by Leigh Riker
“Blow-in?”
“That’s Ozspeak—for newcomer. Or you could say Strine.”
Ozspeak? “A stranger is a Strine?”
“No.” He smiled. “That’s how we say Aus-tra-lian.” He tangled the syllables.
Darcie smiled, too. “And I thought you spoke English here.”
His wasn’t the smoothest line she’d ever heard, and he’d guessed she was a tourist, but that voice could warm the polar ice cap—which wasn’t all that far away. Darcie gripped both arms of her seat. His gray-green hat, plopped at a jaunty angle on his head, the lightweight sport coat that dangled from one finger over his shoulder, shouted Take me. I’m yours.
She couldn’t help herself. Darcie hummed the first few bars again of “Waltzing Matilda,” for his benefit this time, and he laughed.
“Mind if I sit down?”
She gestured at the opposite club chair. “Park your ‘tucker’ right there.”
He grinned—a gorgeous grin. “Already had my tucker, thanks.”
Darcie had no idea what tucker meant either. All she knew was, it was in the song and that her abdomen, even her thighs, had begun to ache in a different way.
His grin widening, he leaned back in his chair. “Puffaloons, yabbies, Vegemite, a nice bit of Pavlova… What’re you drinking?”
What was he talking about?
“Uh, Chardonnay. Anything…Strine.”
“It’s really Or-strall-yan. Since you’re trying so hard to fit in here, I thought I’d point that out.” Charmingly, in addition to his mangled vowels, his deep voice lifted at the end of each sentence, as if asking her approval of the thought. He raised a finger—which Darcie didn’t resent as she had with Merrick at the Hyatt—to a passing waiter who’d delivered another tray of beer to the next table. A shout rose up at someone’s latest joke. “Tucker means food,” he explained.
“That was food you mentioned?’
“Puffaloons are fried-dough scones, yabbies are little freshwater crayfish, Vegemite’s a national treasure—yeast extract. Pavlova’s dessert. Meringue, whipped cream, fruit…”
“You were teasing me.”
He nodded. “Besides, the tucker you meant is from the bush, often carried in a backpack.”
Darcie smiled. “By a swagman like yourself?”
He glanced at his blue shirt. “Do I look that bad?” Then down at his jeans. “Sorry. A swagman’s a bum. A hobo.” Darcie flushed at her error and he said, “I came in from the station this afternoon. Didn’t take time to change.” He looked at the executives’ table. They all appeared as well-dressed as Merrick. “Left my good bag of fruit upstairs.”
Station? “I didn’t see any trains.”
He grinned again. “There are some. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Blinded by his smile, Darcie ran a finger around the rim of her glass, his gaze instantly homing in on the motion. “You’re a cowboy?”
His eyes had darkened. So did her blood.
“Yes, ma’am. I raise sheep. On what you’d call a ranch.”
Surprised, she took a breath. The air felt thick with smoke and…lust.
“Bag of fruit?” she repeated, recalling what else he’d said.
“Aussie rhyming slang. For suit.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to insult you. You look nice.” Understatement of the entire timeline of mankind, Darcie. She could put him in a display window—oh God, yes—and with his body draped like a coat hanger with filmy lingerie, wouldn’t that sell undies? Or she could send him down a fashion-show runway with a skimpily dressed model on each arm. “And that hat…”
He removed it, as if suddenly remembering his manners, then playfully plunked it on Darcie’s hair. When his hand brushed her cheek, she felt a flash of frenzied desire.
“There you go,” he said, and her ache grew more insistent, her blood thicker. She couldn’t stop staring. He wore a gold signet ring on his right little finger and even that melted her. His touch lingered, his tone softened. “Now you look just like an Aussie.” He gave her a long once-over she couldn’t read. “Guess I need to teach you a few things.”
Darcie’s libido puckered. “We can trade.”
