Strapless

by Leigh Riker

  Lay it all out now. “I’ve never wanted anything except to be like you. But I don’t know how to be.”

  For a moment they hung there, in each other’s arms, rocking. Secure.

  Then Annie said, “You know what else? This move was supposed to be the biggest adventure of my life, a life filled with grand adventures. But then I met Malcolm…God, I don’t even know his last name.” She paused, trying hard to remember. Did he ever tell me? “I have this tattoo on my ass that isn’t even cool…” Her eyes filled. “All these piercings.”

  Darcie wiped tears from her eyes. “Annie, stop.”

  “No, but this is the worst part.” She was gasping now, not sure whether she was laughing at herself or crying because she’d really been a pathetic child after all. “I’m a welfare case to Mom and Dad…and I—I—”

  “Say it.”

  Annie’s voice dropped to a shamed whisper. The truth—hidden even from myself—is out. She couldn’t believe it.

  “I think I’m homesick, Darce.”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  The next night Darcie had barely reached home when the telephone rang. The well-remembered male voice sent a thrill of lust—and regret—trickling down her spine like warm syrup. Dylan Rafferty could get to her every time, the man if not his message.

  “She reminded me of you.”

  “Oh, you…jerk.”

  Darcie’s heart pounded at his transparent lie. Did he think she was still that naive?

  “Hey,” he said in the silence. “Are you mad at me?”

  She huffed out a breath. Her finger poised over the disconnect button, but Dylan stopped her.

  “Darcie, let me explain.”

  She tried a breezy tone—as if she didn’t care. “No, we’re both adults. Independent. You’re free to see whoever you please.” Significant pause. “We have no commitment to each other, Dylan. I’m just trying to make our positions clear.”

  “I can make them clear.” His tone lowered. “What’re you wearing?”

  “Full body armor.”

  Dylan half laughed. “Seriously.”

  “Full body armor. High-gauge steel.”

  Her tone stayed flat, but Darcie knew she was rapidly getting into trouble. Dylan’s seductive voice cut through her frozen emotions with the ease of that heavy syrup oozing into the nooks and crannies of a blueberry waffle. In another minute she’d forget all about the sultry-toned woman who had answered his phone. The one who obviously expected to become Mrs. Dylan of Rafferty Stud. The word zinged through her defenses. It was hard to hate a man whose very work reminded her of sex. Darcie realized the only way to keep herself safe would be to ask Dylan about Aboriginal art.

  “The reason I called…”

  But Dylan had that one-track male mind that refused to be derailed. “You don’t need a reason to call, darling. That woman means nothing to me.”

  “How sad.”

  “She picked me up in a bar last time I was in Sydney.” He’d sounded hesitant, as if a glimmer of unease had drifted through his oh-too-masculine brain, but Darcie had to bring this conversation back to business. Immediately.

  “How familiar,” she murmered.

  She launched into a breathless explanation of her ideas for Wunderthings’ newest line of lingerie, her need for authentic design. When she finished, he was silent for a long moment until Darcie cleared her throat.

  “Yeah, I know a guy,” he finally said. “Henry Goolong. He lives not far from me. He’s full-blooded Aboriginal. He and his grandson work together. Mostly, they make didges—those musical instruments I showed you on Crown Street—but I expect he’d design some pretty wonderful stuff for your knickers…and for a reasonable fee.”

  Darcie’s misplaced physical excitement for Dylan’s beautiful body morphed into a more practical need. The job kind, which she hoped she could deal with better. “Our contract would provide him and his family with extra income—”

  “—and you’d get what you need without bankrupting your company.”

  She took a breath. “Can you put me in touch with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Got a pen?”

  He rattled off the numbers as if he realized—at last—how important her career was to her, and Darcie dutifully took them down. A whole bunch of them for the cross-oceanic connection. She tried not to listen to the continued timber of Dylan’s voice, its depth and richness, a voice that had always sent her senses into orbit. Never again, she promised herself.

  She hadn’t been surprised, really, to hear that female voice, or even to learn that Dylan had other interests concerning sex. Would an oh-so-virile man like him stay celibate waiting for Darcie who might never get back to Australia, never see him again?

