How to Trap a Tycoon(82)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

"For what it’s worth," Russell Davenport continued softly, "my daughter, Sarah, who’s only three years younger than you, always wanted a sister, to even the odds with her two brothers."

Edie expelled that odd little incredulous sound again, but this time it wasn’t quite as choked as it had been before. "A sister," she repeated. "And two brothers. I’ve never had any of those."

"It’s a good family, Edie," Russell told her. "In the long run, I’m confident everything will be fine. The Davenports stick together. They always have. They always will. Family comes first. In whatever form."

"Family," she echoed softly. But this time she looked at Lucas instead of her father when she spoke. "I never truly thought I would find one of those. Funny how it just came out of nowhere like that."

"Everything will be fine, Edie," Russell said, "you’ll see."

She nodded at his assurance, but continued to look at Lucas as she spoke. "You know, funnily enough, I think it will be."

Chapter 17

T he media fallout that followed Lauren Grable-Monroe’s public outing was nothing short of atomic. Dorsey had concluded that almost three weeks ago on Christmas Day, a Christmas day utterly lacking in gifts, because whenever she or Carlotta had tried to go out of their house, they’d been ambushed by reporters and photographers and talk show host representatives who were intent on roasting something other than chestnuts on an open fire. As a result, there had been little comfort or joy in the MacGuinness household over the holiday season.

Everyone and his—or her—mother had wanted a piece of Dorsey MacGuinness, the sociologist formerly known as Lauren Grable-Monroe. She had been both embraced and reviled, had received both invitations and condemnations. The public reaction had run the gamut. There had been the Hollywood managers and literary agents who wanted to rep her and the conservative newspaper columnists and politically correct public figures who wanted to rip her to shreds.

Not all of the news had been bad, however. People magazine had dubbed Lauren Grable-Monroe one of its Fifty Most Beautiful People of the year. Dorsey, however, hadn’t made the cut. Shortly thereafter, though, Howard Stern’s people had called to specifically invite Dorsey MacGuinness, sociologist, to come on his show. Unfortunately, it had only been to remove her shirt.

Dorsey had tactfully declined.

Then Playboy had called to invite Dorsey or Lauren—they weren’t particular—to make an appearance. But they’d wanted her—them—to remove considerably more than her—their—shirt, or shirts. They’d promised, however, that the photo spread—a term that had made Dorsey wince—would, of course, be tastefully executed.

Dorsey had tactfully declined.

Then Victoria ‘s Secret had asked them to promote two of their new bras—Lauren the one called "Tycoon Trappings," a skimpy concoction of black lace and jet beads, and Dorsey the one called "Social Awareness," a decidedly more modest number. A more modest, plaid number. A more modest, plaid flannel number.

Dorsey had tactfully declined.

In fact, Dorsey had declined every offer that had come for her or Lauren. Even Anita’s encouragements and Rockcastle’s threats would not make her budge. She was finished with being Lauren Grable-Monroe, finished with being a cultural icon, finished with being a media magnet. She wanted an end to the whole fiasco, wanted her life to revert to normal, wanted the world to go away. She wanted to forget every last thing about this miserable chapter of her miserable life.

Well, almost every last thing.

Adam Darien, of course, she would never, could never forget, even if she hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that fateful night at Drake’s. She’d attempted, without success, to reach him on a number of occasions, only to be told he was unavailable and no, there was no message, she’d just try again later. He’d made no overture to get in touch with her at all. She figured it was pointless to ever hope that the two of them might work things out.

How were they supposed to work things out together when they couldn’t even get together? And how could they get together when Dorsey’s life had become The Truman Show II? It wasn’t exactly surprising that Adam had avoided her so steadfastly. What man in his right mind would want to thrust himself into the middle of a media circus? Even under the best of circumstances, they had a lot to work through. But throw in the fact that her life was overrun by chaos these days, and it made the situation pretty near impossible.

For the past month, Dorsey had resisted making any kind of public statement, hoping that if she ignored the media machine, it would eventually run out of fuel and stop working. At first, the reporters and photographers outside her house had multiplied like mold on stinky old cheese. Now, however, it was mid-January, and the media circus, having the attention span of a soap-on-a-rope, was finally starting to break up and leave town. Only a few of the most dedicated members remained, and even they seemed to be asking their questions with considerably less energy than before.

But still, she’d neither seen nor heard anything of Adam. And still she missed him terribly. She missed his rough laughter, his reluctant smiles, his skewed views. She missed the feel of his big body spooned against hers in bed, the sensation of his mouth consuming hers when he kissed her, the heat and friction the two of them generated as lovers. She missed his strength, his irascibility, his challenge.

She missed him. And she wanted him. And she needed him, too.

It was so ironic. When she’d had Adam, Dorsey hadn’t had time to devote to a relationship, because she’d been too busy trying to be three different people. Now that she didn’t have him anymore, she had nothing but time on her hands.

Even Severn College had called her at home just yesterday, two days before the start of the spring semester, to tell Dorsey that—surprise, surprise—they suddenly seemed to have a mysterious surplus of teaching assistants for the spring semester and, so sorry, they were just going to have to take her off the schedule, and could she please come in tomorrow and clean out her study carrel, because they needed it for one of the other TAs?

Oh, of course, she could still complete her work on her doctorate, they had assured her. But could she please do it in the library instead of the sociology department, because the media circus was such a disruption, and no one was taking the college seriously while she was working there, but no, of course that hadn’t had anything to do with why they were letting her go, that was due to the aforementioned sudden—and very mysterious—surplus of TAs. And did they mention that they needed her to come right away and clean out her study carrel so that it would be available for one of the other TAs? Yes, tomorrow would be fine.