Читать книгу Strapless - Leigh Riker, Leigh Riker - Страница 10

“Dylan 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.

His hand squeezed hers in the darkness, his gold signet ring imprinting her skin. She doubted he knew what she meant about color, but his broad-shouldered presence beside her enhanced the Saturday sight-seeing experience. It had been a wonderful few days.

“I’d use them at the new store. I’d reproduce them in scarves, in lingerie. Wunderthings would churn—like these magnificent animals—with spectacular hues and shades, all light and shadow….”

Dylan slipped his arm around her.

“Don’t tell me I’m drongo,” she murmured. “It’s my job.”

Instead, he said, “Walt Corwin doesn’t like me.”

Surprised, she said, “Walt doesn’t like anyone.”

That wasn’t quite true, but she didn’t want to hurt Dylan’s feelings. He’d been quiet during their tour of the aquarium—her choice of activity—and at first she’d thought he was simply, like Darcie, taking in the beauty of their surroundings. Apparently, he’d been brooding.

“He took one look at me and nearly hauled you off to your room. Alone.”

“Dylan, we had a one-minute chance meeting with him in the hotel lobby. No big deal.” Or was it? She sounded just like Merrick Lowell about his marriage. “Walt’s not my father, either.” She didn’t know which would be worse, him or Hank Baxter. “You’re not upset, are you?”

“Nope.” His mouth tightened.

“You sound upset.”

The crowd funneled around them, and Dylan drew her off to the side, midway down a straight stretch of tunnel. He pointed out a yellow-and-black striped tiger fish. “Nice pair of briefs,” he suggested, then, “I’m not upset.”

“Just because that wouldn’t be macho, or because you’re really not?”

“Really not.”

He leaned to kiss the nape of her neck and a thrill shot along her nerves.

“Oh. Look.” She didn’t want their outing spoiled. Darcie dragged him by the hand to another section of the tank where a brilliant clump of fuschia waved in the water. “What is that?”

“Anemone. See?” He pointed again. “The purple one? The blue?”

“It’s teal.”

“Looks plain blue to me.” With a laugh, Dylan stood beside her at the glass while Darcie counted colors and sighed in appreciation.

“They’re gorgeous.”

He bent to nuzzle her throat. “So are you.”

She spun to face him, feeling hot color in her own cheeks, and nearly clipped his chin with the top of her head. Was he serious? Her, gorgeous? Dylan liked to speak his mind, and he didn’t bother to hide his impressions—of her or anything else. She liked that about him—loved it, really—at the same time he took her by surprise. Darcie was accustomed to men like Merrick who either didn’t share emotion or didn’t feel it in the first place. She never knew which. Her father, too.

Darcie blinked.

“My eyes are too far apart,” she said. “My fingers are stumpy and I—”

Dylan looked around, saw that they were relatively alone in the dark tunnel, and drew her close. “Last night, all night, you seemed exactly right to me.”

At the heated memory she could barely speak.

“You’re a charmer, Dylan Rafferty.”

How did I get this lucky, for once?

So why not overlook the little differences she’d discovered during the past few days? Dylan’s outspoken opinion of men and women and the roles they should play was…antiquated, courtly. Likewise, his attitude that children should be uppermost in a couple’s relationship, and quickly. And his continuing praise of his mum. Darcie agreed with him about a love of children, but she’d soon realized he was thirty years behind the times. And stubborn. As for his views on women with careers, like Darcie…

“Not by half as charmed as I am. By you,” he said, linking his strong hand with her fingers. He led Darcie around a bend to the next aquarium where a school of reef fish in even more vibrant colors swam and turned and glided through the water. Sparkling and bright, it appeared sunlit from above. “You want to leave soon? Go back to the hotel?”

His suggestive tone dissolved Darcie to mush.

“Pretty soon. Let’s see the rest first.”

If he wasn’t upset, was he bored? She hoped not. But maybe his interest in her was in bed, nowhere else. Darcie wouldn’t let it matter. Three nights ago she had come home after “house hunting” with Walt at The Rocks to find Dylan in the hotel bar. Not that she’d looked in hoping to spot him…or run back downstairs the instant Walt dropped onto his bed for a quick nap before dinner. She almost didn’t need the elevator.

Walt hadn’t been happy with Darcie, who didn’t show up again until morning. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, in the days since, for his continued sourness or his cool greeting when he finally met Dylan. Her fault. But to be honest, spending her nights with Dylan in his room was like getting a big bag of her favorite red licorice whips as an unexpected present. She’d make herself wait for tonight, anticipate.

She walked through the darkened tunnels holding his hand, feeling the beat of her own pulse against his skin. Or was that Dylan’s heart? Given a second chance, after her original “mystery” and “play it by ear” remarks, she wouldn’t make that mistake again. As long as she was here, she would see Dylan.

At the aquarium. And later, in his bed.

The tunnel bent again, soft classical music piped into the atmosphere as if keeping time with the bubbling water around them. Darcie’s eyes filled with tears. When the magical tunnel ended near an enormous tank filled with coral, anemones, and fish of every description, she spied a set of carpeted steps. She drew Dylan down to sit beside her. For a few moments she listened and felt an inexplicable urge to cry at the beauty of the darkened tunnels, the spectacular life contained within the tanks…or because she’d found this beautiful man all for herself?

For now.

Dylan slipped her into the crook of his arm and she leaned her head against his shoulder. Darcie’s hair slid over his other hand at the nape of her neck. Dylan shuddered a little then pulled her closer. A teenage couple nearby on the steps was making out in the dark. A pair of rowdy toddlers raced up and down the stairs. Their frazzled parents scrambled after them. Darcie sat very still, absorbing the heat and power of Dylan’s embrace. When he lowered his head to kiss her, she felt every cell of her body ignite.

