How to Trap a Tycoon, Elizabeth Bevarly [best smutty novels txt] 📗

Until the day cable television had brought them the Classic Movies Channel.

Carlotta had been watching one of the network morning shows one day when she'd seen coverage of a wildly best-selling how-to book that instructed women on the dos and don'ts of husband-hunting. Immediately after the show, she had changed the channel—to the Classic Movies Channel—and found herself watching How to Marry a Millionaire.

And then, at the very back of Carlotta's brain, a little light had flickered on.

Carlotta MacGuinness had never wanted a husband. But she had always wanted a millionaire. She'd grown up poor and neglected and wanted to be rich and well cared for. So she had devoted her life to creating just such an existence for herself. And she had been very good at what she set out to do. She'd had lots of millionaires over the years. So it made sense that she would author a book about, if not marrying a millionaire, then certainly about having one. Or two. Or more.

The only problem was that Carlotta couldn't write a sentence to save her life. Her daughter, however, the academic who was used to years of term papers and theses and dissertations, could write up a storm. Or a book. Or, evidently, a national best-seller.

Mother and daughter had made a nice team. Provided, Dorsey thought, one didn't mind one's entire way of life being blown into bits. Carlotta, it seemed, didn't mind at all. Then again, it wasn't Carlotta's way of life on the line, was it?

"If what Anita says is true, and I come forward as Lauren Grable-Monroe," Dorsey told her mother, "my life will become a media circus."

Carlotta smiled. "It sounds rather fun to me. I always liked the circus. In spite of the proliferation of clowns. What on earth were they thinking to put makeup on men, for heaven's sake? And so much of it! How could they think children would like that? Not only is it frightfully macabre, but it skirts the surreal, and no child—or adult for that matter—is comfortable with the surreal. Why, look at Dali and that odd clock painting, for heaven's sake. Who would possibly find that anything but—"

"Carlotta," Dorsey interjected as discreetly as she could.

"What?"

"Um … we were talking about something else?"

"So we were. We were talking about how you should come forward as Lauren."

Dorsey shook her head. "No, we were talking about how I shouldn't come forward as Lauren."

"Oh, come on, darling. It would be fun."

Dorsey brightened. "Then you come forward as Lauren."

Ruefully, her mother shook her head. "As much as I'd like to, there are two reasons why I can't. Anita," she added, spinning around to face the telephone. "Dorsey and I need to talk about this. We'll call you back in an hour."

"Fine, Carlotta," the disembodied voice of their editor answered. "You two talk. But we need to get this settled today."

"I promise you," Carlotta said, "it will be settled within the hour."

Dorsey opened her mouth to disagree, but Carlotta lifted a hand, palm out, to halt the flow of words. So, with a sigh, Dorsey disconnected the phone, then scooted over to make room for her mother on the massive bed.

For one brief moment, she flashed back to her childhood, when she would climb into her mother's bed at night after a particularly bad dream, of which there had seemed to be many when Dorsey was growing up. Dreams of abandonment and solitude and loneliness. Whenever such dreams had plagued her, her mother had always gathered her close and tugged the sheets higher around them both.

And then she had always said, in a quite matter-of-fact way, "Dorsey, there will be abandonment, solitude, and loneliness in your life. You can't escape that. People will come and go, and they'll find what they need in you and overlook the rest. But your mother will love you—all of you—no matter what happens. And I will never, ever abandon you."

As Dorsey grew into adolescence, the speech became more specific, as her mother had traded the word "people" for the word "men." And over the years, her mother's was a prediction that Dorsey had seen fulfilled. Carlotta had always been there for her, had always loved her unconditionally. And people, including men, had come and gone in Dorsey's life—though not with the frequency or the intimacy that they had with her mother. Dorsey made certain of that. And people, especially men, did seem to find what they wanted in her and overlook the rest.

For some reason, that made her think of Adam Darien. To him, she was simply Mack. One of the boys. A pal, a bud, someone with whom he could speak frankly and nothing more. She couldn't imagine him seeing her as a woman. Unless, perhaps, she was someone like Lauren Grable-Monroe. Party girl, sexpot, tycoon-trapper.

Hmmm…

Having Lauren come forward into the public eye might possibly deter any exposing that Adam Darien and Lucas Conaway might undertake. If they saw Lauren in the flesh—or at least in the print and television media—then they might not be so inclined to dig deeply into her background. If Lauren saturated the market, then they might just leave her alone. They might never find out that she was, in fact, Dorsey MacGuinness, sociology instructor and stuffy academic.

That thought brought her back to the matter at hand. She looked at her mother beseechingly, but she knew going in that the battle was already over. Because she'd already fought the hardest conflict with herself—and lost it.

In spite of that, she asked her mother halfheartedly, "Why can't you be Lauren?"

Carlotta smiled a bit sadly. "Actually, there's nothing I'd enjoy more than being the center of attention with a book tour and network television," she began. "Especially if it was that nice Matt Lauer doing the interview. But as I said, there are two reasons why I can't."

"And they would be?"

She expelled a quick sigh. "Reason number one is that there are too many men out there who, were I identified as the source of