How to Trap a Tycoon Elizabeth Bevarly (year 7 reading list txt) 📖

missed the feel of his big body spooned against hers in bed, the sensation of his mouth consuming hers when he kissed her, the heat and friction the two of them generated as lovers. She missed his strength, his irascibility, his challenge.

She missed him. And she wanted him. And she needed him, too.

It was so ironic. When she'd had Adam, Dorsey hadn't had time to devote to a relationship, because she'd been too busy trying to be three different people. Now that she didn't have him anymore, she had nothing but time on her hands.

Even Severn College had called her at home just yesterday, two days before the start of the spring semester, to tell Dorsey that—surprise, surprise—they suddenly seemed to have a mysterious surplus of teaching assistants for the spring semester and, so sorry, they were just going to have to take her off the schedule, and could she please come in tomorrow and clean out her study carrel, because they needed it for one of the other TAs?

Oh, of course, she could still complete her work on her doctorate, they had assured her. But could she please do it in the library instead of the sociology department, because the media circus was such a disruption, and no one was taking the college seriously while she was working there, but no, of course that hadn't had anything to do with why they were letting her go, that was due to the aforementioned sudden—and very mysterious—surplus of TAs. And did they mention that they needed her to come right away and clean out her study carrel so that it would be available for one of the other TAs? Yes, tomorrow would be fine.

Which was how Dorsey came to be spending her Sunday alone, in her soon to be ex-study carrel in the otherwise deserted sociology department, stowing in a cardboard box what few things had fitted inside the tiny space to begin with. Her photo of Ghandi, her desktop gargoyle, her coffee mug that read "Yes, but not the inclination," and a couple of yellowed Calvin and Hobbes and Shoe cartoons she'd taped to the wall alongside her postcard of Marlon Brando as Johnny in The Wild One. All went into the box along with pencils, pens, textbooks, and software.

She barely heard the sound of footsteps scraping along the linoleum outside until they were right in front of the carrel door. Dorsey glanced up at the soft sound and suddenly found herself standing face to face—or, more correctly, face to chest—with Adam Darien.

He was leaning casually against the doorjamb, gazing at her with an expression that was utterly inscrutable, his brown eyes framed by pale shadows, his mouth bracketed by faint lines. His leather bomber jacket hung open over a bulky, oatmeal-colored sweater and blue jeans and was decorated on each shoulder by epaulettes of quickly melting snow. His dark hair was dusted with glistening little droplets of moisture, his cheeks were ruddy from the cold day outside, and she wanted more than anything in the world to hurl herself into his arms and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Unable to help herself, she glanced down at her grubby jeans and the plaid flannel shirt buttoned halfway up over a thermal-knit Henley . Her hand flew up to smooth ineffectually over the loose ponytail fixed haphazardly at the crown of her head, but she knew no amount of hasty rearranging would help the errant curls that had spilled out to frame her face. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, had been lucky she remembered to brush her teeth that morning. All in all, this wasn't the way she'd hoped to look when she saw Adam again. She'd rather hoped she would look more like … like… Well, like Lauren Grable-Monroe.

Dammit.

"Hi," she said softly, unsure when she'd even decided to speak.

"Hi," he replied just as quietly, just as uncertainly.

She had no idea why he would come here looking for her. Unless it was to further her humiliation, which she couldn't possibly see being made any worse than it—already had been over the last month—unless, of course, Adam Darien showed up.

He pointed to the little plastic sign affixed to the exterior of her carrel, the one that read DORSEY MACGUINNESS, TA. "Do I want to know what this T and A stand for?" he asked, the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth.

She expelled a sound that was a mixture of relief and disbelief because he didn't seem to want to strangle her. He didn't seem to want to humiliate her. He didn't seem to want to condemn her. What he seemed like he wanted to do was…

Oh, boy . Maybe there was a chance for them yet.

"It stands for Truly Abominable," she told him breathlessly as, in one swift move, she lunged forward to withdraw the name plate from its metal holder. "That describes my behavior of the last few months quite well, I think," she added as she returned to her original position and tossed the nameplate into the box with her other things. She didn't want to leave it behind, after all. It was the only thing she had left that proved she had ever been a teacher in the first place.

Adam inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, his gaze never wavering from hers. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked simply—not that the question required any kind of embellishment.

She opened her mouth to answer him, realized she had no idea how to do that, then closed it again.

Before she realized his intention, he pushed himself away from the carrel door and entered the tiny space, a pretty impressive accomplishment, seeing as how Dorsey herself barely fitted inside the cubicle. Then, even more impressive, he nudged the door closed behind him. He leaned one hip against the counter that had housed her laptop and lamp before she'd put them into the box on the floor, crossed his arms over his chest in a