Читать книгу Strapless - Leigh Riker, Leigh Riker - Страница 9

“‘Waltzing Matilda,’” Darcie sang to herself. “‘Once a jolly swagman…’” Losing the lyrics again, she hummed a few bars. “‘Dum-de-dum…his billabong…’” For some reason her eyes filled.

Jet lag, she thought, and tipped her head back. She hadn’t thought it would be this bad. The new Westin Sydney, with its open expanse of chrome, glass and satiny wood led her gaze upward to a vast skylight showing a night-black canopy full of twinkling, but unidentifiable, stars. New to the southern hemisphere, Darcie sat in the hotel bar digesting the beef tenderloin en croute she’d eaten earlier in one of the trendy lower level restaurants with Walt, and nursing a glass of local Chardonnay to settle things.

Wearing her pinstripe suit, even alone she shouldn’t feel this out of place. In New York—ten thousand miles to the east, as her long, sleepless night on a Boeing 747 from San Francisco could attest—women wore black, too, particularly after five. With a good strand of pearls, her mother would advise. In most big cities of the world, you couldn’t go wrong in dark colors, but Darcie frowned into her glass. She wasn’t wearing pearls, and opals seemed the gem of choice in Australia, if she believed the many shop displays she’d passed on her way to the hotel tonight. And according to the group of what appeared to be thirtyish executives at the next table, beer had it over wine.

Idly, Darcie studied them.

She couldn’t concentrate. A continued low-down cramping had made her order the glass of wine she didn’t really want, or need.

“Thank God he didn’t get me pregnant,” she said of Merrick.

Bastard.

His being married wasn’t the issue. She might be naive at times but she was no brainless ingenue. As a woman of the new millennium, sexually free and unencumbered, she could handle his being married—even if that little fact rankled some deep down remnant of tradition in her own character. Thanks, Mom and Dad. But Merrick’s failure to reveal the truth? That still hurt.

Darcie hated lying. Liars, most of all.

Blinking, she straightened in her roomy club chair. Her glass clicked onto the marble tabletop. What if he carried some STD? That’s all she needed to remember Merrick Lowell—genital herpes or warts. As if she didn’t feel enough of a sexual outcast.

She pressed a hand to her suddenly thumping heart. But they had used protection. Every time. Remember, Merrick didn’t relish having kids. Darcie grimaced. Then why did he seem to have two of them? Maybe it was only her imagined children he didn’t want. Her middle-class genes.

With a sigh, she fell back into the deep chair again.

Twirling the stem of her glass, she gazed around the dimly lit room—and oh, as if a band had struck up the national anthem, “Advance Australia Fair,” would you look at that. Yummy. A lone man stood talking to the bartender, another Aussie male Darcie had noticed earlier. Now, she barely saw him. Eclipsing every other man in the room, this one had dark hair, unlike Merrick’s (a point in his favor) thicker, longer. Hair a woman could twine her fingers through, letting its sinuous silk send a message of desire straight to her achy loins.

His broad shoulders blocked out the bartender to his left, behind the bar. He lounged in three-quarter profile to her, an amazing profile if she bothered to linger on it. Better than Merrick’s. Busily, Darcie’s gaze swept like a huntress down his long frame, from those incredible shoulders and well-developed deltoids—bunched, and nicely rounded, under his chambray shirt—to his washboard belly, then his muscled, jeans-clad legs and, finally, his feet. Boots, she saw. Good ones, if she could judge from this distance. His fingers looked lean and graceful wrapped around the beer bottle in his hand, and when he lifted it for a long swallow, Darcie watched his Adam’s apple work in his strong, beautiful throat. It was true. Australian men were not to be believed.

Could he be any more perfect? Like a fantasy come true, even the Akubra hat from Gran’s wish list lay next to him on the bar. Darcie decided it was on her agenda, too.

“You jolly swagman,” she murmured, sending him a flirty smile.

