by Leigh Riker
“All night,” she whispered. “Maybe that won’t even be enough.”
“No time off for good behavior.”
She arched up against him. “No possibility of parole.”
“Death row?” he asked, mock fear in his voice.
“I wouldn’t go that far. But close.”
She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, and Darcie felt tears spring to her eyes. He was funny but wise in his own, down-home way. He felt like heaven in her arms, and he certainly looked like a god with his sunbrowned skin and dark, mischievous eyes.
“You are a rascal, Dylan Rafferty.”
“It got me in your bed again.” His lips brushed hers, then her throat. He laughed a little, low and sexy and thoroughly male. “In like Flynn.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?” Darcie tried to sound stern but his mouth was sending hot, erotic messages along her skin. “You’re taking advantage—in this case, of a sexual situation.”
“Seizing an opportunity,” he corrected her. “So are you, Matilda.”
True.
“All right. You’re here.” She drew his mouth down to hers. “Do your worst.”
“Well. Since I’m clearly not capable of reform…”
He eased her legs wider with his knee. Then he raised onto his elbows and gazed down into Darcie’s face. And smiled. Wicked sunshine. He was still wearing his hat, and the Akubra slid down over their faces as Dylan kissed her. When his body meshed with hers and he slid deep inside her, in like Flynn, Darcie moaned. She could feel his pectoral muscles against her breasts, his hips close to hers, his penis filling her, stretching her, loving her.
Dylan’s tone sounded shaken, no longer glib.
“Say it, darling. You know you want to.”
“It’s…good to see you. I missed you, too.”
“And you forgive me.” He moved a little faster, harder.
“Yes. I…ohhh.”
It was like the first time at the Westin, only better. Neither of them lasted long. In a few minutes, or was it seconds, Dylan’s body withdrew from hers then held, suspended, before he entered her one last time—and Darcie lost it, went spinning over the edge.
So did he.
He was here, and she was thrilled to see him.
She was in even deeper trouble now, but she didn’t care.
Darcie gasped into the hollow of his neck. “Moments of truth.”
Back down to earth again, more or less, Darcie had just finished her overseas conference call a week later with Walt Corwin and Henry Goolong in Sydney, with Greta Hinckley listening from her cubicle, when Walt rang back again. Solo this time.
“It’s not bad enough, I fly all the way to Australia.” His voice sounded as if he were in the same room with Darcie, but he wasn’t. She kicked back in her chair, putting her feet on the desk. “Then I find out the shipment of case pieces you ordered won’t be late after all.”
Great. Her whining had gotten results.
“Hello. That’s a good thing, Walt.”
“See if you think so when you hear the rest.” Darcie straightened, dropping her feet to the floor. “Thanks to all the yelling you and I did, the order arrived yesterday. Or is it today? Damn, I can never get the time straight.”
Neither could Darcie until now. All the more because Dylan Rafferty had taken up temporary residence in her apartment, in her bed. In fact, she was squirming right now to get home to him. Darcie glanced at her watch. Yesterday Dylan had bought it for her—a classy silver watch with two faces. For that reason, she would have thought it perfect for Greta Hinckley, except she wouldn’t give Greta—ha-ha—the time of day. And Darcie wouldn’t give it up. She could now tell Walt exactly what time it was in both Sydney and New York, which didn’t quite impress him.
“How did you get so smart?”
“I have friends in high places.” For example, Dylan had hit her G-spot, dead-on, at least three times the night before. Darcie smirked at Greta, then into the phone. She tried to concentrate on what Walt was saying.
“Well, get this. We uncrated those case pieces last night. And—wait for it—they’re all wrong. Pecan instead of walnut. Etched glass not frosted doors on the armoires.”
Darcie’s heart sank. “How do they look?”
“Like pecan armoires with etched glass doors.”
“Well,” she said, ever the optimist, “we can work with that. I mean, the etched glass will allow customers to see a product through the closed doors when the frosted model would mean leaving them open all the time. More flexibility. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“So you think we should keep the pecan?”
