The Harder They Fall (17 page)

“I hate to tell you, Davidson, but perfume transfers from body to body by osmosis.”

Michael nearly groaned. But he didn’t get the chance. Because, if possible, Darcy went even stiffer and her eyes
widened dramatically before narrowing into green slits, like the eyes of a cat about to pounce. Only Darcy could look beautiful outraged.

“You jerk,” she whispered.

“What now?”

“Have you taken to wearing lipstick as well as cheap perfume?”

Uh-oh.
Maybe he should have run home and showered before dropping in on Darcy. Problem was, he’d been so desperate to see her, he hadn’t thought of his appearance. And he thought he’d scrubbed his lips hard enough in the car to get rid of any traces of the disgusting stuff. “I have lipstick on me somewhere?”

“On your collar.”

Well, that wasn’t so bad. He could explain that.

She crossed her arms and looked at him disgustedly. “And now that I think about it, faint traces of the taste of it on your lips.”

But probably not that.

“Calm down a moment and listen to me.”

“Get out.”

“Darcy, give me a chance to explain,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, even. He didn’t want the panic rising through him to show, because he was afraid she’d misinterpret it as guilt.

“What’s to explain?”

“Nothing happened between Wendy and me.”

“Right.”

“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, if you’ll be reasonable enough to listen to it.”

“Reasonable!” she squealed. “Are you calling me unreasonable?”

Women! Damn, would he ever understand how their minds worked? He sighed. “No, I’m not calling you unreasonable. I’m asking you to give me a chance to explain.”

Her body relaxed an infinitesimal amount, but Michael considered that a major victory. “Let’s make drinks—I could use one right now—and sit down. Give me five minutes of your undivided attention. I promise, I can explain.”

“But will it be the truth?”

“One hundred percent.”

Her crossed arms dropped to her sides. Another major victory.

“One drink. Five minutes,” she said.

As a rule, Darcy confined
her alcohol consumption to wine with dinner and a beer or two when she unwound with her co-workers after a shift. Although she had a fully stocked liquor cabinet, she rarely touched hard liquor.

Tonight, she chose to have a martini.

Michael opted for a vodka and tonic.

After several abortive attempts at mixing their drinks, she let Michael take over. He mixed and stirred with an efficiency and grace she both admired and envied.

What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she perform even the simplest tasks? What gene had bypassed her?

She watched his fingers pluck ice from her freezer, his hands pour the alcohol, his wrists stir the drinks, his arm calmly hand her the martini, and she blinked back tears.

It was all so simple. So very simple. And Darcy Lynn Welham couldn’t accomplish even that.

“What’s wrong, Darcy?” Michael asked softly. He sipped his drink. “If you really want me to leave, I will.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m—” she swallowed “—engaging in a bout of self-pity. I’m sorry.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Self-pity? Why?”

Darcy bit down on her lower lip, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

Michael took her elbow and tugged her into the living room. He tucked her into the corner of the sectional couch, then sat down beside her, not all that close, but close enough that the energy radiating from his body still touched her. Warmed her. Excited her.

“Give,” Michael said, gently but firmly.

“It’s stupid.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He draped his arm along the back of the couch.

He was so attractive. He was so sexy. He was so darn masculine, Darcy wanted to jump his bones. But his eyes compelled her to talk instead. “I’ve always wanted a dog,” she said, her voice low and slightly shaky.

Michael nodded, as if that were the most normal conversation starter in the world. “Why haven’t you gotten one?”

Darcy worried her lower lip. “When I was four, I asked for a dog for my birthday. My dad sat me down and described the responsibilities involved in owning a pet. He offered me a compromise. He said I could get some fish, and if I took good care of them, he’d get me a dog.” She blinked, trying not to let it hurt.

“I’m not going to like how this story ends, am I? This is another senior-prom thing, isn’t it?”

“I killed them.”

He swore. “Darcy, fish aren’t known for their long life spans.”

“I’d owned them for three days.”

He swore again. “Maybe they were already sick.”

She really liked the way he tried to defend her, but she wouldn’t allow him to let her off the hook. Shaking her head, she said, “I fed them in the morning. That third morning, they seemed so hungry, so I added an extra pinch of fish food. They really liked that, and I wanted so much for them to like me. So about an hour later, I fed them a little more. They ate it up. So—”

“I get the picture,” he interjected. “Darcy, I think statistics prove that one out of every two kids who owns fish feeds them to death. It’s a rite of passage or something.”

“You’re making that up.”

“No, really. In fact, I think it’s almost a rule.”

