Strapless (31 page)

By four o'clock Darcie was exhausted. Or, she would have been if she'd stopped long enough to let herself feel weary. She didn't have time. All day she had punched sales into the register, helped customers find their right sizes, restocked shelves.

“Wait until we total today's receipts,” Rachel murmured, sweeping past her to show a middle-aged matron the latest in bustiers.

“I can't wait. I am beside myself with joy.”

Rachel took a look at her—on the fly but long enough. She leaned to whisper in Darcie's ear. “Well, for someone who feels great, you look pasty. Take a break. The other girls, the guys and I can handle everything here. You deserve it. Go have a wine. If there are questions, Walt can answer.”

Shaking with the release of tension, Darcie headed down the hall to the Italian restaurant at its end and chose a table in the ell outside the entrance from which she could watch passersby and everyone who went into Wunderthings.

Then a woman sat down with her to rave about the store, distracting her, and Darcie got swept up in congratulations—and satisfaction. It was going to work out.

Maybe not Dylan, but at least her career.

Would it be enough? She'd never wondered before.

After thanking the customer, Darcie walked back to the store, her heart heavy now, her mind on Dylan rather than the shop. Even success had lost its luster.

Gran was with Julio.

Claire was with Peter. And at work.

Merrick was at peace with Geoffrey.

Annie was home with Cliff by now.

Even Cutter was caught up with someone new, he'd reported in his one phone call to her.

As for herself…

Startled from her reverie, Darcie stopped dead in the hall. A crowd had gathered—an even bigger crowd than the one that had ebbed and flowed all day—in front of the display windows at Wunderthings. Her pulse jumped into her throat. What had gone wrong?

Expecting disaster, she pushed her way through the throng of shoppers murmuring among themselves. They weren't unhappy, she realized. Some laughed, a few giggled, and several fingers pointed at the glass.

Then Darcie saw why.

In the center of the display, surrounded by the mannequins that had been such a hit all afternoon, stood a real-live male in tight, worn blue jeans and a chambray shirt. A man with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and dark hair. He wore a gray-green Akubra on his head. Not one of those Rachel had bought.

Lacy lingerie dripped from his hands. Aboriginal design panties hung from both shoulders. And a matching bra was hooked over his index finger.

Dylan Rafferty.

He was grinning, talking, teasing the women through the window—beckoning them inside.

They flocked into the store. Walt and Rachel seemed as frantic as the salesclerks. Merchandise—what was left of it—winged off the shelves straight to the checkout line, which now snaked around the perimeter of the entire store. One woman tried to climb into the display window after Dylan but Darcie stepped in her path.

“Sorry, store property.”
Mine.

Where had that come from? Darcie had no idea. Her pulse racing, she hustled up into the display, moved aside a mannequin, and tapped Dylan on one shoulder. Before he even turned around, he was humming.

“Waltzing Matilda.”

When he did turn and see her, the grin lit his dark eyes like black opals and morphed into a laugh. He held out both arms full of lingerie.

Darcie laughed, too. She laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

She laughed some more.

And then she knew. “I
know.
”

Darcie flung her arms around his neck and scaled his long, lean frame as if he were the famed Ayers Rock, her personal sacred object. Up close, she stared into those black-opal eyes and Dylan stared into her hazel ones, just as silent as Darcie, oblivious of the crowd of envious women around them, oblivious of anything but each other.

Dylan was the first to recover.

“Hey, Matilda.” He seemed to have trouble going on.

Darcie's eyes narrowed. “Did Walt Corwin call you?”

“No.” Dylan cleared his throat. “I thought I could do it—not push you any further—but I got tired of waiting for you to come get me.”

“You wasted the trip to Sydney. I was going to track you down tomorrow.”

“What's wrong with today?”

“Not a thing. Now.”

With a whoop that sent his Akubra flying, he swung her around and around, panties falling from his shoulders, a bra snagged on his belt, hanging over his fly. He kissed her, his mouth soft then hot, moving on hers, until she felt dizzy from his taste as much as from the motion.

“Down,” she said.

“Or what? Chunder?”

“On the Paramatta.”

After letting her slide down to solid ground, slide against his body the entire way, he folded his arms over his impressive chest and cocked his head. “I know you have to make decisions for yourself—”

“I just did.”

Someone handed him the Akubra and he clamped it on his head. He kept staring while the crowd of shoppers milled and flowed around them and finally, with the jangle of the closing bell, drifted back into the hallway toward the mall exits.

Darcie didn't notice them. Or Walt and Rachel herding people out. She just stood there while the place emptied.

Go your own way, Darcie,
Merrick had told her.

Claire had said,
You can have it all, just not like you—we—expected.

Soul mates,
Annie had said.
Next door or half the world away.

And what had Gran advised?
Take happiness where you find it. Life is short.
She'd said something else, months ago, but Darcie couldn't recall what it was right now.

“Your store,” Dylan said, looking around at the mostly bare shelves, the now empty checkout counter and the dry soda pitchers, the crumbs of cookies, the empty red licorice container. “It's great. Good on ya.”

“Good for me?”

“Good for you,” he agreed.

Darcie smiled. “I may never learn to speak your language.”

“Oh, you speak my language just fine.”

He had that dark look in his eyes and her pulse lurched. What was he saying? That he accepted her need to have this career, to be her own person? She swallowed, hard. She could tell him this, the words she'd denied him until now. One reason—a big reason—why she had flown back to Australia. To him.

“I love you, Dylan.”

Startled, he stepped back, then came forward again. He put his arms around her and held her tight. “I love you, too. Matilda.”

He kissed her again, took another step, then another, edging her backward across the floor, as if they were two-stepping in some Texas bar.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere private.”

Darcie looked around. “This is a store.”

“It's closed.” Turning his head toward the register, he called out, “Thanks, Rachel. I appreciate your help. Any time you need a stand-in here, let me know.”

She snickered, gave them both a wave, and went out the door, ready to lock it behind her. “My pleasure.” She was dragging Walt with her, which made Darcie smile.
“Come on,” Rachel told him, “I'll buy you a drink.” She called back, “We're celebrating. The total our first day topped any store in Wunderthings' chain.”

Darcie heard that—and part of her rejoiced—but the rest simply didn't care. Not now, anyway. The important thing was to be with Dylan. Wherever. It didn't make a lick of sense. It didn't have to.

In the nearest dressing room with Darcie, Dylan pressed her against the mirrored wall. “I have fond memories of this,” he murmured, lowering his head to hers again. “Our first night at the Westin.”

How could she forget? Maybe his traditional views not only weren't that much like her parents'; maybe they weren't a complete obstacle to change. Maybe she needn't fight against her upbringing so hard. Or her own until-now elusive happiness.

Love isn't logical. Life isn't rational. They're not meant to be.

And suddenly, Darcie remembered the rest. Gran was right. Any man who could make her laugh until she cried, until her ribs hurt, until her heart spun, had to be a keeper.

Darcie didn't know whether they could work things out, but she was no longer naive enough to think things could be fixed in stone. No longer as uncertain of her place as a woman. She would try—she suspected Dylan would, too. For now, Down Under and deep in Darcie's heart, he was the one. For her. But, “Dylan, we need to talk.”

“First we make love,” he said against her mouth, and Darcie subsided.

“Then we negotiate.”