Adam, of course, knew her entire biography was a lot of hooey. He'd grown up on the Gold Coast, too, and although he'd never troubled himself with idle gossip—or even active gossip—he would have heard about any scandal that had left anyone broke. More than that, though, he would have known about a socialite daughter making herself available the way Ms. Grable-Monroe claimed to have made herself available. Because Adam had always enjoyed available debutantes. Had her story been true, Lauren Grable-Monroe, whoever she was, would have been his—at least for a while.
But even the outright phony details of her life hadn't been what had captured Adam's eye when he'd received Rockcastle's press release. No, what had caught his eye—among other body parts—was the publicity photo that had been included with it. Because it had been the kind of photo that could make a man lose sleep. And lots of it. In her glossy picture, Lauren Grable-Monroe evoked an image of a fabulous forties film star, all posh glamour and sex appeal. A fall of shoulder-length, platinum blond hair swept down over one eye in a pretty effective Veronica Lake "do." Her brown eyes were at half-mast, heavily shadowed and lushly lashed. And her mouth…
God, her mouth.
Her full, ripe lips were painted red, red, red. Her chin was resting on her hand, and she clutched a slender cigarette holder between two fingers tipped in crimson lacquer. But what Adam had noted most of all was that, judging by the expression on her face, she appeared to be this close to a shattering orgasm.
And it didn't stop there. Her voice, he knew, thanks to repeated television appearances and an NPR interview that he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to switch off, mirrored the image she projected—a deep and husky timbre, one that reflected her complete and unapologetic confidence in both her femininity and her effect on the opposite sex.
And speaking of sex, her voice reeked of it—of sex and sex appeal, of sexual knowledge and sexual power. And of something else, too, something Adam hadn't quite been able to identify. Something that had grabbed him by his libido and yanked hard.
Lauren Grable-Monroe, he had decided some time ago, was one hot tomata, no two ways about it. And hell, he hadn't even seen her in more than two dimensions yet.
Now, finally, he would be able to discover for himself if the reality lived up to the media promise. Craning his head and pushing himself up taller, he gazed over the bookshelves and in the direction that Lucas was watching himself. And he realized right away that … whoa, baby … the reality looked to be pretty damned promising.
Blondness was the first thing Adam noted from this distance and this angle. Pale blond, the color of good champagne, flowing in a straight, silky cascade past her shoulders. Curviness was the second thing he noted. A tight, chocolate-brown skirt hugged her hips to midthigh, and the legs extending from beneath—all eight miles of them—were slim and elegant. A short jacket of the same dark fabric fell to her waist and hung open over a pale-gold top that scooped low over high, full breasts. Although a solid twenty or thirty feet separated him from the table where Ms. Grable-Monroe took her seat, he had a clear line of vision from which to take her in.
And, boy, did Adam want to take her in. Every last luscious inch of her.
"Wow."
The observation came not from Adam but from Lucas. Nevertheless, Adam couldn't think of a single thing to add. Unless it was to put the word into capital letters. And italics. With an exclamation point or two following behind. Because WOW!! pretty much summed up Lauren Grable-Monroe.
He watched as the entourage broke apart and scattered, then watched some more as she folded herself into a chair behind a table laden with what appeared to be … oh … about a billion copies of her book. Seated in chairs before the table and standing around at a respectable distance were what appeared to be, oh … about a billion women clutching copies of that book in their hands.
Most were young, Adam noticed, college age or even younger, but many—too many—appeared to be his age, too. Several more were older than he, some by as many as three or four decades. The desire to marry money—or, at least, to trap it—evidently transcended generational lines.
"Ladies—and you few gentlemen," a young woman who was evidently an employee of the bookstore called out to the surrounding crowd. Adam couldn't help noticing that she clutched her own copy of How to Trap a Tycoon in her hand. "Borders is pleased tonight to be hosting best-selling author Lauren Grable-Monroe on the first stop of a multi-city book tour. She'll speak briefly about her book, answer questions for twenty minutes, and then sign as many copies as she's able to sign. Please be patient, as the line promises to be long. And please join me in welcoming Lauren Grable-Monroe."
The fans, as they say, went wild. Because the applause that clamored up around the author was nothing short of feral. The author herself smiled brightly and wiggled expertly manicured, red-tipped fingers in greeting. "Hello," she said in that throaty, musky voice of hers. "And thank you all for coming tonight. Wow, I didn't expect such a crowd. This is amazing."
Oh, the hell it was, Adam thought. Rockcastle Books had spared no expense in promoting its latest best-seller. Still, he watched and listened and observed for the rest of the hour as Lauren Grable-Monroe charmed and captivated and entranced her already adoring—hey, her already worshipping—public. And he himself had to admit that there was definitely something rather … tempting … about her. Much to his surprise, he even found himself smiling and laughing at a few of her responses to
