Strapless (19 page)

“Claire Spencer, Overachiever.”

“Well, I am. I can't help it. I'm usually good at what I do—anything I do.”

“Sam adores you. So do I. What else do you need?”

“Competence.”

He frowned. He looked so good dressed in dark pants and a collarless shirt, his sandy hair brushed and gleaming for Darcie's party, that Claire's breath caught. She almost felt tempted. Stay home, make love…she could scarcely remember what it felt like. Assuming her body still worked after Samantha had played Roto-Rooter through her vagina.

“You're totally competent, Claire. I can't believe you said that.” Peter paused to stare down at his daughter. “You mean the three-days-a-week routine isn't working any better?”

“Think Tildy. Peter, I am the laughingstock of my office. On the phone with one hand, trying to nurse Sam who's propped up with my knee, signing letters with the other hand. At the end of the line some guy is saying, ‘What? I can't hear you,' because she's crying, and I see my career flash in front of my eyes because I just realized I'm talking to the CEO of Heritage.”

She dove into her dresser drawer, looking for her top. It wasn't in her closet. Half the time she couldn't remember what she was supposed to be doing—or had done in the past two minutes. Peter apparently agreed.

“Maybe you're right. We should go to the party. You need to get out more.”

“Like I need a shrink?”

Peter strolled over to her, and something soft plopped onto the dresser top. “Your blouse. It was on the bed. In the
middle
of the bed. Funny, how red shows up against white.”

Straightening, she made a futile gesture. And Claire's attempt at a party mood vanished with his next words.

“Good idea. See someone, Claire. You may not remember but I do. We had sex on December 24. Competence is not the issue.”

 

“Where is Claire?”
She'd promised to be on time.

When the doorbell rang, Darcie flew from her bedroom—the scene of more than one strange-middle-of-the-night meeting with Cutter Longridge—to answer it. But it wasn't Cutter or Claire who stood there.

“Merrick.”

“Am I early?” Unsmiling, he peered around her into the empty living room. “You did say eight o'clock.” He was a stickler for promptness.

“You're counterfashionable,” Darcie assured him. “Did you bring the scotch?”

Wordlessly, he produced a bottle.

“Put it in the kitchen, will you? You'll see the bar we set up on the counter. Pour yourself a drink.” He clearly needed one. “Oh, and take those pastry puffs from the oven, will you? It's Annie's job but she disappeared. They must be done.”

A minute later, Merrick called out in a surly tone.

“They're burned.”

Smoothing a hand across her hips in the slinky bronze dress she'd chosen for the party, Darcie muttered a cuss-word under her breath. He would continue to be difficult tonight—like all nights lately since her move. So much for her handsome date, her elegant soiree—if that was the word she wanted—and her apartment full of stylish guests. As if on cue, Annie appeared from her room with the Harley man in tow. Darcie groaned inwardly. He hadn't taken off his black leathers and a huge silver lightning bolt winked in one ear. His slicked-back dark hair made her shudder, so did his nearly black eyes, but Annie clung to him like a woman hanging on for dear life to the back of a motorcycle.

They both staggered a little, and their smiles looked silly. Alarm jolted Darcie. Had Annie been toking with him in the bedroom? Or were they playing slap and tickle?

“You burned the puffs,” Darcie informed her. “Send Harley to the store for another batch. Hurry. Everyone will be here soon.”

She hoped.

What if no one came?

Darcie wouldn't blame them. A cloud of smoke hung over the room, hazing her vision. The puffs were scorched, Claire hadn't shown up with the potstickers for which she'd once been famous among their friends, and for some reason Merrick looked like a thunderhead.

“His name's not Harley,” Annie said, smoothing the skirt of her ultra mini-leather skirt. “It's Malcolm.”

“Then send Malcolm to the store.” When Annie started to go with him, Darcie said, “You stay here. Add a bit more garlic to the onion dip.”

“Darcie, it's so strong now that unless everyone in the place takes a scoop, none of us will be able to stand each other.”

“That could be true anyway.”

Darcie rearranged a vase stuffed full of red licorice whips, her favorite, on the refreshments table.
Dammit, Claire.
And why was Merrick prowling the apartment like some lost animal from the zoo? She'd begun to pray for another of Cutter's forays through her bedroom window. Darcie had quickly decided against the metal grate for security.

And Gran should have been here by now.

“I need new friends,” Darcie murmured.

By the time most of her invited guests did arrive, she felt certain of it.

“Mingle,” she kept saying, but no one did.

