"No, that's the human being in me talking," Mack replied, scattering his thoughts.
He loved her voice. It was perfect for a bartender, low and throaty and husky, redolent of smoky bars and bluesy guitar riffs and good Scotch over ice.
"Being a sociology student—or instructor, for that matter—has nothing to do with it," she continued in her smoldering, whiskey riff. Then she smiled. "However, if you'd like to discuss it in terms of the millennial Zeitgeist, I'm open."
He narrowed his eyes at her, stifling a growl. "No thanks," he said. Then, brightening, he added, "I hate that damned book, too. And its reception by the general public." Then, in case that wasn't enough to emphasize his point, he continued, "And I hate its cover. And its size. And the promotional campaign used. And the fact that it's written in English. And the font it's printed in. And the ink they used. And—"
She laughed as she finished free-pouring a generous amount of Oban over ice. "Yeah, well, it's hardly surprising that you wouldn't care for it. Seeing as how you're the perfect prey for any potential tycoon-trappers out there."
"It's not just that," he denied.
She set his fresh drink before him and smiled knowingly. "Oh, isn't it?" she asked, likewise knowingly.
He shook his head adamantly. "It's nothing personal," he assured her. "I consider that damned book to be an affront to men everywhere, regardless of their economic situation."
She crossed her arms and leaned forward, all signs of her previous uneasiness and discomfort having vanished. This was the Mack he knew and loved, the witty, confident, take-no-guff pal.
"Oh, is that all?" she asked mildly.
"I'm serious, Mack," he insisted. "Thanks to that damned book, the men in this country are being completely outmaneuvered in the mating game. We've become quarry, for God's sake. And that's just not how nature works. It's … it's… Well, it's unnatural, that's all. We—the men—are supposed to be the hunters. Not the women. But how can we hunt when we can't even figure out what rules the women are playing by on any given day?"
"You can figure that out," Mack told him. "Just read whatever book is on the best-seller list that day. Like, oh, say, How to Trap a Tycoon."
"Very funny."
"It's true," she said. "Sexual politics have always been a part of the whole man-woman thing. They just change with each new best-seller, that's all."
"Hmm. You may have a point," he conceded. "And, to be fair, I suppose Ms. Grable-Monroe's book is no more irritating than any of the other best-sellers of recent years that have made a man's life difficult. At least this book isn't telling women to avoid us or, worse, to psychoanalyze us. Or worse still, to turn us into apron-wearing, hummus-eating Yanni listeners. But," he interjected when Mack opened her mouth to comment, "this book does flat out objectify men. It turns us into status symbols, possessions to be acquired."
"Which," she said, "when you get right down to it, is exactly what men have been doing to women throughout history."
"It's not the same," he said.
"It's exactly the same," she assured him.
He shook his head before reiterating, "It's not the same, Mack."
She grinned, an impish little grin that both chilled and heated him. What a strange—and not unpleasant—sensation. "It's not the same," she said smoothly, "because you're the one being objectified and turned into a status symbol this time."
"It's not natural," he said again, ignoring her comment because—well, just because, that was why. "Women aren't the pursuers. Men are."
"Not anymore," she said softly. "Don't know much about biology," she misquoted, "but I am familiar with a little theory that some biologists find interesting. It's called Evolution." She enunciated the word carefully, as if she were speaking to a three-year-old—or perhaps to a sexist, elitist, chauvinist pig. "Maybe you've heard of it, Evolution. Things, animals—even men—do change." She paused a telling beat before adding, "Eventually."
Adam said nothing, mainly because she was gazing at him in a way she had that made his entire body go on red alert. It was a feeling no self-respecting single man should experience when faced with a married woman. Because it was the kind of feeling that made him want to forget all about her husband. The kind of feeling that made him want to make her forget all about her husband.
He pushed the feeling aside as far as he could—which, granted, wasn't all that far. "Don't you find offensive, though," he said, "the suggestion that a woman should go out and find herself a rich man to take care of her? I mean, hasn't your gender been fighting for decades to obliterate this kind of thing?"
Mack shook her head. "No, my gender has been fighting for decades to provide women with choices and opportunities. We never had those before. What each woman chooses to do with the choices and opportunities she has available to her is entirely up to the individual. But it's that choice we've been fighting for. Besides," she added, "Ms. Grable-Monroe's book isn't necessarily telling women to go out and find rich husbands to take care of them."
This was news to Adam. "And just how the hell do you figure that?"
She shrugged. "I see her book as more of a social satire."
"A social satire?" he repeated incredulously. "In what way? This is a book that tells women that money—someone else's money—would solve just about every problem they have."
She met his gaze levelly again. And once again, Adam found himself forgetting all about that husband of hers, who must be waiting for her at home. Then again, maybe he worked nights, and he'd never notice if Mack got in a little late for once…
"Money would solve just about every problem women have," she said. "And the reason it has to be someone else's money is because personal wealth is something women have constantly been denied throughout history by men.
