by Leigh Riker
“If I were only fifty years younger…”
Her grandmother’s first reaction to Dylan didn’t surprise Darcie. She’d waited on purpose to introduce them until his last night in America. Having Eden put the moves on him was not Darcie’s idea of fun, and after settling the matters of Deidre and Annie and her own unexpected jealousy, she still felt a bit raw about competition. Dylan had dazzled the entire office at Wunderthings the day before although she’d kept him away from Greta. Tonight Eden sported full warpaint and a diaphanous flow of sapphire hostess lounging pajamas.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, Gran, to charm his pants off—literally.”
When Dylan tipped his Akubra hat, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Eden pressed one hand to her chest. The other stayed clamped in Dylan’s larger grasp. “Matilda— Darcie—has told me all about you.”
Eden arched a penciled brow at her granddaughter. “I’ll assume the news was good.”
“Spectacular,” he said, and winked.
With a flirtatious grin, Gran finally removed her hand from his and stepped back out of the doorway to her duplex, motioning them inside.
The smells of pot roast and just right, oven-browned potatoes greeted Darcie, who felt her toes curl. “Ahh. You made my favorite dinner.”
“Beef,” Dylan said with an appreciative sniff. “Mine, too.”
“I thought it was lamb,” Darcie said.
He winced. “I have a tough time with that. Makes me glad I run a wool operation, not a meat business.”
Glad to hear that—in all this time she hadn’t wanted to ask for fear her namesake was doomed to end up in a pot— Darcie drew him into the living room with a quick glance around for Sweet Baby Jane. She didn’t want Dylan attacked, especially when he was wearing his best dark pants and a white shirt that wouldn’t look good with gore on it. The coast being clear, she led him to the sofa.
“Sit. Relax. What are you drinking?” Eden asked just as the doorbell rang again. “Oh, this is fun. Here’s Julio.”
Dylan grinned at Darcie. He’d heard about Gran’s boyfriend, too.
In no time the two men were fast friends, talking about World Cup soccer as if they’d known each other for years. Maybe their differing accents gave them a common bond or something. In any case, Darcie was grateful. She’d envisioned a long evening of awkward conversation filled only by her stiff attempts to draw everyone out. The housewarming party was still too fresh in her mind.
No longer needed, she drifted into the kitchen.
“May I help you, Gran?”
Eden bear-hugged her, rooster-print potholders like clumsy paws on both hands. She felt oddly fragile in Darcie’s embrace and Darcie frowned despite Gran’s chipper tone. “It’s good to have you home. And that young man…” She lifted her eyebrows. “If you tire of him anytime soon, while I’m still ‘available,’ I can take him off your hands.”
“Don’t you try. What do you mean ‘available’?”
“You’ll find out later. I told you, the hat’s the key. But what’s under it—all the way down—is genuinely first-class, too. That man has genes…and I don’t mean from Levi Strauss.”
“He’s not a side of beef like your pot roast.”
“Don’t be too sure. Even Janet couldn’t disapprove.”
“Mom won’t get the chance.” Darcie’s smile faded. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”
She couldn’t quite get used to the idea.
Eden pursed her lips, shiny mauve tonight. Still, Darcie thought her cheeks looked pale. Was Gran worried about her? “Please don’t tell me you intend to let him go. You’d have beautiful children, dear. While I’m young enough to enjoy them, I hope.”
“Let’s not go there—or we’ll end up fighting.” Darcie took the potholders from her, then removed the roast from the oven. “You serve the drinks. I’ll deal with this. Do you want gravy?”
“Would it be my pot roast without?”
“No, of course not. Silly me.” She turned off the bubbling peas on the stove.
Eden bustled about, fixing Julio’s Manhattan—giving him two plump maraschino cherries—then uncapping Dylan’s beer. She pushed Darcie’s white wine across the counter to her and set aside her own Merlot.
“I’ll be right back. Then we’ll talk.”
“Gran.”
But she was already gone. Darcie mixed water and flour for the gravy. She stirred it into the drippings to thicken, found Gran’s best Limoges bowl and dumped the peas in, then looked for the electric knife to slice the meat.
