How to Trap a Tycoon Read Online Free PDF Page A

about its reception?"
    She went about the motions of her job automatically as she replied, "It seems to be conducive to mass hysteria, that's what. And mass hysteria leads to everything from nihilism to jingoism."
    Immediately, he began to feel wary. "Uh-oh," he said.
    She glanced up curiously from her task, the bottle of Oban suspended above his glass. "Uh-oh?" she echoed.
    "Nihilism," he repeated. "Jingoism. That's the sociology student in you talking, isn't it? You're about to go off on another one of your sociological tangents, aren't you? You're going to start using words like 'esoteric' and 'exegesis' and 'dogma.' I hate it when you do that."
    Mack chuckled as she went back to pouring his drink. "Oh, come on. You know your cocktail party chitchat quotient has gone sky high since you met me. Admit it."
    "That's beside the point."
    When she glanced up to look at him again, there was a flicker of humor sparking in her eyes. Not for the first time, he marveled at how green the irises were, how they were a color he'd never quite seen anywhere before. It was a color that reminded him of the waters lapping at a certain Caribbean island of his acquaintance and he was tempted to invite her to accompany him there for a very intimate visit sometime.
    And it bothered Adam a lot to realize he had the capacity to entertain ideas like that about a married woman. Hell, about any woman. The last thing he needed in his life was a very intimate visit with someone, married or otherwise. Intimate visits had a habit of turning into permanent conditions. Or, rather, in his case, semi-permanent conditions. The presence of his ex-wife in the world attested to that. And he wasn't likely to make such a mistake again.
    "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