Darcie touched his face. “This is the nicest date I’ve ever had.”

“Ah. So it’s a date now, is it?”

“Definitely.”

Dylan lifted his head. “What if it was more than a date?”

“You mean after this, in the room?” She whispered the words.

“No, in my life,” he said. “Your life.”

Darcie pulled back a little. “My, you’re a fast one.” Her tone sounded flippant, but she was suddenly trembling.

“I like you, Darcie.” I love you, Merrick had said. “We’re…compatible, for sure.” He grinned. That gorgeous grin. Then he bent his head again to take her mouth, and for an instant Darcie forgot what he was saying. “I’ve known you just less than four days and I feel like it’s…forever.”

“That would be a trick.”

“What would?” he asked.

“If you and I tried to…”

“Have a serious relationship?”

“You said it, not me.” She didn’t have relationships. Like Merrick, they never lasted. She had Wunderthings to consider—Walt was right—New York, Gran and even Sweet Baby Jane. That was her life.

Dylan took her hand between his. Strong, lean, callused from his work.

“What are you scared of?”

“I’m not scared. I barely know you.”

He gave her a slow smile. “Pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

Darcie swallowed. “Three nights in bed, here at the aquarium—” she gestured at a school of zebra fish in the tank “—breakfast this morning in the lounge…” She shook her head.

“Don’t forget dinner last night.”

“That was in bed, too. We didn’t even finish.”

“Doesn’t count, then?” He frowned. “Or doesn’t this mean to you what it means to me?”

“Great sex?” Darcie tried. “Ozspeak lessons? Strine?”

His gaze lowered. “You want to make fun, I can’t stop you.”

“Dylan.” She eased her hand from his. “I’m not trying to hurt you, but after my boss and I find the space we want here, I’ll be leaving for New York. Do you know how far away that is?”

“It’s a big ocean.”

“Yes, and what would be the point of our even keeping in touch?”

“You’ll be back. Won’t you?”

“Maybe, but…” She had no idea when. Or if Walt would suddenly decide—after her wayward nights on this trip—to bring Greta in her place. Then what did she want of Dylan? “I know it seems shallow, enjoying each other for a time…”

He drew back against the next step to rest on his elbows. His face went taut.

“I’m not using you.”

“I’m not using you either. But where…where could this go?”

“Anywhere we want.”

Oh, God, he would turn her into a permanent mess of Silly Putty. That voice, those eyes, his hands, even this new edge to him…

“Besides,” she said, “you seem to want things that I don’t. Not yet anyway.” She waved a hand again. “I don’t want to become my mother.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing, except she lives a very different lifestyle from the one I’ve chosen.”

He cocked his head. “Don’t tell me you pick up strangers in bars everywhere?”

She flushed. “No, of course not. You were the first.” And last. She tried to explain. “Look. My mother named me Darcie. Darcie Elizabeth Baxter. Do you know what my initials make together?”

He looked perplexed. Which only melted her heart.

“D.E.B.,” she told him. “DEB. In the U.S. that’s a girl raised to be socially proper, to “come out” at eighteen at a dance where she wears a white dress and gloves, to meet the exactly right man who will elevate her position—” No, that didn’t sound right, it sounded kinky. “I mean, raise her standard of living to new heights, beyond even her parents’ and—”

Dylan guessed right. “You didn’t want to be a deb.”

“No! That’s such an old-fashioned system. I wanted to be my own person—not that we were rich enough for me to be presented to society. I want to choose the man I’ll marry someday, after my own career is in motion. I need to be able to take care of myself first. I want to be independent.”

“Is this some of that women’s lib stuff?”

She didn’t want to blow this. “It was. Years ago some women—not my mother—took a stand, and because of those women opportunities opened up for the next generation. Now, in my generation I can be anyone I want to be, do anything I wish. This trip to Sydney is my first chance to prove myself.”

“And I’m part of that. Temporarily.” He paused. “Was that what picking me up in the bar was about? Is that why you went over the top that first night? Made yourself sick? Were you trying to prove how independent you are, as free with sex as any man? That’s not even possible, Darcie. Women get pregnant, men don’t. Were you showing your mother you aren’t like her at all?”

This wasn’t going well. She didn’t know what else to say.

“You know,” Dylan went on, “my mum’s probably like yours. Only she grew up on a farm, not in Cincinnati. She married my dad, had three kids—I have two sisters—stayed home to raise them.” He frowned harder. “She nurtured us, and him. He took care of her. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

“It’s not wrong. But isn’t this more than premature?”

“We’re having an intellectual discussion.” He gazed at her in the dark. The noisy toddlers had scampered off back down the tunnel. Their tired-looking parents trailed after them. The two teenagers were still necking in the corner. “But you think the opportunity will last forever?”

She didn’t see why not, except for that biological clock Claire had mentioned. Darcie wasn’t ready to face that yet, either, much less a “relationship” with Dylan that had little chance of working out. On either side.

“Do we have to have this conversation? I thought we were having fun.”

She tried to rise but Dylan tugged her back down onto the step.

He drew her into his arms and she didn’t—couldn’t—resist. Her heart pounded furiously, in excitement or alarm, she couldn’t distinguish. He moved closer, gathered her in, covered her half-open mouth with his.

“Dylan.” She would dissolve if he didn’t stop.

But what about Dylan’s view that a woman’s place was still in the home? The last thing she wanted was a Cincinnati clone—a man from the Outback instead of suburban Ohio, but with the same notions. The last thing Dylan wanted was a city girl with a mind of her own. Or did he?

“This is us,” he said, “not your mother or mine. Not just some date, not a few nights in the rack…” His next kiss rocked her. His tongue twined with hers and Darcie lost her senses. She clung to him, the poignant classical music swirling around them, through them, like a school of graceful fish. “Don’t you see?”