How to Trap a Tycoon by Elizabeth Bevarly (thriller books to read txt) 📕

having no idea why he should suddenly be feeling so combative, so strangely protective. Nevertheless, part of him wanted to stick out his tongue at the other man and sing, "I've got her no-ow, you ca-an't have her, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah."

He glanced back at Edie, feeling oddly triumphant for some reason. Then he heard himself say, "And tell me something, Edie. Just how do you know so much about the Romans, anyway?"

* * *

Edie Mulholland was just finishing up her lecture on the Pax Romana when Lucas Conaway fell off of his bar-stool. She shook her head in bemusement and leaned over the bar to evaluate the outcome of his tumble, hoping he hadn't hit anything important. Fortunately, he appeared to have landed on his ego, and with all that padding, she was more than certain he was okay.

What on earth had come over him tonight? she wondered. He never drank to excess, rarely even ordered a second drink. Yet every time she'd turned around tonight, he'd been calling her over to fix him another one, then asking her some question like, "So those aqueducts—what's up with that?" or "Remember Appian Way Pizza? Man, I loved that stuff."

Actually, it wasn't every time she'd turned around that he'd claimed her attention, she thought as she watched him brush off his ego and climb back aboard his stool. It was only when he'd seen her talking to Mr. Davenport. Then again, Mr. Davenport had left Drake's a half-hour ago, and Lucas hadn't stopped talking. On the contrary, over the last thirty minutes, their conversation had taken a few, not particularly welcome, turns toward the personal.

Of course, she had easily sidestepped those personal questions by returning to the topic of the Romans. Because there was nothing like dry, dusty history to put a damper on a man's—even an intoxicated man's—ardor, however dubious. Men hated rehashing stuff, after all. History was something they very seldom remembered. It was something that Edie, however, could never forget. And not just because it was her major, either.

"Are you okay, Mr. Conaway?" she asked as politely as she could, watching with some concern as he righted himself and folded his arms and hands very carefully over the top of the bar. Clearly, he was not okay. Clearly, he was three sheets to the wind. But Edie was much too courteous to call him on the fact. Besides, Lindy would fire her like that if she told a member to his face that he'd had a snootful.

"I'm fine, Edie," he insisted. "And please, call me Lucas."

Oh, yeah, right , she thought. It was one thing to think of him as Lucas in her head, quite another to address him by his first name here in Drake's. Hey, if she was going to do that, then while she was at it, she might as well just tell him he was three sheets to the wind, too. And then she should empty all the cash registers and stuff her pockets with the evening's receipts. Then, as a final farewell, she could jump up on the bar and dance La Vida Loca while she quoted Goethe. If she was going to get fired, she ought to at least go out memorably.

She knew she should alert Lindy that Lucas Conaway was snookered, because Lindy insisted on being informed of such things. She absolutely did not tolerate overly inebriated members in Drake's. But something prevented Edie from doing so. Unlike some of the other members of Drake's—drunk or sober—Lucas Conaway was harmless. And it wasn't like this had happened before. Everybody had days when they felt the need to tie one on. Well, everybody except Edie, of course. But that was only because she couldn't afford to tie one on.

So instead of telling Lindy, she told Lucas, "I'm going to call you a cab."

He smiled, not a little seductively. "I'd rather have you call me sweetheart," he murmured, slurring the last word a bit before breaking up in hysterical laughter and slapping his open hand against the bar.

Edie shook her head but couldn't help smiling back. At least he wasn't a mean drunk. She'd seen more of those in her day than she cared to think about.

"Maybe some other time," she told him. "Right now, you need a cab."

"I need you more," he told her. This time, however, there was no laughter, no slapping the bar. This time his eyes darkened dangerously, and he seemed completely focused, completely sober.

Edie expelled a quick, unexpected breath and wondered why her heart was suddenly racing so. Lucas Conaway had never once flirted with her. On the contrary, he seemed to go out of his way to make sure she knew he didn't much like her. Not that he'd ever been mean or snide to her, but she knew he called her Little Edie Sunshine and Mulholland of Sunnybrook Farm behind her back.

Not that such labels bothered Edie. She'd worked long and hard to become a sappy sentimentalist, dammit. She wore her bleeding heart proudly on her sleeve as a badge of honor, by God. She hadn't always been Mulholland of Sunnybrook Farm. Oh, no. She'd clawed her way up from the very dregs of despair to be as abominably happy and as nauseatingly cheerful as she possibly could be. Nobody—but nobody—was going to take her good will and contentment, her sappy sentimentality, away from her. Nobody. Certainly not some sarcastic little pessimist like Lucas Conaway.

She didn't care how cute he was.

Which still didn't explain why she was suddenly so overcome at the sight of him intoxicated and tempting and … and… Reluctantly, her smile returned. And happy, she realized. Even if it had been brought about by the contents of a bottle, Lucas Conaway was honestly, genuinely happy. She'd never seen him in such a state. And she could only wonder why he became this way when his guard was down.

Best not to think about it, Edie , she told herself. It's none of your