by Leigh Riker
“Don’t be silly. She loves everyone.”
Darcie followed Eden into her room, safe now that the cat was in her grandmother’s arms. Purring, of course, loud enough to wake Claire, Peter, and the baby two floors down. Sweet Baby Jane looked angelic.
“That animal should get a prime role in the next sequel to The Exorcist. I swear, she must be a familiar.”
“My Jane a witch’s companion? I should say not.”
“You would if you’d ever turned your back on her.”
“She wouldn’t hurt a soul. Julio says…”
At the second mention of his name, Darcie let her gaze whip to the bedside telephone. Then the book lying open on Eden’s bed.
“How To Make Love to a Man?” Darcie read the cover. “Honestly, Gran. Are you sleeping with him now?”
Eden blushed.
“We haven’t gotten that far. He’s Spanish, you know. Hot-blooded but a gentleman. A charming combination.”
Like Dylan’s mellow, laid-back style, his attitude.
“You’re dating him?”
“Well, now and then. His night shift interferes with our social life.”
“You could always go down to the lobby and help him open doors.”
“What does that mean, Darcie?” Her grandmother eyed her with obvious disapproval. “That comment is so unlike you that I can only assume its source is your own lack of…satisfaction these days.”
“No, I like Julio. He’s cool. He seems very nice.” Very…young.
“Go on,” Eden murmured.
“That’s all I know about him.”
“Then please don’t pass judgment on our alliance.” She carried Sweet Baby Jane—who gave Darcie a triumphant look—to bed with her. Nestled in the covers again, Eden fluffed her filmy peignoir. Where had she gotten such a garment? Bergdorf Goodman, Darcie guessed. Circa 1954. Gran followed Darcie’s gaze to the silent telephone.
“He still hasn’t called?”
She played innocent. “Who?”
“Dylan Rafferty. I do love that name. Strong, masculine. Very inspiring,” Eden decided aloud. “Tell me again. What was it like in the Land of Oz?”
“Busy.”
“More,” her grandmother urged.
“Hot.”
“Ummm. That’s better. What else?”
“All right. Sexy.” She couldn’t help the smile. Darcie plunked herself down on the end of the bed, far enough away from SBJ that she couldn’t get scratched. As if waiting, too, for this latest retelling of her skin adventures with Dylan Rafferty, the cat sent her a Cheshire grin. Maybe they could find common ground after all.
“You can’t imagine, Gran. I’ve never felt the way he made me feel. He was like a drug…or so I suppose.” She couldn’t vouch for her sister Annie, but Darcie wasn’t into substance experimentation. “He has these dark eyes, that melting smile, a blowtorch mouth—”
“He’s a good kisser.”
“Among other things, yes.”
“You lucky girl.”
Darcie suppressed the strong wave of need, then of anguish, that rolled through her. She shouldn’t have started, even to entertain Eden or to fill her own sleepless hours. In the few days she’d been back in New York, the telephone had remained stubbornly silent. Her nights—so recently Darcie’s days in Sydney—stayed perversely mixed up. Sleep deprived, upside down in time and emotions, she was turning into a “virago” like her mother. For very different reasons. Her grandmother was right. A horny virago. She didn’t regret walking out on Dylan that last morning. It seemed better than a long goodbye she’d only have trouble forgetting. Like Dylan himself. But…
“Tell me again about the Akubra.”
“In the elevator, or in his room?”
“Both.”
By the time she finished, they were laughing. Even Sweet Baby Jane looked pleased with the stories that had lightened Darcie’s jet-lagged heart at the same time they plunged her back into despair.
“I think you should call him,” Eden said, riffling through the book in her lap. The cat lay on her pillow, vibrating, blinking, on the verge of sleep. “He must have been hurt…even angry when he woke up to find you gone. Without a word, I might add. How could you, Darcie?”
“It’s better this way.”
Or so she tried to tell herself.
