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

" New England ?"

"And good pay."

" New England ?"

"But they're all positions teaching popular culture or media studies," she finally revealed with a grin of her own, putting him out of his misery. His answering smile was tinged with more than a little relief. "And I don't want to teach those things," she added unnecessarily. She snuggled close to him again. "Frankly, I've had it with popular culture. Not to mention the media. I want to teach, yes, but I want to teach sociology. Nobody seems to think I'll be able to do that with any sort of academic effectiveness. They really can't seem to separate me from Lauren. I don't know what I'm going to do for a job."

"Why don't you write?" he asked.

She groaned. "Oh, please, Adam, that's what got me into trouble in the first place."

"Yeah, but that's because you were trying to keep Lauren separate from Dorsey and you had to use deceptive practices to do it. Now that everybody knows Lauren Grable-Monroe is really Dorsey MacGuinness, you could write as yourself."

"But write what?"

He pulled back again, and she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. "How about publishing your dissertation?" he said.

She laughed. "Yeah, right. Nobody wants to read a scholarly, sociological treatise on stuffy old-boy men's clubs as microcosms for a male-dominated society."

"They would if you rewrote it and threw in some pot-boiling sensationalism and gave it a catchy title like Bottoms Up: My Secret Life as a High Society Serving Wench."

"Oh, no you don't," she said. "I don't want Lindy Aubrey hiring those guys from the South Side, no way."

"As long as you don't identify anybody by name…"

"No," she said adamantly.

"You can still write about sociology," Adam said. "Just dress it up as popular nonfiction the way you did with How to Trap a Tycoon."

"But—"

"And you could still teach, too," he added enthusiastically, "in a manner of speaking. You could make public appearances the same way Lauren did."

"That wasn't teaching," she pointed out.

"The hell it wasn't," Adam countered. "I saw you in action as Lauren, remember. If she wasn't up there on that stage at Northwestern giving a sociology lecture, then I don't know what she was doing."

"Yeah, but, Adam—"

"And you'll never convince me that a part of you didn't like being Lauren," he barreled on. "Because you were too good at it, too convincing. And that could only be because you tapped into something inside you that had been there all along."

"Maybe," she conceded. "But still—"

"And there was something of Mack in all this Lauren business, too," he added further. "There was more than a little bartender advice and wisdom in that book and those talks."

She eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know it was in the book?'

He grinned crookedly. "I read it," he confessed with a shrug. "I thought it was really good, too. You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Dorsey, not to mention a very sharp wit. Oh, and I intend for us to get around to that crème de menthe thing very soon."

Dorsey had never thought of Lauren the way Adam had just presented her, but a lot of what he had just said made a strange sort of sense. As often as she had complained about Lauren, there had been times when she had genuinely enjoyed herself in that guise. Lauren was saucy and sassy in a way that Dorsey had never felt she should be for fear of not being taken seriously. And Mack, too, had been different from Dorsey—more social, more outgoing, more comfortable with strangers. She'd never allowed that side of herself to emerge fully, because it hadn't seemed scholarly. But mix it all up and stir it together, and what resulted was, well … Dorsey, she supposed.

Her head was starting to hurt with all the self-analysis and self-discovery, and she really didn't want to think about all this right now. Not when she had Adam back in her arms. Not when she could make plans—real plans—for the first time where he was concerned. Not when something seemed to be going right after so much had gone wrong.

"Over the last several weeks," Adam continued, oblivious to her focus on them instead of her, "you've only seen the media as some vicious, hungry beast. But I think maybe what you need to do, career-wise, is approach the media from a different angle. Or maybe," he said further, with a cryptic little smile, "the media needs to approach you."

She eyed him curiously. "What do you mean?"

He studied her with much interest for a moment, as if he was mulling over something of grave importance. Then, very thoughtfully, he said, "Dorsey MacGuinness, I'm going to make you—all of you—an offer that none of you can refuse."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Later. Right now, I have a much more important question to ask."

"What's that?"

He grinned very suggestively. "Is it true that these study carrels are soundproof?"

She grinned back. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Mm," he replied, clearly unhappy with her response.

"Why do you ask?" she said, already knowing the answer.

"Well, I couldn't help but notice that you're not wearing any shoes."

Okay, so maybe she didn't know the answer, after all. "My, uh … my boots were soaked by the time I got here. I set them over by the radiator to dry out." Then, because she couldn't stand it, she asked further, "Why do you ask?"

Instead of answering, though, Adam continued to look thoughtful and posed another question of his own. "Well, if the study carrels aren't soundproof, do they at least have locks on the doors?"

"Noooo," she told him, still not quite certain where he was going with this line of questioning.

"Will that counter hold both our weight?"

Oooh . Okay. Now she knew where he was going. Boy, 'bout time, too. But she replied, with much regret, "Probably not."

Clearly undeterred, Adam asked, point-blank, "Ever made love in one of these things?"

"Um … not yet."

"Feel like conducting an experiment?"

"Only if it's for the