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

judgment on her mother or her mother's lifestyle. It wasn't Dorsey's role to tell people how to live. Carlotta was her own person, responsible for her own actions, responsible for the results of those actions. She had made that clear from day one, and she had raised Dorsey to adopt that same attitude of personal responsibility. As a result, Dorsey had always accepted her mother's lifestyle in the same matter-of-fact way that Carlotta lived it. She didn't understand it. But she accepted it.

And she swore to herself that she would never, ever end up the same way.

From the time that she was a child—and just as Carlotta had taught her to do—Dorsey accepted complete responsibility for, herself. And as she'd grown and matured, she had done everything necessary to ensure that she would always be her own person and would never have to rely on someone else to make her way through life. She had worked hard to develop her brain and exploit her intellectual resources. She had played down her physical attributes to discourage unwanted attentions from the opposite sex. She had avoided romantic entanglements that might lead to dependency. She had relied solely on herself in every aspect of her existence. She had created her own happiness, her own prospects, her own opportunities, her own life. She'd never needed anyone else.

But even after all this time, after all her efforts, deep down inside, Dorsey couldn't quite erase the fear that someday she would end up just like her mother. And as much as she loved Carlotta, she didn't want to be like her. She didn't want to end up alone and unfulfilled and fearful of what the future might—or might not—bring. Then again, considering the way she was living her life, she might very well end up all of those things. But at least she would be alone, unfulfilled, and fearful on her terms. She would be that way because of her own actions and not because others had rejected her.

For some reason, though, Dorsey found little consolation in the realization.

As if conjured by her thoughts, Carlotta whizzed into and out of Dorsey's vision then, a brief blur of red in the packed hallway beyond. In the instant that Dorsey saw her, she received an impression of elegance and confidence, of happiness and laughter.

A melancholy smile tugged at her lips. So. She wasn't quite like her mother, after all. Because where Carlotta obviously felt very much at ease in these lush, luxurious surroundings, dressed in the trappings of affluence and grace, Dorsey felt like the worst kind of poser. She had shape-shifted yet again, had metamorphosed into a creature that wasn't quite Dorsey, wasn't quite Lauren, and most certainly wasn't Mack.

Oh, where was a good flannel shirt when you needed one?

"Don't worry. I promise they don't bite."

Adam's reassurance emerged as a soft utterance right by Dorsey's ear, and a shiver of heat danced down her spine at his nearness. As had become his habit, he'd read her thoughts. And, as always, his simple presence made her feel better. Better than better, she decided when she turned to look at him. Because dressed in his faultless black tuxedo and greatcoat, he sent every erogenous nerve she possessed into a tailspin.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She dipped her head toward the gaily dressed crowd milling about the entryway and massive hallway beyond. "I'm not positive, but I think I caught a glimpse of my mother in there."

He smiled as he reached for her coat and withdrew it from her shoulders. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's here," he said. "My parents' open house is always one of the biggest social events of the holiday season. Everybody comes to this thing. But none of them bite," he reiterated with a grin.

She reserved comment on that score as she relinquished her coat and watched Adam shrug out of his. Then he passed them along to a woman who politely curtsied—actually curtsied, Dorsey marveled—first to him and then to her and carried the garments away.

Amazing, she thought. She had never been curtsied to in her entire life. And she wasn't entirely sure how to respond. "Oh … thanks," she murmured to the retreating woman, battling the urge to bob up and down herself. To Adam she added, "Do we need to get a number or something for our coats?"

He chuckled. "No. Marissa will remember who gets what. That's her job."

The Dariens had a servant whose job was to remember which coat belonged to whom? she thought. Just where did coat-rememberer belong in the domestic hierarchy? Was it above or below the food taster?

Adam extended a hand forward in a silent indication that Dorsey should precede him. A flutter of nerves mamboed through her midsection again at the prospect of entering such a wild, unknown territory, but she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other until she had successfully entered the fray.

One, two, don't trip on your shoes , she thought with fierce concentration as she moved forward. Three, four, watch out for that door, she further mused. Five, six, you're graceful as bricks. Seven, eight, I just can't relate. Nine, ten, let's try this again.

Dorsey inhaled deeply, told herself she could do this, and concentrated harder. Adam seemed to sense her anxiety, because as they wove through the crowd toward the cavernous ballroom at the end of the wide hall, he reached over and tucked her arm through his, covered her cold fingers with his much warmer ones, and gave them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Then he steered her gracefully from one couple or group of people to another to introduce her.

He used only her name when he did that and never attached a label. He identified her as neither his bartender nor his … his … his hunka hunka burnin' love. Whatever. He only smiled whenever he introduced her as Dorsey MacGuinness, and she only smiled in return at the warm, buttery feelings that pooled in her belly