Strapless (11 page)

Darcie didn't realize why he'd avoided her with news of the board meeting—and the funding for the Sydney store—until his footsteps faded into silence.

Who else but Walter Corwin knew about Dylan Rafferty?

 

“Can you believe it?”

Still seething over his indiscretion regarding her indiscretion, Darcie banged into the closed elevator doors the instant the car settled onto the ground floor of Wunder
things' building. She couldn't get out fast enough. She couldn't trust anyone—especially Walt Corwin. More paranoia. As for Greta… Taking a step back, she waited for the doors to glide open, then marched out into the foyer.

Her heels echoed on the terrazzo floor.

At 8:00 p.m. no one was around. Even the security guard had left his post, probably for his scheduled walk of the main level perimeter.

But then she did see the man waiting by the bank of elevators, leaning one shoulder against the marble wall.

For a single instant she hoped it was Dylan Rafferty of today's phone calls.

Darcie's pulse skipped. Was it possible he'd followed her to New York? So enraptured by their two weeks together that he couldn't stay away? She envisioned the abandoned lambs in his fields, the new ram without any ewes, his mother tearfully bidding him goodbye.
I hope she's worth it, Dylan.

Of course I am.

Wasn't she? Her spirits soared.

Dylan might be wrong for her over the long-term, but she'd be ecstatic to see him again tonight. She couldn't sleep anyway. Might as well spend the nighttime hours between the sheets with her Aussie hunk. Darcie took two more steps, then realized the man waiting didn't wear an Akubra hat.

Bare-headed, he ran a hand through his blond—not dark—hair.

And Darcie froze like the Statue of Liberty.

Merrick Lowell tried a wry smile that once, before he'd betrayed her like the rotten weasel he was, would have made Darcie's blood flow faster through her veins. On Monday nights. She stopped and stared at him until his smile died.

“What are you doing here?”

“I've been calling all day. I couldn't bring myself to speak when you answered. Welcome home, Darce.”

Disappointment swamped her again. The caller hadn't been Dylan.

“Go to hell,” she said weakly.

He made a sound. “Now, now. I'd hoped you would feel better about us after your trip to Australia. Bet you're still jet-lagged, huh?”

Finding the will to move again, she walked past him without a word. Before she reached the revolving doors, Merrick stepped in front of her.

“Come on, Darce.”

“What? Be a good sport? Forget about Jacqueline and the two kids? Pretend that my total humiliation in the doll department at FAO Schwarz never happened?”

“Forget Jacqueline,” he murmured.

“I'm sure she'd be as thrilled to hear you say that as I am.”

“We're separated.”

Well, knock me over with Barbie's feather boa.

Darcie stared at him, one hand poised to push the revolving door into motion. “Separated.” She pressed her lips together in thought. “I imagine that means for the evening. Does Jacqueline have a Girl Scout meeting with your daughter tonight? Is she picking up your son at hockey practice, so you're free?”

“She went home to her parents in Greenwich.”

“Ah.”

“Not for dinner,” he said before Darcie could voice the same words. “Permanently. Right now I get the kids on weekends. We haven't negotiated a custody agreement yet or the kids' support…”

We'll negotiate,
Dylan had said. It had become a schtick for them, a sexy gimmick. She felt a wave of sadness. She almost hated Merrick all over again for stealing Dylan's memory. For not being him.

“Don't let me keep you,” Darcie murmured. She pushed the door. “You must need to sell quite a few chunks of stock to cover those new expenses. Keep that in mind next time you get a girlfriend. I hope your clients
cooperate. The market's not in very good shape right now, Eden tells me….”

With a sigh—difficult women, it said—Merrick followed her out of the building to Sixth Avenue.

Cabs flashed by, horns blew, neon signs blinked. Darcie inhaled the familiar aromas of car exhaust, subway gas, and the river. She loved those smells. But they didn't comfort her now.

Shivering at a sudden gust of wind, she drew her coat closer to her throat.

“Darcie.” Merrick caught her arm. “Have a drink with me.”

“I need to eat.”

“Dinner then. We'll talk.”

“I couldn't swallow.”

“Please,” he murmured. “I know I was a jerk. A real prick. But that's behind me now. I've missed you. Give me another chance?”

