by Leigh Riker
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…?”
Chapter
Four
“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.