She wouldn’t go that far. “It doesn’t complement the rest of the décor. I’d rather have walnut.”
“So would I. Let me see what I can do.”
Darcie made a suggestion. “Maybe we could use the pecan for the store’s opening, then switch to walnut as soon as it’s available.” She paused. “For a hefty discount, of course. Considering the inconvenience we’ve suffered.”
“Baxter, sometimes you’re a genius.”
She grinned. “Remind yourself to give me a generous raise. A couple of vacation weeks, too.” Right now, with Dylan in town, would be good.
“Let’s not be premature.” Walt sighed. “There’s more.”
“Don’t tell me. Our mannequins showed up without any arms or legs.”
Across the aisle Greta blinked and leaned closer into the space that separated their desks. Darcie turned a shoulder to her. She hadn’t forgiven Greta for the Henry Goolong incident. Her mind scrambled. If there was a problem, they would use just torsos. With a bit of ingenuity, she’d come up with an innovative display that would make limbless models the newest trend in window design. Since Dylan’s surprise appearance on her doorstep, she felt she could do anything. Multiple orgasms? Simultaneous climaxes? Her forte. His, too, it seemed.
“Wallpaper,” Walt was saying.
“Excuse me?” He’d interrupted a quick, pleasant daydream of Dylan in the flesh, all of it, his impressive pecs beneath that crisp, sleek smattering of hair over his breast-bone, the hard planes of his washboard belly…
“Are you listening? The wallpaper. It’s on the walls. The wrong damn stuff.”
Darcie froze. She could handle late orders. She could deal with the wrong display cases. With wallpaper, she hit overload.
“You mean they hung the wrong pattern?”
“You ordered Regency Stripe, right?”
“Yes, gold on a paler shade of gold. Very subtle. Classy.”
“We got black stripes on white. Hell, the whole place looks like zebra hide.”
Darcie groaned. “If we were in Africa…”
“We’re not. And haven’t you about exhausted your capacity for optimism here? Baxter, we’re running out of time. Goolong’s designs for the lingerie go into production next week, the soonest the factory can manage, which makes them only possible for the big day, not probable. What in hell do we do now?”
Miffed by his criticism of her personality, Darcie let the silence build. Finally, she said, “Henry’s happy with his contract. We have the designs—and they’re gorgeous, just what I hoped for. Even his faxes look wonderful. You take care of getting production flowing. I’ll deal with the wallpaper.”
“How?”
She threw up her hands. “I don’t know, Walt. Maybe you should have sent me to Australia.” Except then, she’d have missed Dylan. This time, here, might be all they’d have. “Okay. Rip off that paper with your own two hands if you have to. I’ll call around to suppliers, see where I can get the Regency Stripe we need. By next week all of this will seem like a bad dream.”
At her blithe tone, his voice twanged with suspicion. So did Greta’s gaze from across the aisle. “What’s responsible for your Walt Disney mood today?”
“Who, not what,” Darcie corrected. “I’ll ring you back as soon as I can.”
“You mean Rafferty?”
; She hung up on his growled response. Nothing would spoil today, not even disaster at Wunderthings Sydney. She might be optimistic and naive, but she knew how to get things done.
Inspired by Dylan, who was waiting for her at home, Darcie had her calls made in half an hour. The Regency Stripe wallpaper was on its way from a Thirty-Fourth Street warehouse in Manhattan to the Queen Victoria Mall in Sydney. When Greta started across the aisle at last, as if no longer able to contain herself, Darcie grabbed her tote bag and stood up. She envisioned Dylan lying in her bed, bare-chested, those dark tufts of silky hair showing at his armpits…
“I’m leaving early.” She blocked Greta’s way, feeling strong and, for once with Greta, in command. “Stay, Hinckley. Don’t take another step. And if you even think about sabotaging this project—again—I will personally cut out your heart.”
Greta huffed out a breath. “Well. I only wanted to help.”
“That’s what Madame de Farge must have said while she watched all those heads roll into baskets at the guillotine in Paris. Keep knitting. I’ll be home if anyone really needs me.”
