Strapless (8 page)

His hand squeezed hers in the darkness, his gold signet ring imprinting her skin. She doubted he knew what she meant about color, but his broad-shouldered presence be
side her enhanced the Saturday sight-seeing experience. It had been a wonderful few days.

“I'd use them at the new store. I'd reproduce them in scarves, in lingerie. Wunderthings would churn—like these magnificent animals—with spectacular hues and shades, all light and shadow….”

Dylan slipped his arm around her.

“Don't tell me I'm
drongo,
” she murmured. “It's my job.”

Instead, he said, “Walt Corwin doesn't like me.”

Surprised, she said, “Walt doesn't like anyone.”

That wasn't quite true, but she didn't want to hurt Dylan's feelings. He'd been quiet during their tour of the aquarium—her choice of activity—and at first she'd thought he was simply, like Darcie, taking in the beauty of their surroundings. Apparently, he'd been brooding.

“He took one look at me and nearly hauled you off to your room. Alone.”

“Dylan, we had a one-minute chance meeting with him in the hotel lobby. No big deal.” Or was it? She sounded just like Merrick Lowell about his marriage. “Walt's not my father, either.” She didn't know which would be worse, him or Hank Baxter. “You're not upset, are you?”

“Nope.” His mouth tightened.

“You sound upset.”

The crowd funneled around them, and Dylan drew her off to the side, midway down a straight stretch of tunnel. He pointed out a yellow-and-black striped tiger fish. “Nice pair of briefs,” he suggested, then, “I'm not upset.”

“Just because that wouldn't be macho, or because you're really not?”

“Really not.”

He leaned to kiss the nape of her neck and a thrill shot along her nerves.

“Oh. Look.” She didn't want their outing spoiled. Darcie dragged him by the hand to another section of the tank where a brilliant clump of fuschia waved in the water. “What is that?”

“Anemone. See?” He pointed again. “The purple one? The blue?”

“It's teal.”

“Looks plain blue to me.” With a laugh, Dylan stood beside her at the glass while Darcie counted colors and sighed in appreciation.

“They're gorgeous.”

He bent to nuzzle her throat. “So are you.”

She spun to face him, feeling hot color in her own cheeks, and nearly clipped his chin with the top of her head. Was he serious?
Her,
gorgeous? Dylan liked to speak his mind, and he didn't bother to hide his impressions—of her or anything else. She liked that about him—loved it, really—at the same time he took her by surprise. Darcie was accustomed to men like Merrick who either didn't share emotion or didn't feel it in the first place. She never knew which. Her father, too.

Darcie blinked.

“My eyes are too far apart,” she said. “My fingers are stumpy and I—”

Dylan looked around, saw that they were relatively alone in the dark tunnel, and drew her close. “Last night, all night, you seemed exactly right to me.”

At the heated memory she could barely speak.

“You're a charmer, Dylan Rafferty.”

How did I get this lucky, for once?

So why not overlook the little differences she'd discovered during the past few days? Dylan's outspoken opinion of men and women and the roles they should play was…antiquated, courtly. Likewise, his attitude that children should be uppermost in a couple's relationship, and quickly. And his continuing praise of his mum. Darcie agreed with him about a love of children, but she'd soon realized he was thirty years behind the times. And stubborn. As for his views on women with careers, like Darcie…

“Not by half as charmed as I am. By you,” he said, linking his strong hand with her fingers. He led Darcie around a bend to the next aquarium where a school of reef
fish in even more vibrant colors swam and turned and glided through the water. Sparkling and bright, it appeared sunlit from above. “You want to leave soon? Go back to the hotel?”

His suggestive tone dissolved Darcie to mush.

“Pretty soon. Let's see the rest first.”

If he wasn't upset, was he bored? She hoped not. But maybe his interest in her was in bed, nowhere else. Darcie wouldn't let it matter. Three nights ago she had come home after “house hunting” with Walt at The Rocks to find Dylan in the hotel bar. Not that she'd looked in hoping to spot him…or run back downstairs the instant Walt dropped onto his bed for a quick nap before dinner. She almost didn't need the elevator.