“Distance, occupation, I should think those could be overcome. Any relationship requires compromise. Just look at Julio and me. The beautiful little man has me thoroughly on the other side of the clock—just like you with Dylan—because I can’t bear the thought of falling off to sleep in a warm bed alone while he stands in that cold lobby, the wind blowing through his jacket every time the door opens and some rude tenant stalks in. What’s the harm in calling Dylan to discuss your situation?”
“He won’t compromise.” We’ll rehydrate then negotiate. Ha. Sexually, perhaps, but otherwise… “It didn’t take me long to realize how stubborn he can be.”
“So was your grandfather, but we lived together for forty-five years. Well, forty-six if you count the love nest we shared in the Village before our wedding.”
“You and Gramps lived together?”
“And why not? We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.” She paused. “It sounds as if you and your Aussie feel the same.”
“Felt,” Darcie corrected her. “I’m not spending my life with a man who still thinks a woman should be barefoot and pregnant.”
“He didn’t say that. I won’t believe it.”
“Not in those words, but that’s what he means.” Your nipples larger, darker, first milk…
“I can think of worse scenarios.”
Darcie brushed nonexistent lint from the comforter.
Brushed Dylan Rafferty from her life. Her dreams.
“He hasn’t called you. You won’t call him.” Eden ticked off those points on her well-manicured fingers. “That’s that, then. Too bad.”
“It’s for the best, Gran,” Darcie repeated. “It is,” she said when Eden arched a perfect eyebrow as only she could do so well.
“Two stubborn people. Sleeping apart.”
“That’s life in the new millennium. Haven’t you heard?”
Then why did the thought sadden her? Like the too-silent telephone.
Darcie hopped off the bed. She had other considerations—the ones that paid her bills. She would focus on her job, the new store. “I have work tomorrow. Walt’s presenting the contract for the Sydney store to the board. I need to get in early.” Then there was Greta Hinckley, who in Darcie’s absence had vowed revenge.
“If I were you,” Eden said, “I’d convince Walter Corwin that Darcie Elizabeth Baxter is the only person to handle the entire process for Wunderthings’ opening in Australia. Where Dylan Rafferty just happens to live. If you get my drift…”
The old saying made Darcie smile a little.
“He lives in the Outback.” Before she left the bedroom, she cast one last look at the quiet telephone in resignation. Then another at Sweet Baby Jane, before she reminded herself, “I live right here. In full view of the New York skyline.”
The next evening Darcie still sat at her desk on the sixth floor at Wunderthings and tried not to gloat. Hallelujah.
“Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?” she asked Walt.
“The board met at four o’clock.”
“It’s seven-thirty now.” And her telephone hadn’t rung in the past hour. Strange, since all day she’d gotten mysterious calls; hang-ups every time. Darcie tried not to stare at it, willing it to ring again. Convinced the caller could have been Dylan Rafferty, she kept trying to suppress her growing anticipation. “You mean the board meeting just ended?”
Walt Corwin perched on the corner of her desk. “Board meeting was over at five-fifteen.”
“I thought I saw a bunch of suits drifting out to the elevators.” She gave him a look. “So it’s a done deal?” Wunderthings Sydney was a Go. Now, it had funding. Darcie’s heartbeat sped.
“What does that mean for me?”
She remembered Eden’s advice to make herself indispensable—to return to Australia, and Dylan Rafferty. With whom Darcie didn’t want a relationship.
She did, however, want her job. Darcie never came to work in the morning without expecting a pink slip in her in-basket. You’re history, Ms. Baxter. You’ve outlived your usefulness. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Head straight for the unemployment office. One reason she was working late tonight.
She’d gotten behind in other projects during the trip. She needed to catch up. She wasn’t really waiting for a phone call, she told herself.
“We can handle the Sydney project from here,” Walt informed her, and Darcie’s spirits sank. Not that she intended to heed Gran’s advice and look up Dylan the minute she arrived on Aussie soil. “We’re a little shallow in the pockets—budget isn’t that great. I told the board we could fax, phone, whatever, on this, let the agent over there supervise the contractors we retained before we left.”
Darcie swallowed. “Walt, we can’t set up a new store secondhand. Someone should oversee things. You know the stuff that happens. Just when you think everything’s going smoothly, some wrench gets thrown in the gears. This shop will set the whole tone for the Pacific Rim.”
