Strapless (10 page)

He moved against her, inside her. Silk and velvet. Heat and oiled friction.

“Let me join you.”

You don't settle for third-rate, Darcie. You deserve lights and laser shows,
Claire had said.
Fireworks.

Darcie didn't know whether she could ever convey the barest outline of these past two weeks to Claire, Gran, anyone she knew.

Thank the stars—and a few pinwheels, some rockets—for Walter Corwin. He'd barely blinked when Darcie asked to spend the day, the whole day, with Dylan. Walt had an appointment, he said. He and the real estate agent would have brunch, then nail down the last details of the rental contract for the QVB. After that, he'd “keep busy” with a stroll near the harbor, a bite of dinner somewhere, an early night—if he could sleep with the pyrotechnics going off all over the city.

Dylan's hands caught her hips to hold Darcie still.

“Don't move,” he murmured. “I'll go off too soon.”

How could he, again? Darcie wondered. Didn't men need recovery time? After watching the light show from The Rocks, they'd wandered back to their hotel, stopping here and there along the way to kiss or touch or both, pausing now and then to have another drink somewhere. Then, in Dylan's room for this last night together, they'd fallen into bed. Made love. Once, three times…now four?

“I'm glad you have such staying power.”

“Just for you.” Even if he didn't mean them, the words sent another wave of desire through her body. Taking a deep breath, Dylan framed her face between his hands. Leaning on his elbows over her, he looked into her eyes. “I want you so much. I keep wanting you. I keep thinking…”

Bending his head, he kissed her mouth.

“Thinking what?” Darcie whispered against his lips.

“How you'd look—” he pressed one hand to her belly “—swollen here, ripe with a baby growing inside you, moving—” his hand slid upward over her rib cage “—your skin flushed, radiant—” then up again to her breasts “—your nipples larger, darker—” he kissed one then the other “—beginning to leak with first milk…”

“Dylan,” she said on a moan. Talk about old-fashioned. Primal.

“You'd taste so sweet….”

The notion shocked her. His words shot through her from breast to thighs, and deep between. “Don't—”

He sipped at her. “It's how you should be. Sometime,” he said.

It was only a fantasy. Harmless, sexy. She let him have it, let the forbidden thrill roll through her body too because it was just that—like these two weeks. Pretend.

He licked and nibbled, then kissed her some more. Her breasts, her collarbone, her jawline, her earlobe, her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth again until Darcie was gasping with need. And all the while he moved inside her, slow and deep, light and shallow, then hard and fast again. Darcie held on, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, her heart around his soul.

Until a fresh spurt of alarm hit her squarely in the solar plexus. Maybe, for him, this was more than a fantasy.

“You are wearing a condom?”

Dylan grunted. “Want me to double-bag it?”

She had no answer for that. No heart. When the climax came, it came at once—for both of them again.

“I could get addicted to this,” Darcie whispered in the darkness when she caught her breath. “I never had a mutual orgasm until you.”

“It doesn't have to stop.”

His voice suddenly edgy, Dylan rolled away from her. She heard him deal with the latest condom before he lay back on the bed and pulled the white duvet over them. Darcie felt chilled anyway.

“We're not going to fight about this. Are we?”

“You could stay.”

“No, Dylan. I can't.” She stroked her fingers down his cheek. Five-o'clock shadow…no, 3:00 a.m. shadow now. “I have a job, you have a farm.”

“Station,” he said, his jaw set.

“You live in the Outback, I live in New York.”

He had left his widowed mother with the sheep. But she had called more frequently this second week and Darcie knew that Dylan was stalling not to go home. Yesterday, finally, he'd found a ram to be shipped from England if the deal was right. He had duties, obligations, responsibilities. So did she. Then there were his attitudes about a woman's place in a man's life…the kitchen, the bedroom, the nursery. Oh, Lord, the nursery. That erotic playacting of his rolled through her mind again. If she stayed any longer, she would start to feel tempted by the very values she was trying to escape.

A hundred times, she thought. With Dylan. Over the past two weeks.

“Call me,” he said. “Here, when you get back. Or I'll call you.”

Darcie couldn't answer. All she could do was cling to him for the rest of this last night, then go home—and keep trying to fit her life pieces together in their balky puzzle.

She turned her face into his neck and breathed deeply of his scent. Soap, beer, man.

She'd stayed away from the beer tonight herself. She wasn't getting sick this last time.