Heck, why not? She was on her own, for tonight at least, in an exotic foreign environment—for once in her life. No one watched her, certainly not all the executives at the next table who were telling loud jokes and laughing among themselves. Their cigarette smoke created a cloud of anonymity, like the famed Blue Mountains with their eucalyptus haze. Janet Baxter—or Darcie’s father—were nowhere to be seen. And Cincinnati, though not quite as far away as New York, could be ignored for one night. Not that she needed to care. For good measure, feeling defiant after Merrick, she tipped her glass in salute.

She detected no response to the smile or the toast, but his steady gaze did even crazier things to her equilibrium, to her lower abdomen, and Darcie swallowed hard. With her nod in his direction—three strikes, you’re out—the beer bottle stopped halfway down and he stared at her. Then he glanced over his shoulder as if to see whether she’d been signaling the bartender for a refill, not coming on to him. He picked up his hat. What else could she do? Darcie looked down into her half-full glass, and waited. Pulse pounding. Stomach clenched.

Would he come over?

When a tall shadow fell across the table a moment later, she realized she’d been holding her breath. Raising her eyes, Darcie exhaled. Seeing him up close, she struggled not to slip out of her chair onto the floor in a puddle of need.

“If you were a mate—” he pronounced it “might” “—which you’re clearly not, I’d say G’day, but we Aussies don’t use the expression between the sexes.” The word hung between them. “You’re a blow-in, eh? Welcome to Sydney.”

“Blow-in?”

“That’s Ozspeak—for newcomer. Or you could say Strine.”

Ozspeak? “A stranger is a Strine?”

“No.” He smiled. “That’s how we say Aus-tra-lian.” He tangled the syllables.

Darcie smiled, too. “And I thought you spoke English here.”

His wasn’t the smoothest line she’d ever heard, and he’d guessed she was a tourist, but that voice could warm the polar ice cap—which wasn’t all that far away. Darcie gripped both arms of her seat. His gray-green hat, plopped at a jaunty angle on his head, the lightweight sport coat that dangled from one finger over his shoulder, shouted Take me. I’m yours.

She couldn’t help herself. Darcie hummed the first few bars again of “Waltzing Matilda,” for his benefit this time, and he laughed.

“Mind if I sit down?”

She gestured at the opposite club chair. “Park your ‘tucker’ right there.”

He grinned—a gorgeous grin. “Already had my tucker, thanks.”

Darcie had no idea what tucker meant either. All she knew was, it was in the song and that her abdomen, even her thighs, had begun to ache in a different way.

His grin widening, he leaned back in his chair. “Puffaloons, yabbies, Vegemite, a nice bit of Pavlova… What’re you drinking?”

What was he talking about?

“Uh, Chardonnay. Anything…Strine.”

“It’s really Or-strall-yan. Since you’re trying so hard to fit in here, I thought I’d point that out.” Charmingly, in addition to his mangled vowels, his deep voice lifted at the end of each sentence, as if asking her approval of the thought. He raised a finger—which Darcie didn’t resent as she had with Merrick at the Hyatt—to a passing waiter who’d delivered another tray of beer to the next table. A shout rose up at someone’s latest joke. “Tucker means food,” he explained.

“That was food you mentioned?’

“Puffaloons are fried-dough scones, yabbies are little freshwater crayfish, Vegemite’s a national treasure—yeast extract. Pavlova’s dessert. Meringue, whipped cream, fruit…”

“You were teasing me.”

He nodded. “Besides, the tucker you meant is from the bush, often carried in a backpack.”

Darcie smiled. “By a swagman like yourself?”

He glanced at his blue shirt. “Do I look that bad?” Then down at his jeans. “Sorry. A swagman’s a bum. A hobo.” Darcie flushed at her error and he said, “I came in from the station this afternoon. Didn’t take time to change.” He looked at the executives’ table. They all appeared as well-dressed as Merrick. “Left my good bag of fruit upstairs.”

Station? “I didn’t see any trains.”

He grinned again. “There are some. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Blinded by his smile, Darcie ran a finger around the rim of her glass, his gaze instantly homing in on the motion. “You’re a cowboy?”

His eyes had darkened. So did her blood.

“Yes, ma’am. I raise sheep. On what you’d call a ranch.”

