What's Yours is Mine (2 page)

She sat out on the back deck to eat, perching on the steps as she gazed down the row of redwood decks, each big enough for tables and chairs. What would it be like when all these condos were filled? Would she get to know everyone? Would they have parties and wander from deck to deck? She smiled at her whimsy. Nothing was that idyllic. Still, it was pleasant to dream.
 

Later, she unrolled her sleeping bag by the open sliding glass door to the back patio, then lay down, pillowing her head on her hands, and listened to the lulling rhythm of the surf, feeling at peace.
 

For the first time in her life, she had a permanent residence, and that was all that mattered. A home of her very own. No more jumping from illegal sublet to temporary business housing. Even as a child, she’d been an unwilling vagabond. Her father, the General, was still a junior officer then, and they moved from Seattle to Wisconsin to New Jersey in a blur of army bases and secondhand furniture. It didn’t get much better once she was on her own. Boston for college, San Diego for business school, New York for a brief mistake of an attempt at being a stockbroker. Not to mention that brief mistake of an attempt to live with Phillip.
 

This time she owned the place. It belonged to her and nobody else. And when she got back from Shanghai, she’d move in for real. For good.

~*~

The day after the closing was insane, with moving trucks filling up the small parking lot by the side of the complex and more lined up along the curb like the world’s dullest parade.
 

Everyone seemed happy with their new homes, Will was glad to see. Faye and Henrietta, the sixty-something lesbian couple at the far end of the U-shaped building, even knocked on his door to give him a thank-you present, a basil plant in a Mexican glazed ceramic pot. Apparently Tim Farrow, the developer, had told them the skylight over the kitchen island was Will’s idea.
 

The day—moving-in day, as he thought of it—went smoothly. Better than he’d hoped. Still, he jumped every time the doorbell rang, whipped his head around to look every time a woman walked past him in the courtyard, checking to make sure it wasn’t her, and vibrated with so much tension that he was like a plucked violin string by nightfall.
 

But Darcy Jennings never did show up. And when he walked into the courtyard after dinner and scanned the complex, every unit was accounted for, with warm lights shining through all the windows. Maybe she’d backed out at the last minute. Could he be so lucky?
 

He went back to his own place, opening the door and breathing in the smell of newly polished wood and the faint tang of no-VOC paint. Tim had let Will pick out everything for his own unit, down to the bathroom fixtures and the lengths of bamboo for the flooring. He’d used feng shui and instinct to create a serene space.
 

The doorway opened into a tiny foyer, then he turned and stepped into the great room: living and dining and kitchen all combined, with a domed skylight over the butcher-block kitchen island. Behind the dining area, a sliding glass door opened onto a small redwood deck. The vast expanse of the Pacific sparkled in the moonlight beyond the back windows.
 

Had Darcy seen this, been here, touched the wood, and run her hands across the reclaimed blue glass countertops? It was the showcase unit, so she probably had. The thought unsettled him.

Before last month, he’d met Darcy only once in person, just after Stan had assigned him to the Slippery Elm account. They’d already exchanged a few emails, businesslike and to the point. He’d suggested some packaging ideas for her skin lotion. She’d emailed back a bulleted list of comments, with notes and sub-notes and sub-sub-notes, riffing on his thoughts. The thing ran fifteen pages, single-spaced. He’d pushed his chair away from the computer and laughed. She’d been so very serious about all of it, so painstakingly thorough. Her email even had footnotes.
 

Then she came to Santa Genoveva for a big meeting on the future of the project. And she was beautiful: lithe and slender, with intense dark eyes that belied the delicate beauty of her pixie face. She was also sarcastic in just the right ways, and smart as hell. And so focused, like a laser beam in human form. She’d perched in her chair at the conference table, gesturing, unaware that her hair was falling in her eyes and her elbow kept brushing against her mug, threatening to spill coffee all over the table. Stan Golden, head of Golden Organics, watched her with a paternal affection. At the time, Will felt like he understood why. Darcy Jennings was enchanting.
 

