by Leigh Riker
“Did we make an appointment?” she asked him.
Merrick straightened from the marble wall. His smile faded.
“I’m taking you to dinner.”
People brushed by them. A secretary from Marketing gave Merrick a quick once-over, then winked at Darcie in approval. If she only knew.
“A woman likes to be asked, not shanghaied.”
He leaned close, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell me to take a hike.”
She smiled, too sweetly.
“Bad day, Darce?”
“Please don’t ask.” In the past few days Greta Hinckley had changed tactics. She had attached herself to Darcie like a malevolent shadow.
“Come on, you know you’re hungry.”
Merrick took her elbow, guiding her onto the elevator when the car doors opened. It was empty and they stepped inside, and Darcie remembered the elevator in the Westin, with Dylan Rafferty. His Akubra. His hands, and his kisses. When Merrick tried the same tactic, without the hat, she pushed him away.
With a hurt look, he propped his shoulder against the chrome-faced wall.
“So. How long is this going to last?”
“Merrick, you can’t possibly think that we’ll just pick up where we left off. You lied to me. How am I supposed to overlook that?”
“You’re a kind woman.”
Darcie stared at him. “You really think I’m easy, don’t you?”
He smiled, winningly. “I think you’re hot. I’d say that’s reason enough to share a few drinks. Zoe’s has sea bass on the menu this week….” He lifted his eyebrows.
“All the way down in SoHo?”
“Your favorite recipe.”
“Evil.” Her stomach growled. Her tongue tingled at the thought of succulent tomatoes, basil, garlic and sour cream with just a hint of lemon. He sweetened the pot.
“We’ll catch a cab.”
“All right. Feed me. Then I’ll decide whether to put a curse on your head.”
With a broadened smile, he must think he had her. Darcie could feel confidence fairly oozing from Merrick’s pores. Nothing unusual about that, but the last time she’d seen him—and in FAO Schwarz—he’d looked chastened. An appealing quality he might consider permanently incorporating into his character, because it softened Darcie toward him in spite of her resolve to hate his guts forever.
Be careful, she silently ordered herself.
Change was not Merrick Lowell’s middle name. Any man’s, perhaps.
She kept quiet until her second glass of Chardonnay at their corner table in Zoe’s. Merrick’s favorite restaurant, of course, not hers. Darcie liked the food, loved the pleasant service, but tonight its trendy, open kitchen and tin ceilings created too much din for her shattered nerves. The day with Greta had been too much for any sane person. Worried, too, about Claire, Darcie toyed with the stem of her glass. But she had enough of a buzz now to at least make conversation with Merrick.
“Tell me about your separation.”
He winced. A good touch, Darcie thought.
“I went home the Saturday I saw you at FAO. Sara—my daughter—piped up to Jacqueline that she’d met this nice lady in the store. I would have told her myself, Darce—” he shrugged “—but Jackie picked up on it first. It was time. I’d told you that. We’ve had problems for a while now.”
“Because of me?”
“I never mentioned you.”
“Gee, I don’t know whether to feel flattered by your discretion…or cheap because I was a hole-in-the-corner affair.”
“Is that what you think we are?”
“Were.”
He sighed. “I’ll try to explain. Jackie and I were a bad match. Our families are friends and our mothers…well, our wedding was your classic social event of the season. Did you ever see A Wedding?”
“I’ve seen dozens of them.” Darcie had a closet full of ugly bridesmaid dresses. Her cousins, if not her friends, kept getting married with depressing regularity.
“No, I meant the movie. Robert Altman. An all-star cast, and everything goes screwy at this big society bash.”
“Oh, yeah. The grandmother—I think—dies in bed. No one wants to admit it and spoil the party.” Gran had made her watch that, too.
Darcie liked Four Weddings and a Funeral better, but Merrick had never opened up to her like this before. She couldn’t help but be impressed by this new forthright side of him, assuming it could be trusted.