Remembering his look of utter misery at the toy store, Darcie realized that a few weeks ago she might have felt tempted. On one level she missed their Monday nights at the Hyatt. She even missed Merrick's smile, his deep-blue eyes, his silky blond hair. But she could do without his
GQ
style, his Yale accent, his…
family.

Then there was Dylan. With him in her past…

“I met someone in Australia. He'd be a hard act to follow.”

“You're here now.” Merrick walked with her to the corner, his hands shoved in the pockets of his camel hair coat, his head down against the wind—or Darcie's rejection? “So am I,” he said. “Let me try.”

“A
mazing. Merrick Lowell, begging me to come back.”

On the ferry across the Hudson, Darcie scrunched low in her seat, closed her eyes and imagined the dark water spraying out to either side of the bow as the boat cut cleanly through the current. It didn't calm her. She envisioned the high rock cliffs of the Jersey Palisades—like the climb she faced at work over Greta Hinckley. They didn't help, either. She daydreamed about Australia Day with Dylan, overriding tonight's encounter with Merrick.

The thought of Dylan—who hadn't called after all—only made her sit up straight in her seat to stare out at the lights on the other side of the river. Beckoning? Or reminding her that she was Darcie Elizabeth Baxter, Girl Wunder, single female living with her grandmother.

By the time she reached home, Dylan seemed more a part of her past than could be possible in just four days and four lonely nights.

“Wasn't that what you wanted, Baxter?”

News flash: After Dylan—after Merrick—she didn't know what she wanted.

When she opened the duplex door with her key to find
Gran cozied up on her oyster-white sofa with Julio Perez, Darcie ground her teeth. They had their arms hooked, like newlyweds, each holding the other's glass for a taste. Their eyes sparkled, Gran's peridot blue-green, Julio's dark-brown and glazed with obvious lust. Startled, they moved apart.

“Dinner, Darcie?” Eden bounded off the sofa. “You must be starving.”

With her usual radar, she had sensed immediately that a) she and Julio were no longer alone and b) something was wrong. Eden put Darcie's coat and attaché case in the closet.

“I'm not hungry, Gran.”

“I made pot roast.” Eden's tone tempted her, as it was meant to. “Dark, sweet carrots. Crusted golden potatoes. Onions cooked just the way you like them.”

“You never make pot roast for me.” She waved toward the sofa. “Evening, Julio. Your night off?”

“Sí.”

“Gran's a good cook. Isn't she?”

“
Muy bueno,
Señorita Darcie.” The petite doorman wore skinny jeans and a green polo shirt that screamed Latin Lover. His black hair lay sleeked against his skull like an otter's pelt. “You are well, yes?”

“No.”

“What's the matter, dear?” Gran rushed to feel her forehead.

“I don't have a fever.” Darcie ducked away but made her habitual quick check of the room. Sweet Baby Jane was nowhere in sight. Thank God for small favors.

Julio sipped his drink, which appeared to be a gin and tonic from its clear liquid and the slice of lime hanging over the edge of the glass. He angled his head around the fruit to drink. Darcie thought she might like one herself.

“I ran into Merrick tonight.”

Gran's face registered quick alarm. “That man had better not be in my building,” she said, shooting a look at Julio. “I'll have him thrown into the street. With luck, a cab will run over him.”

“He is a bad man?” Julio inquired.

“Yes.” Gran smiled at him. “Not at all a gentleman like you,
mi corazón.
” She patted her hair, which still looked apricot to Darcie. Hmm. Maybe Julio kept her too busy these days to take time for the hairdresser. “Merrick Lowell broke my poor Darcie's heart,” Eden explained. “And now he has the nerve to show his face again? And he wanted…what?”

Darcie sighed. “Reconciliation.”

“That's why you were late. I was beginning to worry.” But not too much, Darcie thought, to prevent her tryst with Julio and the wedding glasses. Eden frowned. “I hope you didn't—”

“No, I came home. He wanted to take me to dinner, have a drink.”

“He wanted to lure you into his bed again. I have half a mind to call his wife.”

Darcie smiled a little. “He tells me they're separated. I'm not sure whether to believe him.”

“He's a liar and a cheat. In my day your grandfather Harold would have taken a shotgun to him. Or at the very least, manipulated his clients' stock and run him right out of Wall Street. Come to think, some buckshot in his ass would be a nice finishing touch.”