Now Will slammed his fist down on the redwood railing of the back deck. Darcy Jennings was hardly enchanting. And he should have seen it back then, but he was blinded by a pretty face and an earnest expression.
 

They’d emailed and Skyped and talked on the phone, working on the project at all hours of the night to make up for the time difference between California and London, then California and Chicago, then California and India. She’d been on the road all the time, never more than a month or two anywhere. Stan used her to put out fires at factories and distribution and who knew what else.
 

That was why she’d worked so hard to develop the Slippery Elm skin lotion, she’d told Will late one night, her voice husky from overuse. She wanted that promotion to the main office so bad she could cry. She almost did cry that night on the phone. She wanted to move here, to Santa Genoveva. Settle down in one place. Make a home for herself.
 

Sucker that he was, he’d fallen for her vulnerable act. A disembodied voice on the phone can lie, after all. And if they’d wistfully talked about meeting someday, sitting down over coffee or drinks and getting to know each other in person, that was probably a result of the lateness of the hour, the false intimacy of their long-distance virtual relationship. He hadn’t known her at all, it turned out.
 

In truth, the signs were all there, if he’d only seen them. Workaholic. No outside life. No boyfriends. No permanent home. Just work and more work, an endless, single-minded drive to Get Things Done.
 

He’d done some of his best work for her: designing the packaging for that skin cream, designing the larger campaign, the focus of the product. And, okay, maybe he’d had a few fantasies of his own of one particular pair of silky hands smoothing it on his back and thighs. But that was before he’d discovered what she was really up to. He should have known it all along. This woman wasn’t for him. She was deceitful and ambitious and would let nothing stand in her way.

He stepped off the patio onto the path that led down the steep slope, making his way past tufts of blue-green fescue grass and pale gray-green aromatic sage which practically glowed in the moonlight, past tangled thorny brush, down to the small, pebbly beach below. A private beach for the condo complex.
 

His own private beach, right now. His oasis.
 

He took his shoes off and walked barefoot across rough stones to a large rock jutting out into the water; then he settled down in a cross-legged position, hands on his knees, palms lifted up, and simply breathed.
 

This was what he’d dreamed of doing since he first saw the proposed building site. This was why he’d claimed one of the units for himself. As he sat and breathed in, hearing the sounds of the water lapping against the rock and the wind through the palms far above him, smelling the sharp salt scent of ocean air, he relaxed completely, letting go for the first time all day.

It would be okay. It had to be. He’d rebuilt his life in the four years since that catastrophic career-ending moment. He’d survive this too.

~*~

Sleep. Sleeeeep. Please, yes, sleep. A bed, a bare mattress, a sleeping bag on the floor, it didn’t matter as long as it was horizontal and quiet. Darcy had been up for twenty-six hours and was feeling every minute of it. She just had to stay awake long enough to drive home without crashing into a palm tree. No easy feat, thanks to that eighteen-hour plane ride from Shanghai to Los Angeles next to a woman cuddling a four-month-old baby with an impressive lung capacity.
 

The overwhelmed mom had apologized profusely, of course, and Darcy had brushed it off, telling her she’d been a champion wailer as a child. The mom smiled tremulously. It was the right thing to say, even if it wasn’t true. But she still couldn’t sleep. By the time the kid finally started snoring on his mom’s chest, Darcy was too shell-shocked to sleep.
 

She’d been looking forward to the plane ride too. Normally, it was the only time her insomnia went to sleep, lulled by the steady thrum of jet engines and the light, constant flow of air-conditioning. Not this time. Her ears were still ringing.
 

Yawning, she rubbed her eyes with a fist. The car swerved, and she hastily righted it. Tonight, after she’d collected her baggage and survived customs, she found herself veering toward the parking lot shuttle instead of the hotel shuttle. Santa Genoveva was a two-hour drive north of LAX, insanity at this hour and with jet lag hitting her like a knockout punch, but the pull of her new home was too much. If she was really lucky, her furniture might have arrived, and she could sleep in a real bed tonight.
 