Walt hadn't been happy with Darcie, who didn't show up again until morning. She supposed she couldn't blame him, in the days since, for his continued sourness or his cool greeting when he finally met Dylan. Her fault. But to be honest, spending her nights with Dylan in his room was like getting a big bag of her favorite red licorice whips as an unexpected present. She'd make herself wait for tonight, anticipate.

She walked through the darkened tunnels holding his hand, feeling the beat of her own pulse against his skin. Or was that Dylan's heart? Given a second chance, after her original “mystery” and “play it by ear” remarks, she wouldn't make that mistake again. As long as she was here, she would see Dylan.

At the aquarium. And later, in his bed.

The tunnel bent again, soft classical music piped into the atmosphere as if keeping time with the bubbling water around them. Darcie's eyes filled with tears. When the magical tunnel ended near an enormous tank filled with coral, anemones, and fish of every description, she spied a set of carpeted steps. She drew Dylan down to sit beside her. For a few moments she listened and felt an inexplicable urge to cry at the beauty of the darkened tunnels, the spectacular life contained within the tanks…or because she'd found this beautiful man all for herself?

For now.

Dylan slipped her into the crook of his arm and she leaned her head against his shoulder. Darcie's hair slid over his other hand at the nape of her neck. Dylan shuddered a little then pulled her closer. A teenage couple nearby on the steps was making out in the dark. A pair of rowdy toddlers raced up and down the stairs. Their frazzled parents scrambled after them. Darcie sat very still, absorbing the heat and power of Dylan's embrace. When he lowered his head to kiss her, she felt every cell of her body ignite.

Darcie touched his face. “This is the nicest date I've ever had.”

“Ah. So it's a date now, is it?”

“Definitely.”

Dylan lifted his head. “What if it was more than a date?”

“You mean after this, in the room?” She whispered the words.

“No, in my life,” he said. “Your life.”

Darcie pulled back a little. “My, you're a fast one.” Her tone sounded flippant, but she was suddenly trembling.

“I like you, Darcie.”
I love you,
Merrick had said. “We're…compatible, for sure.” He grinned. That gorgeous grin. Then he bent his head again to take her mouth, and for an instant Darcie forgot what he was saying. “I've known you just less than four days and I feel like it's…forever.”

“That would be a trick.”

“What would?” he asked.

“If you and I tried to…”

“Have a serious relationship?”

“You said it, not me.” She didn't have relationships. Like Merrick, they never lasted. She had Wunderthings to consider—Walt was right—New York, Gran and even Sweet Baby Jane. That was her life.

Dylan took her hand between his. Strong, lean, callused from his work.

“What are you scared of?”

“I'm not scared. I barely know you.”

He gave her a slow smile. “Pretty well, wouldn't you say?”

Darcie swallowed. “Three nights in bed, here at the aquarium—” she gestured at a school of zebra fish in the tank “—breakfast this morning in the lounge…” She shook her head.

“Don't forget dinner last night.”

“That was in bed, too. We didn't even finish.”

“Doesn't count, then?” He frowned. “Or doesn't this mean to you what it means to me?”

“Great sex?” Darcie tried. “Ozspeak lessons? Strine?”

His gaze lowered. “You want to make fun, I can't stop you.”

“Dylan.” She eased her hand from his. “I'm not trying to hurt you, but after my boss and I find the space we want here, I'll be leaving for New York. Do you know how far away that is?”

“It's a big ocean.”

“Yes, and what would be the point of our even keeping in touch?”

“You'll be back. Won't you?”

“Maybe, but…” She had no idea when. Or if Walt would suddenly decide—after her wayward nights on this trip—to bring Greta in her place. Then what did she want of Dylan? “I know it seems shallow, enjoying each other for a time…”

He drew back against the next step to rest on his elbows. His face went taut.

“I'm not using you.”

“I'm not using you either. But where…where could this go?”

“Anywhere we want.”