He held her gaze. “All right, I’ll help you learn Ozspeak. My language—the language of a convict subculture full of rebellion. For what? Your…straight-laced English grammar?” He laughed, then offered his hand, his dark eyes warm and too direct. Could they see right into her more than friendly fantasies? She couldn’t tell. Until he said, “Or maybe we’ll work out a different bargain. Something more interesting.” He paused when she took his hand. “Good to meet you. I’m—”
Before he could say his name, Darcie reared back. His firm grasp, the feel of his fingers around hers, the whisper-light brush of his thumb over her palm threatened to turn her to pudding. Butterscotch. Her whole body tightened. Too perfect.
“Let’s not,” she said.
“Not what?”
“Exchange names.” She fiddled with the hat, tilting it rakishly over one eye. She’d had enough of Merrick Lowell and his lies. If she ended up with this Aussie hunk—oh, Gran, you should see him—she wouldn’t regret it in the morning. “Let’s keep things…mysterious.”
He went still in his chair. He waited until the bartender set their fresh drinks on the table and left. The growing heat in his eyes had cooled. Considerably.
“You’re not working here, are you?”
Working? “Not at the moment.” Why did he ask?
He gazed at Darcie with suspicion.
“I finished at five today,” she continued, “your time, whatever it’s called.”
“Eastern Standard Time in New South Wales. Greenwich mean time plus ten.”
In New York that would be…yesterday sometime. Darcie felt too jet-lagged, too enthralled by him, too unsettled by his look to do the math. She waved a hand. Why did he seem…disappointed?
She hurried on. “The man I work for told me to go home. I can’t seem to get my clock turned around, though. I don’t know whether to yawn or do my morning bends and stretches.” Then she knew. Shocked, Darcie swallowed. A working girl.
“You think I’m—” A lady of the night?
“Darling, I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve seen. But I don’t do hookers.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Hoping she’d convinced him of her relative innocence, Darcie leaned against the up button at the bank of elevators opposite the Westin gift shop. It was closed now. In the past hour the executives in the bar next door had raised their level of laughter and camaraderie another few decibels, and several women in trendy power suits had joined them. She and the cowboy had also taken their new “relationship” onto a different plane. Talk about verbal foreplay—once she made him understand that Walt Corwin wasn’t her pimp. The elevator doors glided open. Darcie and the sheep farmer entered the car.
He punched his floor, she punched her button…so to speak…then with his hand catching hers, he nailed her up against the rail along the wall. His gold signet ring clinked against the wood. Darcie still wore his Akubra hat when his mouth lowered to her throat. His warm breath sent a thrill of lust from the roots of her hair to her too-high shoes, toes cramped like her uterus into a suddenly too-tight space.
Murmuring, he kissed her neck, her earlobe, then drew it between his teeth. Beautiful teeth, she remembered. His hands began to roam. “So, you’re in retail.”
She’d had to tell him something about herself. That wary look on his face had threatened to spoil their evening. Darcie kept things general, though, except now he knew she was staying here. Well, of course he did. Her head swam a little from the wine but she could still think. More or less. They were in the elevator, rising quickly to the upper floors, not out on the street saying goodbye. Darcie had a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Monday nights with Merrick at the Grand Hyatt…
“It’s a new job,” she said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it.”
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nbsp; His low tone sent flame along her already singed nerve ends.
“I imagine you can do anything you set your mind to.”
She paused, remembering Walt. “My boss is sleeping,” she informed him.
“With you?”
“Next door. In his own room.”
He drew back to smile at her. “You’re drongo. Funny, that is.”
Or did the slang mean idiot? Her stomach sank another notch. Men and hotel rooms were becoming a habit. And who wanted a comedienne—as Merrick said? Now, the Aussie would laugh at her, pat her on the head—smashing his own Akubra hat with the motion—then send her to her room. Darcie’s Big Night in Sydney Goes Belly Up.
“Funny in a good way,” he added.
