Strapless

by Leigh Riker

  “Ha-ha.” But Merrick looked hurt. No sex. Had she injured his male ego that badly?

  Taking pity on him, she ambled toward him. For old times’ sake. Just as she got there, he tipped his beer to his mouth, but Darcie took it away. She trapped him against the counter, and twined her arms around his neck.

  “Forget food. If this kitchen was a bit larger, this counter a foot longer, you’d be begging for mercy, Mr. Lowell.”

  For a brief spell, it seemed like a good idea. Then a collage of images from Australia flashed across her mind-screen, of Dylan, and Merrick stiffened, too.

  He pried her fingers from his neck.

  “I can’t. Not now.”

  Deflated, Darcie stepped back.

  “Maybe I should take a shower,” she offered.

  He yawned. “I should get going. It’s been a long day.”

  Disappointed because tonight was important to her, she formed a pout. This never worked for anyone she knew except Annie, but Darcie tried.

  “I thought you might stay.” She added hastily, “We could just sleep.”

  “Sleep where?”

  Oh. That was a problem. Eight o’clock and her bed hadn’t been delivered.

  “Some other time.” He eased past her and headed for the front door. It would be nice if he opened his arms, inviting an embrace at least. “Darce, it’s not you.”

  Watch out. She’d heard that phrase before. “Then what?”

  He disappeared into the hall. A moment later he was gone.

  Well. No answer, but no reason to get clingy, Darcie told herself.

  No reason to fly into a snit.

  So she had a decent job—most of the time it seemed decent—good friends, if she overlooked her recent set-to with Gran, and a family back in Cincinnati. Unless she murdered Annie the day she arrived in New York.

  And above all, tonight, she had this.

  “Happy New Apartment, Darcie Elizabeth Baxter,” she said aloud, raising Merrick’s beer bottle.

  Because it seemed no one else was going to say it and Darcie needed to hear those very words. Even from herself.

  At midnight the telephone startled Darcie from a restless sleep on the living room sofa, huddled under a comforter, and set her pulse racing. She bolted upright. For an instant she wondered who had her new number—or who had died in the middle of the night.

  “Hey. Matilda.”

  Dylan’s deep voice kicked her heart rate into highest gear. And just after she’d given up on him. For good. The men in her life were, if nothing else, consistent. They always surprised her.

  “Hi,” was all she could manage. Then, “How did you find me?”

  “I just talked to your grandmother.”

  Oops. Darcie had never mentioned living with Eden.

  “That is,” he went on, “after someone named Julio answered. I didn’t know your family was part Hispanic.”

  “I’m not. He’s Gran’s…friend.”

  “He sounded sleepy. Of course I didn’t understand him very well. Between his broken English and my Aussie accent—”

  “Believe me, you were better off. My grandmother’s relationships get rather complicated.”

  “Is she sleeping with that guy?” Dylan sounded amused.

  “Oh, yes.” No sense denying it. “Julio is the flavor of the month.”

  Dylan laughed. “At eighty-two my granny was rocking in a chair, staring into space, talking to herself. That was all she could manage.”

  “Gran’s different.” Like me, Darcie thought. Except for the part about talking to herself. In that, she resembled Dylan’s grandmother. “So she gave you my new number?”

  “Gladly. Her word, not mine.”

  “I just moved,” Darcie explained unnecessarily.

  “Let me get this straight.” She could almost hear him frowning. “You were living in New Jersey, relatively safe. Now you’re in the big city by yourself.”

  Darcie half smiled. He was always so literal.

  “Yes, tonight. But my sister’s coming to live with me.”

  “Two women,” he muttered, “with a flimsy door between them and some drongo—nutcase, loser, take your pick—with a knife.”

  Glancing around the dimly lit apartment, then at the blackness outside her windows (she didn’t have draperies yet) Darcie shivered.

  “Dylan, don’t exaggerate.” Scare me, she meant.

  “I’m not. I think you should have stayed where you were.”

  Darcie hauled the comforter around her suddenly cold body. He was a gorgeous man, but Dylan’s views remained very much at odds with hers. Alone in the apartment for the first time, she didn’t need any reminders of her vulnerability.

