What's Yours is Mine (19 page)

Will blinked. “I think you have the wrong Will Dougherty.”

“You’re not a builder and sometimes designer?”

“No, I am, but…”

“And the website, is that you? Will Dougherty Design?”
 

Curiouser and curiouser. “It is.”
 

“Lovely work, by the way. We particularly liked the trees growing up through the atrium of the blue-glass office building in San Louis Obispo.”

“Thank you.” A miracle of a job. He’d had to pull it off quickly after the original architect left to deal with a family emergency, leaving only the atrium incomplete. Will had been underqualified and scared to death, but he’d done it. “Tell me again who you are.”

The woman sounded impatient but repeated her name and the company name. This time it sank in. Calderon and Associates. Bill Calderon, big-name architect, working mostly in the Midwest, though he’d done that elegant residential tower in San Francisco’s Embarcadero last year. And they wanted to interview him?
 

The woman seemed puzzled. “Is there some misunderstanding? Didn’t you submit your name this morning? Do you want to withdraw your application? I have to tell you, Bill will be disappointed. He really did like your style. Called it fresh and unexpected. But if you want…”

Will looked out the window. Darcy was signing a paper on the head mover’s clipboard while four neighbors avidly watched the other movers drag a big sideboard (a sideboard? Really? In a one-bedroom condo?) back to the truck.
 

Of course. Darcy. This phone call reeked of her manipulating things behind the scenes.
 

Even so, could he afford to say no to a job of this stature? “No, I’m interested. I just, can you remind me what the job is, again?”

The woman made a choking sound. “You don’t remember?”

“I—uh—” He was caught. If he told the truth, he’d probably be rejected out of hand. But this was who he was. If he got the gig under false pretenses, he’d never respect himself. “I didn’t apply for this. Someone else put my name in on my behalf. So forgive me, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be vying for here.”

“Seriously?” The woman was laughing now. “You have a guardian angel, then, because someone at your experience level wouldn’t normally get in the door, but Bill’s friend put in a good word for you, and—”

Will glanced out the window again. “Bill’s friend. General Jennings, I assume?”

“Yes, that would be him.”

“And you said I need to come in tomorrow. Where are you located, exactly? Chicago, I’m guessing?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’m in California. I’d have to take the red-eye tonight.”

“Do you need help booking the flight?”
 

Will sat on the bed, staring out at the courtyard. His courtyard. He’d supervised the plantings. He’d put in those raised beds. He’d told Tim that the original window plan for the units looked cheesy; they needed to have a Craftsman look, with wide sashes and more panes.
 

This complex was the biggest job he’d landed in the four years since he began his business. He had a hunch the Calderon gig would be far, far bigger. Something he shouldn’t reject out of hand, even if the only reason Darcy had set this up was to get him on a red-eye to Chicago tonight.
 

Will rubbed his thumb across the edge of his computer, feeling restless and uncertain. “Why don’t you tell me more about the project first?”
 

What she told him made him sigh wistfully.
 

They planned to design a LEED-certified mixed-use complex from the ground up, reconceiving suburban sprawl, converting it to tight-knit, community-centered living. He wouldn’t be the primary architect, of course, he’d be working on the details that made it a Zen-like harmonious whole. The primary was strong with large-scale construction but not with the new green aesthetic. And the primary? Bill Calderon himself.

~*~

Apparently, moving furniture into one’s new condo was a spectator sport. Who knew? First a ponytailed guy passed by, winked at her, and kept going. Then an older black woman puttered over, pulling her gardening gloves off as she came. She had iron-gray hair in a thick braid down her back.
 

She extended her hand for a shake. “Faye Lewis. I like that mirror.”
 

Darcy glanced behind her at the delivery guys angling the mirror through the doorway. Will was going to have a cow. She grinned. “Thank you.”

“Is he moving out, then? Mr. Dougherty?”

“Uh…”

Faye rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheek. “He’s not, is he?” Her eyes gleamed. “I told Henrietta it’s better than a soap opera over here.” She stifled a giggle. “I hope you don’t mind I said that.”