  When he finished, she said a polite, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His tone sounded mocking, almost sarcastic.

  “I’ll give him a call. At a reasonable hour of the day—your time.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  She held a finger over the button again to hang up.

  “I appreciate your help,” she said. Business only, then couldn’t resist. “Thank you for the picture. Say hello to Darcie II for me.”

  “I will but…” He stopped her again. “Hey, Matilda.”

  “Goodbye, Dylan.”

  Darcie hung up, sorrow flowing through her veins not like rich, warm syrup now but like cold-thickened sludge.

  It was over. The relationship that had never really begun.

  Maybe she should remain single for the rest of her life and stop worrying about some Mr. Right—not Dylan—who probably didn’t exist. So much for her elusive notions of happiness.

  As if she’d read Darcie’s mind, Claire was packing when Darcie walked into her office at Heritage Insurance on Monday wearing a soulful expression that could only mean a man problem. Knowing it would reveal itself soon enough, Claire turned back to a half-empty carton.

  “What’s this?” Darcie asked. “Management kick you up the corporate ladder again?” She waved at Samantha gurgling in her nearby playpen. “Not bad. Bet this time you’ll get a corner office. Overlooking St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  “I quit.”

  Darcie gave her a blank look.

  “You’re obviously caught up in some disaster of your own,” Claire said, tossing a pair of bronze bookends into the box. “I’ll make this simple. Man equals love equals marriage equals baby. That’s where the buck stops.” She glanced over her shoulder at Darcie. “I can’t possibly spend half the night with a teething child then give my best to Heritage Insurance. I can’t cook dinner, do the laundry and rush into work the next morning after another night of bad sleep…well, you get the picture.”

  “You’re leaving your job?”

  “Yep.” Claire fought back a mild wave of regret.

  “But Heritage Insurance is you—and vice versa.”

  “Not anymore.” She smiled misty-eyed at Samantha, who wagged a rattle in her direction. “I’m trying my damnedest—darnedest—to be a halfway decent mother to this adorable daughter of mine. I just can’t do anything else right now.”

  Darcie had apparently shelved whatever male trouble she had in her life in favor of curiosity. “Peter gave you an ultimatum, right?”

  “No. I just couldn’t take it any longer, Darcie. I need time with Samantha, time to get my energy back, time to…just time.”

  “Hmm. I always thought they’d carry you out of here on a stretcher straight to the morgue, still tapping away on your Palm Pilot.”

  “Charming.”

  “No, I mean you’d just drop dead at your desk from trying to be all things to everyone. Your career, Peter, Sam…even me.”

  “I’ve come to my senses.”

  Claire made a cooing noise toward Samantha, who flung the rattle. With a gleeful giggle, she watched it wing Claire right in the head.

  “Ouch. Darn it, sweetie.” Sh
e rubbed her temple. “No swearing in front of the baby, Peter’s orders. Other than that, he is a self-contained support unit. In words, anyway.”

  “You sound resentful.”

  “Do I?” Claire added a stack of papers to the packing box, flipped the flaps shut, then carried the rattle back to Sam. Promptly, Samantha dumped it again. “I’ve made this decision on my own. Peter doesn’t even know yet—though I’m sure he’ll be glad to have a full-time mother for his child. Lord knows I interviewed most of the eligible nannies in all five boroughs, most of Jersey, too.” She sighed. “I’ve certainly given the take-your-daughter-to-work program a run for its money, and I’ve ruined every Donna Karan suit I own. There isn’t a Natori blouse without spitup all over it. I give up.”

  “Me, too.” Darcie slumped onto a chair in front of Claire’s desk.

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “First, Annie. She misses home. I think she even misses Mom and Dad, and this morning on my way out I saw her mooning over the picture of her old boyfriend. It appeared on her dresser—in the center of all her other junk—last week. I should have seen the signs then.” Darcie sighed. “We had a big fight the other night. I don’t think she’s ever going to get a job—and you know what? I wonder if she wants one.”

  “If Annie found a job,” Claire pointed out, “she’d be making a commitment to staying here.”

