Strapless (20 page)

“So I can't figure out Merrick,” she said aloud, “or Cutter.”

Dylan Rafferty's problem, however, seemed plain enough.

“A
nother twisted first in my life,” Darcie muttered to herself. Wouldn't you know, a woman would answer, a sultry-voiced woman with obvious plans for marriage to Dylan, reminding Darcie that she was the pot calling the kettle black.

One of Gran's old sayings, but it fit.

Why expect Dylan to be faithful? After all, Darcie was still seeing Merrick Lowell. Technically speaking. And, when he chose to climb through her window, Cutter Longridge.

Three days later, still waiting for some response from Australia, Darcie stared at her desktop. Two weeks in Sydney didn't make a relationship, which she hadn't wanted in the first place. Did she?

Maybe she should give up on men. Completely. They sure didn't make sense—and neither did her life.

Then, as if he were another omen, Walt Corwin appeared like a bad genie from a bottle. He was scowling. Darcie preferred his I've-just-been-infected-with-the-love-virus expression. Thank heaven Greta was away from her desk.

“What did you find out about that furniture holdup in Sydney?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Yes, Darcie. I do.” He came into her cubicle. His pale-blue eyes looked even more washed out than they'd been B.G. Before Greta. His mood seemed to match. “I don't want a memo from you tomorrow morning or by the time you leave here tonight. I need the update. Now.”

“Is the board meeting again?”

“No, but I have a business to run. With your help, I hope. What's going on here? All week you've been sitting in this cubicle—which I happen to know you hate in the first place—moping around like some teenage girl whose boyfriend didn't call.”

Because this happened to be very near the truth, Darcie said nothing. As if she could call Dylan Rafferty a boyfriend.

“You have troubles with Lowell? Come on, Baxter.” He paused. “If there's a problem, I'm here to help.”

At his urging tone, Darcie flicked a pencil across her desk. Walt wasn't known for his listening skills—or his compassion. “The problem is, Paramatta Design can't deliver those case pieces until two weeks after we open in Sydney.”

“Why's that?”

“You really want to know? I warned you.”

Walt wasn't the type to hope for the best.

“Spill your guts.”

She had a quick flash of memory. Dylan's bathroom at the Westin Sydney. Chunder. Ugh.

“You won't like this.”

“Trust me. I've heard worse.”

Darcie took a breath. “No, you haven't. Greta changed the delivery date on the order.”

Walt simply stared at her.
“Greta?”

His gentle tone told Darcie more than
she
wanted to know. Obviously, Walt was still seeing Greta outside the office—and he wouldn't welcome learning that his new ladylove was a liar as well as a thief. After giving Greta
unasked-for advice on clothes and makeup, trusting her a little, Darcie had no one to blame but herself.

Makeovers Deluxe had been too successful.

Now, as she'd suspected, she seemed to be losing her mentor. Would he believe Greta, not Darcie?

“You're trying to tell me Greta Hinckley despises you so much, she'd sabotage the Sydney opening?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“To get the revenge she threatened. Remember, Walt?”

“Since you brought her into the project? I don't think so.”

Darcie sank lower in her chair. She felt like a slug. Despicable. Worse, she felt as if she were hanging herself with her own panty hose.

“Greta called Paramatta Design. You can check that yourself.”

“She must have misread the date you gave her.”

“It was Greta, I'm afraid, who picked the new date.”

He dragged a hand through his thin hair. “And why would she choose a date—on her own—that leaves us with no shelving, no display cases, no goddamn
chairs
for the
fitting
rooms—” his voice kept rising “—for two weeks after we open for
business?
”

“I don't know.”

His hand slammed down on her desk. “You and Greta have had this rivalry for four years. From the day you started. I'm beginning to wonder who the guilty party is— Greta, or you.” He eyeballed her, obviously expecting a confession. “Whose memos are being ‘stolen' and whose ideas are really getting ‘borrowed.'”

Mine.

But she didn't say so. He wouldn't believe that either.