Back from the store, Harley—Malcolm—fell bonelessly into the far corner of the living room with Annie on his lap. Most everyone else joined them, so to speak, by sitting down, and Darcie felt her heart sink. Long ago, Janet had tried to teach her how to entertain. A party on its feet was a successful one.

At least the food and drink were flowing. Merrick drank four scotches before Darcie stopped counting.

“Are you offended by Annie's date?” she asked him, following his gaze to the corner again.

“He makes me wonder about your upbringing in Ohio—but no. I could care less. She's an adolescent. Send
her home.” He glanced around, Britney Spears's voice spiraling through the room at the top of the stereo's volume. “Who are these people?”

“You know Eden. And that's Julio.” She turned. Nothing surprised her tonight, but Gran and her latest man were quarreling in low voices.

“Excuse me,” she told Merrick, and crossed the room to them.

“What's the problem?” she asked her grandmother.

“Julio took one look at your guests, then at me and decided he was too young.”

Darcie stared at him. “Don't even think about hurting my grandmother.”

“Oh, that helps,” Eden said, blinking.

“It is not that I care less about you,” Julio assured her. “It is that I do not wish to seem like a…” he searched for the phrase. “How do you say? ‘Little toy.'”

“Boy toy?” Gran flushed. “Really, Julio. If I've ever treated you as if I thought—”

“No,
mi corazón.
But I am such a younger man….”

“One thing I adore about you.”

“That's better,” Darcie said, and with a kiss on Eden's cheek, she left them to work things out. Julio had a good point, though. She could see no future to their relationship. Sooner or later, Julio would leave Gran, even if he didn't intend to hurt her. They seemed as different from each other as she and Dylan. Troubled, Darcie slipped a hand through Merrick's arm.

“There's Claire with Peter—at last—no, wait,” she added with a sinking feeling yet again, “they're not talking to each other. See how Claire is throttling her drink? And it's noncaffeinated soda because she's nursing. Peter has his shoulder turned to her, talking to Walt Corwin. You've met Walt…”

Merrick looked away. He seemed oddly disoriented.

“Come on,” she said with a sigh of desperation. “I'll introduce you to Greta.”

Greta's new sparkly outfit lit up the room. Leaving Merrick in Greta's clutches, talking about stocks, Darcie headed
across the room again. In her bedroom doorway Cutter Longridge had just stepped in from the fire escape like an answer to her prayers, and Darcie gave him a brilliant smile.

“Cutter. I'm so glad you could come.”

He sent her an amiable grin. “No sense ringing the bell like everyone else.”

She saw Merrick watching them. Or was he studying Cutter in that assessing way? Across the living room laughter rose—Claire, sounding brittle? Annie, teasing Harley?—and another CD kicked in. Alicia Keys.

“You look amazing in that dress,” Cutter said, his gaze moving down then up to fix on her exposed throat. “That coppery shade does wonderful things to your eyes.”

“It does?” He'd never flirted with her, seriously, before.

“Better than black leather on Annie.”

“That's Harley's jacket. She's in her biker phase. It'll pass. I hope. She had a great dress for tonight. Wonder where it went?”

When Cutter kissed her cheek then her mouth, Darcie's pulse stalled. The night was looking up. Then he eased back, and set her away from him almost before the kiss could register, and Merrick frowned across the room, even when Cutter left to find himself a drink. Merrick's gaze tracked him. Over the blare of music and laughter, the sound of a breaking glass, Alicia was singing, “How Come U Don't Call Me?” Darcie heard the phone ring, and welcomed the intrusion.

Dylan raised his voice against the din at her end of the line.

“Sounds like you're raging there. I mean, having a party.”

“I'm trying. It's supposed to be my housewarming.” Suddenly she wished he was here. Ready for a beer. Laid-back, mellow, easy to talk to despite their differences.

“I'd be in for that,” he said, “give it a go, but by the time I got there, it'd be over. Wouldn't it? Even if, with the time change, I'd arrive the same time I left.”

After Dylan hung up, Darcie turned back into the room
and saw the front door close, softly, like one of her mother's rebukes. Cutter handed her a drink.

“Some guy in an Armani suit just left,” he informed her.

Merrick. Guilt swept through Darcie. “Did he look angry?”

“No. He looked…” Cutter shrugged. “Puzzled.”

“Why did Merrick leave?” Eden materialized beside them, a glass of wine in one hand, Julio held close with the other. “Did someone hurt
his
feelings, dear?”

“Me. I guess.” But she didn't know why.

“Ah,” her grandmother said, not in reproach. She turned toward Cutter, drawing Julio forward. “We haven't met. I'm Eden. This is my
inamorata.
”

Apparently she and Julio had resolved their quarrel, at least for now.