“It was a classic,” he went on. “Could have been Fellini, really. Jackie’s gown cost ten thousand dollars. People all over Greenwich were stabbing each other in the back to get invited. I realized by the time we fed each other wedding cake and ran for the limousine to catch our plane for Aruba—”
“Poor babies,” Darcie murmured.
“—that we didn’t love each other. Hell, we never liked each other that much. In bed it was okay at first—”
“With the lights out.”
“Jackie’s a beautiful woman. A nice woman. She’s just not for me.”
“You want something different.” Like Darcie Baxter. “Something Midwestern and gullible.” She gazed at him. “Some naive working girl—” she remembered Dylan in the Westin bar “—I mean that in the best sense—who will stare adoringly into your gorgeous blue eyes, tell you how wonderful you are in the sack—and never once question your commitment, or lack thereof.”
“You’re determined to stay angry. Aren’t you?”
“I’m determined not to get hurt again.”
Merrick sighed. “Darce, we never promised each other anything.”
“That is another problem.”
“What do you want from me?” He squirmed in his chair. He rolled his scotch glass between his palms. He stared at the white tablecloth. “Marriage?”
“Not unless you’re into bigamy.”
“We’re getting a divorce. Jackie filed on Monday.” It was Monday now. Maybe Merrick had come from the courthouse, or a lawyer’s office, to Darcie. “Last week,” he added when he glanced up and saw her suspicious look.
“I feel bad for your children, Merrick. But this has nothing to do with me.”
He took a swig of scotch. “You claim you’re not ready for commitment, either.”
“But I like the possibility. Someday.” She pushed her wineglass away. “I think I should go. When you get your life straightened out, don’t give me a call.”
He reached out to snatch her wrist. “Sit down. Please,” he said when she tugged at his hold. “Don’t make a scene, Darcie. Have a heart, will you?”
“I had a heart. You smashed it.”
“All right,” he said. “All right. We won’t talk about Jackie. But you started it.”
Darcie slid back into her chair. The waiter hustled over to the table, and plunked down two platters of sea bass, steaming and redolent of spices. Her stomach growled again. She was still easy.
“First, Greta Hinckley,” she murmured.
“She giving you trouble again?”
Ah, now he would become her father confessor. And reel Darcie back in like the fish on her plate. She stared down at it. Eat, or run?
She picked up her fork. “She’s hounding me. I don’t trust her.”
“A wise reaction.”
Merrick had heard—had he actually heard?—all about Greta during their time together of nonconnubial bliss. She could trust him at least not to repeat what she said. “I found Greta fleshing out a design, so to speak, just before five o’clock. That’s why I left early.”
“I’m glad you did. I didn’t relish waiting for you until seven.”
Darcie shrugged. “She’s working on this…weird plan. Hose for thin legs.”
Merrick threw back his head and laughed aloud.
This seemed to set off a round of laughter in the restaurant, and guffaws could be heard from other tables. The sounds rose into the air, bounced off the tin ceiling, ricocheted into Darcie’s ears. She had to smile.
“Ridiculous, isn�
�t it?”
“Totally absurd. Will Walt go for it?”
“I doubt it, but I’ve been wrong before. As long as she doesn’t stick my name on it, I guess I don’t care.”
“Unless she has something else—her real plan—under wraps.”
She hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right. She could.” Darcie dug into her sea bass. She was starving. It felt good to laugh, good to share with Merrick the details of her life. Her work life, at least.
“Darcie, come back to me. I need you.”
Her fork clattered to the floor. It rang like a dinner bell. Or an alarm? He’s still a snake, Claire had said. Stuck in the elevator, Darcie thought, without Dylan. Merrick needed her? Now, that was new, and Darcie needed to believe she had a life after Sydney. She’d think about forgiveness. Later.
Merrick leaned near and caught her hand.
When he drew her closer and his mouth moved the last inch toward hers, Darcie didn’t resist.
He might be lying again. She might be naive. But she needed to be held.
Suddenly, Australia seemed even farther away than it really was.