Darcie had no time for sleep, either.

Long after Dylan fell into a restless doze, she lay awake watching him. Touching him. Why? she asked herself. Why do the good ones always turn out to be impossible? In some way or other, they were always Mr. Wrong for Darcie Elizabeth Baxter.

Fireworks.

She felt as if she'd set off a flotilla of barges loaded, programmed, with every conceivable mortar and starburst.

It would be hard to say goodbye.

So she wouldn't.

When light filtered through the windows that over-
looked Darling Harbour, she didn't bolt from the bed this time to humiliate herself in Dylan's bathroom. No. When dawn came in the morning, she slipped out from under the hand he'd rested on her hip all night, pressed a feathery kiss on his forehead—and, cold sober, left the room. Left Dylan.

D
arcie had just drifted off to sleep—blessed relief—when a small body thumped onto her stomach. Sharp claws kneaded her tender skin through Darcie's soft-knit Wunderthings pajamas, last season's biggest seller in the clothing line, and she startled awake. Cursing.

Sweet Baby Jane blinked at her in the dark, fierce cat eyes glowing.

“Don't even think about it.”

If those stiletto nails sank into her any deeper, Darcie would abandon all pretense of politically correct treatment of animals. Knowing better than to spring up in bed, she moved slowly, cautiously. Intent upon removing the beastly animal from her abdomen, from her room, from her life if possible, she sat up. Shifting her weight, she hoped to dislodge SBJ without actually touching her. No such luck.

“All right. War.”

She plucked Jane away from her stomach—a stomach Dylan Rafferty had kissed only nights before—and dumped her on the floor. Sweet Baby Jane hissed.

“Back off,” Darcie warned her.

It was no use.

If she went back to bed now, Jane would only take advantage. As soon as Darcie fell into a restless slumber again, she would jump on her. Wide-awake in the middle of the night, Darcie padded across the hall. Avoiding Sweet Baby Jane's stalking, she hop-scotched into the bathroom. When she came out, the cat instantly pounced.

Darcie shrieked. Jumping from one foot to the other, she inadvertently stomped on the cat's tail. SBJ yowled. A second later, her grandmother opened her own bedroom door to peer out into the hall.

“Jane, my sweet?”

“It's her. And me.”

“Darcie. Why aren't you asleep?”

“Other than a virulent case of jet lag? It's worse flying east than west.” She sidestepped Sweet Baby Jane. Eden scooped her up, crooning, but Darcie said, “That's why.”

“Did the bad girl hurt you, Janie? Ah, poor lamb.”

Lambs,
sheep,
were not Darcie's favorite topic this week, either.

“I didn't touch her…but, Gran, this cat is vicious.”

“Nonsense. Julio said only last night—no, night before last, just before you came home—that he's never met a cat like Jane.”

The doorman?
“I'm sure.”

“He meant that in a good way, Darcie.” Eden turned back into her room. “I'm delighted to have you home, dear, but I do hope your mood improves. Soon.”

“My mood is fine,” Darcie snapped. “But this…this
feline
needs a muzzle.”

“Don't be silly. She loves everyone.”

Darcie followed Eden into her room, safe now that the cat was in her grandmother's arms. Purring, of course, loud enough to wake Claire, Peter, and the baby two floors down. Sweet Baby Jane looked angelic.

“That animal should get a prime role in the next sequel to
The Exorcist.
I swear, she must be a familiar.”

“My Jane a witch's companion? I should say not.”

“You would if you'd ever turned your back on her.”

“She wouldn't hurt a soul. Julio says…”

At the second mention of his name, Darcie let her gaze whip to the bedside telephone. Then the book lying open on Eden's bed.

“
How To Make Love to a Man?
” Darcie read the cover. “Honestly, Gran. Are you sleeping with
him
now?”

Eden blushed.

“We haven't gotten that far. He's Spanish, you know. Hot-blooded but a gentleman. A charming combination.”

Like Dylan's mellow, laid-back style, his attitude.

“You're dating him?”

“Well, now and then. His night shift interferes with our social life.”

“You could always go down to the lobby and help him open doors.”

“What does that mean, Darcie?” Her grandmother eyed her with obvious disapproval. “That comment is so unlike you that I can only assume its source is your own lack of…satisfaction these days.”

“No, I like Julio. He's cool. He seems very nice.”
Very…young.

“Go on,” Eden murmured.