“Cutter Longridge, ma'am. My pleasure.”

“Oh, my. That southern drawl.” Approval glittered in her eyes. “And closer at hand.” She meant Dylan. “You must bring Mr. Longridge to dinner.”

“Gran…”

“Never mind Merrick. Your taste is improving.”

Then she disappeared with Julio, who ogled Eden with an adoring look.

At least Gran was speaking to her now.

That
was a definite improvement. But at the moment, Darcie didn't care whether Merrick ever spoke to her again, whatever his problem might be.

To distract herself, she helped Cutter tease Walt Corwin into a smile. By the time they moved on, Darcie noticed with astonishment and some dismay that Greta and Walt were standing close together by the far wall, talking, gazing into each other's eyes. Then a game of craps in the middle of the living room carpet brought a round of shouts from the players, capturing her attention. Someone next door banged on the wall just as Claire twined an arm through Darcie's.

“I must say separation hasn't done a thing for Merrick's disposition. Too bad he left early. Not.”

Darcie saw right through her. “You and Peter doing okay?”

“Peter who?”

“Claire,” she said.

“Don't ask. Let's circulate.”

They wandered through the crowded living room. Eden and Julio were dancing cheek to cheek now to a Ricky Martin samba. Someone had turned out the lights. In the corner, Annie lay plastered to Harley. No, Malcolm.

“Why is your sister taking her top off?” Claire asked.

“Oh, God. She isn't.”

“Looks that way from here.”

When Annie shook her chest for the whole room to see, Darcie felt the sense of doom that had filled her all night take form. Disappointment—in Merrick, in her sister, in their housewarming—rolled through her in waves.

It was only a moment later when the police arrived.

“C
lose call,” Darcie muttered.

On Monday morning she slunk into the office, certain the grapevine had already circulated the story of her housewarming party and Annie's near-arrest. Whichever coworkers on the sixth floor hadn't been invited, or had chosen not to come, would be regaled with anecdotes about the squad of burly policemen—New York's finest in navy-blue with matching scowls—on Saturday night, responding to a complaint of noise.

Annie had covered her breasts just in time.

“Can't you just see it?” she murmured. “Janet and Hank blowing into town, packing up my belongings with Annie's, flying us both back to Cincinnati?”

A safer life, they'd claim. And add Darcie to their list of bad influences, topped only by Eden.

“Installment number 704 of Darcie Baxter in The Wicked City.”

Then Darcie stopped. She almost didn't recognize the person sitting in her chair.

Pencil-slim black skirt. Red silky blouse. Like Claire the other night.

“I thought red made you look like a serious drinker.”

Greta Hinckley glanced up from the paper on which she was writing.

“Walter said it's his favorite color.” She paused. “You can get half a dozen wearings from a blouse if you let the wrinkles hang out each night and the perspiration dry.” Greta's Fashion Tip of the Day.

“Hmm,” Darcie murmured, trying to read upside down. “This may be a pointless question—but what are you doing in my cubicle?”

“Leaving you a note. I wanted to thank you.”

“Unless you're also composing my note of resignation, I doubt that.”

Greta looked hurt.

For a moment Darcie simply stood and stared, ashamed of herself. People change, she thought. They can.

“I'm sorry. You look smashing. I mean, you looked awesome at my party—but this morning…” Her gaze sharpened. “Great hair.” The glossy rich brown shade Greta had picked out at Darcie's hair stylist's had been enhanced with strands of blond, gold, wheat and on Saturday night she had shimmered when she walked. “But it's not just the hair,” she decided.

“I think Walter noticed.”

Well, of course he had. Darcie hadn't seen that coming. Even Walt was a healthy man.

“I saw the looks he kept giving you.”

Greta looked down at her scrawled signature. “He took me home.”

“All the way to the Bronx?”

“In a cab.”

“Not the subway?”

“No.” Greta lowered her head, and her tone. “Then he asked me out.”

“You're kidding.” This wasn't at all what she'd hoped for.

“We had dinner last night.” Greta waved the note she'd been writing.

Darcie snatched it from the air and read quickly, skim
ming over the words.
You have my undying gratitude. I couldn't have done this without you. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do. Thank you, Darcie. Thank you.

Her eyes misted. “Greta,” she said around the lump in her throat, “you're the one who ‘did it.' New clothes, your hair, different makeup.”
Let us pray.
“I think you've created a whole new Greta Hinckley.”

 

Or so Darcie hoped until later that afternoon when she went into Walt Corwin's office, surprised the goofy male grin on his face—and saw that he, too, was reading some memo from Greta. Fresh suspicion jolted through her veins.

