzed into and out of Dorsey’s vision then, a brief blur of red in the packed hallway beyond. In the instant that Dorsey saw her, she received an impression of elegance and confidence, of happiness and laughter.

A melancholy smile tugged at her lips. So. She wasn’t quite like her mother, after all. Because where Carlotta obviously felt very much at ease in these lush, luxurious surroundings, dressed in the trappings of affluence and grace, Dorsey felt like the worst kind of poser. She had shape-shifted yet again, had metamorphosed into a creature that wasn’t quite Dorsey, wasn’t quite Lauren, and most certainly wasn’t Mack.

Oh, where was a good flannel shirt when you needed one?

"Don’t worry. I promise they don’t bite."

Adam’s reassurance emerged as a soft utterance right by Dorsey’s ear, and a shiver of heat danced down her spine at his nearness. As had become his habit, he’d read her thoughts. And, as always, his simple presence made her feel better. Better than better, she decided when she turned to look at him. Because dressed in his faultless black tuxedo and greatcoat, he sent every erogenous nerve she possessed into a tailspin.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She dipped her head toward the gaily dressed crowd milling about the entryway and massive hallway beyond. "I’m not positive, but I think I caught a glimpse of my mother in there."

He smiled as he reached for her coat and withdrew it from her shoulders. "I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s here," he said. "My parents’ open house is always one of the biggest social events of the holiday season. Everybody comes to this thing. But none of them bite," he reiterated with a grin.

She reserved comment on that score as she relinquished her coat and watched Adam shrug out of his. Then he passed them along to a woman who politely curtsied—actually curtsied, Dorsey marveled—first to him and then to her and carried the garments away.

Amazing, she thought. She had never been curtsied to in her entire life. And she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. "Oh … thanks," she murmured to the retreating woman, battling the urge to bob up and down herself. To Adam she added, "Do we need to get a number or something for our coats?"