She did anything to help—to keep herself from thinking about Dylan’s departure. Would it be better to sleep apart tonight? Accustom herself to her solitary bed again? Or should she jump him as soon as they got home and make herself some memories to rival those of her trip to Sydney?
It didn’t take long to make her decision.
“Here. Let me do that.” Dylan appeared, took the knife from her and skillfully cut the pot roast. Between each slab, he leaned over to kiss her. The kisses got longer and hotter until Darcie heard herself gasping.
“Save yourself,” she managed. “I have plans for you later.”
“I hope they’re the same plans I have for you.”
She was about to agree when pain shot through her ankle. Darcie yelped—and glanced down to see Sweet Baby Jane, her sharp teeth piercing Darcie’s skin. Bending, Dylan gently pried the cat away and scooped her up.
“Moving to my own apartment was the best decision. The word kill crosses my mind,” Darcie murmured.
“This little sweetheart? She barely broke the skin.” He held Jane up at face level, and Darcie waited for the beast to take out an eye, but Jane only purred, then settled against his chest. “See?” Dylan said. “She probably bit you because she was afraid you’d step on her. You have to know how to treat her.”
Darcie remained skeptical. “Oh, sure. Was that the problem?”
Slipping Jane an end of pot roast, Dylan set her on the floor. With a devoted SBJ following, leaving Darcie speechless, he carried the platter into the dining room where Gran’s table was set with her Haviland china and Waterford crystal and the heirloom Irish lace cloth she’d inherited from her own grandmother. If I spill gravy on that, Darcie told herself, I’ll die right here.
Maybe that would save her another attack by Sweet Baby Jane—or dying tomorrow morning when Dylan left.
To keep from falling into a depression, she ate too much. Why not? She was hungry and after tonight, she wouldn’t have a man to look good for. “As if I need to define myself through Dylan, or anyone else,” Darcie reminded herself. Then another glass of Chardonnay seemed wise to wash everything down, and drown her growing misery. Thank heaven the conversation proved lively. By the time dessert rolled around, Darcie felt like a roly-poly clown from FAO Schwarz. A dizzy one.
How could she alternately enjoy an evening, and pray for it to end?
“I have the important news to announce,” Julio said in his careful English before Darcie dug into her coconut cream pie. “Attention, all of us.” He rapped his fork against his glass and the antique crystal chimed. Darcie’s ears rang.
“Julio,” Gran scolded gently but he didn’t seem to hear.
He cleared his throat, the Waterford still ringing. “Señora Eden is to become—”
“His fiancée,” Gran supplied, her pale cheeks suddenly flushed with color.
Dylan was the first to recover. “Beaut,” he said.
“I—I—” Darcie tried twice but nothing else came out.
Eden’s expression fell. “You’re not pleased, dear?”
“Well, I—” Her eighty-two-year-old grandmother, a bride again? With a groom half her age? Not that it should matter…
Dylan’s arm came around her shoulders. “Matilda’s just surprised. It’s good news. Isn’t it, darling?” He squeezed her, prompting a response.
“It’s—wonderful. Yes.” Somehow, she found herself standing. On stiff legs, she moved to her g
randmother’s chair and leaned down to kiss her. When she clasped Eden’s hands, they felt chilled. “Best wishes, Gran. I love you.”
“You’re not shocked?”
“Well. Only a little. I wasn’t expecting this, that’s all.”
“Your mother and father will be mortified.”
“That’s their problem.” Darcie turned to shake Julio’s hand, then Dylan clapped him close in one of those male hugs that always looked embarrassing to both men, not to mention bone-breaking. Dylan’s embrace all but smothered the smaller Julio.
“Good going, mate.” He pronounced it might. “So you’re set on a bit of Trouble and Strife,” Dylan added with a smile. “That’s Aussie slang for wife. Congratulations.”
To Darcie the last sounded like a question. Many of his statements did, but to her the uncertainty fit the occasion.
“This calls for a celebration.” Eden rose from the table. Her cheeks had lost their brief high color, and Darcie again thought she looked ashen. Did she fear Darcie’s opposition—like Janet’s? It didn’t seem like Eden. “Let me get the champagne.”