  “Could we change the subject, please?”

  “Okay. How’s this? I’m still half mad at you—one reason I haven’t called.”

  “Is that your apology? Because it doesn’t quite work.”

  “No, it’s not an apology. I wanted to call, then things got whacko here and I realized in the middle of the whole mess that I was still angry enough to keep putting off another call. So I didn’t. Call,” he said.

  “What mess?”

  “Remember that ram I wanted to buy when you were in Sydney?”

  “Yes.” She remembered the lamb named Darcie, too.

  “He was out of the U.K. where they’ve been having this hoof-and-mouth problem. So the deal fell through. I had to start looking all over again. Finally found another ram I want in New Zealand the other day. Bought him from the flamin’ Kiwis last night. He gets shipped tomorrow.” He sounded weary, but still on edge.

  “How many sheep do you have?”

  “A few.”

  More than that, she was sure. “How big is your…station?”

  “Pretty big.”

  Huge, Darcie interpreted, like the rest of him. She suppressed a thrill of lust. Unlike Merrick, Dylan wasn’t inclined to boast. “Why so modest?” she asked him.

  “We Aussies don’t care for tall poppies.”

  “Tall poppies? You mean, flowers?”

  “No.” He yawned. “It’s somebody who stands out from the crowd, tries to show he’s better than everyone else. Not a popular concept here.”

  But it was endearing in Dylan, even sweet. And he was obviously much brighter than she’d given him credit for at first. Successful. All that testosterone, too, she thought, under such tight control. Exciting.

  “You’ve been busy,” she murmured.

  His voice dropped lower. “Not too busy to keep from thinking about you, Matilda.” He didn’t sound happy. “My last call held me for a week or two—”

  “It’s been six weeks,” she acknowledged.

  His tone warmed. “You been thinking about me, too?”

  “Now and then.” She half smiled into the receiver.

  “Thinking about me how?”

  “Naked.” No point lying about it.

  “Me, too, darling. You, that is.”

  Darcie stretched out on the sofa, wrapped herself tighter in the comforter, and grinned. “Any details you could share?”

  “Oh, yeah. Gladly,” he repeated Gran’s word, then launched into a half-whispered but torrid description of what he would like to do to Darcie, his bed or hers, it didn’t matter.

  “Yours,” she murmured. “I don’t have a bed tonight.”

  By the time they hung up, she was tingling. All over. For Dylan Rafferty.

  He might be half the world away. But tonight, she’d been totally alone except for his voice. With this move, of which Dylan disapproved, she had cut most of her ties. Gran was no longer her roommate. Claire didn’t live two floors down. Had she made a mistake after all? Darcie wasn’t sure.

  With Dylan’s murmured good-night still in her ear, she snuggled in her covers. “You know, I think this just might work out.”

  Darcie didn’t ask herself whether that meant her new apartment, or Dylan.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  With a grin
Annie Baxter surveyed the clutter in her new bedroom. Because of her position in the family as the younger of two daughters, she had never bothered about neatness—that was Darcie’s responsibility—or, in fact, what other people thought of her.

  Darcie, on the other hand, cared too much.

  “I’m getting settled,” Annie informed her, wanting to pinch herself. She wasn’t dreaming. Was she? Her room in Cincy was nowhere by comparison, and Annie had plans for this place. She might even paint the walls black.

  Darcie stood in the doorway with a frown. “You’ve been settling for the past week. I don’t see any progress.”

  Annie dragged open a few drawers in her new pine chest with its fake rusted hardware. Very trendy. She flung the closet door wide, then flipped open an empty suitcase on the floor. “See?”

  “Two pairs of jeans on hangers. Three shirts.” Darcie ambled into the room to peer into the dresser drawers. “Your underwear thrown in a clump. Where’s the rest of your stuff?”

  “I’ll get to it.”

  Darcie planted both hands on her hips (always a bad sign for Annie) and blew a stray strand of hair off her face.

  “We need a few rules here.”