Surprised, she took a breath. The air felt thick with smoke and…lust.

“Bag of fruit?” she repeated, recalling what else he’d said.

“Aussie rhyming slang. For suit.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to insult you. You look nice.” Understatement of the entire timeline of mankind, Darcie. She could put him in a display window—oh God, yes—and with his body draped like a coat hanger with filmy lingerie, wouldn’t that sell undies? Or she could send him down a fashion-show runway with a skimpily dressed model on each arm. “And that hat…”

He removed it, as if suddenly remembering his manners, then playfully plunked it on Darcie’s hair. When his hand brushed her cheek, she felt a flash of frenzied desire.

“There you go,” he said, and her ache grew more insistent, her blood thicker. She couldn’t stop staring. He wore a gold signet ring on his right little finger and even that melted her. His touch lingered, his tone softened. “Now you look just like an Aussie.” He gave her a long once-over she couldn’t read. “Guess I need to teach you a few things.”

Darcie’s libido puckered. “We can trade.”

He held her gaze. “All right, I’ll help you learn Ozspeak. My language—the language of a convict subculture full of rebellion. For what? Your…straight-laced English grammar?” He laughed, then offered his hand, his dark eyes warm and too direct. Could they see right into her more than friendly fantasies? She couldn’t tell. Until he said, “Or maybe we’ll work out a different bargain. Something more interesting.” He paused when she took his hand. “Good to meet you. I’m—”

Before he could say his name, Darcie reared back. His firm grasp, the feel of his fingers around hers, the whisper-light brush of his thumb over her palm threatened to turn her to pudding. Butterscotch. Her whole body tightened. Too perfect.

“Let’s not,” she said.

“Not what?”

“Exchange names.” She fiddled with the hat, tilting it rakishly over one eye. She’d had enough of Merrick Lowell and his lies. If she ended up with this Aussie hunk—oh, Gran, you should see him—she wouldn’t regret it in the morning. “Let’s keep things…mysterious.”

He went still in his chair. He waited until the bartender set their fresh drinks on the table and left. The growing heat in his eyes had cooled. Considerably.

“You’re not working here, are you?”

Working? “Not at the moment.” Why did he ask?

He gazed at Darcie with suspicion.

“I finished at five today,” she continued, “your time, whatever it’s called.”

“Eastern Standard Time in New South Wales. Greenwich mean time plus ten.”

In New York that would be…yesterday sometime. Darcie felt too jet-lagged, too enthralled by him, too unsettled by his look to do the math. She waved a hand. Why did he seem…disappointed?

She hurried on. “The man I work for told me to go home. I can’t seem to get my clock turned around, though. I don’t know whether to yawn or do my morning bends and stretches.” Then she knew. Shocked, Darcie swallowed. A working girl.

“You think I’m—” A lady of the night?

“Darling, I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve seen. But I don’t do hookers.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Hoping she’d convinced him of her relative innocence, Darcie leaned against the up button at the bank of elevators opposite the Westin gift shop. It was closed now. In the past hour the executives in the bar next door had raised their level of laughter and camaraderie another few decibels, and several women in trendy power suits had joined them. She and the cowboy had also taken their new “relationship” onto a different plane. Talk about verbal foreplay—once she made him understand that Walt Corwin wasn’t her pimp. The elevator doors glided open. Darcie and the sheep farmer entered the car.

He punched his floor, she punched her button…so to speak…then with his hand catching hers, he nailed her up against the rail along the wall. His gold signet ring clinked against the wood. Darcie still wore his Akubra hat when his mouth lowered to her throat. His warm breath sent a thrill of lust from the roots of her hair to her too-high shoes, toes cramped like her uterus into a suddenly too-tight space.

Murmuring, he kissed her neck, her earlobe, then drew it between his teeth. Beautiful teeth, she remembered. His hands began to roam. “So, you’re in retail.”

