by Leigh Riker
“Me. I guess.” But she didn’t know why.
“Ah,” her grandmother said, not in reproach. She turned toward Cutter, drawing Julio forward. “We haven’t met. I’m Eden. This is my inamorata.”
Apparently she and Julio had resolved their quarrel, at least for now.
“Cutter Longridge, ma’am. My pleasure.”
“Oh, my. That southern drawl.” Approval glittered in her eyes. “And closer at hand.” She meant Dylan. “You must bring Mr. Longridge to dinner.”
“Gran…”
“Never mind Merrick. Your taste is improving.”
Then she disappeared with Julio, who ogled Eden with an adoring look.
At least Gran was speaking to her now.
That was a definite improvement. But at the moment, Darcie didn’t care whether Merrick ever spoke to her again, whatever his problem might be.
To distract herself, she helped Cutter tease Walt Corwin into a smile. By the time they moved on, Darcie noticed with astonishment and some dismay that Greta and Walt were standing close together by the far wall, talking, gazing into each other’s eyes. Then a game of craps in the middle of the living room carpet brought a round of shouts from the players, capturing her attention. Someone next door banged on the wall just as Claire twined an arm through Darcie’s.
“I must say separation hasn’t done a thing for Merrick’s disposition. Too bad he left early. Not.”
Darcie saw right through her. “You and Peter doing okay?”
“Peter who?”
“Claire,” she said.
“Don’t ask. Let’s circulate.”
They wandered through the crowded living room. Eden and Julio were dancing cheek to cheek now to a Ricky Martin samba. Someone had turned out the lights. In the corner, Annie lay plastered to Harley. No, Malcolm.
“Why is your sister taking her top off?” Claire asked.
“Oh, God. She isn’t.”
“Looks that way from here.”
When Annie shook her chest for the whole room to see, Darcie felt the sense of doom that had filled her all night take form. Disappointment—in Merrick, in her sister, in their housewarming—rolled through her in waves.
It was only a moment later when the police arrived.
Chapter
Thirteen
“Close call,” Darcie muttered.
On Monday morning she slunk into the office, certain the grapevine had already circulated the story of her housewarming party and Annie’s near-arrest. Whichever coworkers on the sixth floor hadn’t been invited, or had chosen not to come, would be regaled with anecdotes about the squad of burly policemen—New York’s finest in navy-blue with matching scowls—on Saturday night, responding to a complaint of noise.
Annie had covered her breasts just in time.
“Can’t you just see it?” she murmured. “Janet and Hank blowing into town, packing up my belongings with Annie’s, flying us both back to Cincinnati?”
A safer life, they’d claim. And add Darcie to their list of bad influences, topped only by Eden.
“Installment number 704 of Darcie Baxter in The Wicked City.”
Then Darcie stopped. She almost didn’t recognize the person sitting in her chair.
Pencil-slim black skirt. Red silky blouse. Like Claire the other night.
“I thought red made you look like a serious drinker.”
Greta Hinckley glanced up from the paper on which she was writing.
“Walter said it’s his favorite color.” She paused. “You can get half a dozen wearings from a blouse if you let the wrinkles hang out each night and the perspiration dry.” Greta’s Fashion Tip of the Day.
“Hmm,” Darcie murmured, trying to read upside down. “This may be a pointless question—but what are you doing in my cubicle?”
“Leaving you a note. I wanted to thank you.”
“Unless you’re also composing my note of resignation, I doubt that.”
Greta looked hurt.
For a moment Darcie simply stood and stared, ashamed of herself. People change, she thought. They can.
“I’m sorry. You look smashing. I mean, you looked awesome at my party—but this morning…” Her gaze sharpened. “Great hair.” The glossy rich brown shade Greta had picked out at Darcie’s hair stylist’s had been enhanced with strands of blond, gold, wheat and on Saturday night she had shimmered when she walked. “But it’s not just the hair,” she decided.
“I think Walter noticed.”