There was no telling how long Dylan could stay in New York. While he was here, Darcie meant to make the most of him. She promised herself she wouldn’t expect more.
Girls just want to have fun. Annie’s words.
Chapter
Seventeen
Still shaking her head over Greta, Darcie walked into her apartment and heard conversation from the kitchen. Following the sound, she discovered Annie fixing dinner with Dylan.
Darcie’s heart rolled over.
Her sister’s hand was tucked beneath Dylan’s on the handle of a big cooking pot. Darcie inhaled a mix of aromas she mostly didn’t recognize. In the pan oil sizzled and spit. The oven light winked red, indicating that something was also baking.
“What’s happening?”
They both looked up, guiltily, Darcie thought. Like Julio and Gran.
Then Annie giggled, looking back at Dylan, who, with a quick glance at Darcie, guided her other hand to stir whatever was in the pot. Annie wore a skintight spandex top that stopped above her navel and a pair of low-slung capri pants, also stretchy, that defined every inch of her long legs, and Darcie realized her sister had been giving Dylan too many approving glances since he’d come to stay with them. Annie grinned at her.
“Imagine me, learning to cook Australian.”
“Meaning?” Despair joined Darcie’s alarm. They were standing too close together and Dylan wore his Akubra, to Darcie always a sexy sign. She tried to distract herself. In Sydney, she had been subjected to both gourmet cuisine of various nationalities, with Walt, and—in Dylan’s company—traditional Aussie fare. Her figure still hadn’t recovered from the “meat pies,” hefty portions of beef and gravy in a doughy pastry. And she’d never noticed before how tiny her kid sister’s butt was.
A quick memory flashed through her mind: Annie, dressed for her prom in Cincinnati, getting help from her date who pinned on her corsage, his fingers brushing Annie’s chest above her low-cut gown. He’d been Darcie’s boyfriend, once, and too old for Annie, but “borrowing” him didn’t bother him, or Annie, in the least.
Dylan sent Darcie a smile she couldn’t interpret, then draped an arm over Annie’s shoulder. In a dark shirt and worn jeans, he made Darcie’s mouth water—and not from hunger. “We’re making fish ’n chips tonight. You’re late.”
“I’ll clean up the mess,” Annie promised.
And steal Dylan in the process? The scene looked too cozy for Darcie’s comfort. What had they been doing before she came in? She edged closer to the stove, then stepped back when the oil hissed at her. From a safer distance she craned her neck and saw clumps of battered fish floating, bubbling, in the grease. Potato slices bobbed among them. She could feel her mood going farther south.
“Please open a window. We’ll all suffocate in here.”
Releasing Annie, Dylan bent to examine the oven’s contents, which Darcie couldn’t see. His gold signet ring chinked against the side of the pan.
“Damper,” he explained, straightening like Annie’s prom date after he’d stuck the pin through her cleavage…no, corsage.
Darcie’s stomach churned. “And that is…?”
“Unleavened wheat bread.” Heavy, Darcie decided. “Usually, it’s baked in the ashes of a campfire—but of course here in the big, dangerous city, you girls don’t even have a barbie.”
“You mean a grill?” Darcie frowned, not wanting to rise to his bait on this particular topic. “Our landlord won’t allow it.”
Annie jumped in. “This building is so old, one spark and everything we own would turn to ashes. After a really good blaze.”
“See?” Dylan said. “This environment is lethal.”
Darcie scowled. “I happen to love New York. If you’re not happy here—”
He gave her a bland look of obvious reproach then continued, “The bushmen ate damper to kill their hunger.”
“I’m sure it was effective.”
She’d be digesting this meal for weeks.
“C’mon, Darce,” Annie coaxed. “I think it’s great Dylan’s showing us how people eat in his country.” She plucked the Akubra off his head and clamped it on her own red hair. “I may even visit someday myself.”
“Make that September. I’ll put you to work on the station. Shearing sheep.”
Annie made a face. “Doesn’t that hurt them?”
“Nope. Unless you’re careless and give ’em a nick.” He pulled Annie close again. “You come with her, Matilda. I’ll let you shear Darcie II. You need practice.”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” she murmured, and left the room.