She’d had to tell him something about herself. That wary look on his face had threatened to spoil their evening. Darcie kept things general, though, except now he knew she was staying here. Well, of course he did. Her head swam a little from the wine but she could still think. More or less. They were in the elevator, rising quickly to the upper floors, not out on the street saying goodbye. Darcie had a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Monday nights with Merrick at the Grand Hyatt…

“It’s a new job,” she said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it.”

His low tone sent flame along her already singed nerve ends.

“I imagine you can do anything you set your mind to.”

She paused, remembering Walt. “My boss is sleeping,” she informed him.

“With you?”

“Next door. In his own room.”

He drew back to smile at her. “You’re drongo. Funny, that is.”

Or did the slang mean idiot? Her stomach sank another notch. Men and hotel rooms were becoming a habit. And who wanted a comedienne—as Merrick said? Now, the Aussie would laugh at her, pat her on the head—smashing his own Akubra hat with the motion—then send her to her room. Darcie’s Big Night in Sydney Goes Belly Up.

“Funny in a good way,” he added.

“Let’s see.” She watched him move in again, felt his lips trail along the column of her neck to the first button on her white silk blouse. “I’m cute. I’m a laugh riot. I’m—”

“You’re—” A big, pathetic joke with jet lag, PMS and no chance now of getting “close” tonight. “Sexy as hell,” he finished. With his low words of reprieve, Darcie’s legs went weak. She leaned her head back farther to give him access to her throat. His tongue swept across the hollow there, down to her breasts, into the slight cleft that passed for cleavage—when she wore the right bra. She wasn’t.

And for a moment Darcie’s sensible side prevailed. Walt was upstairs. They were here to work. In any case she shouldn’t take a stranger to her room. Was she nuts? Forget Merrick Lowell. Not only were hotels becoming her second home, a bad habit, but this seemed risky. Possibly dangerous, Darcie cautioned herself. Certainly the rash notion showed a lack of common sense on her part. She couldn’t help asking.

“You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

His tongue whisked along the valley of her breasts.

“Like I’d tell you.” At the droll statement she could feel him smile against her skin. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Which floor are you on?”

“Uh, thirty-three.”

He took her mouth, sent the words inside. His tongue, too. His husky tone.

“I’m on thirty-one. Let’s go there. It’s closer.”

Her pulse soared like the rising elevator and Darcie stopped finding reasons to resist. Hell, take a chance—like Annie. By the time the doors opened onto the quiet hall, his hat had flopped over her left eye. By then, Darcie supposed the hotel security staff had had their fill of elevator foreplay, verbal and physical, on the video monitors. He took her hand, led her to the corner room on the corridor, and, while kissing her again, slipped his key card into the chrome slot beside the door that flashed red when no visitors were wanted. The light turned green—go, Darcie—and they tumbled inside.

Darcie had a quick impression of light wood, butter-cream walls, the frosted celadon-green glass door of the bathroom—like her own room. Before she breathed again, he had her up against the mirrored closet doors in the entryway. Still kissing, he caught her hips in his hands and bumped up against her, better than Gran had said.

Darcie wound her arms around his sturdy neck. With her head tipped back, the Akubra smashed against the glass, she hung on tight. Oh, God, he could kiss. God, he could…

In about five seconds, with his hand flicking open buttons like this down the front of her blouse, then his chambray shirt (he obviously didn’t need practice) Darcie wouldn’t even be breathing.

His hand dropped to his buckle. The belt snapped from the loops. It clanked onto the marble floor. Outside, through the plate glass window wall on the opposite side of the room, the stars—those unidentified constellations—sparkled in the black nighttime sky. Blocks away, down the long slope of King Street, which Darcie couldn’t see from here, at Darling Harbour people danced and drank. It didn’t matter. With his shirt open, her blouse undone, he pressed his chest to her breasts and Darcie whimpered at the low-down ache in her abdomen. They’d never reach the bed.

“Feel good?” He dragged down his zipper. She heard a foil packet tear before he sheathed himself. “I’ll make it better. I promise.”

“Don’t let me down.”

With her request, he whisked her panties off so fast Darcie never felt them fall. He cupped her bottom in both hands. That aching spot down low needed his attention so badly she couldn’t speak—comedy was the last thing on her mind now—and his hardness pushed at the ready opening of her body. He raised his head.

