How to Trap a Tycoon by Elizabeth Bevarly Read Free Book Online Page B

petite figure spectacularly well.
    No one would ever guess that there were twenty-five years separating them, Dorsey thought. Carlotta MacGuinness was doubtless as fit and beautiful at fifty-two as she had been at twenty-two. In many ways, she was probably more stunning now than she had been three decades ago. Because now she had a knowledge and experience of life that women of twenty-two could never possess. And over the years, she had used that knowledge and experience in a way that most women—of any age—would never understand.
    Dorsey fell into that "most women" category. Although she loved her mother dearly—in spite of those occasions, frequent as they were, when Carlotta's behavior threatened to drive her stark, raving mad—she would never, ever understand any of the choices Carlotta had made over her lifetime.
    "The blue, I think," Carlotta decided without further consultation with her daughter.
    Well, except maybe for that choice, Dorsey amended. Blue really was a better color on her than green. Other than that, though, most of Carlotta's life decisions made no sense at all. And making decisions on her own was pretty much par for the course for Carlotta. She was very much her own woman, in spite of having spent her adult life being kept by so many men.
    "The blue is nice," Dorsey agreed. If a tad shorter than most fifty-something women would wear. Carlotta, she was certain, would pull off magnificently the brief, sleeveless silk, sheath.
    "Where are you going tonight?" Dorsey asked her.
    "Hollis Barnett is celebrating her fiftieth birthday this evening with what promises to be great excess," her mother replied.
    "Wow," Dorsey said. "That's some milestone."
    Carlotta held the green dress before her again, just for good measure. "I suppose," she replied blandly. "But it's a bit anticlimactic, seeing as how Hollis actually passed said milestone seven years ago." She spun around and, clearly still undecided about which dress to wear, she tossed both carelessly onto the bed beside Dorsey and contemplated them from that angle instead.
    "You could come with me," she said, smiling sweetly. "You could wear the green. It would look wonderful on you."
    Dorsey eyed the even briefer strapless cocktail dress that was—almost—made of shimmering emerald satin. Then she drove her gaze down over her standard teaching assistant-post-grad student uniform of blue jeans, hiking boots, and nondescript flannel shirt. "Gee, I don't know, Carlotta. Somehow, it just doesn't scream me."
    Her mother sniffed indignantly. "It could, you know, if you'd just forsake those awful jeans and sweaters and"—she shuddered for effect—"flannel shirts. Honestly, Dorsey, you dress like a lumberjack. You should change your name to Lars."
    "Lars?"
    Belatedly, Dorsey realized she had spoken the comment aloud, and immediately, she wished she could take it back. She'd learned long ago not to encourage her mother to elaborate on such remarks. Too often, Carlotta's elaborations went on for days.
    "Yes, Lars," Carlotta said before Dorsey could come up with anything that might sidetrack her. "I once knew a lumberjack named Lars. Randy as a bear he was, too. Really, his name should have been Bjorn. Bjorn is Swedish for 'bear.' Did you know that, Dorsey? I don't know what Lars is Swedish for. Probably 'flannel shirt.' I couldn't get him to wear anything else. Of course, sometimes, that was rather nice—the not wearing anything else part, I mean—but other times, well… Come to think of it, maybe he should have been named Randy instead of—"
    "Carlotta," Dorsey interjected as discreetly as she could.
    Her mother glanced up, her face etched with surprise at the interruption. "What?" she asked.
    "Um, we were talking about something else, I think?"
    Thankfully, Carlotta nodded and moved on. "So we were. We were talking about you putting on that green dress and coming with me tonight."
    Dorsey shook her head. "No, we were talking about how that dress"—she