“Okay,” she murmured when his lips touched hers. “A friendly kiss. But no sex.”
“We’ll see.”
Chapter
Eight
“Hey, Matilda.”
At the deep, mellow voice the next day, Darcie froze, her hand on the telephone. She cast a startled glance over her desk at Wunderthings then swallowed hard.
“Dylan?”
“Who else calls you Matilda?”
She took a scattered breath. Oh, God. Oh, God.
She’d given up on him, let Merrick kiss her again—just once—only last night. Now…she’d gone from zero men in her life to two at once.
“I didn’t think you’d call.”
“Kinda hard to put in a call, darling, to someone who fails to leave her phone number behind.” Uh-oh. He sounded edgy. Her listing was in Gran’s name. Guilt swamped her and Darcie swallowed before he spoke again. “Good thing I knew where you worked. The Internet’s a great research tool, don’t you think?”
“You found this number on the Web?”
“One of those programs that has every telephone directory in the world. I use it for business with my stud.”
The last word went through her like a streak. She knew he meant farm, not sex, but still…
“That must have taken you a full minute to track me down.”
Silence. So he hadn’t tried to find her. Until now.
“What changed your mind after all this time?” Darcie asked.
Dylan’s voice dropped lower. “You remember that thing we did…middle of the night…my room, my bed…you climbed on top…did that reverse and—”
“Dylan. I’m at work. I can’t talk like this.”
“I’ll talk. You listen.”
Darcie fidgeted in her desk chair. Across the aisle Greta turned to look at her, eyes sharp as an eagle about to consume its prey. Darcie shifted again, putting a shoulder to the cubicle entry. Damn. She’d said Dylan’s name, more than once, and Greta likely hadn’t missed it. The office rumors—Walt’s rumor—were true, she’d realize. And resent Darcie even more.
“I’m not on a speaker phone, am I?” Dylan wanted to know.
“No. But if you’re going to talk dirty…”
That wasn’t what Dylan had in mind after all. His tone hardened.
“Actually, no. I’ve been pretty pissed.”
“I thought maybe you were.” So Claire and Gran had suggested, but Darcie felt her spirits rise. He hadn’t called not because he didn’t like her. He was just mad.
“Why’d you run out on me?” he said.
“We had fun, Dylan. Two weeks’ worth. But I told you—”
“Let the other shoe drop. Dump me. I dare you.”
“How could I—” She’d said too much. She didn’t want to repeat the word dump with Greta’s ears flapping just across the way “—when I’m in New York and you’re—”
“—in the barn.”
“You are so literal, Dylan.” Every time she said his name, she lowered her voice another notch. She almost whispered now. “You know what I mean.”
And then, as only Dylan could, he nailed her.
“It’s past midnight here. I just doctored a sick lamb. I named her Darcie.”
Surprised, touched, she felt her eyes fill. “That’s…thank you.”
“Welcome. I thought you’d like to know. So I picked up the dog and bone.”
“Is that Aussie rhyming slang again?”
“For telephone.”
“What does she look like? Darcie II.”
He laughed a little. “She looks like a sheep. Merino. Top-quality, of course.”
“You could send me a picture. On the Web.”
“Yeah, I could. Maybe I will.”
He was warming up again now. The anger, the obvious hurt she’d caused, was fading. So did her guilt. Darcie spun in her chair, and smiled.
“She has your eyes, your…determination,” he continued. “She willed herself to pull through.”
“Oh, Dylan…”
“I really like your eyes. And your hair. Your mouth, your br—”
She cleared her throat. Walt Corwin had appeared at her cubicle doorway. Greta leaped from her seat to stand beside him, and Darcie put a finger to the disconnect button. “My, uh, boss is here. I have to go.”
She heard a panicked grunt. “Darcie, quick. Give me your home number.”
She rattled it off, not even stopping to think this wasn’t wise—any more than in Sydney the morning she walked out on him. Leaving Dylan in bed, bare all over.
