Strapless (7 page)

Oh God, he was drinking a beer.

“What time is it?” she said, aghast.

“Almost six.”

“Six
a.m.?
”

“Down Under. I can't tell you what time it is in the States. You drank too much.”

“I screwed too much,” she muttered.

“The beer, the time difference, jet lag. I couldn't help but hear the chunder here.”

Her stomach rolled again. “Chunder?”

“A local term for kissing the porcelain god. Aussie-style.” He took another swig. “Chunder on the Paramatta,” he mused. “Now there's a name for a movie.”

“Paramatta?”

“It's the river that flows into Sydney Harbour. I know, that doesn't make any sense, but you have to admit it's got title appeal. Still, there can't be a worse sound for another human being to listen to,” he said.

Which didn't seem to bother him. If he could drink beer at this time of day he had a stomach like steel. The six-pack abs, she could certainly vouch for. That is, until she'd suddenly jolted from bed.

“Believe me. I'd gladly trade places.”

“I wouldn't.” She heard the smile in his voice, the concern, too, but couldn't face him. “I've done my time. Thought I'd let you have your privacy here. You sure you're all right now?”

She cleared her throat, her voice shaky. “I'm fine.”

“You look kind of gray—like a battleship.”

“How flattering.”

But then, forget the closet mirror last night. Probably her wide behind spread over half the floor in this position. Tightening her muscles, she shot a glance in his direction. A better view, for sure. Bare chest, flat belly, jeans zipped but not snapped. And, oh dear lord, there was that heavy bulge again behind his fly. What kind of man got an erection looking at a sick woman? But Darcie's face flushed with heat, and memory. Her own fingers twitched. She couldn't keep her hands off…
it
…all night. Was half a memory better than none? She couldn't recall much else.
Maybe she didn't need to, and eight—possibly nine—fully packed inches was sufficient.
Or what's a heaven for?

Darcie groaned inwardly. Her thighs tingled. The depths of depravity to which she'd sunk since crossing the Pacific a day ago—or was it three?—continued to amaze her. Thirteen-plus hours on a jet from San Francisco with a good tail wind and she'd turned into a slut. A drunken…what was the Aussie term he'd taught her sometime during the night?…
bit of a brothel.
A mess, all right.

After this interlude on her knees, how could she feel aroused by even a sunbrowned, muscled god of an Outback male? A cowboy, no less. The sudden image of his slate-green Akubra hat—
what the hell had they done with that in the throes of their one-night stand passion?
—flashed through the remnant of her mind. And she hadn't even passed the city limits of Sydney to fall under his spell.

As if he could have any interest left in her now. She'd picked him up in the Westin bar…practically dragged him to his own room. She could feel him watching her, most likely wondering whether to call the local version of those little men in the white coats. Or the vice squad. A doctor…but he had his own diagnosis.

“It must have been the beer. You're not pregnant. Are you?”

“Pregnant?
Me?
”

Her gaze shot to him again. His dark eyes clear and direct—no hangover for him, no matter how much he drank—he shifted his weight against the door frame. Early sun shafted through the bedroom window that overlooked Darling Harbour blocks away, penetrated the clear glass wall into the bathroom like a lover, and gilded him in soft rose-gold light.

“I don't mean from last night, darling—” in the mirror his eyebrows, darker than his hair, lifted “—but what about before?”

“Not a problem, I haven't had sex since 1985.”

When she finally turned, he was scowling, perplexed. Darcie figured the teasing lie was payback for his comments about tucker.

“How is that possible? You said you were a virgin till you were twenty-three. Six years, that would be—”

“A joke.”

“Which thing?”

“Both.”

He didn't look like he believed her. Not the brightest bulb in the pack, she'd decided, but that body of his simply wouldn't give up. Maybe, after Merrick, it was enough. She stared at him, her bout of nausea forgotten, then stared some more.

To her utter disgust, fresh, fierce desire snaked through her. He followed her inspection with his eyes.

“See something you like? Again?”

Darcie gave in. What the hell. An ounce of Scope and she'd be good as new.

Almost.