  “Exactly.” Darcie forced a grin. “You and I make a team. Great minds.”

  “But if Annie left, you’d be stuck with the rent. All of it.”

  “You wouldn’t want to board Samantha with me for the next eighteen years, would you? I’ll cut you a deal.” Darcie thought a moment. “I mean, then I wouldn’t need to worry about getting married eventually…having kids of my own. I’d just raise Sam—of course, there is my job…”

  “Don’t tempt me.” But Claire gazed fondly at her daughter. “Let’s see. We have one dysfunctional sister who won’t get a job, one dysfunctional friend who can’t keep hers…”

  “Gran, too,” Darcie added. “She and Julio had another quarrel. She called me in tears at six this morning. I don’t know what to do with her. We’re not on the best terms still, and I can’t run out to Jersey. I have a call in to Australia at the office.” Claire’s eyebrows lifted. “Not Dylan. Business. I need to get back soon, but I had to see you. The voice of reason.”

  “Ha.” Claire plunged into another carton, blinking. Samantha must have picked up on her mood, and started to cry. Or was she just frustrated about the rattle, which lay on the office carpet again? Claire still couldn’t decipher her various cries. “Women from infancy to eighty-two are falling apart,” she said. “Isn’t there anyone here who knows how to cope with life?”

  “And men,” Darcie murmured.

  Claire emerged from the box. “I knew it. I knew that’s why you’re here.”

  “Actually, I did hear from Dylan.”

  “Ohmygod. He apologized, right? The woman on the phone was his mother, or no, she said not Mrs. Rafferty. She was his sister, his cousin…”

  “None of the above. She was exactly what she seemed to be.”

  “He’s got another girlfriend?”

  “Claire, I was never his girlfriend. We had two lovely weeks in Sydney—”

  “Darce, I’ve heard your song before. I hate to tell you, it’s not headed for the top of the charts.”

  Samantha cried harder. Feeling guilty again, Claire scooped her up, rocking the baby and staring at Darcie who, she could see, was a blink away from tears herself.

  “He didn’t apologize?”

  “He tried. I couldn’t see the point.” She sighed again, her chin quivering. “It was sex, that’s all.”

  “Works for me. Or would, if I had any libido.” A big part of her problems.

  “You’re nursing. I read that nursing can suppress sex drive—kind of like a built-in birth control device.”

  “Would you come to the apartment and tell Peter that?”

  “Sure, if you fix dinner. I love your chicken Florentine.”

  “It’s yours. If you baby-sit while I take Peter out for drinks so I can tell him I quit my job. He’s in San Francisco on business until Friday.”

  Darcie’s face cleared. “Ah. I see. You self-destructed in the middle of last night with Sam shrieking in your ear because she’s cutting teeth. You folded.”

  Claire hustled back to the carton, jiggling Sam on one arm.

  “It was a weak moment, I admit, but overdue. I’ll go back to work when Samantha enters first grade. I have plenty of time. In fact, I’m part of a growing professional women’s revolution—a backlash movement.”

  “You might lose your job skills, Claire. Your edge.”

  “I lost my edge when my obstetrician said, ‘the head is out.’ But that’s okay. I love Samantha, don’t I, sweetie?” She nuzzled the baby’s neck, and Sam’s grumbling quieted into a gurgle. “Yes, Mama loves you. We’ll be fine. Together.”

  Darcie snickered.

  Claire mentally crossed her fingers. “I’m going to love wheeling Sam to the park, meeting other mothers, having picnic lunches, watching Sam play in the sandbox.”

  “You’ll be chewing nails by the end of next week.”

  “Bite me, Darce.”

  “I won’t have to. You’re gnawing off your own leg.”

  “Well, what about you, Miss Independent Woman Who Doesn’t Need a Man Right Now? Ms. Female Who Can Figure Out Her Own Life?” Claire snorted, startling the baby. “For someone who’s trying so hard to stay single, you look pretty miserable this morning.” She paused. “I think you’re still hot for Rafferty.”