“I guess you'll have to figure it out for yourself, Walt.” Darcie took a breath. “Of course there is my Aboriginal line of lingerie…”

Walt ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“Yeah, there's that.”

“You liked my idea?” She put the slightest emphasis on
my.

He grumbled to himself for a moment. “
If
we can get production on line in time for the opening,” he said, looking unhappy. “What did you find out about licensing the prints we'll need?”

“I'm working on it.”

He sighed. “Meaning you don't have a firm answer.”

“I have several possibilities in mind. I'm waiting to hear from them. As soon as I do, with figures for your budget, I'll—”

“Write me a memo.”

“Better than that, I'll hand deliver it.” Darcie grinned, though she felt far from confident. The few Web sites she'd contacted had been slow to respond, and of course Dylan hadn't called back. Not that she wanted him to personally. Now. “I won't even stop by Nancy's desk. How's that? I'll barge into your office and slap it down in front of you.”

“No surprise.” He stood up.

“Walt—” she called him back, sounding panicked when she needed to appear strong and in command “—I can do this. I promise.”

“I'll trust you not to run over Greta in the process.”

Her heartbeat hitched. “Is that a warning?”

“No. That's a definite threat.”

She couldn't keep quiet. “As in, my job depends on it?”

“You said it. Not me.”

 

“Was he serious?” Cutter asked her that night.

They were lying companionably across Darcie's bed, and she had one ear cocked for Annie's return. Her sister hadn't come home for dinner—not that she always did—and in such silence, Cutter's visits, like Julio's interpretation for Gran, were becoming a necessity.

“Walt's always serious,” she answered.

“He should lighten up.”

Cutter pulled her close, nuzzling his cheek against her hair. A faint thrill spiraled down Darcie's back, but she
tried to ignore it. Merrick hadn't called. Neither had Dylan, naturally. All that talk about some imaginary pregnancy, the sexy flirtations at midnight from Australia were over. How could even a long-distance
friendship
—if she would leave it at that—with a man like Dylan Rafferty survive?

Cutter drew back. “Did you know, when you're upset your eyes turn brown? When you're happy or interested they're really green.” He studied her gaze. “You have all these shades and glints. Like your personality.”

“Really.” Intrigued, she tried to smile at him.

“See? Right now, you're forcing it. You're not happy tonight. Why? It's not only Corwin.”

She gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. “I am amazed. What have I done to deserve you? A perceptive, sensitive male…under the age of forty…with a heart of gold, not to mention a very sexy body…”

“Stop changing the subject.”

His soft drawl nearly undid her.

“Sometimes,” Darcie murmured, “I wonder if you're real. I mean, this guy climbs through my bedroom window one night like part of a dream—and now he's one of my best buds. My confidant. My…cousin confessor.”

“Cousin?”

“Kind, considerate, the best catch in four states…”

“Only four?” He grinned against her skin. “You should marry me.”

Darcie's pulse lurched.

“Gee, a man who actually brings up marriage.” Not pregnancy. “Now I know I'm a goner.”

“And you're still avoiding the issue.”

“Which is?” she stalled.

“Your eyes. Your gentle, well-brought-up, decent nature. Your tendency to not believe in yourself, despite all evidence to the contrary. Your—”

“Naiveté.”

“Naive? You are, you know.” He hugged her tight. “You can tell me, as long as I'm being cast in the role of cousin tonight. Which, I suppose, says more about me than
I'm willing to ponder.” He paused. “What happened, Darcie? I get the feeling someone has broken your heart.”

“My heart breaks all the time. It goes with being naive.”

“Keep talking. I'll get it out of you sooner or later.”

She sighed. “There's nothing to say.” But then, Cutter Longridge brought out some chatterbox quality in her that she hadn't fully appreciated. Darcie rested her head on his shoulder, and told him all about Merrick and Jacqueline, about Walt Corwin and Greta Hinckley, about Dylan. By the time she finished, she was blinking.

Cutter thought a moment while his hand idly stroked her back. “I'd say your Aussie missed you so bad, he's taken up—temporarily—with another woman who can't hold a candle to you. He'll regret it.”

“I didn't want him anyway.”