She couldn't help laughing. “Gran, thanks. I appreciate your support.”

“Now that Harold's not around, I can offer you Julio.”

“I will do whatever you wish,” he said.

Gran gave him a grateful—or was that lascivious?—smile.

“And later, we'll see about
that,
” she murmured. “In the meantime help me twist Darcie's arm to eat some of this pot roast. What will I do with the leftovers?”

“Serve them again, like you always do,” Darcie said with a smile.

“I'd prefer you finish them tonight. You look thin. All that jet lag, no sleep—and now, Merrick Lowell. Not to mention Dylan Rafferty.”

Ouch.
“No woman is ever too thin.”

“Nonsense. I won't have eating disorders in my house.” She gestured at the dining room table. “Sit. I'll get you a plate.”

“Gran…”

“I didn't hear you.” Eden bustled into the kitchen, letting her hips sway, probably for Julio's benefit, beneath her tight stretch pants. She still had a good butt, Darcie admitted. But she and Perez certainly made another Odd Couple. No, the Odder Couple. “Do you want gin and tonic or wine?”

“Both. Just mix 'em.”

She didn't mean it, but the combination sounded almost appealing.

Darcie kept seeing the obvious pain in Merrick's deep-blue eyes. That boyish lock of silky blond hair that always fell over his forehead when he looked down—as he always had in bed, lying over her. Until his betrayal.

“Take my advice, Darcie,” Eden called from the kitchen where Darcie heard cabinet doors slamming, dishes banging onto the counter, silverware rattling in the drawer. “The next time you see that poor little rich boy, kick him where it counts.”

Instead, Darcie kept remembering Dylan and the silent telephone in her room.

And her grandmother who, as soon as Darcie vanished into that too-quiet bed to try to sleep, would undoubtedly crawl over Julio's fragile frame like a marine hitting the beach at Iwo Jima.

Latin lover?

The world wasn't perfect.

Maybe Merrick wasn't that big a bastard.

“Maybe I should give him another chance.”

 

“Give her another chance? Even Eden's vicious cat has only nine lives.”

Claire Spencer strode from the nursery into the bedroom, keeping her voice low not to wake the baby. Samantha had slept through the night last night, and Claire
had high hopes for a repeat. Claire might survive after all. She had less confidence in Tildy Lewis, the new nanny.

“She's just getting the feel of the job,” Peter argued, lying in their bed with his hands stacked behind his head. He looked thoroughly relaxed. “She's young.”

“So is Samantha. We need quality care for her, Peter.” It infuriated her how relaxed he could be with their daughter's welfare at stake. “The first day Tildy was here, she let Samantha sit in a poopy diaper for hours.”

“Yeah. I know. The next day she boiled the supplemental formula—but she didn't hurt Sam, sweetheart. She had the sense to let the milk cool first.”

“It probably had no nutritional value left.”

Today Claire had come home early to find the girl watching “Oprah,” sobbing over Oprah's latest fiction pick for her book club. Another depressing, sordid account of someone's dysfunctional behavior, she supposed. Claire didn't need that in her own home.

“I'm tempted to call the agency.”

“And go through all that interviewing again? Samantha is too young herself to be seriously traumatized by her baby-sitter's tears over a maudlin piece of fiction. Give Tildy a break, Claire.”

Suspicion reared its ugly head.

“Why do you like her so much?”

“Samantha?”

“No. Tildy.” Claire had to admit, she was attractive in her own way. A few pounds heavier than she might be—with terrible taste in clothes—but Tildy had thick reddish hair and gorgeous green eyes and Claire wasn't sure she wanted her around. “Don't tell me you haven't noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

Claire waggled a hand. “Her…looks.”

“She's cute enough, I guess. In a kind of Disneyland way.”

Wishing for Mary Poppins or Mrs. Doubtfire—did such paragons of child care really exist?—Claire tried to relax. The apartment was quiet. She and Peter had managed a civilized dinner for the first time in weeks. Samantha lay
tucked into her crib in the dream nursery Claire had designed, surrounded by stuffed animals, her dolphin mobile chiming softly in the distance.

“Is that what this is all about?”

Claire gave him a baffled look.