He looked so sincere, Darcy had to laugh. “That’s sweet, really, but the fact of the matter is, I couldn’t even handle fish. My dad felt so bad for me, he offered to get me a dog anyway. But I was afraid of killing it, so I said no.”

“Damn,” Michael muttered. How could any one woman have survived so many hard-luck stories? And why did her stories bother him so much?

Because he cared about her, that’s why.

Okay, so he finally admitted it. He cared about Darcy Lynn Welham, the klutz, the calculator brain, the lover of dogs. No matter that she was a threat to his physical and emotional well-being, he cared. And he wasn’t going to stand by and let a lifetime of hurts get her down. What was that saying? Something about today being the first day of the rest of your life? Today, tonight, this morning, whatever the hell time it was, was the new beginning for Darcy.

“You know, I think it’s time you get a dog.”

She choked on her drink. “I’d kill it.”

“You’d love it. You’re a grown, mature woman, and it’s
about damn time you stop this stupid cycle.”

Her look told him she took exception to his tone. “What cycle?”

“This stupid, damn, self-perpetuating cycle that feeds the myth you’re some incompetent, bumbling child who can’t accomplish one task well.” He slugged down half his drink, angry at her parents for not taking this step a long time ago, angry at Darcy for having so little self-esteem that she considered herself unworthy, angry at himself for even thinking about how much he wanted to take her to bed while he had so much more foundational work to do first.

He slammed his glass down on her table. “Close your eyes.”

“Am I going swimming again?”

“Diving. Close your eyes.”

“This is si—”

“Close your eyes, dammit!”

Darcy’s eyes slammed shut.

“Now, what’s your favorite dive?”

“Jackknife.”

“That’s not aspiring too high,” he said skeptically. “Maybe something a little more difficult?”

She popped one eye open. “That’s why I like it. It’s simple, clean, and feels right. Nope, I’m sticking with the jackknife.” Her eye shut.

Seeing as he was devouring her features, her darling nose and stubborn chin and long, golden lashes and lovely cheekbones, it took him a moment to remember what they were doing. Hell, right now he wasn’t certain where they were. His concentration was focused completely on Darcy.

Darcy, right.

Unable to resist, he dropped a quick kiss on that darling nose, then said, “Set up for the dive.”

Her lips curved up. After a moment, she said, “Ready.”

“Let her rip, sweetheart.”

He closed his eyes, too, and remembered the perfect jackknife she’d executed that day at the health club. He pictured it in slow, slow motion, giving him time to savor the grace of her movements, the clean lines of her body, the almost nonexistent splash as she sliced into the water.

He felt his lips lift in an appreciative smile. When he finally opened his eyes, she was already looking at him, a puzzled smile on her own face. Apparently she’d pictured it in real time.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, meaning every syllable. “That dive was beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she whispered back.

“Take the square root of one-forty-four, multiply it by fifty-five squared, divide that by nine and add four thousand, two hundred and thirteen. What have you got?”

“Eight thousand, two hundred, forty-six point three, three, three into infinity,” she said without hesitation.

Michael shook his head. “If I had my calculator, I’d be able to check your answer.”

“It’s right,” she said, her chin coming up a notch.

That’s it, sweetheart.
“If you say so,” he said, hoping he looked skeptical.

“You don’t believe me?” Her eyes flamed with indignation and challenge.

“Of course I do,” he said, patting her hand.

She slammed her own glass down—without breaking it, thank God—and marched into the kitchen, missing Michael’s triumphant grin.

Coming back with a hand calculator, she mumbled the equation he’d given her and jabbed the buttons at the same time.
Without looking up, she’d sidestepped one of the many plants he’d given her, walked around the coffee table, sat down and crossed her long legs.

Michael’s spit turned to dust. There was so much grace trapped in that body, begging to be set free. So much grace, being held hostage by low self-esteem and a past filled with overwhelming, unforgettable hurt.

She thrust the calculator under his nose. “See?”

“You could have punched anything in there.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you accusing me of cheating?” Her tone was incredulous. She punched the clear button and started over.

Michael laid a hand over hers to stop her. When she looked up, he smiled. “I knew it was right. I’ve seen you in action. I know you’ve got some kind of incredible gift with numbers.”

“Then why—”

“I was teasing you, sweetheart.”

“Oh.”

He grabbed his drink, took a sip, then started rubbing the condensation with the pad of his thumb. “You know, when you were doing something you felt confident about, you didn’t once think about being clumsy or inadequate. You were in your element. And babe, you are something magnificent to behold when you are in your element.”

She blushed all the way up to the roots of her hair. Her suddenly shaky hand dropped the calculator, then reached for her drink, knocking it over. “Oh, damn!”