"Yes, I do exist," she agreed. "But I'm not a sexy former mistress full of tips on how to bag a tycoon. I'm an academic striving to carve out a career in research and teaching," she reminded her editor. "If the head of the sociology department at Severn finds out I'm the one who authored How to Trap a Tycoon, she'll never let me teach again. It might even compromise the reception my dissertation will receive this spring."
"Dorsey, your dissertation is a scholarly, sociological treatise on stuffy old-boy men's clubs and how they exist as a microcosm of a male-dominated society," Anita reminded her. "Two words, darling: big yawn. Nobody's even going to be able to finish it, so why are you so worried about defending it?"
Dorsey reined in the comment she wanted to make. Hey, maybe it wasn't destined to be a best-seller, but she was proud of her work. Her dissertation, she was certain, would be a hit with the faculty of Severn 's sociology department when it came time for her to defend it.
Unless, of course, Anita Dixon and Rockcastle Books had their way. Should it ever get out that Lauren Grable-Monroe was actually Dorsey MacGuinness, then Dorsey might very well be barred from teaching at the college she loved.
And in addition to blowing her credibility, the revelation that she was Lauren Grable-Monroe might also compromise the financial aid Dorsey had been receiving for years. Even if she wasn't benefiting from the profits of the book—every last cent of the advance and royalties were being paid to Carlotta— Severn would view Lauren Grable-Monroe as a wealthy woman. They might very well demand that Dorsey repay the thousands of dollars' worth of tuition that she had received over the years, based on her economic situation. And that was a lot of money to have to repay. Especially seeing as how Dorsey would never have it.
Somehow, she quelled the ripple of hysteria that had begun to bubble just beneath her surface and tried to focus again on the conversation at hand. "I can't be Lauren," she told her editor. "I can't. I'm a sociology Ph.D. candidate, not a social butterfly. Furthermore, my mother has just accused me of dressing like a lumberjack. And you know what, Anita? She's right. I do dress like a lumberjack. I'm not some former mistress-slash-party girl like Lauren in any way, shape, or form. I'm not Lauren, period."
There was another one of those pregnant pauses, followed by Anita's carefully stated, "You could be."
Aaaaaggggghhhh!
"Oh, no, I couldn't," Dorsey stated immediately, adamantly, swallowing another silent scream. "Lauren and I have absolutely nothing in common. If it hadn't been for Carlotta, I never would have written this book. The content is hers, not mine. Hell, the earnings are hers, not mine."
"But the writing is yours, Dorsey," Carlotta interjected. "All I did was list a lot of pointers and suggestions. The wit, the wry humor, the irreverence … that's all you."
"She's right," Anita agreed. "And those are the things that define Lauren."
"Anita," her mother said. "Maybe if you let me talk to Dorsey—"
"There will be no talking," Dorsey stated clearly, first to her mother and then to the telephone. To Anita, she added, "You agreed going into this thing that I'd be able to preserve my anonymity."
There was a rather dubious silence from the other end of the line, followed by a rather ominous sigh. "We need to rethink this anonymity thing, Dorsey," Anita said carefully.
"No, we don't," Dorsey told her. "You assured me, before I even signed the contract, that taking a pseudonym wasn't going to be a problem."
"That's not the problem," Anita told her. "That, actually, especially in hindsight, was a very good idea."
"You also assured me," Dorsey continued, "that my personal life wouldn't be jeopardized at any time. That there was no reason to disclose the fact that Lauren Grable-Monroe is, in fact, a Ph.D. candidate in the sociology department of Severn College ."
"That's not the problem, either," Anita replied. "Quite frankly, the last thing I want is for Lauren to come forward as a stuffy academic from some snooty women's college."
Dorsey tried not to feel offended—even if she did have to concede that she was rather stuffy and Severn was rather snooty—and went on, "You also promised me that keeping Lauren Grable-Monroe under wraps would be a piece of cake."
"See, now that's the problem."
"Anita…"
"Look, Dorsey," her editor interrupted her—again. "Just think about this for a minute. Book sales have been phenomenal with Lauren lying low behind the scenes. If—when—we bring her out, the numbers are going to go through the roof. Through—the—roof," she reiterated slowly. "We're talkin' New York Times list, baby. We're talkin' 'More than a million books in print.' We're talkin' foreign sales out the wazoo."
"All the more reason to maintain my anonymity," Dorsey said, her tone pleading.
"No, Dorsey, you're not listening," Anita replied. "We're talkin' incredible royalties. Way beyond your initial advance. We're talkin', potentially, many hundreds of thousands of dollars. Financial security for the future," she added pointedly, and, as far as Dorsey was concerned, that was the lowest of blows. "I thought that was what you wanted. I thought earning a nice little nest egg for your mother's retirement was the whole point of writing How to Trap a Tycoon. How can you turn that down?"
She couldn't turn it down. Dorsey knew that. The promise of cold, hard cash was what had generated this whole fiasco. Carlotta, as charming as she was, had absolutely no head for financial planning, and she'd always made her way on someone else's ticket. Nowadays, those tickets were coming fewer and farther between. The proceeds from How to Trap a Tycoon were supposed to fund Carlotta's future, so that she could spend the rest of her life in relative comfort without relying on a benefactor. Dorsey just wished she didn't have to sell off so much of