“No, I will. You sit down, Gran.”
Avoiding the snap of SBJ’s teeth on her way past, back in the kitchen, buying herself time, Darcie hauled champagne flutes from the upper cabinet. Juggling four glasses and a cold bottle of Piper Heidsieck, she hurried to the dining room, her heart still pounding.
She and Eden had been buds—of very different ages, but still fast friends.
She would be the first of Darcie’s friends to be married except for Claire. Darcie didn’t count cousins. Was it jealousy she felt now? Again? On the very night before Dylan left?
“Stiff upper lip,” she ordered herself.
Because part of her wanted to feel joy for Eden. Julio, too.
The rest of her wanted to bawl.
A remaining scrap or two wanted to slap herself.
“Selfish,” she mumbled. She’d be losing a friend in some ways—but gaining a new…what? Stepgrandfather? At forty-something, small and dark, unlike her real grandfather who’d been big like Dylan, Julio didn’t suit the role. He would come between her and Gran now, even if he didn’t mean to. He already had.
With their rift over Julio and the apartment nearly healed, now this.
Darcie struggled with the champagne cork until Dylan covered her hand, and she gave him a blind smile of appeal. Help me.
“You just want an excuse for another kiss,” she murmured.
“Good idea.” Picking up his cue, he bent to her mouth then kissed each of Darcie’s cheeks, blotting up twin tears that had escaped. The cork popped and bubbles flowed down the bottle’s side.
She swallowed. “I propose a toast.” Seeing nothing in front of her, Darcie managed to pour the wine into four glasses. Rise to the occasion. “To Gran—Eden Marie Baxter—and Julio—” She didn’t know his middle name and stumbled over the words.
He said, “Martin Perez.”
“—and Julio Martin Perez…long life, and happiness.”
“Thank you, dear.” Eden raised her flute to her mauve-painted lips. She pressed her free hand to her throat and her cheeks went virginal white. “With your blessing, we’re going to be married.”
Then she slipped, unconscious, to the floor.
“Too much excitement,” Darcie told Dylan. “That’s all it was.” They had just returned from the hospital where Gran was “resting comfortably,” as the saying went.
“I’m sure her other tests tomorrow will be negative, too,” Dylan agreed, “like her EKG was normal.”
“She was just too excited over her engagement to Julio. And wasn’t he wonderful with her in the E.R.? I do feel better,” she said. “They’re going to be happy together. I know he’ll take care of her.”
Dylan pulled her close as soon as she shut her apartment door. “Since you mention excitement…” In the darkened entryway he nuzzled her neck, then kissed her, his hands snaking up under her sweater to cup her breasts.
“You didn’t have to delay your trip home,” she said with a small moan. “You have the Stud to run, all those decisions…”
“My decision was to stay right here. Until Eden’s home, you need someone to lean on.” When she opened her mouth, he covered her lips with one finger. “No arguments, Matilda. There’s no shame in needing someone…”
Darcie blinked. She’d done a lot of that during the evening. In the hospital waiting room she’d paced and worried and shed a few tears for her grandmother’s well-being. She couldn’t imagine Eden being seriously ill. She was one of the strongest women Darcie had ever known. It was Janet who took to her bed with the slightest cold. Eden bull-dozed her way through without complaint, but if her heart no longer worked right…
“She’s had angina for years. I don’t know what I’d do without her,” she murmured. “Without you.”
“Fortunately, you won’t need to face either one tomorrow.”
He walked her into the bedroom, and Darcie didn’t think of refusing him. She had promised Dylan a last night he wouldn’t forget, promised herself the same. How could she renege on that promise, even if he wasn’t leaving yet?
Exhausted from tension, still worried about Eden, she slipped off her shoes, then her skirt and sweater.
“You’re a pretty good guy to have around. Thanks for tonight.”
Dylan came up behind her. She felt his bare chest against her spine. Bending his head, he kissed first her left shoulder then the right.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t started.”
“I thought that’s what foreplay is all about.” She shivered when his lips grazed the nape of her neck, a sensitive spot Darcie hadn’t noticed until she met Dylan.