Oh, God, he would turn her into a permanent mess of Silly Putty. That voice, those eyes, his hands, even this new edge to him…

“Besides,” she said, “you seem to want things that I don't. Not yet anyway.” She waved a hand again. “I don't want to become my mother.”

“What's wrong with her?”

“Nothing, except she lives a very different lifestyle from the one I've chosen.”

He cocked his head. “Don't tell me you pick up strangers in bars everywhere?”

She flushed. “No, of course not. You were the first.”
And last.
She tried to explain. “Look. My mother named me Darcie. Darcie Elizabeth Baxter. Do you know what my initials make together?”

He looked perplexed. Which only melted her heart.

“D.E.B.,” she told him. “DEB. In the U.S. that's a girl raised to be socially proper, to “come out” at eighteen at a dance where she wears a white dress and gloves, to meet the exactly right man who will elevate her position—” No, that didn't sound right, it sounded kinky. “I mean, raise her standard of living to new heights, beyond even her parents' and—”

Dylan guessed right. “You didn't want to be a deb.”

“No! That's such an old-fashioned system. I wanted to be my own person—not that we were rich enough for me to be presented to society. I want to choose the man I'll marry someday, after my own career is in motion. I need to be able to take care of myself first. I
want
to be independent.”

“Is this some of that women's lib stuff?”

She didn't want to blow this. “It was. Years ago some women—not my mother—took a stand, and because of those women opportunities opened up for the next generation. Now, in my generation I can be anyone I want to be, do anything I wish. This trip to Sydney is my first chance to prove myself.”

“And I'm part of that. Temporarily.” He paused. “Was that what picking me up in the bar was about? Is that why you went over the top that first night? Made yourself sick? Were you trying to prove how
independent
you are, as free with sex as any man? That's not even possible, Darcie. Women get pregnant, men don't. Were you showing your mother you aren't like her at all?”

This wasn't going well. She didn't know what else to say.

“You know,” Dylan went on, “my mum's probably like yours. Only she grew up on a farm, not in Cincinnati. She married my dad, had three kids—I have two sisters—stayed home to raise them.” He frowned harder. “She nurtured us, and him. He took care of her. I don't see what's wrong with that.”

“It's not wrong. But isn't this more than premature?”

“We're having an intellectual discussion.” He gazed at her in the dark. The noisy toddlers had scampered off back down the tunnel. Their tired-looking parents trailed after them. The two teenagers were still necking in the corner. “But you think the opportunity will last forever?”

She didn't see why not, except for that biological clock Claire had mentioned. Darcie wasn't ready to face that yet, either, much less a “relationship” with Dylan that had little chance of working out. On either side.

“Do we have to have this conversation? I thought we were having fun.”

She tried to rise but Dylan tugged her back down onto the step.

He drew her into his arms and she didn't—couldn't—resist. Her heart pounded furiously, in excitement or alarm, she couldn't distinguish. He moved closer, gathered her in, covered her half-open mouth with his.

“Dylan.” She would dissolve if he didn't stop.

But what about Dylan's view that a woman's place was still in the home? The last thing she wanted was a Cincinnati clone—a man from the Outback instead of suburban Ohio, but with the same notions. The last thing Dylan wanted was a city girl with a mind of her own. Or did he?

“This is us,” he said, “not your mother or mine. Not just some date, not a few nights in the rack…” His next kiss rocked her. His tongue twined with hers and Darcie lost her senses. She clung to him, the poignant classical music swirling around them, through them, like a school of graceful fish. “Don't you see?”

Before Darcie could object, Dylan's hand slipped inside her blazer to capture a breast. Still kissing her, he kneaded
it softly, tweaked the nipple into a hard, tight peak of need. Darcie couldn't help that, either. She moaned. In the corner, the teenagers jerked apart.

And Dylan smiled into the seductive dark, his features lit by the glow of artificial sunlight from the tank. After that, she was gone—no matter how different his outlook might be. Darcie would define her own life—and happiness—later.

“Your room?” he said into her mouth. “Or mine?”

