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

she'd forced him to buy when she'd taken him shopping that afternoon. And his new hundred-dollar haircut had evened up his shaggy locks just soooo nicely, making his razor-straight hair seem even silkier and shinier and blonder than before. And the sapphire-colored necktie knotted expertly at his throat set off his blue eyes in a way that was rather … Edie sighed deeply in spite of herself. Rather breathtaking, actually, if truth be told.

Unfortunately, with his bad attitude, he'd be lucky if he trapped himself a staph infection tonight. And, dammit, she'd gone to a lot of trouble to finagle a couple of invitations to Mrs. Simon Preston's fundraiser for the Chicago arts that was being held at a small Halsted Street art gallery.

Actually, Edie amended hastily, it wasn't so much that she'd gone to a lot of trouble. Mr. Davenport from Drake's had been more than happy to help her out when she'd asked him if he knew anybody who would be attending the well publicized, though very exclusive, event. Arty occasions like this one were notorious for bringing out society's women without their men, and Edie had figured it might be Lucas's best shot to land himself a tycoon.

And Mr. Davenport had been delighted to offer his assistance. He'd grinned with much pleasure, had confessed that he'd also been invited, and had promptly used his cell phone to call Mrs. Preston herself—Aunt Bitsy, to him, Edie had been surprised to hear—and have Edie Mulholland and escort added to the guest list.

Now, of course, Edie felt beholden to the man for performing the favor, and she really didn't like feeling beholden to anyone. Especially a man. Even if Mr. Davenport had made absolutely no mention of collecting on the debt anytime soon. Or ever, for that matter. He'd just been happy he could help out, he assured her. Edie did, after all, need someone to take care of her.

But she was confident that the day would come when Mr. Davenport did indeed ask for repayment in one form or another. She just hoped he didn't make any requests of her that were too sordid or icky. Because she'd left her sordid, icky days long behind her.

And now, after all her efforts, Lucas didn't even appreciate the opportunity Edie had presented to him. All he'd done since their arrival at the gallery was complain. First about how he felt like a friggin' GQ toy boy in his new friggin' suit. Then about how friggin' much he'd spent for a friggin' haircut. Then about how they weren't even serving friggin' Bud in a friggin' bottle at this friggin' shindig. Then about how the alleged friggin' artwork on the friggin' walls was giving him the friggin' willies.

Except he hadn't used the word "friggin'"per se, and Edie was friggin' tired of hearing him complain.

Honestly, she thought, watching him slug back a mouthful of very expensive champagne as if it were, well, friggin' Bud in a friggin' bottle. If it weren't for the fact that she had Lucas shackled to her side, she'd be enjoying herself very much. The Mershon Gallery, though small, was strikingly if unconventionally decorated. Plum-colored walls were offset by a midnight-blue ceiling liberally dotted with white Christmas lights made to twinkle like stars, and the hardwood floor beneath was painted a lovely shade of … well … black.

The artwork adorning the walls was likewise dramatic, a mix of watercolor slashes in various jewel tones reminiscent of Mark Rothko and some heavier splashes in primary colors à la Jackson Pollock. The effect, on the whole, was very arresting and in no way traditional. Edie liked the paintings and her surroundings very much.

The crowd enveloping her, on the other hand, was very traditional—and not all of them likable, she had to confess—the elite of Chicago society decked out in the finest evening wear that money could buy. Edie tried not to think about how she herself had made do with a consignment shop purchase, a simple black, strapless cocktail dress that she'd accessorized with an inexpensive choker and drop earrings made of jet beads. And she told herself it didn't matter that everyone else glittered with far greater light than she.

"A disgrace to my gender, am I?" Lucas muttered beside her, tugging uncomfortably at his necktie. "Just how do you figure that? No self-respecting member of my gender would submit to attending this kind of event, I guarantee you that." He glanced around surreptitiously. "No self-respecting heterosexual member, anyway."

"Oh, please," she countered. "Attending this kind of event would work wonders for the heterosexual members of your gender. Most of you are hungering for aesthetic nourishment to feed that vast artistic wasteland in your souls."

"Wow," he replied blandly. "You're a real poet, you know that? Maybe you could feed me sometime. 'Cause, sweetheart, I have an appetite that's just—"

"And here I've gone to all this trouble," she interjected quickly, "to help you plant your mercenary hooks in some decent, unsuspecting rich woman, and you can't even rise to the occasion."

At her closing comment, he threw her a look that was rife with all manner of bad taste. But he offered no verbal response. Not that any was necessary, Edie realized belatedly. Any simpleton could see exactly what he was thinking. And seeing as how she was presently serving as the mayor of Simpleton, she understood much too well.

"You know what I mean," she said, feeling heat seep into her cheeks. Honestly. With a single look, Lucas Conaway could make her feel hot and cold at the same time. How was that possible? And how could she find such a sensation enjoyable?

"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this," he said distastefully. "The last time I wore a suit was to my uncle Fenwick's funeral. I was twelve, if memory serves."

"Oh, will you stop complaining?" Edie muttered right back. "If you want to trap a tycoon, you have to look like you're already a success yourself. Women don't take to gold