Rising, she swished out her mouth then crossed the room to him on shaky limbs.
You're history, Merrick Lowell.
If she didn't make love again until the next half of the twenty-first century, she would darn well make some memories with this Australian sheep rancher to tide her over. She looped her arms around his neck to whisper in his ear.

“Hi. I'm Darcie Baxter. And you are…?”

“D
ylan Rafferty.”

With a heavy sigh, Darcie came clean about her last-night lover. She sank gratefully onto a bench in Hyde Park that afternoon then stared down the allée of eucalyptus trees opposite the center fountain in front of her, not really seeing their silvery trunks or feathery branches. Not smelling their heady scent every time those limbs moved in the light breeze. Not hearing the splash of water, the twitter of birds. Not even responding to the name she'd finally uttered to Walt Corwin.

“He farms sheep?”

He'd been pressuring her all day. Hank Baxter in disguise.

She said, “Like a million other Aussies with millions of sheep, yes.”

Walt scowled harder. “And you just had to go to bed with him our first night in Sydney?”

“Gee, I didn't know you missed me.”

“Very funny.”

“I was off duty. You were brain dead from the trip,
already asleep. WLI—Wunderthings—had no claim on me from 5:00 p.m. yesterday to nine this morning.”

At which point she and Walt had met for a quick breakfast in the Westin club lounge before their morning meeting with a group of Aussie businessmen and representatives from city government, all of whom seemed concerned with a U.S. lingerie firm encroaching on New South Wales territory.

“We're trying to develop
Australian
business,” they said.

“Yes. Australia is poised to become a world power, financially speaking,” Walt had agreed. “We can help. It's time to bring one of America's best-known and well-regarded corporations for women's wear to this continent.”

The word
knickers
kept coming up. And
underpinnings.

Odd. For most of the day, Darcie had wished for Dylan Rafferty's presence—and not, this time, in bed. Maybe she could hire him as a translator.

“We're concerned, Mr. Corwin,” said the crisply dressed executive who seemed to head the group, “with preserving and creating
Australian
jobs.”

“Wunderthings will bring more jobs.” Walt fumbled in his briefcase.

Darcie came to his rescue. Swiftly, she handed out papers around the table. “I think you'll find these projections mean serious revenue for Sydney.”

Walt flashed her a look of naked gratitude. “And once we prove ourselves here, the rest of the country will benefit. Canberra, Adelaide, Melbourne…”

Well, that didn't prove the right thing to say. Apparently, a great rivalry existed between the cities of Melbourne and Sydney. To the old-guard social set from Melbourne, Sydneysiders were merely a bunch of ex-convicts, as Dylan had implied. Upstarts, someone said.

It had been a grueling meeting and Darcie hadn't recovered yet.

Worse, her feet hurt.

At four o'clock she wanted nothing more than to slip off her shoes and rub her toes until they stopped cramping.
Please. If it wasn't one cramp for a woman, it was another. And just like a man, Walt had dragged her up and downhill the rest of the day, heedless of the fact that she was wearing heels. Chunky ones, yes. But Darcie could scream from the pressure on her insteps now. The canted incline of the streets had turned her mood from morning-after tingles, courtesy of Dylan Rafferty, to late-afternoon agony. At least she was wearing a cotton dress. Summer in January? She couldn't hate that.

“How many storefronts do you think we looked at today?” she asked.

“Not enough.”

“Walt, I think you're taking the wrong approach.” When he glared at her, Darcie hastily added, “
We
are, I mean.” It wouldn't do to offend him. Team Player Darcie at your service, Mr. Corwin. Sir. She reminded herself that she was a long way from home, and at least Walt spoke normal English. He didn't murder his vowels and he didn't lift his voice at the end of every sentence.

Not that it wasn't a charming effect coming from Dylan Rafferty. His “language lessons,” too.

Was Walt really angry with her for staying out all night?

Gee,
she thought.
I was only two floors down, practically underneath you.
She shuddered at that image of Walt. Dylan Rafferty in bed was one thing…

Too bad she'd never see him again.

“Go on,” Walt said.

“What?”

“Say what's on your mind.”

I'd like to spend the night, for the next two weeks, with a sheep farmer.