Her eyes stung—from the cooking oil, she assumed. Her vision blurred. She marched into her bedroom, slung her tote bag against the wall, and blinked. Idiot. She wasn’t about to cry. Why should she?
So Dylan Rafferty obviously had the hots for her kid sister. Annie was a cute trick, she had to admit, and she didn’t have Darcie’s hangups, her confusion about life. Sure, Annie was homesick and she still hadn’t gotten a job—probably never would, as long as Hank and Janet continued to pay her rent—but she had few inhibitions. Darcie could attest to her sexual freedom with Harley—and others.
But darned if she’d wind up like Greta Hinckley, hating other people for their good fortune.
“Hey, darling.” Dylan’s soft tone from the threshold made her eyes fill.
“Go away.”
Behind her, he leaned one shoulder against the door frame. Darcie saw him in her peripheral vision but didn’t turn around. “Annie’s getting the fish ’n chips out of the pot. We even have newspaper to wrap them in—the New York Times ought to be right up your alley—and the damper’s out of the oven.” He spoke to her like her father. “Wash your hands and come sit down. We’re ready.”
“Bully,” she muttered.
“Hey, you think I’m—”
“No, I meant ‘goody’ for you. And Annie. Enjoy your meal.”
“You’re acting like a little kid. What’s wrong?”
“I have PMS. You’ve been warned.”
Dylan stayed where he was but his tone softened.
“Your breasts ache tonight?”
She whirled around, her cheeks heating. “What?”
“Your belly feels swollen and tender?”
“You are playing with fire, Rafferty—and not from the barbie.”
“Your temper’s on the short fuse?” Dylan turned into the hall with a simple, “Okay, then,” and went back to the kitchen. To Annie.
“Two for two,” Darcie said, blinking again. “Perfect score.”
Claire Spencer wondered whether she was, instead, self-destructive. Having quit her job, she sat at the dining room table in Fort Lee and picked at her dinner. At least she was losing weight. And Samantha was in bed at mealtime.
“You’re not eating,” Peter said, shoveling in more Caesar salad.
“I’m not hungr
y.”
“After a day with Sam in the park?”
“She’s not walking yet. Wait until she walks.”
“So what do you do?” he asked. “Play in the sand…”
“Swing.”
He half smiled. “I love a woman who swings. Both ways?”
She had to laugh. “No, I push Samantha—and talk with the other mothers.”
“I’m glad you have company. I wondered when you left Heritage how long it would be until you realized that the companionship of your peers, the interaction all day, is important to you.”
Claire recited her litany. “It’s important. But Samantha’s more important.”
“Top priority, I agree.”
But it wasn’t Peter who shoved that swing at the park until Claire’s arms ached. It wasn’t Peter who took Saturdays off—just one day each week would help—to spell her. It wasn’t Peter who felt utterly incompetent among all those earth mothers nursing their babies in public, quieting their cries with such skill that Claire wanted to dig a hole in the sandbox and hide her klutzy head.
“You didn’t put your makeup on today,” Peter pointed out.
“Samantha doesn’t care if I wear Desert Mocha or Sunset Peach lip gloss. She told me only the other day that she hates mascara…and eyeliner? No way.”
Peter ripped off another chunk of French bread.
“Samantha doesn’t talk. I tell you, you’re losing it, Claire.”
“Five pounds so far,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. “By next summer I’ll be a dead ringer for Naomi Campbell.”
He grinned. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “you’ve almost lost your pregnancy weight. You’re spending time with Samantha. You even talked with that therapist. How come you still look miserable?”
“I have no clue.” Was it that obvious?
“The doctor gave you—us—the green light long ago. You’re healed. We can do whatever we want. Resume sexual—”
“I know,” she said. Heart suddenly pounding.
He rose from his chair. He picked up his plate, then gestured at hers, not meeting her eyes. “You done?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, his sandy hair gleaming in the overhead light, his incredible tush looking just right in his tailored slacks. Claire’s mouth went dry.