Darcy looked at her, bemused. “I guess we would be kind of entertaining, at that. From the outside.”

Faye pursed her lips. “I hope it’s entertaining in there as well. Considering the company you keep and all.”
 

Darcy found herself smiling with the older woman despite herself. “It can be.”

The ponytailed man came back through, walking a bike. “Going to sell anything off to make room for all this stuff? My place is a bit bare.” He too was smirking.
 

Jennifer joined the crowd. She surveyed the delivery truck parked on the street in front of the complex, the sideboard Darcy never should have ordered squeezed up against the bamboo planter, and the nightstands now sitting in the middle of the path because Darcy hadn’t decided how much to annoy Will. They were nice enough nightstands, but his were nicer. “Moving in or out?” Her voice had an edge.

Darcy gave her a once-over. Jennifer was dressed to impress, in thigh-high leather boots and a tiny bolero jacket. She had her own style; Darcy had to give her that. But she didn’t seem any warmer than she did yesterday.
 

“Does it make a difference to you?”

Jennifer thrust her hip out provocatively. “It might.”
 

“You’d miss Will’s plumbing skills, wouldn’t you?”

Now there were four condo denizens avidly watching them. Darcy had a feeling a few more might be peeking out from behind curtains and venetian blinds. She was notorious.
 

The head delivery guy handed her a clipboard. “Assuming you don’t want those,” he said with a gesture toward the nightstands, “I think we’re done here. Next time, just talk to your husband. Easier on all of us.”

Darcy signed the delivery sheet with a flourish. “Actions speak louder than words, they say.”

Jennifer raised her eyebrows. “So you’re still at it?”

Darcy handed the clipboard back to the mover. “At what?”

“This game. Give it up, girl.”

“Woman. And no, I don’t think I will. But thanks for your advice. I’ll take it under consideration.” Darcy nodded to Faye. “Nice meeting you.” She surveyed the group. “Nice meeting all of you. Thanks for the welcome committee.”

Faye nodded back. “You’ll be just fine, sweetie.”

Darcy headed into her condo, feeling oddly giddy. A strange way to build community, granted, but it was one way to get to know your neighbors.

~*~

When Will got off the phone, he sat on the bed for a long time, thinking. He should hate Darcy for this. She’d probably only chosen Calderon because her father could wangle an interview. She might not even care if he landed the job, or if it would be good for his career. On the other hand, she’d certainly seemed genuinely engaged with his sister, getting her that interview at Golden Organics. Could she have done this with good intentions mixed with bad in some unholy witch’s brew?
 

What if he went to the interview in Chicago? Would Darcy have the brass balls needed to change the locks on him after everything they’d been through the past few days? Or was it possible they could finally talk through their condo ownership problem rationally and come to an agreement? It began to feel possible. Living together like this, forced intimacy though it might be, made it hard to keep acting like enemies.
 

Feeling a rush of unexpected affection, he went into the living room. Darcy was working out on her dratted elliptical, panting in rhythm with the shush-shush of the pedals. Telltale white earbuds were stuck in her ears, the cord snaking down to an iPod clipped to her Lycra shorts. She looked like the quintessential young go-getter, seeking an artificial elevated heart rate instead of the natural full-body immersion in physical activity. His goodwill dimmed a hair.

He walked toward her but bumped into a couch. Her new modernist Crate and Barrel knock-off that sat smack in the center of his living room, blocking his own sofa. It had to be terrible feng shui. And was assuredly incredibly obnoxious.

Still, he clung to the tattered shred of his warm feelings. Darcy had a good heart beneath the materialism and ambition and manipulation. Probably.

He sat down at the dining table, trying to ignore the insistent mechanical noise of the elliptical, and pulled up his CAD program. If he was going to meet Bill Calderon, he’d have to work up one hell of a presentation. But he was acutely aware of the shush-shush of the machine and the huff-huff-huff of her panting breaths, and his gaze kept drifting to the corner of the room, where Darcy diligently worked her body as if it too were a machine.
 

Still rhythmically working the pedals, she popped the earbuds out of her ears and pulled her loose T-shirt over her head, tossing it onto his couch, revealing a shocking-pink sports bra. Then she slipped her earbuds back in and went faster.
 