Well, of course he had. Darcie hadn’t seen that coming. Even Walt was a healthy man.
“I saw the looks he kept giving you.”
Greta looked down at her scrawled signature. “He took me home.”
“All the way to the Bronx?”
“In a cab.”
“Not the subway?”
“No.” Greta lowered her head, and her tone. “Then he asked me out.”
“You’re kidding.” This wasn’t at all what she’d hoped for.
“We had dinner last night.” Greta waved the note she’d been writing.
Darcie snatched it from the air and read quickly, skimming over the words. You have my undying gratitude. I couldn’t have done this without you. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do. Thank you, Darcie. Thank you.
Her eyes misted. “Greta,” she said around the lump in her throat, “you’re the one who ‘did it.’ New clothes, your hair, different makeup.” Let us pray. “I think you’ve created a whole new Greta Hinckley.”
Or so Darcie hoped until later that afternoon when she went into Walt Corwin’s office, surprised the goofy male grin on his face—and saw that he, too, was reading some memo from Greta. Fresh suspicion jolted through her veins.
“What’s that?”
“Hmm?” he said, not looking up. “Oh, just something for the Sydney store.”
“From Hinckley?”
“It’s brilliant.” He glanced over the sheet again, a new pride in his tone. “She proposes an opening-day festival—snacks, soft drinks, prizes, a drawing for a romantic weekend at the Novotel or the Westin….”
Darcie lost her train of thought. After Westin, she heard nothing.
She held out a hand. “May I see?”
She had to admit, the proposed ideas weren’t bad. Of course not.
A small frisson of betrayal raced down Darcie’s spine and she felt her spirits sink. Greta had thrown her off balance with that thank-you note. Then—bull’s-eye—she’d run straight to Walt with “her” ideas. Again, he was actually considering them. They were Darcie’s, of course. She couldn’t say that, though. She would look petty. She’d only mentioned the barest sketch of the notion to Greta during lunch last Saturday. Naive should be her middle name.
“So you guys had dinner last night, huh?”
“Greta told you?” He rubbed his neck. “I always thought Hinckley was…strange.” His features softened. “But we have more in common than I thought—” He broke off, as if suddenly aware he might appear odd himself, or realizing he was letting Darcie in on his secret: Walter Corwin has a personal life. “Never mind. It was just dinner. Now about Sydney…”
Darcie sent him a wide-eyed look of innocence.
“Only the other day I told Greta we should work together on the Sydney opening. In fact, I asked for her input. I’m glad she’s already given it to you.”
The flies with honey approach clearly wasn’t working as well as Darcie had prayed it would. But Gran wasn’t entirely wrong. To be charitable, Greta’s new clothes had given her a different image. Maybe they had given her the beginnings of a soul. Or could Darcie get that lucky?
“I thought I’d put Greta in charge of the festival,” Walt was saying.
“Sure. Excellent.”
He slanted her a wary look then ran a hand through his meager brown hair. Or did that too look better this morning? How long would it take the office rumor mill to forget Darcie’s party and see the more interesting story here? “I’m surprised,” he said. �
��Now what’s your contribution?”
“I’m researching something.”
“What?”
Darcie fought the urge to groan. With his every word she could feel herself losing control of the situation. Losing her mentor. “It’s a secret. I’ll let you know. Tomorrow.”
“You’ll let me know before you go home tonight. Did Gret—I mean, Hinckley tell you? The orders on the case pieces are behind schedule. The factory in Melbourne tells us the display furnishings won’t be ready by opening.”
“Yes, they will. I’ll handle it. Personally.” She didn’t want him sending Greta into that breech.
Had she created a monster after all? Greta’s revenge might well be Walter Corwin. But where Greta was concerned, Darcie had learned to think fast.
“A few details may be lacking but you’ll have my ideas within the hour.”
“See to it. Because if this is another of your half-baked—”
“You’ll love it. I promise.”
