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

knowledge of that irritated her more than usual. She was really getting tired of working so much. Especially since she seemed to have so little to show for it.

"So Lauren Grable-Monroe is standing there renouncing any responsibility for wayward husbands," Adam went on, "but she's dressed in this heart-stopping, libido-grabbing miniskirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, and—"

Dorsey cleared her throat indelicately, then arched an eyebrow meaningfully at Adam. "Really?" she said. "You noticed what she was wearing? I didn't think men ever paid attention what a woman was wearing."

He had the decency to look a bit uncomfortable before assuming an expression of total and profound innocence. "They, uh … they don't," he told her.

"Yeah," Lucas concurred. "Not unless it's a heart-stopping, libido-grabbing miniskirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination."

"Oh, and by the way, Mack," Adam interjected, "that's a really nice tie you have on tonight."

She shook her head wryly. "Yeah, right. Thanks. I got it at the heart-stopping, libido-grabbing tie store. I thought it might catch your eye."

"It's great," he assured her. Then he turned back to Lucas. "Anyway, Mrs. Harrison Enright was in no way placated."

"I'm not surprised," Lucas said. "Don't you know who Mrs. Harrison Enright is?"

Adam frowned. "No. Should I?"

Lucas expelled a rueful sound. "Man, you call yourself a journalist? You don't know anything that's a current event these days."

Dorsey noticed that Adam spared her a quick—and really, kind of hot—glance before telling Lucas, "Well, I've kinda had my mind on other things this week, okay?"

Boy, did he have his mind on other things, Dorsey thought. Or, at least, on one other thing. Getting her back into his bed. He'd made no secret Sunday night of his intention to do that very thing, and he'd been none too happy about taking her back to her place instead of his own.

And she'd managed to maintain the status quo for the rest of the week, citing work at Drake's or class at Severn to prevent her from seeing Adam socially. They'd been legitimate excuses, all. But now the weekend was upon them, and Dorsey wasn't required to show up at Drake's or Severn for two whole days. More significant than that, though, for the first time in months, Lauren Grable-Monroe didn't have any weekend obligations. She didn't have one single public appearance scheduled.

Oh, she was supposed to have been speaking and signing books at a large, independent bookstore. But the owners had canceled the signing when a local church group had threatened to picket the event—with big, hand-lettered signs labeling the author a fornicator and an adulteress and a Jezebel, who was intent on misleading today's youth and obliterating family values.

Clearly, Mrs. Harrison Enright wasn't the only one calling Lauren Grable-Monroe names these days. And Dorsey was hard pressed to put her finger on when, exactly, or even why things had started to turn so ugly.

"Mrs. Harrison Enright," Lucas continued, catching Dorsey's attention and bringing it back to the matter at hand, "is none other than the founder and leader of WOOF."

"WOOF?" she echoed, even though Lucas had been speaking to Adam.

He turned to face her now. "It's an acronym for Wives Opposed to Opportunistic Floozies."

But all Dorsey could manage in response was to repeat, not quite credibly, "WOOF."

"They're actually a pretty well-organized bunch. Mrs. Enright has been on a couple of local shows, radio and TV both. At first the group was mostly made up of women like her—wealthy, idle, husbands who are on the make, that sort of thing. But she seems to have won herself a pretty substantial following. Certainly she's raised Lauren-bashing to new heights."

Dorsey gaped at him, unable to believe this bit of news. But all she could manage by way of a response was yet another "WOOF."

"And the members of WOOF aren't the only ones who've had their fill of Lauren Grable-Monroe," Lucas added. "The guys at The Harvard Lampoon have written a parody of How to Trap a Tycoon called How to Bag a Bimbo. So you know the end can't be far for ol' Lauren."

Dorsey closed her eyes and shook her head slowly as she digested all this distasteful information. Certainly there had been people bad-mouthing Lauren since the beginning, but they'd been a minority and had never won any "substantial following."

She'd had no idea there was such a sweeping anti-Lauren campaign developing across the country these days. Granted, she'd been so busy lately that she hadn't had time to be in touch with the media—or with reality, for that matter—but Dorsey still couldn't quite come to terms with the idea that so many people out there hated Lauren so much. Hated her so much.

"Oh, and did you read the article in last week's Rolling Stone?" Lucas piped up further. "'Miss Greedyhearts,' it was called. And it was not pretty."

"I cannot believe people don't have better ways to spend their time," Dorsey said. "Whatever happened to having a hobby? Like doing embroidery? Or leather tooling? Or studying alien abduction theory? Those were always good for keeping people off the streets."

"Oh, hey, listen," Lucas said, "you should log onto the Internet some night. Those people are nowhere near as polite as Mrs. Enright and the guys at The Harvard Lampoon."

"I don't want to know," Dorsey said, holding up a hand, palm out, to stop him from telling her.

"It's the typical American paradox," Adam joined in. "This country loves to make heroes out of everyday folk, then once those heroes reach their peak of popularity, this country loves to tear them down again."

"Yeah," Lucas agreed. "And then this country loves to jump up and down on the fallen heroes until they can't get back up again. And then, just for good measure, this country loves to kick them a few more times while they're down." He turned back to Dorsey. "This can't possibly be news to you," he said.

"No," she said with a sigh. "It's not news. But I can't understand why everyone would pick on Lauren Grable-Monroe that way.