“You call this foreplay?” His smile tickled her neck. “I feel like a man on death row who just got the governor’s order of clemency. Two minutes before the warden threw the switch.”
“You call that foreplay?” Darcie echoed. But she was smiling, too.
This, she thought, would be one of those playful times. Tonight, she didn’t need to fight back tears after all, or store up memories. Until Gran came home, Dylan was staying. Staying in Darcie’s bed.
She froze under his roaming hands.
Good grief. Was that what it took? Dylan, calling an ambulance, holding Gran’s hand in the E.R., holding Darcie’s at the same time, expediting paperwork at the admissions window, soothing Julio’s worst fears, fetching everyone coffee? He was right. He made good decisions and he knew how to implement them. There were worse things than putting your trust in a man like that.
She turned in his arms. “I know this sounds terrible, but I almost hope Gran needs to stay in the hospital for a few more days. Just to make sure she’s all right.”
Dylan drew back to grin at her. “I haven’t been in a hurry but I should get home. Why don’t you just come with me, Matilda? Spend a couple of weeks at Rafferty Stud?”
“With the Rafferty Stud.”
His voice went throaty, his eyes serious. “Never know where that might lead.”
Catching her off balance in more ways than one, Dylan tumbled her onto the mattress. Darcie didn’t fight him. Why should she? She’d seen the looks from everyone at Wunderthings when she showed up with Dylan yesterday. She was the envy of every woman in the office. Darcie wound her arms around his neck and hung on tight. At the moment she even envied herself.
She covered his mouth with hers, teased her way inside, dueled with his tongue until he groaned, and Darcie did, too.
He said hoarsely, “If you could have seen your face when Eden crumpled to the floor…”
“I was so afraid. I don’t want to think about that now. Make love to me, Dylan.”
They kissed awhile before he said, “You bet.”
When he slid into her on a long, powerful stroke, his arms tight around her, his body filling hers by slow degrees, Darcie wondered how she would ever say goodbye.
As if he felt the same, he propped his elbows on
the mattress, then framed her face in both hands. His dark eyes looked into hers and held. She saw a whole world in his gaze, a world she wanted fiercely on one hand, feared desperately on the other. He might be trainable—might—but their differences still existed.
She still didn’t know how to bridge them. Distance. Lifestyles. Attitudes.
And yet, tonight, again…
Dylan’s breathing sounded labored. “I can’t wait, Matilda.”
“Then don’t.”
Holding him close, she savored the rocking of his body into hers, faster, deeper, harder, then faster yet, until she realized he was way ahead of her, and Darcie stepped outside herself to relish his orgasm first. She felt his body pause, stiffen, begin to shudder…
Behind them, the fire escape vibrated with footsteps. Over Dylan’s suddenly rigid shoulders, with widened eyes Darcie watched a dark figure appear at the glass. The window opened, and a man climbed through into the bedroom. Uh-oh, she thought, but it was too late.
With a groan, Dylan tensed. He rolled off Darcie. Before she could speak, Dylan launched himself at the intruder—and took him down onto the carpet. A shout rang out.
“Ouch! Christ. What the—”
It was an unwise move, Darcie told herself, still prone in bed, to interrupt an aroused male—specifically the Rafferty Stud—on the verge of a tumultuous climax.
Dylan’s hands locked around a throat. His knee pressed into a polo-shirt clad chest. “Got you. Darcie, quick. Call 911!”
Chapter
Nineteen
“Dylan, let him go. I know him.”
Still apparently dazed, Dylan stared back at her. “But he—”
“This is my neighbor.” She’d told him about Cutter but obviously Dylan had forgotten. He wasn’t fully aware just now.
On the floor in his khakis and a navy V-neck sweater Cutter made a strangled sound. Dylan’s hands were still at his throat and he straddled Cutter’s prone body.
Dylan sent her a dubious look. “Let him up?”
“Absolutely.”
Cutter slowly sat up and shook his head, as if he couldn’t comprehend what he saw. Belatedly, Darcie realized she was naked. So was Dylan. No sense making silly excuses for his presence in her bed. She didn’t owe Cutter an explanation.