With panic gnawing in her stomach, Darcie scrabbled at her computer. First, she checked her e-mail—and discovered a download from Dylan. The color picture of a sheep scrolled down her screen. Darcie II. For a moment, his thoughtfulness and the opportunity to “meet” her namesake held her spellbound. Soft-looking, thick white coat, soulful brown eyes… Then as she blinked at the image, her thoughts regrouped.
“I can do this.” Her sheep seemed like a sign, a good omen. Inspired all over again, she stared at the Internet’s spinning globe for a few seconds then tapped in the key words she wanted.
Aboriginal Art.
A quick glance around told her Greta was nowhere to be seen. Darcie scanned through the merchant site that flowed onto her monitor.
The offered patterns that popped up looked wild, fanciful. Their rich, dark colors, their stark contrasts, their almost geometric images set her creativity whirling.
The notion had been in the back of her mind since Dylan had taken her into the same little store on Crown Street in Sydney.
His country had a strong, genuine tradition.
Darcie rolled through the listed products, but wasn’t satisfied. She needed more than authenticity. She wanted… Original Designs. Hand-painted, one-of-a-kind patterns for Wunderthings alone. If she could find the right sources, if they would agree to license their art… If she found the right factory…
Darcie exited the site, checked her telephone index then tapped in to an outside line. She punched in Dylan’s home number.
“Waltzing Matilda,” she hummed softly to herself.
She could almost see her plane tickets in hand, the flight to Sydney, Dylan meeting her at the airport, taking her to view the best artists he could find…taking her to bed again. She’d have not only his voice in her ear then but his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, his…
“Hello, Dylan speaking. You’ve reached Rafferty Stud. Please leave your message at the sound of the beep…I’ll get back to you.”
“Darcie, I need that memo.” Walt leaned against her cubicle doorway.
“Now?” She hung up without leaving a message. It hadn’t been an hour.
“I’m talking to the VP in five minutes.”
“You’ll have it in four.”
Her fingers were flying over the keys before he turned away.
By the time she finished the brief memo, and slashed her signature across the bottom of the printed page, Darcie was grinning.
Wild yet disciplined designs. Silky, sheer fabrics. Aboriginal-inspired lingerie. Australian made.
It was the best idea she’d had in four years. “And all mine.”
Much later, Darcie let herself into her apartment. Relieved that all seemed dark and quiet, she tiptoed down the hall to her bedroom, dropping her tote bag onto the cushy tub chair she’d bought last weekend at a SoHo flea market. Of course getting it into a cab hadn’t been fun, but Cutter Longridge’s help (his lazy good looks, too) had gone a long way toward making the experience one Darcie would care to repeat. Next weekend they were renting a van to drive to Pennsylvania where Cutter thought he could find a Shaker armoire for his apartment.
He must earn a lot more money in advertising than Darcie did at Wunderthings, and she couldn’t quite call it a date but…
With a heartfelt sigh, she sank onto the end of her bed to unlace her short boots. Then froze.
A sleepy drawl spoke from the corner, startling her. A voice she recognized.
“Take it easy, Sugar. I’m trying to sleep here.”
She peered at the shadow propped up on her bed, of a large, obviously male form.
If a life has to be filled with “firsts,” why are mine always weird?
“Cutter,” she said. “Have you been drinking?”
He groaned. “My head’s pounding, my gut’s dizzy.”
Darcie tossed a pillow at him, slouched in the dark corner, on top of her covers. “You throw up in this bed, and your stomach will be the least of your problems.” She sniffed the stale air. “Do I smell beer?”
He shuddered. “Dark stout. This neat place in NoHo—it just opened—had two for one tonight.”
“Wow. A beer sale. Wish I’d been there.”
Tousle-haired, he managed a grin. Even bleary-eyed, he was a sight to behold. An always welcome sight. “No, you don’t. You hate beer.”
“And you had to share the experience?” For a moment she wondered whether she’d conjured him up simply because his presence cheered her. “Or is there some other reason for your visit this evening?”
He struggled to an upright position. “I’m locked out. Again.”