Her heart beat triple time, her palms had left moist prints on the phone. Dylan Rafferty had called. He’d named a feisty sheep after her. No one…but no one…had ever done that before.
“I knew you were a hard act to follow,” she murmured.
“Believe it, darling.” He paused for a long moment. “Ever had phone sex?”
She blushed. “Um…”
“Tonight,” he said, and she could hear his smile. “Unless I have trouble with your lamb again. If I do, then tomorrow.”
“I’ll…look forward to it.”
Strange, that she might prefer telephone seduction to the real thing, not that she was ready—if she ever would be—to encourage Merrick, but there it was. She’d think about that later.
“Fair dinkum,” Dylan murmured. Good enough.
She covered her grin with a hand. “Fair dinkum.”
“Darcie.” Walt wanted her now.
“I really have to go,” she said into the phone.
“Don’t bust a gut.”
“What?” He’d lost her again. She was far behind in her Ozspeak lessons.
Dylan laughed. “Don’t work too hard, Matilda.”
He hung up, humming the tune that had become their song.
“You’re blushing,” Walt informed her.
She didn’t meet his gaze. Or Greta’s. They were both still standing in the entry to her cubicle, and Darcie had been avoiding Walt since Friday. She always avoided Greta when possible. Darcie grabbed a red licorice whip, a comfort treat, from her desk drawer.
“So it’s true,” Greta said. “You did meet an Aussie.”
“You tell her, Walt,” Darcie murmured, still irritated that he’d started the rumor.
“Big guy, shoulders, wearing a—what do you call it—an Outback hat?”
“An Akubra?” Greta said, making the word sound like a smutty joke. Her eyes narrowed another inch into venomous slits.
Darcie couldn’t resist. “You can imagine what we found to do with that.”
Greta folded her arms over her scrawny chest. Then she glanced at Walt, and her gaze warmed. “I am a woman of more than average imagination….”
She implied the opposite of Darcie and obviously remembering Greta’s yen for him, Walt shot Darcie a frightened look.
“Can we talk
in my office? I need your update on the Sydney project.” He was gone before she answered.
Oh, Lord. Caught up in jet lag, Merrick’s reappearance, and her nightly dreams of Dylan, she hadn’t prepared a thing.
“Should I come, too, Walter?” Greta’s voice followed him like a hound on the scent. “I wanted to discuss my idea….”
“Save it,” Darcie murmured. Competition she didn’t need just now.
“If Wunderthings puts my hose design into production right away, and starts the marketing campaign, Walter can launch it in Sydney.”
“Look into the demographics,” Darcie suggested. “With the growing weight problem in this country, I’d rethink your notion about hose for thin thighs.”
Greta’s face fell. “There are plenty of skinny women. Look at Hollywood.”
“That’s anorexia, bulimia…” Darcie whizzed from her cubicle into the hall. “We’ll talk later, if you want. Walt’s waiting.”
With Dylan’s phone call still buzzing through her mind, her senses, she whipped down the long aisle to the anteroom where Nancy Braddock sat nursing a cup of coffee.
“Greta barking at your heels again?” she said, and Darcie rolled her eyes then marched into Walt’s office chewing on her licorice stick.
She could use the distraction of the Sydney opening to quell her own desire for Dylan, her confusion about Merrick, even her vision of Greta’s beady eyes boring into her back. Too bad she didn’t have any new ideas for Walt Corwin.
In his office she closed the door and leaned against it.
“That woman wants my blood.”
“You and Nancy may have to form a vigilante group.”
He was joking. Darcie wasn’t.
“Couldn’t they find something for Greta to do in Marketing?”
The department’s offices were located two floors below, and Darcie hardly ever saw anyone who worked there. Mainly because she despised Marketing. It would be a good place for Greta.
“I wish.” Walter obviously hadn’t missed the yearning look on Greta’s face. At least Darcie had warned him. He groaned. “She left some harebrained design on my desk before I got in this morning—”
“Probably when she read all your files. And plowed through your drawers looking for embarrassing personal items with which to blackmail you.”