“Let’s see.” She watched him move in again, felt his lips trail along the column of her neck to the first button on her white silk blouse. “I’m cute. I’m a laugh riot. I’m—”
“You’re—” A big, pathetic joke with jet lag, PMS and no chance now of getting “close” tonight. “Sexy as hell,” he finished. With his low words of reprieve, Darcie’s legs went weak. She leaned her head back farther to give him access to her throat. His tongue swept across the hollow there, down to her breasts, into the slight cleft that passed for cleavage—when she wore the right bra. She wasn’t.
And for a moment Darcie’s sensible side prevailed. Walt was upstairs. They were here to work. In any case she shouldn’t take a stranger to her room. Was she nuts? Forget Merrick Lowell. Not only were hotels becoming her second home, a bad habit, but this seemed risky. Possibly dangerous, Darcie cautioned herself. Certainly the rash notion showed a lack of common sense on her part. She couldn’t help asking.
“You’re not a serial killer, are you?”
His tongue whisked along the valley of her breasts.
“Like I’d tell you.” At the droll statement she could feel him smile against her skin. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Which floor are you on?”
“Uh, thirty-three.”
He took her mouth, sent the words inside. His tongue, too. His husky tone.
“I’m on thirty-one. Let’s go there. It’s closer.”
Her pulse soared like the rising elevator and Darcie stopped finding reasons to resist. Hell, take a chance—like Annie. By the time the doors opened onto the quiet hall, his hat had flopped over her left eye. By then, Darcie supposed the hotel security staff had had their fill of elevator foreplay, verbal and physical, on the video monitors. He took her hand, led her to the corner room on the corridor, and, while kissing her again, slipped his key card into the chrome slot beside the door that flashed red when no visitors were wanted. The light turned green—go, Darcie—and they tumbled inside.
Darcie had a quick impression of light wood, butter-cream walls, the frosted celadon-green glass door of the bathroom—like her own room. Before she breathed again, he had her up against the mirrored closet doors in the entryway. Still kissing, he caught her hips in his hands and bumped up against her, better than Gran had said.
Darcie wound her arms around his sturdy neck. With her head tipped back, the Akubra smashed against the glass, she hung on tight. Oh, God, he could kiss. God, he could…
In about five seconds, with his hand flicking open buttons like this down the front of her blouse, then his chambray shirt (he obviously didn’t need practice) Darcie wouldn’t even be breathing.
His hand dropped to his buckle. The belt snapped from the loops. It clanked onto the marble floor. Outside, through the plate glass window wall on the opposite side of the room, the stars—those unidentified constellations—sparkled in the black nighttime sky. Blocks away, down the long slope of King Street, which Darcie couldn’t see from here, at Darling Harbour people danced and drank. It didn’t matter. With his shirt open, her blouse undone, he pressed his chest to her breasts and Darcie whimpered at the low-down ache in her abdomen. They’d never reach the bed.
“Feel good?” He dragged down his zipper. She heard a foil packet tear before he sheathed himself. “I’ll make it better. I promise.”
“Don’t let me down.”
With her request, he whisked her panties off so fast Darcie never felt them fall. He cupped her bottom in both hands. That aching spot down low needed his attention so badly she couldn’t speak—comedy was the last thing on her mind now—and his hardness pushed at the ready opening of her body. He raised his head.
“You’re clean, right?”
She gasped. “I’m clean.”
“Me, too. So let me…show you…my billabong,” he whispered hotly.
Then he slid inside. Deep. Hard. Full. Heaven. Her breath rushed out.
“Ohhh.”
“Unhhh.”
The stars twinkled. The moon shone. The cold beige marble floor made her toes curl—or was that him? His arousal felt velvety hot. The mirror felt slick and cool against her bare bottom. If he opened his eyes, would he see her big behind squashed flatter than his hat to the glass? When his heat engulfed her, Darcie no longer cared about her exposed rear end, about hotel rooms with men who didn’t love her.
His tempo increased. He stroked her, in, out, in, out until they both seemed to lose their minds from the very motion, like the lilting strains of the song she only half remembered.
“You little swag…woman…” he gasped.
