The Harder They Fall (25 page)

He heaved a breath. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You’ll be too busy to miss me.”

He shook his head. “I’ll probably sit through contract negotiations daydreaming about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

He grinned. “Tonight.”

“What about tonight?”

“Our celebration.”

“What celebration?”

“The one we’re going to have tonight.”

She sighed in exasperation. “What are you talking about? Are we going out to dinner, dancing, what?”

“Oh, no, Ms. Welham. This is a private celebration.”

Her blood raced at the thought. “Invitation only?”

“Invitation only. Now get your butt out of this car and home. I’ve got a few errands to run, I need to pack so I can go directly to the airport from your place, and then I’ll be there.” He looked at his watch. “Give me three hours. I’ll be there by five.”

She saluted. “Yes, sir.” She started to pull the door handle, but he grabbed her and pulled her back for one more breath-stealing kiss. “Five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock.”

His eyes smoked, his jaw tensed, his lips parted. “Don’t dress up on my account.”

“Okay.”

“In fact, don’t dress at all.”

“Okay.”

Darcy was trying very hard not to panic. After all, a takeover would probably be a very complicated affair. She knew Michael must be working hard to hammer out the details, so he most likely just didn’t have the time to call her.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

He’d been gone for three days, and she hadn’t heard a word. Many times she’d considered calling her father, just to say hi, just to check in, just to . . . check on Michael. Every time she’d put the phone down before she finished dialing. He wanted a future with her. He’d told her so. He’d contact her the first chance he got. She had to keep the faith.

But she didn’t have to like it.

Their last night together had been a dream. Michael had spent the evening pampering her, loving her, worshipping her. She didn’t know if it was normal for men and women to make love as many times as they had that night, but she knew she could get used to it.

In fact, since then her body felt lost and lonely without Michael’s hands on it. She’d had three restless nights to miss him, to miss his scent, his touch, his voice.

Though the way he’d kissed her, looked at her, made love to her, had shouted promises of a future, he’d made no oral commitment to her. At the time she hadn’t thought she’d needed verbal reassurances. Right now, she wished she had it in writing.

A shout from the kitchen brought her out of her misery. The noise continued, and she recognized it as the voice of their Italian chef. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone told her something was very, very wrong.

She left the break room to investigate.

Tom and the chef stood in the back kitchen, the chef shaking a finger at one of his assistants and talking nonstop in his native language.

“What’s wrong?” Darcy asked Tom.

“From what I can gather, Luigi is upset,” Tom said dryly.

“How observant of you.”

“I think it has something to do with the private party tonight.”

Darcy laid a hand on Luigi’s arm and smiled down into his purple face. She considered advising him to picture her and Michael making love, but thought that might not work as well calming him as it did her. “What’s wrong, Luigi?”

“Dis . . . dis
scemo
did not-a get-ta da shrimp for tonight’s pasta. Where am I going ta get-ta fifty pounds of da fresha shrimp on such short notice, can you answer me dis?” He called Paul—the assistant—a few more choice Italian names. “Ruined. The night’s menu is ruined!”

Tom and Paul both appeared a little pale. Luigi looked positively apoplectic. Darcy took a couple of breaths, and closed her eyes, picturing Michael as he looked when he was gazing down at her, a part of her. The mental image didn’t exactly calm her, but it did boost her confidence.

“Maybe not,” she said.

“But . . . but—”

She smiled. “Let’s go see if we can revise the menu.”

“The lady, she specifically requested my scampi!”

“Well, your scampi isn’t going to taste all that terrific without shrimp in it. Let’s go see what else we have.”

Luigi sputtered some more, but he followed her to the walk-in refrigerator.

Darcy collapsed into
Tom’s guest chair, exhausted but exhilarated. “Well, we survived!” she said, taking off her flats and rubbing her aching feet.

“Survived, hell, we triumphed!” Tom said, his face flushed with success. He patted Darcy on the shoulder. “Thanks to you, hon. That pasta dish was out of this world! Where’d you come up with that recipe?”

Darcy shrugged, although inside pride swelled. “I just looked at the ingredients we had and threw it together.”

“Brilliant. Who’d have thought tuna, sun-dried tomatoes and pistachio nuts would taste that good together!”

“I’m glad Mrs. Fletcher finally came around. She was pretty upset there at first.”

“How couldn’t she? The pasta dish was everyone’s favorite. Besides, I told a little white lie. I told her the shrimp just didn’t meet our standards.”

“Well, you’re welcome to add the dish to your menu if you want.”

Tom dropped into his chair. “Darcy, why would you
give
it up so easily?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a gift. Use it.”

“How? Welham’s will be a division of Dining Incorporated any day now.”

Tom waved. “Right, June first. But I’m not talking about the restaurants—”

“June first?” Darcy interrupted. “How do you know that?”