Yet it was Darcie who'd set their boundaries. No names. Then names but no plans for the future…even for tonight. “Let's play it by ear,” whatever that meant. She was too tired to figure it out. Like the rest of her life.

“You don't think we should look at that place on Gloucester Walk?” Walt said.

“Well, it's trendy—”

“The Rocks is one of the best neighborhoods in the
city these days. Maybe it used to be a slum but no longer. We're talking upscale with a vengeance. I don't see how we could lose, Darce. It's high traffic—”

“Not on weekdays, and after five the restaurants get all the business.”

“Your suggestion would be…?” His voice held an edge. Walt gazed down the eucalyptus allée, across Park Street, toward the Anzac Memorial. A flock of ibis strutted past to peck at a bed of marigolds.

Careful, Darcie. Walk soft but carry a big stick.

She shuddered when another spasm of pain shot through her instep.

“Damn. I give up.” She yanked off her shoe, massaged, and groaned. “God, that's better than sex.” Oops.

“Must have been a great night with the sheep farmer.”

“It was. But right now I need this even more.”

Impatient, Walt got to his feet.
He
wasn't limping and he didn't have a run in his panty hose. Darcie straightened on the park bench then let him off the hook. Walt was a fine boss, a good mentor, and he'd been with Wunderthings from the start. But five years didn't turn him into a woman—a woman on limited time these days with too many obligations to juggle.

“From my research, I learned that Australian women are just now joining the rest of the world. It's become an economic necessity. They used to be stay-at-home moms, but two wage earners are needed to pay the bills, just as in America, and no one has time to hike around looking for underwear, even in The Rocks.”

“So?”

“Our best stores in the U.S.—the majority of our branches—are where?”

She knew she'd be wise to let him take the credit.

“Malls,” Walt said, but as if he'd never heard the word before.

“Right. Like the Barrack Street Mall, the Pitt Street Mall.” Darcie paused. “Any of them here are in the center of the action. They'd make shopping convenient, quick, accessible. Let's look there.”

He groaned. “My back's killing me. Come on,” he said, “we have one more today. Then you can buy me dinner. Tomorrow we'll try your idea.”

“You have an expense account.”

“So do you right now. It's your turn.”

Darcie hesitated. “You just want to keep an eye on me tonight, make sure I don't have any fun.” No, that wasn't wise, either. “I mean, get myself in trouble.”

Walt shook his head. “With Dylan Rafferty.”

“He must be Irish. You know what they say about those Irish men.”

He gave her a look. “Don't believe everything you read. He's an Aussie, too.”

“And the combination is
magnifique.
” Was, she added silently.

She'd been out of her mind to go to his room. She'd been even crazier to let him out of her sight after their one-night stand.

Story of my life, Darcie thought. Ships passing in the morning…and all that. She remembered the sight of him then, not in jeans but in his well-tailored suit. Her mouth watered. That white shirt against his tanned skin, and overlaying his muscles…

Walt's scowl returned. “You gonna see him again?”

“I doubt it.”

“Just as well,” he told her. “We have a lot to accomplish in two weeks.”

He led her back through the park to Elizabeth Street.

“I'm telling you,” Darcie said. “We're wasting our time with this location.”

“Knowledge is power.”

“Walt—do you have a
life?
” Did she?

 

Greta liked getting to work early. She loved dawn in Manhattan and French crullers on her way to the office, carrying hot black coffee in a cardboard cup. She enjoyed being alone when no one else was around, and the elevator, the aisles on her floor, the cubicles everywhere,
stood empty. She adored the chance each morning to go through someone else's desk.

Slinking past the big copy machines at the end of the row, toting her coffee and pastry, Greta wandered into Nancy Braddock's space. Just outside Walter Corwin's office, the anteroom wasn't quite its own room—but close. Certainly closer than Greta's cubicle, and far more private.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she cast off her heavy black winter coat, flinging it across Nancy's desk chair, then pushed up her sweater sleeves. An acrylic sweater, of course. Greta couldn't afford cashmere. She couldn't even afford Darcie's silk-wool blends. Greta knew because she sneaked looks at Baxter's labels whenever the opportunity arose. Setting her coffee and cruller bag on the desk, she went to work. Nancy deserved this round of snooping. So did Walter.