  “Yours, I suppose.” Sometimes she felt tempted to hate her big sister, but Annie hated even more to waste energy. Most of the time she admired everything about Darcie, which had always been a problem for her. “I don’t like rules.”

  “Tough. Number one,” Darcie muttered, holding up a finger. “Your junk stays in this room—neat or not, I guess I won’t worry about that. But the living room, the bathroom, my room especially, I do. Two, you wash your dishes and clean the pots you use. Every time. I do care about the kitchen, and last night you left burned spaghetti sauce in the pan.” Another finger flew up to join the first two. “Number three, you try to be careful about meeting people. Honestly, Annie. This isn’t Cincinnati. You can’t just walk up to someone in a store and strike up a conversation.”

  “I worry about you, Darcie.” Annie hesitated, something she normally didn’t bother to do. Life had always been her play yard, from the day as a three-year-old when she’d charged out of the neighborhood park, found the larger world across a busy street, and become family legend. “You go to work—leave the house at precisely eight-oh-five every morning—you come home by six, fix dinner, watch one hour of television—a news show, what fun is that?—then go to bed.”

  “Unless I’m seeing Merrick.”

  When Darcie’s eyes fell, Annie’s gaze sharpened. “If you’re not happy with him, get another guy.” She grinned again. “Come to think, I heard you on the phone the other night. Is the Australian stud still calling?”

  Darcie actually flushed. “Now and then.”

  “You’re having phone sex, right?”

  “Annie, that’s none of your business.”

  “You are. That’s great, Darce. What’s he like?”

  “Inventive,” Darcie answered. “Number four…you need to get a job.”

  She should have known. Darcie wouldn’t forget the last—Annie hoped it was the last—of her points. Annie had no intention of following them. She did as she pleased. Even her mother didn’t step in her way anymore, not much at least.

  “I need to find the right job,” she said, fingering one of the four silver earrings in her right ear. “Not just any old thing.”

  “Have you called the agency I told you about?”

  “The one you used to land that high-power position at Wunderthings?” Annie couldn’t help it. She snickered.

  “I’m earning a paycheck, Annie. That’s more than I can say for you.”

  “Big whoop.”

  With an obviously disgusted sigh, Darcie turned her back. She started for the hall and her own room. Time for bed. Maybe she was expecting her Aussie to call. Annie hoped so. Maybe she’d listen in tonight.

  “Gran warned me,” Darcie murmured.

  “Ask yourself this—would you rather share this fabulous place in the middle of all the action with me? Or commute to Jersey every night to watch Julio romance our grandmother?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Darcie’s response came too quickly and Annie’s spirits sank but only for a moment. She was used to disapproval. She considered herself to be a free spirit, and didn’t have any inclination to change her outlook on life.

  “I want a full report tomorrow night,” Darcie told her. Annie could almost see their mother’s finger poised in midair, another reminder to turn herself into a responsible human being. “I expect at least one job interview, preferably more.”

  “What are you? The career police?” Flinging her hair back over her shoulder, Annie dug into another of her mother’s carefully packed cartons. She tossed a shimmery blue dress in the general direction of the open closet. Then picked it up again. Holding it in front of her Smith T-shirt, she studied herself in the dresser mirror. Hmmm. She no longer liked the color with her new shade of hair.

  What is that? Darcie had asked. You had such pretty chestnut hair. Henna Sunrise, Annie had told her, not as certain as she’d first been about the brighter color. Maybe she needed a quick trip to Saks in the morning. The party she was planning to launch her new life in New York—the life Annie was meant to have—required something really outrageous. In the meantime, “Relax,” she advised Darcie. “Mom and Dad are paying half this rent.”

  Greta Hinckley had too many bills to pay. She needed money, she told herself on Monday morning. She needed Darcie Baxter’s job. But she wasn’t headed there anytime soon. Walter Corwin hadn’t taken to Greta’s hose-for-thin-thighs design. In fact, he’d told her she was nuts.