“I never thought of that,” he said in a dry tone.
Chastened, Darcie slumped back in her chair. “I didn’t mean you weren’t aware of the problems that can crop up….”
“No, you meant ‘send me on the first flight to Sydney, Walter.’” He paused to meet her gaze. “You think I haven’t noticed you slumping around this office since we got back? Dragging into work late every morning?”
“I’m jet-lagged.”
“Me, too. But I’m still at my desk on time.”
She stiffened. “Has Greta been sending memos again?”
He waved a hand.
“Let’s just say she’s noticed the same things I have. Who could help it? She’s heard the rumors going around the cafeteria, in the washrooms, too. Your little ‘adventure’ at the Westin has reached legendary status. So Darcie, for the time being we’ll phone and fax. If anyone goes to Sydney, it’ll be me.”
Walt slid off the edge of her desk. He walked to the entry of her cubicle but didn’t leave. With his back turned, he said, “Be careful. Greta’s on a rampage. Nancy’s so upset, I had to send her home early. In tears.”
“Greta needs to get laid.” Darcie murmured. “Maybe that would sweeten her disposition. At least then she’d be occupied with her own life, not everyone else’s,” she finished. Too tired to temper her tongue, Darcie smiled. “Maybe you should ask her to dinner, Walt. Or have you missed the office gossip? She has a definite yen for you.”
Walt spun around. His face had turned pale in obvious shock.
“Greta Hinckley?” he said. “Me?”
“Greta Hinckley. And you.”
Walt shook his head. “Boy, I must be slipping. She’s a real coyote.”
“Congratulations.” Darcie grinned. “On the Sydney project.”
“It was your idea.”
“Congratulations to me, then.” Walt hadn’t said so, and that bothered her. Had she blown her integrity in Australia? With Dylan Rafferty? At least she had her memories—and that string of anonymous phone calls today.
She was still pondering the situation when Walt sent her a backward wave, then disappeared into the darkened aisle between the cubicles. “Give me more good stuff on Monday,” he said.
Darcie didn’t realize why he’d avoided her with news of the board meeting—and the funding for the Sydney store—until his footsteps faded into silence.
Who else but Walter Corwin knew about Dylan Rafferty?
“Can you believe it?”
Still seething over his indiscretion regarding her indiscretion, Darcie banged into the closed elevator doors the instant the car settled onto the ground floor of Wunderthings’ building. She couldn’t get out fast enough. She couldn’t trust anyone—especially Walt Corwin. More paranoia. As for Greta… Taking a step back, she waited for the doors to glide open, then marched out into the foyer.
Her heels echoed on the terrazzo floor.
At 8:00 p.m. no one was around. Even the security guard had left his post, probably for his scheduled walk of the main level perimeter.
But then she did see the man waiting by the bank of elevators, leaning one shoulder against the marble wall.
For a single instant she hoped it was Dylan Rafferty of today’s phone calls.
Darcie’s pulse skipped. Was it possible he’d followed her to New York? So enraptured by their two weeks together that he couldn’t stay away? She envisioned the abandoned lambs in his fields, the new ram without any ewes, his mother tearfully bidding him goodbye. I hope she’s worth it, Dylan.
Of course I am.
Wasn’t she? Her spirits soared.
Dylan might be wrong for her over the long-term, but she’d be ecstatic to see him again tonight. She couldn’t sleep anyway. Might as well spend the nighttime hours between the sheets with her Aussie hunk. Darcie took two more steps, then realized the man waiting didn’t wear an Akubra hat.
Bare-headed, he ran a hand through his blond—not dark—hair.
And Darcie froze like the Statue of Liberty.
Merrick Lowell tried a wry smile that once, before he’d betrayed her like the rotten weasel he was, would have made Darcie’s blood flow faster through her veins. On Monday nights. She stopped and stared at him until his smile died.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been calling all day. I couldn’t bring myself to speak when you answered. Welcome home, Darce.”
Disappointment swamped her again. The caller hadn’t been Dylan.
“Go to hell,” she said weakly.