She got in her car at one a.m. and started the long drive up Pacific Coast Highway, fantasizing once more about her new life. Barbecues on the back deck. Midnight swims in the cove. Neighbors she could wave to when she picked up the mail. Familiar faces instead of the endless stream of fellow hotel guests.
 

Maybe she’d get a pet. A little fuzzy dog with floppy ears to greet her at the door. Or a cat that might curl up on her lap while she worked. Companionship.
 

She’d had a cat once, when her family lived in Indiana for two whole years. A tiny stray kitten followed her home one day from fifth grade. He was black with a white bib and dainty little white feet that looked like he’d walked across a wet painted floor. Her friend Tiffany said she should call him Boots, but Darcy decided to call him Feets. He slept by her ear, purring like a motor gone crazy, and he never squeaked in protest no matter how hard she hugged him.

When the General got reassigned to the United Arab Emirates, her parents flat-out refused to bring Feets. Sobbing, Darcy gave him to Tiff, who promised to give him a good home and lots of hugs, but did she? Could she love him as much as Darcy did?
 

Looking back, that was probably the start of her insomnia. Her new bed was lumpy, the apartment was stuffy, and the country painfully unfamiliar. Worst of all, she had no Feets to purr her to sleep. Not to mention no Tiff, probably her only real friend, all those years ago.
 

She’d definitely get a cat.
 

Stifling her hundredth yawn, she pulled into a free parking spot and got out. Time to go home. Time to sleep. Crossing the courtyard with her suitcases in the so-late-it’s-early quiet, Darcy tossed her keys in the air and caught them with one hand. She glanced around at the condominium windows in the U-shaped complex. Most had curtains or shades installed already. She was the last arrival.
 

The key turned smoothly in the lock, the door swung inward on silent hinges, and Darcy stepped inside, flicking on the light. Brightness lanced through her retinas. She hastily switched off the light.
 

But hey. In that split second, she’d seen furniture. It looked strangely different than it had in the catalogue and she’d need to rearrange things, but cool. Real furniture.
 

And hey. Real furniture meant a real bed. Blessed, blessed sleep, so soon hers. She kicked off her shoes and dropped the suitcases.
 

On into the bedroom. The bed loomed large in the dark, a faint light shining through slats. Had she ordered a sleigh bed? Really? So not her style. She must have been delirious from jet lag. She’d have to call the company tomorrow and change it out.
 

More important right now was the dim bulk of a comforter, the edge of a pillow. The delivery people had even made the bed. She’d have to make sure they got a big tip.
 

She shucked her clothes, dropping shirt, skirt, panties, bra on the floor, and slid under the cool sheets. Bliss.
 

Just because she could, because she was finally in a deliciously comfortable bed, she stretched out, arms and legs and—
 

Her hand smacked warm flesh.
 

“Whu?” A masculine voice, sleepy and disoriented.
 

“Gaah!” She sat up abruptly, clutching the blankets to her bare chest. Where was the light? She needed light!

A flick of a switch. The mystery intruder turned on a table lamp.
 

Darcy blinked against the sudden brightness. Even squinting, she could make out his face.
 

Will Dougherty was in her bed.

Chapter Two

Will was still asleep. That had to be it. He was dreaming, a tormenting melding of fantasy turn-on—a naked, sexy woman unexpectedly showing up in his bed—with cruel, darkly twisted humor: the naked woman was Darcy Jennings.
 

“What are you doing here?” She sat up fast, belatedly clutching the sheet to her chest, though not soon enough to erase the mental image of small, perky breasts with deep rose areolas.
 

“It’s my bedroom. It’s three a.m. What do you think I’m doing? Sleeping. Or at least I was.”
 

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s my bedroom. You made a mistake. You belong in number ten or number twenty-five or somewhere else. Or, better yet, in another complex entirely.”

“There is no number twenty-five.” This was not a dream. This was really happening. And she was, in fact, naked. Like a thrumming undertone at an all-night rave, the thought wouldn’t go away. Darcy Jennings, engineer of his fall from grace, was naked in his bed, her dark brown hair falling over bare shoulders, her pert little nipples standing up under the thin cotton sheet that was barely covering—oh, there it went, sliding down her body.