“That's all I know about him.”

“Then please don't pass judgment on our alliance.” She carried Sweet Baby Jane—who gave Darcie a triumphant look—to bed with her. Nestled in the covers again, Eden fluffed her filmy peignoir. Where had she gotten such a garment? Bergdorf Goodman, Darcie guessed. Circa 1954. Gran followed Darcie's gaze to the silent telephone.

“He still hasn't called?”

She played innocent. “Who?”

“Dylan Rafferty. I do love that name. Strong, masculine. Very inspiring,” Eden decided aloud. “Tell me again. What was it like in the Land of Oz?”

“Busy.”

“More,” her grandmother urged.

“Hot.”

“Ummm. That's better. What else?”

“All right. Sexy.” She couldn't help the smile. Darcie
plunked herself down on the end of the bed, far enough away from SBJ that she couldn't get scratched. As if waiting, too, for this latest retelling of her skin adventures with Dylan Rafferty, the cat sent her a Cheshire grin. Maybe they could find common ground after all.

“You can't imagine, Gran. I've never felt the way he made me feel. He was like a drug…or so I suppose.” She couldn't vouch for her sister Annie, but Darcie wasn't into substance experimentation. “He has these dark eyes, that melting smile, a blowtorch mouth—”

“He's a good kisser.”

“Among other things, yes.”

“You lucky girl.”

Darcie suppressed the strong wave of need, then of anguish, that rolled through her. She shouldn't have started, even to entertain Eden or to fill her own sleepless hours. In the few days she'd been back in New York, the telephone had remained stubbornly silent. Her nights—so recently Darcie's days in Sydney—stayed perversely mixed up. Sleep deprived, upside down in time and emotions, she was turning into a “virago” like her mother. For very different reasons. Her grandmother was right. A horny virago. She didn't regret walking out on Dylan that last morning. It seemed better than a long goodbye she'd only have trouble forgetting. Like Dylan himself. But…

“Tell me again about the Akubra.”

“In the elevator, or in his room?”

“Both.”

By the time she finished, they were laughing. Even Sweet Baby Jane looked pleased with the stories that had lightened Darcie's jet-lagged heart at the same time they plunged her back into despair.

“I think you should call him,” Eden said, riffling through the book in her lap. The cat lay on her pillow, vibrating, blinking, on the verge of sleep. “He must have been hurt…even angry when he woke up to find you gone. Without a word, I might add. How could you, Darcie?”

“It's better this way.”

Or so she tried to tell herself.

“Distance, occupation, I should think those could be overcome. Any relationship requires compromise. Just look at Julio and me. The beautiful little man has me thoroughly on the other side of the clock—just like you with Dylan—because I can't bear the thought of falling off to sleep in a warm bed alone while he stands in that cold lobby, the wind blowing through his jacket every time the door opens and some rude tenant stalks in. What's the harm in calling Dylan to discuss your situation?”

“He won't compromise.”
We'll rehydrate then negotiate.
Ha. Sexually, perhaps, but otherwise… “It didn't take me long to realize how stubborn he can be.”

“So was your grandfather, but we lived together for forty-five years. Well, forty-six if you count the love nest we shared in the Village before our wedding.”

“You and Gramps lived together?”

“And why not? We couldn't keep our hands off each other.” She paused. “It sounds as if you and your Aussie feel the same.”

“Felt,” Darcie corrected her. “I'm not spending my life with a man who still thinks a woman should be barefoot and pregnant.”

“He didn't say that. I won't believe it.”

“Not in those words, but that's what he means.”
Your nipples larger, darker, first milk…

“I can think of worse scenarios.”

Darcie brushed nonexistent lint from the comforter.

Brushed Dylan Rafferty from her life. Her dreams.

“He hasn't called you. You won't call him.” Eden ticked off those points on her well-manicured fingers. “That's that, then. Too bad.”

“It's for the best, Gran,” Darcie repeated. “It is,” she said when Eden arched a perfect eyebrow as only she could do so well.

“Two stubborn people. Sleeping apart.”

“That's life in the new millennium. Haven't you heard?”

Then why did the thought sadden her? Like the too-silent telephone.

Darcie hopped off the bed. She had other considerations—the ones that paid her bills. She would focus on her job, the new store. “I have work tomorrow. Walt's presenting the contract for the Sydney store to the board. I need to get in early.” Then there was Greta Hinckley, who in Darcie's absence had vowed revenge.

