"What?" he asked with a wicked grin when she cut herself off.
"Nothing," she replied quickly, wondering what had possessed her to suggest such a thing to begin with. "It's not important."
He opened his mouth, clearly to object again, but closed it and eyed her with much consideration. "But then, we were talking about you," he finally said, deftly turning the topic right back to where he had initially assigned it. Dammit.
"I don't want to talk about me," she told him.
Hastily, she scrambled for some other topic to discuss, something that would lead to their normal philosophical differences. Because at Drake's, invariably, the more contentious their conversations became, the more Adam smiled—and, oddly, the better he tipped her. And the more he smiled, the more contentious Dorsey's remarks became. Not just because she liked the big tips, but because she liked his smile, too.
She liked his smile a lot. Even more than the big tips. And tonight was promising to make her a very wealthy woman indeed.
"I bet he's blue collar," Adam said suddenly, grinning again.
"Who?"
"Your husband," he reminded her. "I bet he operates heavy machinery for a living, am I right?"
She couldn't quite help the bubble of laughter that erupted at that. "Heavy machinery," she repeated blandly.
He nodded. "A forklift, I'm guessing. No, wait," he corrected himself. "A bulldozer. Yeah, that's it. I'm right, aren't I?"
Dorsey opened her mouth to comment, but quite frankly had no idea what to say.
Evidently taking her silence as affirmation, Adam went on, "I knew it. I know women. I know what kind of man attracts them. You would definitely go for the heavy machinery type."
She nodded slowly. "I see. And what else can you tell me about this bulldozer operator that I'm supposedly married to?"
He seemed to give that some thought. "Well, let's see now," he began. "He probably has some really straightforward, hardworking name, too. Like … like…"
"Knute?" she suggested, biting back a giggle. "Rocky? Axel? Bull?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of … Dave."
"Dave the bulldozer operator," she repeated.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
"What you are," she told him, "is remarkable. Truly. Remarkable."
His grin turned smug. "Well, I hate to say I told you so, but…"
Someone at a neighboring table laughed loudly at something then, but the sound seemed to come from very far away. For a moment, Dorsey simply could not look away from Adam Darien's beautiful Bambi-brown eyes. It was as if he were drawing her into himself, slowly and thoroughly, until she just couldn't quite get away.
And then the sweet, peaceful moment vanished, shattered as it was by the comment he made next.
"Well, at least it's nice to know you haven't been sucked in by this tycoon-trapping nonsense," he said, gazing down into his wine before lifting it to his lips for an idle sip. "If I ever get my hands on Lauren Grable-Monroe," he continued as he lowered his glass to the table again, "she'll find out that a tycoon trapped is one mean fuh … uh, friggin' animal, that's what. Oh, man, would I like to get my hands on that woman."
Dorsey told herself to say nothing, to just ignore the remark and move on to another subject, something harmless and bland that wouldn't become a forum for debate—religion, politics, women's rights, fashion dos and don'ts, that kind of thing. But being the kind of woman she was—namely, impulsive and incautious—and seeing as how she rather took his attack personally she just couldn't quite let it go by.
So very quietly, she asked, "Who says I'm not a complete convert to Ms. Grable-Monroe's book?"
He arched his eyebrows in surprise, parting his lips slightly. Just enough so that, had she wanted to, she could have leaned across the tiny table and tasted him, right now, this very minute, in front of God and everybody. But of course, she didn't want to do that. Heavens, no. Not right here in the middle of the restaurant. Just what kind of girl did he think she was?
Much better to do that in private.
"You've been converted to Ms. Grable-Monroe's book?" he asked. "Does this mean you're planning on leaving your husband to find a man with money?"
And did he actually sound hopeful when he asked that? she wondered. Surely not. She tilted her head to one side and said, "That depends."
He eyed her with much interest. "On what?"
She strove for a cocky grin. "On whether or not he's done the laundry when I get home tonight."
Adam looked absolutely scandalized by the mere suggestion. "You make the poor sap do the laundry?"
Dorsey looked positively incredulous in response. "Hey, half of the dirty underwear would be his, you know. Why shouldn't he do the laundry?"
"Somehow, I can't imagine Dave the bulldozer operator sorting socks."
"Hey, you might be surprised what Dave the bulldozer operator could do."
In no way did Dorsey mean for the comment to be suggestive, but somehow, it came out sounding exactly that way. She supposed it was because, no matter how much or how little time she spent talking to Adam Darien, somehow, at some point, their conversation always became suggestive. And that, she supposed, was because she found him so attractive. And, she knew, he found her attractive, too. In spite of that, he'd never overstepped the bounds of propriety, probably because of her alleged marital status. Still, that didn't keep them from being attracted to each other. Nor did it keep their conversations from straying into dangerous waters.
"So what else is Dave … good at?"
Really dangerous waters.
The way he voiced the question made a quiver of heat dance around Dorsey's entire body, and she didn't trust herself to say anything more. Adam, however, seemed not to share her problem. Because he continued to eye her expectantly as he lifted his glass again and filled his mouth with wine, his gaze never, ever, not even for a second leaving hers. She couldn't help but be fascinated by the way his strong throat worked over
