So, Ms. Grable-Monroe, just what is it about your book that everyone finds so damned wonderful?
Well, Mr. Darien, chapter seven seems to be of particular interest to most of my readers. It's about keeping tycoons like yourself in the bedroom.
And just what is it in chapter seven that everyone keeps raving about? Aside from that crème de menthe thing I've heard mentioned so frequently?
Why don't you read the book and find out for yourself?
What? And ensure that you receive an added royalty from my purchase? That's not my style.
Ooo, and just what is your style, big boy?
Why don't you read me and find out for yourself?
It occurred to Adam suddenly that although the self-help section in which he stood might be of some use after all—just where did they shelve the voices-in-my-head books, anyway?—anything on impotence was pretty much unnecessary at the moment. No, what he needed was something he really didn't want. Well, he wanted it, he just didn't want to want it. Unfortunately, judging by the looks of Lauren Grable-Monroe's reception, he was going to be surrounded by it—by her—for some time to come.
He stood in the bookstore watching her, until she had finished signing books for her devoted followers. And all the while, one thought kept circling in his head. He really, really, really wanted to take Lauren Grable-Monroe down. He just wasn't quite sure yet what he would do with her once he got her there.
"How's your story coming, Lucas?" he asked his staff writer as he watched his quarry blow kisses of farewell to her applauding fans.
"Not so good," Lucas replied. "I'm having trouble finding female tycoons."
Adam turned to face him. "You're joking, right? There are plenty of female tycoons in this town."
Lucas shrugged. "Not the right kind."
Adam narrowed his eyes. "What's the right kind?"
Lucas expelled an exasperated sound. "The kind that will give me the time of day, okay?"
Adam laughed. "Having trouble with the fairer sex, are we?"
"I'll get the story," Lucas assured him. "Just give me another week or two. I'm following a new lead." Before Adam had a chance to pry further, Lucas turned the tables. "How's your story coming?"
Only then did Adam recall that he had sort of announced his intention to investigate the elusive author himself way back when he'd assigned Lucas his story. Somehow, though, he'd never quite gotten around to undertaking that investigation.
Why not? he wondered now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had been more than a little enjoyable sitting at the bar that night plotting Lauren Grable-Monroe's downfall with Lucas—particularly that part about staking her out naked and covered with honey, spread-eagle, beneath a hot desert sun. It was an image that still crept into Adam's thoughts from time to time, and at the oddest moments, too, especially since he'd seen her publicity photo, because then he'd been able to put a face—a gorgeous, seductive, alluring face—on that body—that lush, rounded, bronzed, naked, sweaty, honey-covered body—and … and … and…
And where was he? Oh, yeah.
Other things had come up, so to speak, and his plans for Lauren had been put on hold. Recalling the honey-covered image again, however, Adam couldn't begin to imagine why he had let other things prevent his investigation. And now that he'd seen the author in the flesh—and quite nice flesh it was, too—albeit from a distance, he discovered, not much to his surprise, that he suddenly wanted to undertake his investigation again.
"I'm on the case," he assured Lucas.
"Yeah, you're on something, all right," the other man said.
"Yeah, and it's not Viagra, either."
"Are you going after her, or what?"
Adam turned back to where Lauren Grable-Monroe had been sitting mere moments ago and smiled. "Oh, yeah. I'm going after her. I'm going to find out who she is, where she comes from, and what the hell she was thinking to write a book like How to Trap a Flaming Tycoon."
"And then?" Lucas asked enthusiastically.
Adam hesitated. "I'm not quite sure yet. But I have a couple of ideas." One included honey and stakes and a hot desert sun, he realized. And the other…
Well, the other was nowhere near as polite.
"Lucas," he said, still preoccupied by his thoughts, "help me find out where they keep the books on the Gobi Desert and carnivorous insects."
* * *
Dorsey nibbled her lip anxiously as she flicked her gaze to Fran Schott, the publicist Rockcastle Books had assigned her for her book tour. "Are they gone yet?" she asked the tall young blonde who had entered the small stockroom.
Fran shook her head as she closed the door on a murmur of voices that slunk in from the other side. "There are still about a dozen people out there who want a few more words—or something—with Lauren. Most of them are male. And few of them look respectable."
Dorsey sighed fitfully. "Tell them Lauren has left the building."
"Believe me, I have," Fran assured her adamantly. "But a couple of Lauren's fans saw her—you—pass through this door, and they're not leaving until they see her—you—come back out again. You're—she's—just going to have to wait them out."
Dorsey didn't want to wait. She couldn't wait. If she had to be dressed in her Lauren costume much longer, she was going to scream. Her wig itched, her clothes pinched, her cosmetics weighed more than Mount Rushmore, and her Wonderbra made her feel like she was going to fall forward face first and suffocate on her own foam rubber inserts. Still, all things considered, her first public appearance had gone surprisingly well, especially in light of the fact that she'd been utterly terrified during the entire episode. Now, however, she just wanted to go home, take a bath, and return to Dorseyhood.
"You might as well make yourself comfortable," Fran said.
"I'd rather go home to be alone. I feel kind of