He stared at the T-shirt. Bright turquoise on his taupe linen sofa. Stained with sweat, undoubtedly soaking wet. And something inside him broke.
 

Enough. He was going to stop making excuses for her, stop trying to see her as not-the-enemy. Everything she did, every action she’d taken from the moment she’d shown up three nights ago, seemed aimed—whether consciously or not—at getting him riled up. Well, she’d succeeded. Last night she’d pleasured herself while he lay there next to her, racked with painful, frustrated lust. This afternoon, she deliberately blocked his couch with her own and had very nearly taken over the entire main room with an unnecessary (and hideous) dining table. She manipulated him with a phone call from a famous architecture firm like enticing a horse out of the barn with the promise of a sugar cube. And now she tossed a sweaty rag onto his pristine couch?
 

More than enough.
 

He strode across the room, grabbed the offending garment, and tossed it in the trash.
 

Darcy pulled her earbud out. Just one, as if he wasn’t worth both ears. “Something wrong?”

He glared at her. “Why would anything be wrong?” He could see her taut abdomen, the subtle curve of breast and fuller curve of hips sloping to firm buttocks. The perspiration dripping into her cleavage made the thin material of the sports bra stick to her skin, like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest (she’d win, if his reaction were anything to go by), and her nipples were outlined under the fabric, etched in Lycra.
 

Perversely, that made him angrier. She was a centerfold in his living room, taunting him.
 

She got off the elliptical and grabbed her shirt out of the trash. “What’s going on? Are you going to throw all my clothes away now? Because that’s petty, Will. Beneath you.”

“You toss a filthy rag on my clean couch and expect me to be okay with that?”
 

“It’s a breathable fabric sports shirt. Not a rag.”

“A sweaty breathable fabric sports rag. Staining my couch.”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’m not used to living with someone.” She eyed him. “Is this about the furniture? Because I have as much right to have my stuff here as you do. If it’s too crowded, maybe you should sell your pieces. Or move out, there’s an idea.” She grinned at him, almost flirtatious.
 

He didn’t respond.
 

She rubbed sweat off her forehead with her arm. It made her tiny tank top slide over her breasts, unconsciously titillating. “Okay, not the furniture, but then what?” It clearly hit her. “Calderon. They called?”

“They called.” He watched her carefully, looking for signs of an open heart. Did she want this for him, or was it just another manipulation?
 

She glanced at him sideways. “Shouldn’t you be packing?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Packing? For what?”

“The red-eye. Assuming you got the interview. Which, I don’t know, maybe they didn’t like your work.” She slid her hand over the elliptical handlebar, and damn if it wasn’t the most sexually provocative thing he’d ever seen.
 

“They liked my work.” This back and forth, these undercurrents, they felt dangerous, like playing with glass shards. Smooth and sensual, until you slice your hand open. And yet compelling nevertheless, in a way he’d never experienced. He was almost enjoying this, God help him.
 

She licked her lip, nervous but something else too. Responding to him. “So you’re not taking the interview. And now you’re mad at me.”

“If I catch a midnight flight from LA to O’Hare, will I return home tomorrow night at one a.m to find the locks changed and my stuff sitting out there—” He pointed to the courtyard. “In among the bamboo and bougainvillea, getting ruined in the downpour?”

Darcy put her hand on her hip. Her nipples poked up, aroused. “It’s not supposed to rain tomorrow.”

He got up and took a step toward her. She backed up. Her breath caught in her throat.
 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

~*~

When the General had suggested he get in touch with his old friend Bill Calderon and wrangle Will a last-minute interview, Darcy thought it was perfect. She was offering the possibility of a great gig, something he couldn’t in a million years land on his own. Granted, she’d get the condo in exchange, but it was a balanced trade. Fair. She wasn’t cheating him. She was helping. If he still thought she had anything to do with the end of his job at Golden Organics, well, this would make up for that. Payment, as it were. And he could build another condo. After he had a few Calderon jobs under his belt, he could probably afford to build himself a whole custom-made house. He was insanely talented; they’d love him.