C
laire Spencer walked the nursery floor with her four-week-old daughter. At this rate she would soon be in the best aerobic shape of her life. How many miles tonight? Four, six? Right now, at midnight, the room stayed quiet, peaceful. The very silence—the first since 5:00 p.m.—sounded like a shout. Samantha's small dark head lay nestled on Claire's breast, and at the faint pressure Claire felt a slight leak of milk. Too soon to nurse, she thought with an inner groan.
Please don't wake up again.

Peter had given out an hour ago. Tossing her a bleary scowl, he'd disappeared into their adjoining bedroom and she could hear him now, snoring through the open door.

Men. There at the instant of conception, there at the moment of birth.

Claire arched an eyebrow. After that, Peter—like most of her friends' husbands or significant others—seemed to feel their duties had been discharged. Oh, he loved Samantha. Worshipped her, really. Daddy's Girl. But forget the sexual revolution, the equality of roles. His love didn't include more than one diaper change per day, no BMs thank you very much, one support bottle of formula on
the rare occasions when Claire managed to escape. She hadn't been out of their apartment for more than two hours at a stretch since giving birth.

Motherhood was a bond. Like cement. No, more like Krazy Glue, and she'd stuck all her fingers together.

Immediately, Claire scolded herself. How could she think this way? She didn't just love Samantha, she would give her life for her child—and in those horrid moments during transition labor, before she felt the insane urge to push her entire insides out into the world along with her about-to-be-born infant, Claire had feared she just might end up dying for the cause.

Middle-of-the-night madness.

Samantha stirred and Claire's smile softened.

“We won't tell anyone, will we, sweetie?”

Hell, she was alive. Healthy, in fact. Her bottom had finally stopped burning. She would be able to bear the thought of sex again—in a year or two. And wasn't some of her flab starting to jell?

When Claire slipped a hand to her waist, checking its firmness, Samantha snuffled at her chest. Then she whimpered. A second later she was working herself into another first-rate howl and Claire felt tempted to join her.

“Listen, baby love. It's time to sleep. Get it?”

As if to say
I had my rest,
Samantha squirmed in her embrace and Claire's grip spasmed, making the baby scream. My God, had she nearly dropped her own child? It amazed Claire how strong an eight-pound infant could be.

“Peter,” she called in panic.

No answer. Except for his continued rumblings. It amazed Claire how much noise, in infinite varieties, a man could make in his sleep.

“Did I really want this?” she muttered to herself, about her marriage or her baby, Claire wasn't sure.

Samantha cried harder.

Where is my mother when I need her?
But Claire was a nearly thirty-year-old woman with a home, a husband, a career and a baby—and her own mother's postcard from
Fiji had come in the morning mail. Claire knew her parents hadn't even heard yet about Samantha's birth. Hopping from island paradise to exotic resort for the past six weeks, they hadn't called in more than a month. In her current state of total disorganization, Claire had misplaced their itinerary.

“What is wrong with me?” she asked Samantha, tears in her eyes.

No matter how hard she cried, Samantha would shed no tears, the doctor said, for another few weeks. Claire shed them for her. In copious amounts.

Jiggling the baby, shushing her softly so Peter wouldn't wake, she headed for the changing table. Of course. Why didn't she think before? An infant had basic needs. Last diaper change…she calculated madly…was an hour before, just after Peter went to bed. He smelled “poo,” he said, and that was all it took to send him padding into the other room.

Claire didn't even glance at his bare feet when he scooted across the carpet. She loved his long, elegant feet. His soft brown eyes, his sandy-gold hair. Loved everything about him, really. Except that his image as a newborn father wasn't holding up well. This wasn't how they'd planned things. Blinking, Claire laid Samantha on the cushioned table and fumbled with the snaps of her yellow sleeper.

Samantha screamed.

“I always thought of myself as a fairly dexterous person,” Claire mumbled. “Good thing I'm not a rabid conservationist—into cloth diapers with sharp pins.”

She'd probably skewer Samantha.