  “Hot is one thing. Right is another. You’re a fine one to talk. Look at this—” Darcie waved a hand at the office cluttered with boxes “—giving up the thing that’s made you tick, quite happily I might add, since I’ve known you.”

  “Face it. We’re all screwed up. You, me, Annie, even Eden, who knows more about life and men than all of us put together.”

  “That’s what I tell Mom.”

  “Don’t forget Greta.” Claire kissed Sam’s damp curls and put her back in the playpen. She was blinking again when she straightened. “What a mess. And I don’t mean my office.”

  “I guess we’re doing the best we can.”

  Claire couldn’t let it go at that. This morning, charging into the president’s office, even into Human Resources after that, she’d felt confident…free. And absolutely correct in her decision to give it all up.

  Now, she wasn’t that sure. And neither was her best friend.

  “Darcie, you are such a Pollyanna.”

  By the end of the day, Darcie had to concede that Claire might be right. She’d no sooner reached the office at ten o’clock that morning—late by an hour—when Greta tried to sabotage her efforts to negotiate an agreement with Henry Goolong in Australia. Why did Darcie never learn? She couldn’t trust the woman.

  “You went over my head about this to Walt?”

  “I thought we were a pair now, Baxter. And since you weren’t here, I assumed you’d want me to handle it.”

  “When hell turns into a cherry Popsicle.” So much for Greta’s supporting role.

  Thank goodness no real damage had been done. Henry finally agreed with Darcie by phone to send four Aboriginal designs suitable for Wunderthings lingerie patterns as soon as a contract was signed. She’d have to make sure Greta took no part in hammering out those details. And start making plans herself for production as quickly as possible, in time for the Sydney opening.

  “What if he doesn’t sign?” Greta asked as if she expected trouble, and probably she did. Trouble she would orchestrate herself. Wasn’t it enough that she and Walt were thick as thieves these days? I have created a monster.

  “Henry will sign. It’s a simpler world down there.” Darcie wished she could say the same.

  Still furious with Greta, she left work. Merrick had phoned three times that afternoon but Darcie had been too busy
to talk. His work number didn’t answer now, his cell phone either, and his home phone was busy. Having finally weaseled his address from him not long ago, she decided to drop by. Maybe they would order in tonight, pizza or Chinese. Relax. Maybe they’d actually talk…about their “relationship,” even about Greta. Darcie couldn’t stop seething.

  In the soft evening light, Darcie held up one hand to hail a passing cab. It flashed past without slowing, and she breathed out a sound of frustration and started talking to herself.

  “I don’t know whether I feel more angry with Greta Hinckley about Henry Goolong (why couldn’t Walt see that?) or whether I’m mad at myself. If I hadn’t stopped at Heritage to see Claire, who needed me, I would have been on time to work.”

  Or should she feel oddly relieved? Frankly, Darcie had been waiting for just such a power play from Greta since her trip to Australia.

  Darcie leaned into the street again like one of those bronze figures that dotted the city’s sidewalks and little parks. Whimsical, urban. Impervious to her growing fears, unlike the low clouds gathering overhead.

  She should have taken the ferry to Gran’s instead. Eden would comfort them both tonight, maybe with a bowl of homemade chicken soup laced with sherry. Her quarrel with Julio, Darcie’s with Greta, would become minor blips on their personal radars, of no consequence.

  Finally, a cab screeched to a halt just in front of Darcie’s feet, and she climbed gratefully inside.

  “Seventy-Eighth and Park, please.”

  No comment. Maybe her driver didn’t speak English. Darcie yearned for the days she didn’t actually remember when New York’s cabbies had been articulate fountains of earthy wisdom they were only too willing to share with passengers. Eden claimed they had been a large part of her education.

  Darcie gazed at the passing lights and store windows, trying not to clutch the sagging seat cushion with both hands while the taxi lurched through traffic.

  At Merrick’s apartment building, the doorman announced her on the intercom.

  She heard a murmured drone of conversation then Merrick’s voice.

  “Send her up.”

  What if he had guests already? She hadn’t thought of this. Maybe he and some friends were playing poker, having a few beers. Swearing and telling jokes. One of those male-bonding events. But that sounded more like Dylan.