“What's that?”

“Hmm?” he said, not looking up. “Oh, just something for the Sydney store.”

“From Hinckley?”

“It's brilliant.” He glanced over the sheet again, a new pride in his tone. “She proposes an opening-day festival—snacks, soft drinks, prizes, a drawing for a romantic weekend at the Novotel or the Westin….”

Darcie lost her train of thought. After
Westin,
she heard nothing.

She held out a hand. “May I see?”

She had to admit, the proposed ideas weren't bad. Of course not.

A small frisson of betrayal raced down Darcie's spine and she felt her spirits sink. Greta had thrown her off balance with that thank-you note. Then—
bull's-eye
—she'd run straight to Walt with “her” ideas. Again, he was actually considering them. They were Darcie's, of course. She couldn't say that, though. She would look petty. She'd only mentioned the barest sketch of the notion to Greta during lunch last Saturday. Naive should be her middle name.

“So you guys had dinner last night, huh?”

“Greta told you?” He rubbed his neck. “I always thought Hinckley was…strange.” His features softened. “But we have more in common than I thought—” He
broke off, as if suddenly aware he might appear odd himself, or realizing he was letting Darcie in on his secret:
Walter Corwin has a personal life.
“Never mind. It was just dinner. Now about Sydney…”

Darcie sent him a wide-eyed look of innocence.

“Only the other day I told Greta we should work together on the Sydney opening. In fact, I asked for her input. I'm glad she's already given it to you.”

The flies with honey approach clearly wasn't working as well as Darcie had prayed it would. But Gran wasn't entirely wrong. To be charitable, Greta's new clothes
had
given her a different image. Maybe they had given her the beginnings of a soul. Or could Darcie get that lucky?

“I thought I'd put Greta in charge of the festival,” Walt was saying.

“Sure. Excellent.”

He slanted her a wary look then ran a hand through his meager brown hair. Or did that too look better this morning? How long would it take the office rumor mill to forget Darcie's party and see the more interesting story here? “I'm surprised,” he said. “Now what's your contribution?”

“I'm researching something.”

“What?”

Darcie fought the urge to groan. With his every word she could feel herself losing control of the situation. Losing her mentor. “It's a secret. I'll let you know. Tomorrow.”

“You'll let me know before you go home tonight. Did Gret—I mean, Hinckley tell you? The orders on the case pieces are behind schedule. The factory in Melbourne tells us the display furnishings won't be ready by opening.”

“Yes, they will. I'll handle it. Personally.” She didn't want him sending Greta into that breech.

Had she created a monster after all? Greta's revenge might well be Walter Corwin. But where Greta was concerned, Darcie had learned to think fast.

“A few details may be lacking but you'll have my ideas within the hour.”

“See to it. Because if this is another of your half-baked—”

“You'll love it. I promise.”

 

With panic gnawing in her stomach, Darcie scrabbled at her computer. First, she checked her e-mail—and discovered a download from Dylan. The color picture of a sheep scrolled down her screen. Darcie II. For a moment, his thoughtfulness and the opportunity to “meet” her namesake held her spellbound. Soft-looking, thick white coat, soulful brown eyes… Then as she blinked at the image, her thoughts regrouped.

“I can do this.” Her sheep seemed like a sign, a good omen. Inspired all over again, she stared at the Internet's spinning globe for a few seconds then tapped in the key words she wanted.

Aboriginal Art.

A quick glance around told her Greta was nowhere to be seen. Darcie scanned through the merchant site that flowed onto her monitor.

The offered patterns that popped up looked wild, fanciful. Their rich, dark colors, their stark contrasts, their almost geometric images set her creativity whirling.

The notion had been in the back of her mind since Dylan had taken her into the same little store on Crown Street in Sydney.

His country had a strong, genuine tradition.

Darcie rolled through the listed products, but wasn't satisfied. She needed more than authenticity. She wanted… Original Designs. Hand-painted, one-of-a-kind patterns for Wunderthings alone. If she could find the right sources, if they would agree to license their art… If she found the right factory…

Darcie exited the site, checked her telephone index then tapped in to an outside line. She punched in Dylan's home number.

“Waltzing Matilda,” she hummed softly to herself.

She could almost see her plane tickets in hand, the flight to Sydney, Dylan meeting her at the airport, taking her to
view the best artists he could find…taking her to bed again. She'd have not only his voice in her ear then but his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, his…

“Hello, Dylan speaking. You've reached Rafferty Stud. Please leave your message at the sound of the beep…I'll get back to you.”