Even the thought of his name made Greta's heart bump.

As for Darcie… With a brisk sense of purpose, she set about her task.

At Wunderthings, no one locked drawers. Greta had worked in offices where privacy, and security, were matters for paranoia. Not so here. Thank goodness. It amazed her, but in her five years with the company—she and Walter had started on the same day—she had learned a lot in these early morning sessions.

If only Nancy hadn't caught her with Darcie's proposal.

The office felt more empty than usual this morning—and the solitude fairly shrieked of her own defeat.

Thanks to Nancy, Darcie Baxter was now in Sydney. With Walter.

The double insult was not to be borne.

After a brief foray through the desk drawers, Greta pulled Nancy's in-basket toward her. She plowed through monthly reports, expense account renderings, phone messages…finding nothing of interest. Still, you never knew.

Darcie's naiveté would be her downfall—if Greta had anything to say about it. She just needed to wait for her next opportunity, and keep searching. No way would that
dark-haired, hazel-eyed, trim little witch from Ohio trump her ace again. With Nancy's help, of course.

She ruffled through a stack of invoices, including Walter's AmEx bill for his tickets to Australia, and felt a heavy rush of desire that pooled down low in her stomach.
Walter…

He never noticed her. Not really. But that, too, would change.

When the elevator doors whooshed open at the end of the hall, Greta crouched low behind Nancy's desk. What eager beaver had shown up early this morning? Not Nancy, she hoped. Not Walter. Certainly not Darcie, who was probably at this very moment wrapped around him in some Sydney hotel room. Why couldn't Baxter be satisfied with her new job assignment? Wasn't that enough? Did she need Walter Corwin, too?

Anger boiled in her veins.

Greta cocked her head to listen for a moment, but the person who exited the elevator—whoever it might be—walked down an adjacent corridor, and his footsteps faded. Probably one of the big brass…none of whom had ever acknowledged her contributions to Wunderthings International.

She would outlast them all.

One of these days Walter would recognize her value. He would overlook the rumblings from the office malcontents who tried to blame her for their own creative shortcomings. Darcie Baxter among them.

Greta's hand stilled on the next to last paper in the pile.

Aha. So Nancy was no brighter than Darcie. No more resourceful.

It took Greta Hinckley to pull things off. Someday Walter would reward her.

The medium-size yellow note had nearly escaped her notice.

Just as Walter, and the board, and everyone at Wunderthings failed to realize her talents. Oh, Nancy, she thought. You shouldn't have done this.

Walt,
the message read, using the familiar form of his
name.
I've just seen Darcie's proposal—attached—in Greta Hinckley's in-basket. This idea is Darcie Baxter's. Maybe you should reconsider Greta's “suggestions” for global expansion.

How dare she?

Furious, Greta tore the note into pieces, then into smaller scraps until not a single word remained intact. Darcie Baxter had already been on her list. Now, Nancy Braddock joined her.

Greta shoved the paper pieces into her gray slacks pocket. She grabbed her coat from the chair, draped it over her arm, aand marched down the hall to her own cubicle. In her other hand she carried her cardboard container of coffee, the greasy bag with the cruller swinging with it. No one would mistake her space for an anteroom, surely not for an actual office.

But someday…

She would triumph.

Darcie had no idea who she was dealing with. None at all. Nancy, either.

Bitches.

She would plow them both under. Laughing all the way.

 

In the night-dark acrylic tunnel of the Sydney Aquarium, Darcie gazed up in wonder. Above and to either side along the curving route past one tank after another, manta rays, sharks and eels dipped and glided and flowed around her. Their graceful motions tightened her throat in awe. The variety of the coral reef that decorated the display made her mouth water. So did her companion.

She couldn't believe she had linked up again…and again…with Dylan Rafferty. He seemed too good to be true—most of the time. Like this splendid place.

“What I wouldn't give to capture these colors,” she told Dylan. Meaning,
Take you home in my luggage and keep you for myself.