Oh damn, now she was picking up Darcie's habit. Well, why not? Like an unmarried woman living alone, Claire had no one else to talk to. For a single second she disliked Darcie. Off in Australia, drinking good wine and eating great beef—with no fear of Mad Cow disease—meeting scads of Aussie men who seemed to have cornered the good genes market in looks, except for Peter of course. Visions of
Breaker Morant
and
Gallipoli,
of Bryan Brown
at his peak and Mel Gibson any time raced through her weary mind. More tears. Even the thought of Russell Crowe didn't stop them.

“I am a disaster. Me, Claire Kimberly Spencer, VP.”

Sniffling, crooning to herself as much as to Samantha, hands shaking, she managed to wrestle off the wet diaper printed with smiling nursery characters, then unfolded the paper glob. Ugh. Not again, she thought, glad her nose had stuffed up from crying so she couldn't smell. “More poo, sweetie?”

Swallowing, holding her breath, she cleaned, then swabbed Samantha's bottom with baby oil, but the lighter fragrance didn't permeate Claire's nostrils.

Samantha wouldn't stop crying. How could she wail that loud at the same time she wriggled like a crazed Slinky? At this rate, she'd be turning over before four months. She'd crawl at six and stand at seven and be walking by eight. Then watch out, folks. In no time she'd be ripping around the apartment, falling down the steps, pulling things off shelves, gashing her cheek on the coffee table…

“Oh, hell.”

It certainly was, at least at midnight without any sleep for the past four weeks. She envied Darcie her freedom, and she loathed men. Especially, at the moment, her own. The instigator of all her inadequacies.

“What's going on in here?” As if she had conjured him up, he appeared in the nursery doorway in pajama bottoms, raking his fingers through his chest hair.

Claire glared at him. Samantha's decibel level shrieked higher.

“Was this your idea?”

“What?”

“Having a…” She caught herself. “B-a-b-y. Because I have to tell you—”

“Hey, there, Samson.” Peter strolled across the room. In seconds he'd come wide-awake, like a fireman on call, and his soft brown eyes filled with such obvious love for their child that Claire had to turn away. It embarrassed her to see Peter look like that—and not for her.
Now I'm a
jealous witch,
Claire thought. He bent over the changing table to plant a wet kiss on Samantha's bare belly. “You're going for the record, kid. Keepin' your mom up every night of your life so far.”

“Hear me laughing.” Claire's throat tightened again.

When it suddenly turned quiet in the room, her ears rang. She risked a glance at the baby. Samantha lay staring up at Peter with the same adoring look in her blue eyes. Straightening, he grinned. “She's crazy about me. What can I say?”

“She's the first baby ever born that doesn't love her mother.” Her voice quavered. “I thought they didn't smile until at least six weeks.”

Nudging her aside, he picked up the baby, cradling her like an old pro. Claire tried not to remember that she'd nearly dropped Samantha moments ago. Apparently, Peter had paid closer attention to their preparenting classes. Claire was still all thumbs. She couldn't hold back her frustration.

“How do you do that?”

Like an inept acolyte she followed him across the room to the walnut rocker they'd bought. Peter settled into it with the baby. Claire stood watching with her hands on her hips. Pure cellulite. They felt like unset gelatin.

“How?” Peter said, gazing into Samantha's eyes. She gazed back. “Practice.”

“
Practice?
You're at work all day. You come home, pick her up, play cootchy coo, then watch Fox News. While I've been cooped up here all day, changing yucky diapers every five minutes—how can one small bundle her size pee that much?—and nursing every second between changes.”

Peter's gaze shifted to her breasts. His eyes darkened.

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

She turned on her heel. “I'll leave you two alone.”

“Claire,” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“I was wondering how I could go back to work on half an hour's sleep—that is, if you stay in here rocking for thirty minutes every night.”

“My pleasure.”

“I wondered how I'll pump enough milk for Samantha every morning before I leave here.” She marched toward the bedroom. “Now I wonder how I'll ever drag myself home.” In the doorway she turned, blinking. “Peter, I'm not cut out to be a mother.”

“You're just tired, babe.” He yawned. “More tired than I am.”