“You…big tucker…man…”
She didn’t know how long they lasted. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Not long enough. At some point while the moon still gleamed and the stars still shone and Darcie still wore the Akubra, the climax caught her, swift and shattering.
With one last hard thrust, on a groan he came, too.
When he stopped shuddering and she finally stopped shaking, her head fell back against the mirrored closet. She didn’t mind if he saw her rear now, plastered to the glass, reflected in all its formless, naked glory. When his head dropped to the juncture of her neck, his mouth hot and open on her damp skin, Darcie peeled herself away from the mirror. And the Akubra hat thumped onto the marble floor. She couldn’t tell which of them was breathing in the most ragged rhythm. Or a complete lack of one.
Her heart beat like fury. His thicker, stronger pulse thudded against her breast.
He whispered a low, erotic word, and Darcie cried out, ready to begin all over again what they had just finished…but, like him, not quite finished. When he kissed her, long and sweet and silky, she hoped this one night would never end.
“‘Waltzing Matilda,’” Darcie breathed into his mouth like a prayer.
“Want another beer?” Like a pagan god, hours later he stood naked at the minibar, a perfect sight in the open fridge door that shafted light over his loins, upward along his taut belly to his muscled chest and shoulders, to the renewed glitter in his dark eyes. Darcie wanted him, again, too.
Swathed in the white cotton duvet, she lay on the king-size bed amid big goose down pillows and grinned at him. Even though she didn’t like beer, she said yes.
“And after that…?” she added, hoping for more.
“We’ll rehydrate, then negotiate.”
Like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett, she couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
I’ll make it better. “I won’t give you a fight.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t.”
“I have to say, I like a man who keeps his promise.”
With a wolfish smile of his own, he slammed the fridge door and walked—strolled in all his male splendor, which Darcie suspected he did on purpose—across the room to her. Darcie lifted the duvet to invite him in. Now the city lights coming through the wide windows illuminated him, too. Gilded his sunbrowned skin. Deepened the interesting creases in his cheeks, the smile lines around his mouth.
“How old are you?” she asked idly, reaching for the beer he held out.
“Thirty-four.” He didn’t ask her the same question. “Why?”
“You’re well preserved.” She trailed a hand over his shoulder. “I’m twenty-nine.�
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“Thanks. We’re both old enough.” For what, he didn’t say. He rubbed his bare chest. “Most women don’t like telling, though.”
“Are you always this polite?”
“My mum hopes so.” Oh Lord, a chink in the walls of pleasure. His mother. He had one, maybe just like Janet. He fell onto the bed, held his beer can to one side, and lowered his head to kiss her open mouth. “But no, ma’am. I’m not that polite. Now.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She repeated her earlier words.
He frowned. “Hey. I didn’t really think you were a working girl.”
“Yes, you did.”
He seemed to take most things literally, which Darcie tried not to mind, either. After all, she’d taken Merrick at face value. There was a lesson there but right now she wouldn’t give it any credence.
“Well, I didn’t want to think so,” he said.
“Why not? Other than the fact you don’t pay for sex?”
“I’d never pay for it. Even if I was ugly as a fence post.”
Her gaze wandered over him. “Believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”
“No worries, darling,” he corrected her. “We’re behind on our lessons here.”
“No worries.” Repeating the mantra, Darcie folded him close. Darling. “But on second thought, isn’t this subject too personal for our first date?”
“What, sex? Have another beer,” he said. “Then you won’t care.” He paused. “Is that what this is?” He glanced at the duvet, the pillows, Darcie. “A date?”
“Well. I guess not.” She murmured, “No strings.”
Warm and scented with sex, with each other, they lay close under the covers, drinking tall cans of Foster’s lager. Another, then another. Ugh. Still, beer didn’t taste so bad by the third bottle. Or was it fourth? At some point he’d called room service after they finished the minibar supply to have it restocked.
“For a woman who hates beer,” he finally said, “you’re holding your own here.”
The room spun a little. “It’s cheaper than the hard stuff.”