How to Trap a Tycoon(83)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Which was how Dorsey came to be spending her Sunday alone, in her soon to be ex-study carrel in the otherwise deserted sociology department, stowing in a cardboard box what few things had fitted inside the tiny space to begin with. Her photo of Ghandi, her desktop gargoyle, her coffee mug that read "Yes, but not the inclination," and a couple of yellowed Calvin and Hobbes and Shoe cartoons she’d taped to the wall alongside her postcard of Marlon Brando as Johnny in The Wild One. All went into the box along with pencils, pens, textbooks, and software.

She barely heard the sound of footsteps scraping along the linoleum outside until they were right in front of the carrel door. Dorsey glanced up at the soft sound and suddenly found herself standing face to face—or, more correctly, face to chest—with Adam Darien.

He was leaning casually against the doorjamb, gazing at her with an expression that was utterly inscrutable, his brown eyes framed by pale shadows, his mouth bracketed by faint lines. His leather bomber jacket hung open over a bulky, oatmeal-colored sweater and blue jeans and was decorated on each shoulder by epaulettes of quickly melting snow. His dark hair was dusted with glistening little droplets of moisture, his cheeks were ruddy from the cold day outside, and she wanted more than anything in the world to hurl herself into his arms and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Unable to help herself, she glanced down at her grubby jeans and the plaid flannel shirt buttoned halfway up over a thermal-knit Henley . Her hand flew up to smooth ineffectually over the loose ponytail fixed haphazardly at the crown of her head, but she knew no amount of hasty rearranging would help the errant curls that had spilled out to frame her face. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, had been lucky she remembered to brush her teeth that morning. All in all, this wasn’t the way she’d hoped to look when she saw Adam again. She’d rather hoped she would look more like … like… Well, like Lauren Grable-Monroe.

Dammit.

"Hi," she said softly, unsure when she’d even decided to speak.

"Hi," he replied just as quietly, just as uncertainly.

She had no idea why he would come here looking for her. Unless it was to further her humiliation, which she couldn’t possibly see being made any worse than it—already had been over the last month—unless, of course, Adam Darien showed up.

He pointed to the little plastic sign affixed to the exterior of her carrel, the one that read DORSEY MACGUINNESS, TA. "Do I want to know what this T and A stand for?" he asked, the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth.

She expelled a sound that was a mixture of relief and disbelief because he didn’t seem to want to strangle her. He didn’t seem to want to humiliate her. He didn’t seem to want to condemn her. What he seemed like he wanted to do was…

Oh, boy . Maybe there was a chance for them yet.

"It stands for Truly Abominable," she told him breathlessly as, in one swift move, she lunged forward to withdraw the name plate from its metal holder. "That describes my behavior of the last few months quite well, I think," she added as she returned to her original position and tossed the nameplate into the box with her other things. She didn’t want to leave it behind, after all. It was the only thing she had left that proved she had ever been a teacher in the first place.

Adam inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, his gaze never wavering from hers. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked simply—not that the question required any kind of embellishment.

She opened her mouth to answer him, realized she had no idea how to do that, then closed it again.

Before she realized his intention, he pushed himself away from the carrel door and entered the tiny space, a pretty impressive accomplishment, seeing as how Dorsey herself barely fitted inside the cubicle. Then, even more impressive, he nudged the door closed behind him. He leaned one hip against the counter that had housed her laptop and lamp before she’d put them into the box on the floor, crossed his arms over his chest in a way that looked suspiciously like self-preservation, and continued to study her face.

And just like that, the temperature in the tiny room skyrocketed. Outside Severn College , it might be a cold and snowy morning. But inside the carrel, at that moment, it was a torrid, volcanic afternoon. And she couldn’t help thinking then that they were both frightfully overdressed.

Of course, she was probably getting way ahead of herself there.

"Is it hot in here?" Adam asked suddenly.

Then again…

He shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto the swivel chair that Dorsey had relegated to the corner—about two inches away. Then he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, ran both hands briskly through his damp hair, and leaned back against the counter again. And he continued to watch her guardedly.

"Why did you come here?" she asked.

"Because your mother told me I’d find you here."

"You spoke to Carlotta?"

He nodded. "I went to your house first, and she told me you were here"—he nodded toward the half-full box—"cleaning out your stuff. Ghandi?" he asked before she could comment, noting the framed photograph.

She nodded. "I’m a big fan of passive resistance."

"Is that why you haven’t tried to see me?"

She gaped at him. "I tried to call you. You were never in. I just assumed you didn’t want to see me."

"I wanted to see you," he assured her immediately. "But I figured with all the stuff going on in your life in the aftermath of Lauren Grable-Monroe, the last thing you needed was to have me there complicating things. I wanted to give you—both of us—a little time to let things blow over."

She gazed at him with hungry melancholy, wishing she could put words to how very much she had needed him over the last few weeks. Instead, she only told him, "You wouldn’t have complicated anything, Adam. I could have used you."

He gazed back at her in silence for a long time, and she wished she could tell what he was thinking. "And did you?" he finally asked. "Use me, I mean?"

She shook her head. "No. Never. Lindy was totally wrong about that. About all of it."

He sighed heavily. "It really pissed her off that she couldn’t have you arrested or sue you for anything."

Dorsey wasn’t sure she would ever stop looking over her shoulder where Lindy was concerned. Feigning. nonchalance, she said, "Did Lindy, uh … did she ever say anything about, oh … hiring some guys named Vito and Sal to come, gee, I don’t know … break my legs?"

He chuckled. "Actually, I did hear her on the phone talking to someone name Vinnie who owed her a favor, but…"