Claire went into the other room before her fresh tears spilled over. Samantha was the most perfect, most adorable baby in the world. She was part of Peter, part of Claire. But Claire had never imagined this job would be so hard.

“Maybe it's time to hire a nanny.”

 

Leasing suitable space for Wunderthings' first Australian store had proved to be as frustrating for Darcie as finding the right man. Not one to give up in either case, the next Thursday she stalked ahead of Walt up the steep slant of King Street to the corner of George and the entrance to the Queen Victoria Building.

“This is a long shot,” Walt complained, huffing mildly at the climb from Darling Harbour. “The real estate agent must be out of her mind.”

“No, she's perfectly sane. Otherwise she'd be walking with us, not sitting back at her office at the bottom of this hill answering her voice mail.”

“You have a point. She won't even show up here.” Scowling, he reached out to open the heavy door into the first-floor level of the mall. “She knows better than I do that this is a wild-goose chase.”

“Reserve judgment.”

Walt had been grumbling all day and Darcie wanted to snap back at him, but
she
knew better. By their second week in Sydney, she'd convinced him that her evenings with Dylan were harmless recreation after the long days of hunting for retail space. Dinner, a few drinks—Darcie omitted the rest of Dylan's “entertainment”—kept her sharp for work the next day, she argued. She didn't want to destroy all her progress now.

On the main floor they picked their way through the throng of shoppers. Smartly dressed women, men in suits and ties. Darcie made a mental note then voiced it. She needed points with Walt. She suspected he would be difficult about spending this much money on rent.

“See? Busy executives, career women, uppercrust young moms with fancy strollers.” She blocked out an image of herself at FAO Schwarz, with Merrick. “We'd need to stock mostly the top of our line here. These people aren't shopping for bargains. They want quality and style.”

“Hmm,” Walt murmured, turning his shoulder to avoid a man on the run. He eyed the guy's charcoal-gray suit, his paisley tie. “You could be right.”

Darcie didn't give him time to doubt. “None of your sale bras in this store. These guys will buy lace-trimmed bustiers for that Valentine's Day gift. Thong panties in silk.”

Walt shushed her. “No need to announce it over your personal PA system.” He glanced around, as if embarrassed.

“Sometimes I wonder why you took a job with an underwear company.”

Walt was a prude.

He merely glared. “Where did you say the empty shop is?”

“Second level. Right in the middle. Perfect.”

“For Victoria's Secret, maybe. We have a long way to go.”

“We're young, we're enthusiastic, we're energetic—” she flung out both arms “—we're
Wunderthings!
”

“Jesus.”

Smiling, Darcie led him past the other shops—evening gowns, swimwear, trendy casual clothes, jewelry galore, opals everywhere—to the escalator. On the way they passed stained-glass windows, lots of gleaming dark wood, floors inlaid with intricate tiles. Innovative storefront displays.

“This is a beautiful building. I like what it says to me for our products.”

“I knew I should have brought Greta Hinckley instead.”

Darcie grinned over her shoulder. “Greta would have talked you into some tiny storefront in The Rocks, The Strand, the Pitt Street Mall—remember that last place with all the jeans and T-shirt stores?—and you'd curse the day for the next three years until the lease expired.”

Darcie crossed her fingers in front of her so Walt wouldn't see and said, “I think you'll be impressed with what the QVB offers.”

“The Accounting Department won't. And Legal—”

“We'll take care of them.”

At the top of the escalator, she stood and gasped. Right in front of them, across the aisles running along either side of the central railing that wound around the long oval and showcased the other levels—a popular “people watching” attraction, she realized—sat the empty shop. Sparkling clean display windows, an inviting entrance…

She grabbed Walt's hand. In her other she clutched the door key.

“Let's take a look.” Darcie didn't have to. She was already convinced.

In another five minutes, so was Walt.

“We can try to argue them down on the monthly rent,” she told him. “Oh, Walt.” Darcie spun around in the center of the empty room. When she walked toward the rear and the tiny adjoining office, the storage area, her heels tapped on the wooden floor. “This needs refinishing, but they should throw in a bit of sanding and polyurethane for the price, don't you think?”