  Greta was still smarting over his words, and she despised Darcie even more for being right. If she’d listened to Darcie’s attempt to dissuade her from approaching Walter with the idea…

  Her stomach turned at his rejection. If she didn’t want to stay near him, she would look for a new job. As if she’d find one with all those leggy, young just-out-of-college types buzzing around the city, taking up all the really interesting positions. Like Darcie.

  Greta stashed her uninspired, brown bag lunch in the side drawer of her desk.

  She hadn’t missed seeing the take-out meal Darcie had eaten yesterday. White albacore tune. Fresh tomato. Whole-grain bread. A perfect red delicious apple.

  Greta had wished for poison, like the fruit in Snow White.

  And that new apartment Darcie kept talking about…

  No long subway ride for her to Riverdale each night. Darcie wasn’t living with her grandmother any longer—the only redeeming thing about her until now—but with that daffy-sounding sister of hers. Greta would gladly trade places. She felt her resentment growing, yellow-leafed, like one of the sulky houseplants in her apartment.

  When she heard Darcie’s heels click along the tile floor, she turned her back on the aisle. The job, the apartment, even her lunch only served as reminders for Greta that her own life sucked. And that didn’t take into account Darcie’s beau, Merrick Lowell, or the Aussie cowboy Greta had overheard Darcie telling Nancy about only yesterday.

  Greta couldn’t overlook Darcie’s trip to Australia, either, particularly her hotel stay with Walter. Never rains but it pours.

  “Morning, Greta.” Darcie breezed past into her cubicle. “No desk-drawer adventures today?” She turned in the entryway. “Did you finish the memo Walt wanted on the Rochester mall?”

  “He’ll have it on time.” She hadn’t started it yet. Head down, she plunged into her middle drawer, looking for gum to ease her mood. “He’s forgotten all about me—about it—by now.”

  “Don’t count on that. Walt may look disengaged, but he has a mind like a trap.”

  Greta glanced up. Darcie was still standing there, arms crossed as if she were waiting. Or trying to decide how to broach another topic. “Did you need something?”

  Darcie blindsided her. “No, actually, I’ve been thinking. We got off on the wrong foot here long ago. But we�
�re neighbors, aren’t we? In a manner of speaking. I—” she paused as if the next words might choke her. “I’d really like your input on the Sydney store, maybe some help with its opening.”

  “You what?”

  “You have good ideas, Greta. Not the hose thing, but at times…” She trailed off. “I mean, there’s no reason for us to work at cross purposes here. So feel free to give me any suggestions. I’ll tell Walt we’re going to work together.”

  Greta struggled not to let her mouth fall open. What did Baxter really want?

  “And that’s not all,” she went on, proving Greta right. “I—I’ve decided to make a suggestion of my own that might help.”

  That’ll be the day. “Help what?”

  Darcie crossed the aisle to perch on Greta’s desk without invitation. “Help you in return.” Then she seemed to lose momentum. Leaning over the desk, she picked up a silver letter opener that Greta cherished. “This is beautiful. Where did you buy it?”

  Buy it. No way. Greta flushed, then delved back into her drawer not to make eye contact with Baxter. She didn’t care to explain where the gleaming piece had really come from, or how it happened to be on her desk. None of your business. “It belonged to…my mother. You were saying?”

  “Oh.” She put down the opener, and Greta heard her take a breath as if to brace herself. “Well, I mean, maybe it’s time to…for lack of a better word, upgrade.”

  Greta’s head shot up again. She emerged from her drawer without the gum. She shoved the silver opener back into her pen cup.

  “Upgrade? What?”

  Her job? She couldn’t agree more.

  “Yourself,” Darcie said softly.

  “If this is some kind of setup, Baxter…”

  Sure it was. Ask for her assistance with the Sydney opening, snoop through her stuff, then spring the real trap. But Darcie looked serious, even thoughtful, if somewhat embarrassed by this subject. Greta had never given her credit for having a brain before, but she did make sense. Although Greta wanted to feel insulted, she knew as well as anyone else at Wunderthings that a girl could survive—thrive here—on a pair of willowy legs and a good chest. The sexual revolution hadn’t changed that. Unlike Baxter, Greta possessed neither one. Did Darcie mean she needed a beauty makeover?