“You’re clean, right?”

She gasped. “I’m clean.”

“Me, too. So let me…show you…my billabong,” he whispered hotly.

Then he slid inside. Deep. Hard. Full. Heaven. Her breath rushed out.

“Ohhh.”

“Unhhh.”

The stars twinkled. The moon shone. The cold beige marble floor made her toes curl—or was that him? His arousal felt velvety hot. The mirror felt slick and cool against her bare bottom. If he opened his eyes, would he see her big behind squashed flatter than his hat to the glass? When his heat engulfed her, Darcie no longer cared about her exposed rear end, about hotel rooms with men who didn’t love her.

His tempo increased. He stroked her, in, out, in, out until they both seemed to lose their minds from the very motion, like the lilting strains of the song she only half remembered.

“You little swag…woman…” he gasped.

“You…big tucker…man…”

She didn’t know how long they lasted. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Not long enough. At some point while the moon still gleamed and the stars still shone and Darcie still wore the Akubra, the climax caught her, swift and shattering.

With one last hard thrust, on a groan he came, too.

When he stopped shuddering and she finally stopped shaking, her head fell back against the mirrored closet. She didn’t mind if he saw her rear now, plastered to the glass, reflected in all its formless, naked glory. When his head dropped to the juncture of her neck, his mouth hot and open on her damp skin, Darcie peeled herself away from the mirror. And the Akubra hat thumped onto the marble floor. She couldn’t tell which of them was breathing in the most ragged rhythm. Or a complete lack of one.

Her heart beat like fury. His thicker, stronger pulse thudded against her breast.

He whispered a low, erotic word, and Darcie cried out, ready to begin all over again what they had just finished…but, like him, not quite finished. When he kissed her, long and sweet and silky, she hoped this one night would never end.

“‘Waltzing Matilda,’” Darcie breathed into his mouth like a prayer.

“Want another beer?” Like a pagan god, hours later he stood naked at the minibar, a perfect sight in the open fridge door that shafted light over his loins, upward along his taut belly to his muscled chest and shoulders, to the renewed glitter in his dark eyes. Darcie wanted him, again, too.

Swathed in the white cotton duvet, she lay on the king-size bed amid big goose down pillows and grinned at him. Even though she didn’t like beer, she said yes.

“And after that…?” she added, hoping for more.

“We’ll rehydrate, then negotiate.”

Like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett, she couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

I’ll make it better. “I won’t give you a fight.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“I have to say, I like a man who keeps his promise.”

With a wolfish smile of his own, he slammed the fridge door and walked—strolled in all his male splendor, which Darcie suspected he did on purpose—across the room to her. Darcie lifted the duvet to invite him in. Now the city lights coming through the wide windows illuminated him, too. Gilded his sunbrowned skin. Deepened the interesting creases in his cheeks, the smile lines around his mouth.

“How old are you?” she asked idly, reaching for the beer he held out.

“Thirty-four.” He didn’t ask her the same question. “Why?”

“You’re well preserved.” She trailed a hand over his shoulder. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“Thanks. We’re both old enough.” For what, he didn’t say. He rubbed his bare chest. “Most women don’t like telling, though.”

“Are you always this polite?”

“My mum hopes so.” Oh Lord, a chink in the walls of pleasure. His mother. He had one, maybe just like Janet. He fell onto the bed, held his beer can to one side, and lowered his head to kiss her open mouth. “But no, ma’am. I’m not that polite. Now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She repeated her earlier words.

He frowned. “Hey. I didn’t really think you were a working girl.”

“Yes, you did.”

He seemed to take most things literally, which Darcie tried not to mind, either. After all, she’d taken Merrick at face value. There was a lesson there but right now she wouldn’t give it any credence.

“Well, I didn’t want to think so,” he said.

“Why not? Other than the fact you don’t pay for sex?”

“I’d never pay for it. Even if I was ugly as a fence post.”

Her gaze wandered over him. “Believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”

“No worries, darling,” he corrected her. “We’re behind on our lessons here.”