“Darcie, I need that memo.” Walt leaned against her cubicle doorway.

“Now?”
She hung up without leaving a message. It hadn't been an hour.

“I'm talking to the VP in five minutes.”

“You'll have it in four.”

Her fingers were flying over the keys before he turned away.

By the time she finished the brief memo, and slashed her signature across the bottom of the printed page, Darcie was grinning.

Wild yet disciplined designs. Silky, sheer fabrics. Aboriginal-inspired lingerie. Australian made.

It was the best idea she'd had in four years. “And all mine.”

 

Much later, Darcie let herself into her apartment. Relieved that all seemed dark and quiet, she tiptoed down the hall to her bedroom, dropping her tote bag onto the cushy tub chair she'd bought last weekend at a SoHo flea market. Of course getting it into a cab hadn't been fun, but Cutter Longridge's help (his lazy good looks, too) had gone a long way toward making the experience one Darcie would care to repeat. Next weekend they were renting a van to drive to Pennsylvania where Cutter thought he could find a Shaker armoire for his apartment.

He must earn a lot more money in advertising than Darcie did at Wunderthings, and she couldn't quite call it a date but…

With a heartfelt sigh, she sank onto the end of her bed to unlace her short boots. Then froze.

A sleepy drawl spoke from the corner, startling her. A voice she recognized.

“Take it easy, Sugar. I'm trying to sleep here.”

She peered at the shadow propped up on her bed, of a large, obviously male form.

If a life has to be filled with “firsts,” why are mine always weird?

“Cutter,” she said. “Have you been drinking?”

He groaned. “My head's pounding, my gut's dizzy.”

Darcie tossed a pillow at him, slouched in the dark corner, on top of her covers. “You throw up in this bed, and your stomach will be the least of your problems.” She sniffed the stale air. “Do I smell beer?”

He shuddered. “Dark stout. This neat place in NoHo—it just opened—had two for one tonight.”

“Wow. A beer sale. Wish I'd been there.”

Tousle-haired, he managed a grin. Even bleary-eyed, he was a sight to behold. An always welcome sight. “No, you don't. You hate beer.”

“And you had to share the experience?” For a moment she wondered whether she'd conjured him up simply because his presence cheered her. “Or is there some other reason for your visit this evening?”

He struggled to an upright position. “I'm locked out. Again.”

“Cutter, you really should stop climbing in my window.”

Because she couldn't summon any real anger over the situation, Darcie marched out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the living room. She flopped on the sofa. A minute later, Cutter appeared wearing a pair of black sweat-pants, a ripped T-shirt and a very white-toothed smile that almost negated his obvious state of inebriation.

“I went running to sober up. No pockets. Forgot my key.”

“Yeah, right.”

His smile grew. “I knew you'd be home by now.”

That statement stopped Darcie cold. “How did you know?”

“Your sister may be a flake who stays out all night. But
not you. Remember those white gloves girls used to wear for dancing class?”

“No.” She wouldn't admit it.

“My mother made me go every week to learn my ‘social graces.' That's real important—” he said
impahtant
“—down South.”

“And your point would be?”

“I always imagine you with a drawer full of those gloves.”

Darcie rolled her eyes. She wasn't carrying that much baggage from Cincinnati…was she? He hadn't been hoping to share her bed?

Long after Cutter slipped out her front door and padded upstairs, hours after she heard his apartment door close for the night, Darcie lay looking at the living room ceiling.

Frankly, she couldn't figure out their relationship. He flirted with her now, he'd kissed her the night of her party. But still…

She felt more like his Cousin Darciebelle from Atlanta than she did Cutter's potential girlfriend.

“Sigh,” she murmured.

Reaching over, Darcie retrieved the cordless phone from the end table.

She hadn't connected with Dylan earlier about the Aboriginal designs she envisioned for Wunderthings. She needed to do so. Time being of the essence.

And in Australia right now it was…late afternoon, early evening? Tomorrow?

Or not.

“Oh, heck. He didn't return my call. If need be, I'll wake him up.”

Darcie dialed then waited, anticipation racing through her veins.

Until—big surprise, her luck running below zero tonight—the rest of her day fizzled like an old balloon when a woman answered.

“Rafferty Stud,” she purred.

Okay. Let's not panic.
The woman could be his mother. If she was, why did she sound young? And sexy?

“Mrs. Rafferty?”

A small laugh. “Not yet. May I help you?”

“Just…I mean, tell Dylan that Darcie Baxter called.”

With her tongue feeling twice its size, her heart, too, she hung up.