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Authors: Elizabeth Bevarly
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is, in fact, a Ph.D. candidate in the sociology department of
Severn
College
."
"That's not the problem, either," Anita replied. "Quite frankly, the last thing I want is for Lauren to come forward as a stuffy academic from some snooty women's college."
Dorsey tried not to feel offended—even if she did have to concede that she was rather stuffy and Severn was rather snooty—and went on, "You also promised me that keeping Lauren Grable-Monroe under wraps would be a piece of cake."
"See, now that's the problem."
"Anita…"
"Look, Dorsey," her editor interrupted her—again. "Just think about this for a minute. Book sales have been phenomenal with Lauren lying low behind the scenes. If— when —we bring her out, the numbers are going to go through the roof. Through—the—roof," she reiterated slowly. "We're talkin' New York Times list, baby. We're talkin' 'More than a million books in print.' We're talkin' foreign sales out the wazoo."
"All the more reason to maintain my anonymity," Dorsey said, her tone pleading.
"No, Dorsey, you're not listening," Anita replied. "We're talkin' incredible royalties. Way beyond your initial advance. We're talkin', potentially, many hundreds of thousands of dollars. Financial security for the future," she added pointedly, and, as far as Dorsey was concerned, that was the lowest of blows. "I thought that was what you wanted. I thought earning a nice little nest egg for your mother's retirement was the whole point of writing How to Trap a Tycoon . How can you turn that down?"
She couldn't turn it down. Dorsey knew that. The promise of cold, hard cash was what had generated this whole fiasco. Carlotta, as charming as she was, had absolutely no head for financial planning, and she'd always made her way on someone else's ticket. Nowadays, those tickets were coming fewer and farther between. The proceeds from How to Trap a Tycoon were supposed to fund Carlotta's future, so that she could spend the rest of her life in relative comfort without relying on a benefactor. Dorsey just wished she didn't have to sell off so much of herself to guarantee her mother's health, happiness, and well-being.
In spite of the feeling of defeat that gripped her, Dorsey said halfheartedly, "Anita, I can't identify myself as the author of this book."
Anita's exasperated sigh was followed by an impatient "Why not?"
Even as the reasons unfolded in her head, Dorsey knew her editor would never understand them. She scarcely understood herself why she was so reluctant to do what Anita was asking her to do. All she'd ever wanted from life was security. Not just financial security, but personal security, too. Psychological security. Emotional security. In her own small way, she had won, or was about to win, all of those things. She was about to earn her Ph.D., was close to nailing down a position at
Severn
College
that would someday lead to tenure. She had a stable income and regular rituals she observed in her life, along with a daily routine that was wonderfully routine. There were no ups and downs for her these days, no unforeseen curves, no hidden trapdoors.
It was exactly what she wanted after growing up in an atmosphere where she and Carlotta had often, quite literally overnight, gone from living in posh apartments to the streets. One day her mother would be bringing home carryout from five-star restaurants for Dorsey's dinner, and the next day they'd have trouble scraping up enough for McDonald's. The quality of their lives had always depended on whether or not Carlotta had a benefactor lined up, and as often as not, those benefactors would disappear without warning. These days, more than anything else, Dorsey craved stability. Security. Routine.
The financial reward that Anita was promising, should Dorsey pose as Lauren Grable-Monroe, would give her mother all of those things, and Dorsey, too, by extension. Contrary to popular belief, she knew money could buy happiness. Because money could buy security.
Severn
College
."
"That's not the problem, either," Anita replied. "Quite frankly, the last thing I want is for Lauren to come forward as a stuffy academic from some snooty women's college."
Dorsey tried not to feel offended—even if she did have to concede that she was rather stuffy and Severn was rather snooty—and went on, "You also promised me that keeping Lauren Grable-Monroe under wraps would be a piece of cake."
"See, now that's the problem."
"Anita…"
"Look, Dorsey," her editor interrupted her—again. "Just think about this for a minute. Book sales have been phenomenal with Lauren lying low behind the scenes. If— when —we bring her out, the numbers are going to go through the roof. Through—the—roof," she reiterated slowly. "We're talkin' New York Times list, baby. We're talkin' 'More than a million books in print.' We're talkin' foreign sales out the wazoo."
"All the more reason to maintain my anonymity," Dorsey said, her tone pleading.
"No, Dorsey, you're not listening," Anita replied. "We're talkin' incredible royalties. Way beyond your initial advance. We're talkin', potentially, many hundreds of thousands of dollars. Financial security for the future," she added pointedly, and, as far as Dorsey was concerned, that was the lowest of blows. "I thought that was what you wanted. I thought earning a nice little nest egg for your mother's retirement was the whole point of writing How to Trap a Tycoon . How can you turn that down?"
She couldn't turn it down. Dorsey knew that. The promise of cold, hard cash was what had generated this whole fiasco. Carlotta, as charming as she was, had absolutely no head for financial planning, and she'd always made her way on someone else's ticket. Nowadays, those tickets were coming fewer and farther between. The proceeds from How to Trap a Tycoon were supposed to fund Carlotta's future, so that she could spend the rest of her life in relative comfort without relying on a benefactor. Dorsey just wished she didn't have to sell off so much of herself to guarantee her mother's health, happiness, and well-being.
In spite of the feeling of defeat that gripped her, Dorsey said halfheartedly, "Anita, I can't identify myself as the author of this book."
Anita's exasperated sigh was followed by an impatient "Why not?"
Even as the reasons unfolded in her head, Dorsey knew her editor would never understand them. She scarcely understood herself why she was so reluctant to do what Anita was asking her to do. All she'd ever wanted from life was security. Not just financial security, but personal security, too. Psychological security. Emotional security. In her own small way, she had won, or was about to win, all of those things. She was about to earn her Ph.D., was close to nailing down a position at
Severn
College
that would someday lead to tenure. She had a stable income and regular rituals she observed in her life, along with a daily routine that was wonderfully routine. There were no ups and downs for her these days, no unforeseen curves, no hidden trapdoors.
It was exactly what she wanted after growing up in an atmosphere where she and Carlotta had often, quite literally overnight, gone from living in posh apartments to the streets. One day her mother would be bringing home carryout from five-star restaurants for Dorsey's dinner, and the next day they'd have trouble scraping up enough for McDonald's. The quality of their lives had always depended on whether or not Carlotta had a benefactor lined up, and as often as not, those benefactors would disappear without warning. These days, more than anything else, Dorsey craved stability. Security. Routine.
The financial reward that Anita was promising, should Dorsey pose as Lauren Grable-Monroe, would give her mother all of those things, and Dorsey, too, by extension. Contrary to popular belief, she knew money could buy happiness. Because money could buy security.
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