He narrowed his eyes at her. "Does everything have to become a sociology lecture with you?"
"Don't try to change the subject."
He sighed his exasperation. "Do you really believe that?" he asked. "That women don't make as much as men do for performing the same work? Here I've been under the impression that that was one of those urban legends."
She straightened, then rolled her eyes heavenward and tapped her chin with her index finger, clearly feigning thought. "Gee, do I really believe that? Let me think about it a minute. Yep, I really do believe that," she immediately answered herself, returning her gaze to his.
He shook his head at her in disappointment. "And here I've been thinking you're such an intelligent woman, Mack."
"I am an intelligent woman," she said matter-of-factly. Then, evidently discerning again his attempt to change the subject—she was, after all, an intelligent woman—she reverted to what they were initially discussing. "Men can't afford to let women earn the same amount of money that they do. Because with money comes independence. And men, who, alas, do still rule the world—for now, at least—can't afford to have us independent."
"Why not?"
She waited until he turned his attention fully to her face, then pinned her gaze on his yet again. "Because we would enslave you, that's why."
For a moment, he was so stunned by her response that he simply could not form a reply. But he regained his composure again eventually and smiled. At least, he hoped he was smiling. His face—not to mention other body parts—still felt a little stiff at hearing the whole enslaving thing suggested. My, but the prospects were just too intriguing to bear.
"Gee, there's nothing I'd love more than to continue this conversation," he said, "but something tells me it's not one I should be having with a married woman."
She colored a bit at that, as if she, too, had forgotten all about that husband of hers. Well, well, well. Wasn't this just the most interesting conversation that he and Mack had never had?
Thankfully, their nonexistent discussion was interrupted then by the arrival of Adam's most recently acquired and very existent—sometimes too existent, in Adam's opinion—staff writer. As he watched Mack answer the summons of another club member halfway up the bar, Adam told himself she was not fleeing, and turned to greet his associate.
Lucas Conaway, age twenty-four, was fifteen years and a lifetime younger than Adam. In his Dockers, white button-down shirt and Animaniacs necktie, he was the sartorial antithesis of Adam, who had opted today for a three-piece, pin-striped Hugo Boss number—which, admittedly, was currently in something of a state of disarray. Likewise, the kid's blond, blue-eyed, gee-whiz good looks were at odds with what Adam cheerfully claimed as his own dark and brooding demeanor.
Normally, he would readily concede that their differences ended there. Despite the physical and temporal disparities, employer and employee were virtually two of a kind. Both were equally ambitious and driven when it came to the magazine they worked for—and, in Adam's case, owned—and both were equally irreverent and cynical when it came to life in general. Neither accepted any guff from any swine. And neither backed down an inch from what he wanted.
Adam could already sense that it was that last shared quality that was about to cause some trouble. He could tell by the look of intent on Lucas's face. Oh, well, he thought, it wouldn't be the first time they'd gone head to head on something. Nor, he was confident, would it be the last. And that, he told himself, was what made for good journalism. Even if that journalism found its way into a publication that was targeted less at hard news and more at—he might as well admit it—frivolous masculine pursuits.
Nevertheless, Man's Life magazine was Adam's pride and joy, his friends and family, his offspring, his better half, his reason for being. He had launched the glossy monthly a mere six years ago, and already its circulation was higher than any other magazine of its kind. Devoted to covering the finer things in a man's life—fast cars and fine wines, great books and good cigars, beautiful, intelligent women … and other such masculine acquisitions—Man's Life had become everything he had envisioned. And in his role of publisher as well as editor-in-chief, Adam was exactly where he wanted to be.
"I have a great idea for a story," Lucas said as he folded himself onto a neighboring bar stool. Without giving Adam a chance to reply, he hastily continued, "Three times yesterday, I encountered the same thing. Three times. To me, that means it's newsworthy." He lifted his hand toward Mack, who nodded an acknowledgment that she would be right there.
"Three times, huh?" Adam asked, his curiosity reluctantly piqued. "I suppose that counts for something."
"It's a sign," Lucas assured him. "On three separate occasions yesterday, in three separate places, I saw women reading that new book How to Trap a Tycoon."
"Oh, no," Adam said, rolling his eyes. "Not again. Not that."
"So what could I do but go out and buy myself a copy, too?" Lucas asked.
Adam eyed him with much disgust. "How could you? You've betrayed your entire gender."
Lucas shrugged off the charge. "Hey, the book is topical. It's a current event. I'm a journalist. Sue me."
"Don't tell me you actually read the thing."
"Of course I read it. And it really fired me up, too."
"To do what? Go out and trap yourself a tycoon?"
Lucas grinned in a very wicked way that Adam found more than a little intriguing. "Nope," he said simply. "It made me want to go out and trap Lauren Grable-Monroe."
Well, that sounded promising. "And do what with her?" Adam spurred.
Lucas's grin turned positively malicious. Adam was liking this more and more. "My intention is to go out and trap myself Lauren Grable-Monroe and then completely expose her for the fraud I'm certain