“If I were you,” Eden said, “I'd convince Walter Corwin that Darcie Elizabeth Baxter is the only person to handle the entire process for Wunderthings' opening in Australia. Where Dylan Rafferty just happens to live. If you get my drift…”

The old saying made Darcie smile a little.

“He lives in the Outback.” Before she left the bedroom, she cast one last look at the quiet telephone in resignation. Then another at Sweet Baby Jane, before she reminded herself, “I live right here. In full view of the New York skyline.”

 

The next evening Darcie still sat at her desk on the sixth floor at Wunderthings and tried not to gloat. Hallelujah.

“Why didn't you tell me this afternoon?” she asked Walt.

“The board met at four o'clock.”

“It's seven-thirty now.” And her telephone hadn't rung in the past hour. Strange, since all day she'd gotten mysterious calls; hang-ups every time. Darcie tried not to stare at it, willing it to ring again. Convinced the caller could have been Dylan Rafferty, she kept trying to suppress her growing anticipation. “You mean the board meeting just ended?”

Walt Corwin perched on the corner of her desk. “Board meeting was over at five-fifteen.”

“I thought I saw a bunch of suits drifting out to the elevators.” She gave him a look. “So it's a done deal?” Wunderthings Sydney was a Go. Now, it had funding. Darcie's heartbeat sped. “What does that mean for me?”

She remembered Eden's advice to make herself
indispensable—to return to Australia, and Dylan Rafferty. With whom Darcie didn't want a relationship.

She did, however, want her job. Darcie never came to work in the morning without expecting a pink slip in her in-basket.
You're history, Ms. Baxter. You've outlived your usefulness. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Head straight for the unemployment office.
One reason she was working late tonight.

She'd gotten behind in other projects during the trip. She needed to catch up. She wasn't really waiting for a phone call, she told herself.

“We can handle the Sydney project from here,” Walt informed her, and Darcie's spirits sank. Not that she intended to heed Gran's advice and look up Dylan the minute she arrived on Aussie soil. “We're a little shallow in the pockets—budget isn't that great. I told the board we could fax, phone, whatever, on this, let the agent over there supervise the contractors we retained before we left.”

Darcie swallowed. “Walt, we can't set up a new store secondhand. Someone should oversee things. You know the stuff that happens. Just when you think everything's going smoothly, some wrench gets thrown in the gears. This shop will set the whole tone for the Pacific Rim.”

“I never thought of that,” he said in a dry tone.

Chastened, Darcie slumped back in her chair. “I didn't mean you weren't aware of the problems that can crop up….”

“No, you meant ‘send me on the first flight to Sydney, Walter.'” He paused to meet her gaze. “You think I haven't noticed you slumping around this office since we got back? Dragging into work late every morning?”

“I'm jet-lagged.”

“Me, too. But I'm still at my desk on time.”

She stiffened. “Has Greta been sending memos again?”

He waved a hand.

“Let's just say she's noticed the same things I have. Who could help it? She's heard the rumors going around the cafeteria, in the washrooms, too. Your little ‘adventure' at the Westin has reached legendary status. So Darcie, for the
time being we'll phone and fax. If anyone goes to Sydney, it'll be me.”

Walt slid off the edge of her desk. He walked to the entry of her cubicle but didn't leave. With his back turned, he said, “Be careful. Greta's on a rampage. Nancy's so upset, I had to send her home early. In tears.”

“Greta needs to get laid.” Darcie murmured. “Maybe that would sweeten her disposition. At least then she'd be occupied with her own life, not everyone else's,” she finished. Too tired to temper her tongue, Darcie smiled. “Maybe you should ask her to dinner, Walt. Or have
you
missed the office gossip? She has a definite yen for you.”

Walt spun around. His face had turned pale in obvious shock.

“Greta Hinckley?” he said. “Me?”

“Greta Hinckley. And you.”

Walt shook his head. “Boy, I must be slipping. She's a real coyote.”

“Congratulations.” Darcie grinned. “On the Sydney project.”

“It was your idea.”

“Congratulations to me, then.” Walt hadn't said so, and that bothered her. Had she blown her integrity in Australia? With Dylan Rafferty? At least she had her memories—and that string of anonymous phone calls today.

She was still pondering the situation when Walt sent her a backward wave, then disappeared into the darkened aisle between the cubicles. “Give me more good stuff on Monday,” he said.