“My presumed attraction to Tildy,” he said. “What's the matter, Claire? Too much work at the office, too soon after maternity leave?”

She could have groaned. Not even a week, and Claire had a pile of folders on her desk, a screen full of e-mail, a full tape of voice messages that she might never wade through. Every night she came home to another of Tildy Lewis's disasters.

Claire bit her lip.

“I worry,” she confessed. “I worry about everything these days.”

“Tell me. You're a professional brooder.” Peter motioned her over to the bed. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me refresh your memory about our marriage….”

“What part?”

He grinned. “The sex part.”

Mild panic skittered through her. “Peter, tonight's not a good time.”

His mouth tightened. “What now? You don't have your period, do you? I thought as long as you nurse—”

“That's not always the case, but no. No period.” Her milk wasn't that plentiful either. Her body remained all messed up. So did her life. And Claire didn't know how to make it the way she wanted it to be. What had happened to her careful schedule, her neat apartment, her sex drive? “I'm just tired.”

“Headache?”

“I never get headaches.”

He kept his tone casual. “I just wondered because women who don't want to have sex with their husbands usually claim a headache. When you get one, then I'll know that you've really moved into some new phase of existence—in which I am no longer required.”

“That's silly.”

“So is this obsession about Tildy and leaving Samantha all day with someone else and how the hell to get your work done.” He didn't look relaxed now. Peter had taken his hands down and folded them over his bare chest. His mouth turned grim. “I've tried to help, Claire. But we're coming apart here and I don't know what to do about it.”

Pulse thumping, she eased into bed beside him. Claire tried to clear her mind, her guilt. It was her turn now to reassure Peter. It wasn't as easy as she'd hoped, adding another little human being to their household. Not as easy as she'd expected to return to work. Not as easy to…make love again when she felt like a sow. “We'll be fine, Peter.”

If a woman had ever needed a mantra, Claire decided, this was it.

She also needed to talk to Darcie. She hadn't seen her since Australia.

 

“Twist my arm,” Darcie murmured, “and I'll tell you more,” enjoying herself that Saturday for the first time since she'd come back to New York.

“You can be so cruel.”

Claire gazed at her across the table at Phantasmagoria, their favorite luncheon spot. In the mid-sixties off Lexington not far from Bloomingdale's, the basement-level restaurant served crunchy salads drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette, and the trendy
panini
s Darcie adored. She tried not to grin around her ham-and-cheese-stuffed, grilled sandwich.

What could be better than a chat over lunch with a friend who understood you?

“There's really nothing more to tell,” she said.

“I take one look at that sparkle in your eye—you hussy—and I know better. He sounds yummy. So he has dark hair, dark eyes…and looks like a cowboy?”

“Australian-style. Sheepboy.”

Claire laughed.

“Tall, broad-shouldered.”

“Umm.” Claire took a bite of her BLT. “And you spent
most of your time in Sydney in bed with him at the Westin?”

“My free time.” The distinction seemed important to Darcie. She didn't want Claire to think she was a slut. “Just good old, healthy recreational sex.”

“You make me pine for the ‘good old' days before Peter and I were married. Before the baby came.”

Darcie's
panini
stopped halfway to her mouth.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Claire studied a piece of bacon hanging from her sandwich. “You don't want to know. Motherhood is a far more complex event than I anticipated.”

Darcie thoughtfully stirred her coffee. “I read once—in
Glamour,
or was it
Cosmo?
—that sex after childbirth can be a traumatic notion for a new mother. Do you find that to be the case?”

“We don't have sex.”

Darcie's mouth dropped. “You and Peter the Great? Give me a break. That man—like Dylan—has double his share of testosterone. You told me he loves your new figure, your breasts….”

Claire shushed her, although she knew there was usually a younger crowd here, too intent like Claire and Darcie upon their personal problems, including men, to eavesdrop.

“He's not obsessed?”

Claire admitted, “He wanted to make love the other night, but Darcie, I just can't. It doesn't seem sexy. It would be clinical.” She set her sandwich aside. “My God, six weeks ago I was in the delivery room—all that mess, all the blood—and now I'm supposed to think Peter sticking his cock in me is the best idea since Adam and Eve?” She shuddered.

“You should talk to your doctor about this, Claire.”

Her gaze snapped up. “You think I'm neurotic?”