“No worries.” Repeating the mantra, Darcie folded him close. Darling. “But on second thought, isn’t this subject too personal for our first date?”

“What, sex? Have another beer,” he said. “Then you won’t care.” He paused. “Is that what this is?” He glanced at the duvet, the pillows, Darcie. “A date?”

“Well. I guess not.” She murmured, “No strings.”

Warm and scented with sex, with each other, they lay close under the covers, drinking tall cans of Foster’s lager. Another, then another. Ugh. Still, beer didn’t taste so bad by the third bottle. Or was it fourth? At some point he’d called room service after they finished the minibar supply to have it restocked.

“For a woman who hates beer,” he finally said, “you’re holding your own here.”

The room spun a little. “It’s cheaper than the hard stuff.”

He kissed her again, tasting of beer and man. “You live where?”

She hadn’t told him. “New York.”

“City?”

He sounded horrified. She took another swallow. “Uh-huh. Right outside of Manhattan. You know, the island the Native Americans sold to the Dutch.”

“By yourself?”

No, with my grandmother. She couldn’t say that, either. Didn’t want him to know too much about her. Darcie pushed away the memory of home, even of Gran, who would appreciate more than anyone else this little tryst, and of course banished any thought of her mother. Tonight was tonight. Her one-time, one-night stand. Tomorrow was…

“No way. I have a roommate.”

“Male or female?”

“Uh…female.” Two actually. Eden Baxter and Sweet Baby Jane, the devil’s spawn. Nearly a week later Darcie’s punctured calf still hurt. She tried to recall her last tetanus shot but couldn’t.

He frowned again. It made him look totally endearing, even if he did show signs—serious ones—of being too much like her family. “If I was your father,” he said, proving the point, “I wouldn’t let you live in such a big city. Too dangerous.”

“Let me? You’re not my father.” Darcie ran one finger down his belly, then lower. “This is too dangerous.”

That distracted him. All over again. Just as she hoped, he reached for another packet on the night table. “What happens when I run out of condoms?”

“We’ll…renegotiate.” She took him in her hand to help. Silk and velvet, strength and vulnerability. “We’ll improvise.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He made it sound like a question, but Darcie agreed. All she would let herself think about was this: lovemaking, long and lazy, to be relished, the likes of which she’d never known before—take that, Merrick—or perhaps ever would again. They shared the last of the beer…five, or was it six? And over and over Darcie indulged herself, her fantasies, the tug of need low inside, for the rest of the night.

In his arms, she dreaded the dawn—and ignored the first flutters of nausea.

Until a few faint fingers of light finally penetrated the wall of windows in room 3101 of the upscale Westin Sydney. Then Darcie Elizabeth Baxter startled awake, hot bile in her throat—and bolted for the bathroom.

Darcie gave one last gasp, swallowed twice, and straightened. Resting back on her heels on the marble floor, in the doorway of the toilet stall, she swiped the moistened washcloth over her face again, her parched lips, then drew long, deep breaths to steady her stomach.

There. She would live now. Worse luck.

Then she realized she was no longer alone.

Without looking up, Darcie knew he was there, leaning a strong, broad shoulder against the green frosted glass of the bathroom door—and shirtless of course. A quick glance in the vanity mirror confirmed his naked chest. Darcie shuddered while her heart did a little tap dance of appreciation. All that expanse of sunbrowned skin over sleek muscle, warm and smooth under her fingers during the only half-remembered night of casual sex and talk…the feel of the silky dark hair that swept across his breast-bone…the lure of tight, dark twin male nipples…

“Hi. How’s it going?” he said.

Deep, throaty morning voice. Hint of amusement.

“It’s not. I hope.”

He laughed, low and intimate, reminding Darcie not only of her illness—wretched, so wretched to be sick away from home, sick in a strange man’s company—well, not exactly a stranger now, she had to admit—reminding her of the intimacies they’d shared. Now this…she heard the familiar chink of a can against the gold signet ring on his little finger. Darcie’s nose wrinkled at the smell of hops, malt and yeast.

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…?”