“No?”

“He's too…traditional. Victorian, almost. He thinks women belong at home.”

“Barefoot and pregnant. My daddy feels the same.”

“But you don't.”

“I believe women should be whatever, whoever, they please.” He smiled. “That's my mama talkin'.” Cutter thought some more. “I'd say Merrick Lowell has too much on his mind with the divorce. That must shake him up.” He mulled over the next topic on which she had bared her soul. “I'd say Walt's thinking with his dick, not his brain.”

Darcie laughed a little to release her tension.

Gently, having said his piece, Cutter kissed her. Like a friend. His mouth felt warm and soft, like his voice, like his southern drawl, and Darcie thought how easy it would be to love this man. To just give over and let him tell her who she was and what she really needed. For the rest of her life.

Forget Walt. Wunderthings. And Aboriginal panties.

Consign Greta Hinckley to history.

“You're sighing again,” he said. “Is there more?”

“No. You've seen my whole underbelly.”

Cutter laughed. “I'd like very much to see your under
belly, Miss Darcie. We could play show-and-tell for the rest of the night….”

When he trailed off, Darcie moved back. Was he serious? She glanced up at him and noticed a perplexed look, like Merrick's, on his face. “What?” she said.

“I apologize. I never say things like that to women I respect.” He frowned slightly. “What are we doin' here? I still haven't recovered from that kiss during your party…but I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I'm not good at playing stand-in for other men. Rafferty, or Lowell. I get the feeling you think of me as a surrogate, not a true rival for your affections—or your bed.” He gestured. “I mean, look at us. How many red-blooded Georgian rakes like me could spend a whole evening lyin' around with a gorgeous woman like yourself…and never try anything remotely scandalous?”

“You sound like Rhett Butler.”

“I am Rhett Butler.” He smiled halfheartedly, but Darcie could see he felt hurt. “My mama always says she raised her boys to be Southern gentlemen with a hint of the outrageous.”

“The best kind. Except for climbing through my window.”

“Harmless,” he said.

Darcie smiled. “I wouldn't be too sure.”

“Enjoy me while you can. I won't be around much for a while.” His smile faded. “I have a deadline at work—a make-or-break project, if you know what I mean.”

“Your job's at risk?”

“We might say that. My boss certainly does.”

“Cutter, I'm sorry. But you'll do fine, I know you will. You'll probably even win a promotion.” Darcie squeezed his arm. “I do love your visits—you know that, too, don't you—” She hesitated. “But, well, do you have a cell?”

“Phone? Just got one.”

“Then next time you lock yourself out, call me. I'll let you in the front door.”

He shook his head. “I dropped it,” he said, “when I
hoisted myself onto the fire escape tonight. Guess I'm accident-prone.” He didn't sound at all concerned. He was incorrigible. She felt almost flattered.

“I don't know how to say this…but some night there could be someone here.”

“You mean another guy? All the more reason why you need me. To protect you.”

“Well…it's possible. You never know.”

Cutter settled back beside her, his arms loosely around her. She felt better now. She always did when Cutter “came to call.”

“So.” He lifted her hair, sifted it through his strong, lean fingers, kissed her throat, then—again—her mouth. He tasted like warm sun and safety. Definitely the kind of man she should home in on. “Are we goin' to develop this into something grand and passionate ourselves? Or should we just stay friends?”

Darcie drew his head down for another kiss. “I guess we'll see, Mr. Butler.”

“I guess we will, Miss Scarlett.”

 

Annie felt like Cinderella dumped at the ball without her prince—or a ride home. Her key scraped in the lock and she let herself into the darkened apartment she shared with Darcie, who was waiting up for her. Big shock. From her perch on the living room sofa, Darcie leaned over to snap on the lamp and Annie blinked against the sudden glare.

“What's the matter? Did Cutter Longridge drive you from your bed?”

Annie had spent her evening with Malcolm—Harley, Darcie called him—and a bunch of other friends at a series of downtown nightspots. Exhausted, still a little buzzed on beer, totally disillusioned by life, she squinted at the light.