He made a sound. “Now, now. I’d hoped you would feel better about us after your trip to Australia. Bet you’re still jet-lagged, huh?”
Finding the will to move again, she walked past him without a word. Before she reached the revolving doors, Merrick stepped in front of her.
“Come on, Darce.”
“What? Be a good sport? Forget about Jacqueline and the two kids? Pretend that my total humiliation in the doll department at FAO Schwarz never happened?”
“Forget Jacqueline,” he murmured.
“I’m sure she’d be as thrilled to hear you say that as I am.”
“We’re separated.”
Well, knock me over with Barbie’s feather boa.
Darcie stared at him, one hand poised to push the revolving door into motion. “Separated.” She pressed her lips together in thought. “I imagine that means for the evening. Does Jacqueline have a Girl Scout meeting with your daughter tonight? Is she picking up your son at hockey practice, so you’re free?”
“She went home to her parents in Greenwich.”
“Ah.”
“Not for dinner,” he said before Darcie could voice the same words. “Permanently. Right now I get the kids on weekends. We haven’t negotiated a custody agreement yet or the kids’ support…”
We’ll negotiate, Dylan had said. It had become a schtick for them, a sexy gimmick. She felt a wave of sadness. She almost hated Merrick all over again for stealing Dylan’s memory. For not being him.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Darcie murmured. She pushed the door. “You must need to sell quite a few chunks of stock to cover those new expenses. Keep that in mind next time you get a girlfriend. I hope your clients cooperate. The market’s not in very good shape right now, Eden tells me….”
With a sigh—difficult women, it said—Merrick followed her out of the building to Sixth Avenue.
Cabs flashed by, horns blew, neon signs blinked. Darcie inhaled the familiar aromas of car exhaust, subway gas, and the river. She loved those smells. But they didn’t comfort her now.
Shivering at a sudden gust of wind, she drew her coat closer to her throat.
“Darcie.” Merrick caught h
er arm. “Have a drink with me.”
“I need to eat.”
“Dinner then. We’ll talk.”
“I couldn’t swallow.”
“Please,” he murmured. “I know I was a jerk. A real prick. But that’s behind me now. I’ve missed you. Give me another chance?”
Remembering his look of utter misery at the toy store, Darcie realized that a few weeks ago she might have felt tempted. On one level she missed their Monday nights at the Hyatt. She even missed Merrick’s smile, his deep-blue eyes, his silky blond hair. But she could do without his GQ style, his Yale accent, his…family.
Then there was Dylan. With him in her past…
“I met someone in Australia. He’d be a hard act to follow.”
“You’re here now.” Merrick walked with her to the corner, his hands shoved in the pockets of his camel hair coat, his head down against the wind—or Darcie’s rejection? “So am I,” he said. “Let me try.”
Chapter
Seven
“Amazing. Merrick Lowell, begging me to come back.”
On the ferry across the Hudson, Darcie scrunched low in her seat, closed her eyes and imagined the dark water spraying out to either side of the bow as the boat cut cleanly through the current. It didn’t calm her. She envisioned the high rock cliffs of the Jersey Palisades—like the climb she faced at work over Greta Hinckley. They didn’t help, either. She daydreamed about Australia Day with Dylan, overriding tonight’s encounter with Merrick.
The thought of Dylan—who hadn’t called after all—only made her sit up straight in her seat to stare out at the lights on the other side of the river. Beckoning? Or reminding her that she was Darcie Elizabeth Baxter, Girl Wunder, single female living with her grandmother.
By the time she reached home, Dylan seemed more a part of her past than could be possible in just four days and four lonely nights.
“Wasn’t that what you wanted, Baxter?”
News flash: After Dylan—after Merrick—she didn’t know what she wanted.
When she opened the duplex door with her key to find Gran cozied up on her oyster-white sofa with Julio Perez, Darcie ground her teeth. They had their arms hooked, like newlyweds, each holding the other’s glass for a taste. Their eyes sparkled, Gran’s peridot blue-green, Julio’s dark-brown and glazed with obvious lust. Startled, they moved apart.