“That’s what the agreement says.”

“The agreement? Are you saying—” Darcy swallowed “—the agreement’s already been signed?”

“You didn’t know?”

Shaking her head, she said, “When?”

“When was it signed?”

“Yes.”

“Tuesday morning. It didn’t take long, because they’d already worked out the terms. All that was really left to do was to cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”

“It’s done,” Darcy whispered. Tuesday morning. And it was now Thursday night, and still no word from Michael.

“That’s right, hon. And let me tell you, I think it was a real smart decision on your part. I know your father’s elated.”

“I . . . I’m glad.”

Tom stood and came around the desk. “Well, I’ve got to get out there and make sure they’re cleaning up the mess. That was some wild bunch for a fiftieth-wedding-anniversary party.”

Darcy smiled weakly. “I . . . think I’ll call my dad, if you don’t mind. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Sure, hon, take your time.”

Heart pounding, Darcy called her apartment. When her machine picked up, she punched in the two-number code to retrieve her messages. The stupid machine told her no messages existed. She hung up.

Her hands were shaking now, so it took her four attempts to get her father’s number right. He was usually in bed fairly early, but with the time difference it was still only seven o’clock in Spokane. He answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said, her voice cracking a little.

“Darcy?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Is something wrong, Princess?”

“I . . . just wanted to know how the takeover went.”

“Smooth as cream. Which reminds me. You and I need to get together with my accountant. You’ve got some big decisions you need to make about your finances, Princess.”

“Yeah, sure, Daddy,” she answered absently. Her eyes lit on a clipboard with a yellow legal pad attached to it. With a pang she recognized Michael’s handwriting. She pulled it to her.

“Is something wrong, sweetheart? You sound a little strange.”

Darcy smiled at the list on the top page. It was so like Michael to be organized like that. “No, Daddy, I’m
fine. I . . . just wanted to check in.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m glad everything went well.”

“Me too, Princess. Palm Springs, here I come.”

Darcy forced a small laugh. Randomly she riffled through Michael’s legal pad. “Well, I guess I need to go. I . . . love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, Princess. Come home soon.”

“I will.” She started to say goodbye, then stopped. “Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“Is . . . Michael Davidson still in Spokane?”

“Nope, he hightailed it out of here before the ink was dry. I took him to the airport myself Tuesday morning. Nice young man.”

“Yes. Yes, he is. Well, goodbye, Daddy.”

Darcy hung up, staring into space.
Nice young man, is he? Then why the hell hasn’t he called me?

Darcy was torn. Should she just sit quietly and wait for Michael to come back for her? What other options did she have? She didn’t have the courage to just call him and say . . . what? “I miss you. Why haven’t you called me? Why the hell didn’t you take the first flight back to D.C.?”

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was on his way to D.C. right now. It was possible. After all, he’d have to go to New York to deliver the contracts first. Maybe, even now, he was on a shuttle heading south.

The thought cheered her a little, but the uncertainty still gnawed at her belly. She had to know. She looked down at his pad again, her fingers tracing Michael’s bold handwriting. Maybe there were notes in this pad that were important to him. Maybe he needed them, and couldn’t remember where he’d left them.

She jumped up and moved around Tom’s desk. Finding the phone book in the middle drawer, she flipped through it until she found the map with the area codes. Then she raced around the desk again and dialed directory assistance for the New York area.

When the lady answered, Darcy gave her Michael’s name and street address, praying he wasn’t unlisted.

He wasn’t. As the electronic voice rattled off his number, Darcy scrambled for a pen and wrote it down on Michael’s pad.

She hung up slowly, taking a heaving breath. It was late, but Annie had already informed Darcy that she did most of her best work after midnight.

If Annie answered, she’d just tell her that Michael had left this pad in D.C., and she thought maybe there was important information on it he’d need.

With that in mind, she dialed the number. While she waited for a connection, she paged through the pad, hoping to find something, anything, that looked vitally important.

The phone rang once.

Darcy flipped pages. Lists of all sorts littered them, but none looked too urgent to her.

The phone rang a second time.

Darcy flipped another page. And stopped. Printed at the top were the words,
The Darcy Dilemma.

“Davidson,” an achingly familiar male voice barked.

Darcy stared at the page, stunned.

Flirting won’t work.

Friendliness isn’t working.

“Hello?”

Kissing her worked.

Get her alone.

Show her appreciation.

Kiss her.

Keep your damn tongue out of her mouth.

Her heart split into a million jagged pieces. She dropped into a chair, her legs no longer capable of supporting her.

“Is anyone there?”

Guilt works.

Jealousy works.

Darcy was almost surprised there wasn’t a
Making love to her works real well
written there somewhere. Rage and an overwhelming hurt consumed her. Slowly, she replaced the receiver, physically and symbolically severing her connection to Michael Stephen Davidson.