“Cutter, you really should stop climbing in my window.”
Because she couldn’t summon any real anger over the situation, Darcie marched out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the living room. She flopped on the sofa. A minute later, Cutter appeared wearing a pair of black sweat-pants, a ripped T-shirt and a very white-toothed smile that almost negated his obvious state of inebriation.
“I went running to sober up. No pockets. Forgot my key.”
“Yeah, right.”
His smile grew. “I knew you’d be home by now.”
That statement stopped Darcie cold. “How did you know?”
“Your sister may be a flake who stays out all night. But not you. Remember those white gloves girls used to wear for dancing class?”
“No.” She wouldn’t admit it.
“My mother made me go every week to learn my ‘social graces.’ That’s real important—” he said impahtant “—down South.”
“And your point would be?”
“I always imagine you with a drawer full of those gloves.”
Darcie rolled her eyes. She wasn’t carrying that much baggage from Cincinnati…was she? He hadn’t been hoping to share her bed?
Long after Cutter slipped out her front door and padded upstairs, hours after she heard his apartment door close for the night, Darcie lay looking at the living room ceiling.
Frankly, she couldn’t figure out their relationship. He flirted with her now, he’d kissed her the night of her party. But still…
She felt more like his Cousin Darciebelle from Atlanta than she did Cutter’s potential girlfriend.
“Sigh,” she murmured.
Reaching over, Darcie retrieved the cordless phone from the end table.
She hadn’t connected with Dylan earlier about the Aboriginal designs she envisioned for Wunderthings. She needed to do so. Time being of the essence.
And in Australia right now it was…late afternoon, early evening? Tomorrow?
Or not.
“Oh, heck. He didn’t return my call. If need be, I’ll wake him up.”
Darcie dialed then waited, anticipation racing through her veins.
Until—big surprise, her luck running below zero tonight—the rest of her day fizzled like an old balloon when a woman answered.
“Rafferty Stud,” she purred.
Okay. Let’s not panic. The woman could be
his mother. If she was, why did she sound young? And sexy?
“Mrs. Rafferty?”
A small laugh. “Not yet. May I help you?”
“Just…I mean, tell Dylan that Darcie Baxter called.”
With her tongue feeling twice its size, her heart, too, she hung up.
“So I can’t figure out Merrick,” she said aloud, “or Cutter.”
Dylan Rafferty’s problem, however, seemed plain enough.
Chapter
Fourteen
“Another twisted first in my life,” Darcie muttered to herself. Wouldn’t you know, a woman would answer, a sultry-voiced woman with obvious plans for marriage to Dylan, reminding Darcie that she was the pot calling the kettle black.
One of Gran’s old sayings, but it fit.
Why expect Dylan to be faithful? After all, Darcie was still seeing Merrick Lowell. Technically speaking. And, when he chose to climb through her window, Cutter Longridge.
Three days later, still waiting for some response from Australia, Darcie stared at her desktop. Two weeks in Sydney didn’t make a relationship, which she hadn’t wanted in the first place. Did she?
Maybe she should give up on men. Completely. They sure didn’t make sense—and neither did her life.
Then, as if he were another omen, Walt Corwin appeared like a bad genie from a bottle. He was scowling. Darcie preferred his I’ve-just-been-infected-with-the-love-virus expression. Thank heaven Greta was away from her desk.
“What did you find out about that furniture holdup in Sydney?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, Darcie. I do.” He came into her cubicle. His pale-blue eyes looked even more washed out than they’d been B.G. Before Greta. His mood seemed to match. “I don’t want a memo from you tomorrow morning or by the time you leave here tonight. I need the update. Now.”
“Is the board meeting again?”
“No, but I have a business to run. With your help, I hope. What’s going on here? All week you’ve been sitting in this cubicle—which I happen to know you hate in the first place—moping around like some teenage girl whose boyfriend didn’t call.”
Because this happened to be very near the truth, Darcie said nothing. As if she could call Dylan Rafferty a boyfriend.
