Strapless (23 page)

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.

S
till 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 hungry.”

“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.

Drier still when he came back with a bottle of wine.

He didn't say a word.

Claire studied him again as he came toward her seat, then lost him behind her, while her pulse picked up more speed. Peter leaned over her at the table, brandishing the bottle.

“How much poetry would be required to get you to come with me? Right now,” he said. “I remember ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade' and a few stanzas from ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew.'”

She couldn't smile. “Samantha…”

“Is sleeping. All that fresh spring air makes her ready for bed at a decent hour these days. Nights,” he corrected. “So how about it? Here, or the bedroom. Living room sofa if you'd rather. Your choice.”

“Peter, what if I can't…?”

But in that moment, she knew. Her obsession over Samantha, about her job, were Claire's problems—concerns she hadn't shared with Peter. She saw the flash of irritation—and loss—move over his features, and realized she couldn't obsess forever. If she did, she would lose him. Above all, Claire loved Peter. And with her decision to open a dialogue between them, as if he also knew what she had risked, Peter helped.

He feathered kisses along the side of her throat, then nibbled her earlobe. Claire shivered and reached up behind her to slide her arms around his neck. Upside down, his face appeared as she tipped her head back, and they kissed. Gently at first, his lips barely touching hers, until Claire's mouth went slack and her breath shortened and she felt the old zing of sex zip through her postpregnant system.
She couldn't remember when they'd last felt this close. She opened her mouth to him. And they really kissed.

Peter groaned.

“I'm breaking your neck,” she said.

“Feels good. Keep going.” The bottle clunked down on the table and he wrapped his arms around her. After a long look into her eyes, Peter slid to his knees in front of her chair. He was breathing fast now, too, and he had that look on his face she loved. Hard, focused. Sex. “I want you, Claire. Don't say no this time.”

It was a first step, she thought, back to where they belonged—with each other. He buried his cheek in her lap, nuzzled at the juncture of her thighs.

Through her jeans his touch burned. Inflamed.

Oh, God, she hadn't felt this good in such a long time.

“Peter…”

He kissed her through the denim. “Please get these off.”

“Do you think we should really…?”

“Yes. No question.”

“But I'm afraid…”

“We'll be fine. We will, Claire.”

Talking softly, he encouraged her with a few lines from “Dan McGrew,” about Alaskan gold, but he didn't need poetry. Neither did she. With one hand on his silky hair, she watched him take off her running shoes, her socks. He unfastened her jeans, glided down the zipper, tugged at her pants. Lifting her hips, she helped him. First the Ralph Laurens, then her bikini briefs. Thank God, she'd dug them out of her drawer today—and they actually fit again. Then she was naked. And in less than a minute, so was he.

With his gaze fixed on hers, Peter held out a hand. He drew her off the chair, onto the carpeted floor.

“Here,” he said. “Let's don't break the spell.”

Claire agreed. She would talk to him later about her need to be by herself now and then. Her grief over leaving Heritage. Her inadequacies he already knew about.

But in Peter's arms, with his body poised above hers once more, Claire dismissed her shortcomings. Was this a
big part of what she'd been lacking? Missing? Her husband. Her marriage. Her own sexuality, combined so meltingly with his.

“I'm not going to last long,” he warned her. “My sex life has been a desert.”

“Don't wait for me.”

But then, he lowered his head to her breast and kissed her there, on her right nipple, the one that still felt sensitive to touch, and even when he sought her left one, the still-numbed one, Claire felt her whole body come to life again, too.

She could
feel.

Slowly, he entered her, then halfway home, paused. Her body tightened. Her heart thumped. Peter smiled down at her.

“Okay? Or too much?”

“Lovely.”

To her amazement, it was. Inch by inch, he filled her, stopping to make sure she was comfortable, and as it had been between them since the first time, Claire's body went liquid and soft and welcoming, and then—like a miracle she'd given up expecting—he was there. All the way. Moving easily at first, then as Claire moaned in his intimate embrace, faster and harder and deeper. Her body began to tighten, with his, in the good way. In the next instant, with a groan, Peter came—and with that, so did she. So did she.

During the quivering aftershocks, Claire clasped him tight, her head to his, their bodies pressed together, damp and hot. Home.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “It's been too long.”

“Don't be sorry. We're fine. I told you we would be.” He drew her even closer. “I love you, Claire.”