by Leigh Riker
Darcie didn’t know why she felt like apologizing. “I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s my line.” He rose from the bed, weaving a little on his feet. “Hold the thought. I need to take a leak.” Unerringly, he headed for her bathroom. His apartment obviously had the same layout as hers.
“So if you climb in my window, what good does that do you?”
He didn’t answer. Darcie waited for him to come back into the room. Annie was still sleeping, oblivious to their late-night intruder.
“I figured if I could get inside the building, I could jimmy my door lock. With luck, I might get a few hours’ sleep before I blow the rest of my life—forget a career—tomorrow.” He picked at a hangnail on his thumb.
Curious, Darcie asked, “What career?”
“I’m in advertising. Ha,” he added. “Wouldn’t you know? It’s not bad enough the whole industry’s in a slump. My date tonight left with another guy while I was in the men’s room.”
“You have a weak bladder?”
“Only when I drink six beers trying to anesthetize myself.”
“Ah,” Darcie said. She leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp—then almost shouted again. The man blinking against the sudden glare, like Darcie, just might be, after Dylan Rafferty and Merrick Lowell, one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen. New York, like Sydney, was full of them. How could you hate it?
Not perfect, she thought, taking a longer look. His otherwise straight nose had a slight hump in the middle. Broken once, probably. His left eye seemed ever so slightly larger than the right—not uncommon, either. Annie’s right eye always looked just the least bit stunned, and Greta Hinckley always appeared to Darcie like someone whose genes had gotten jumbled at conception. On this guy, his little imperfections looked good. So did his scuffed leather jacket.
Much better than the Harley-and-black-leather type Annie had brought home earlier this week. Not trendy black leather in that case but hardcore.
Her visitor stared at her in return. Although light-haired, he wasn’t GQ like Merrick, or International Male like Dylan. He fell somewhere in between. A glimmer of interest flickered in his gray eyes then was tamped down. Clearly, he was in no mood for sexual adventure. Her heart still thumping, neither was Darcie. “Would you like to sit down?”
He glanced around the room. “You have about as much furniture as I do. No, thanks. I’d better just—” he flipped a hand toward the outer room “—go.”
Darcie had a better idea. She tiptoed across the hall in her too-big T-shirt, feeling his gaze on her bare legs, and filched Annie’s hobo bag from her dresser. Annie snored on, unaware of the excitement in Darcie’s room. She returned to find their “neighbor” leaning against the wall by the window. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Fine. You?” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Nah. Strange men climb through my window almost every night.”
He grinned. “You wish.”
Darcie handed him Annie’s key ring. “My sister has every key ever, you know, cut from a blank on one of those funny machines at the hardware store. She collects keys. When she was in college, she used them all the time to get in the dorm after hours…check on her boyfriends…”
“Weird.” He echoed her earlier statement.
“You should meet Greta.”
“That’s your sister’s name?”
“No, someone else I work with. Never mind. Our relationship here hasn’t progressed far enough for me to share Greta just yet.”
He took the keys. “Thanks. It should only take me the rest of the night to figure out which one works. You been in New York long? You’re pretty trusting.”
“A few years.”
“Not long enough,” he said.
“I’m from Ohio. It’s a hard habit to break.”
He held out his hand. A beautiful hand, long-fingered. “I’m from Georgia. Cutter Longridge.”
“That’s your hometown?”
“No, my name.” He grinned again. “All us Southern boys have family names. What about you?”
She stood mesmerized by his soft drawl, by his soft gray eyes. There was no way she’d wake up Annie now to share the bounty. “Darcie Baxter. I’m in…underwear.”
His glance dropped to the hem of her T-shirt. Her panties.
“Wunderthings International,” she added.
“No kidding.” His grin widened. “Maybe we’ll have a private fashion show one of these nights.”
“In your dreams.”
“They might be short tonight—if I ever get to bed—but I can guarantee you, they’ll be excellent.” He shut her window then walked to her bedroom door.
“Good night, Cutter.”
“I’ll drop your keys off in the morning.” He gave a fingertip salute. “Nice to meet you, Darcie.”
“See you.”
Long after he left the apartment, Darcie lay in bed, alone again, smiling at the stars on her ceiling.
“Wow,” she said aloud to the darkened room. “In New York you don’t even have to leave your apartment to meet the most amazing men.”
A week later Claire dashed from the bedroom into the kitchen. She wore her panty hose (black, of course, for tonight) her matching bra (Wunderthings Sexy’N Sleek, size 36B, $24.95, purchased from the store’s online catalogue because she had no time to shop) and a slinky black skirt that hung, still unzipped, from her hips, which were still wide enough the skirt couldn’t fall down. Claire checked the last round of potstickers on the stove, then dashed back into the nursery.
Samantha was howling.
“What’s new, pussycat?” Claire hummed, worming a clumsy finger between Sam’s round belly and her diaper. “Peter!” she said without turning.
“Right here.” He peered into the crib. Sam had graduated from her bassinet, and she squirmed under Claire’s restraining hand. “Wet again?” he echoed.
“Soaked. Fix her, will you? I’ll never get dressed.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Fine by me. We could stay home tonight—”
“Ruin Darcie’s party?”
“—and see what kind of trouble we can get into on our own.”
“With the baby-sitter in the next room?” Claire spun around, avoiding Peter’s arms. “Is she here yet?”
“Any minute.”
“I hope she doesn’t bring her boyfriend this time. I don’t trust him.”
“With Danielle, or the silverware?”
“Both.”
Claire charged back into their bedroom, leaving Peter with the wet diaper problem. He’d become a master at it, but still, only wet ones. No matter how she tried, Claire couldn’t seem to develop the skill of changing, powdering, rediapering. She felt like a first-timer every time. This, from the VP of Heritage Insurance? A different set of skills, she told herself.
Peter called out from the nursery over Sam’s squalling.
“Do you realize the last time we had sex was last year?”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
He strolled into the room, holding Sam. She looked dry and cozy and cute as a munchkin in her fresh sleeper with the lavender bunnies on it.
Claire looked about wildly for her top. “Could we discuss this some other time? In private?” She shot a glance at Sam, who grinned toothlessly at her and waved her arms. “Sweetie, I can’t hold you right now. Daddy will play with you. Mommy’s lost her clothes.”
“I knew my wish would come true. Come here. Put me out of my misery.”
Claire’s pulse jumped.
He jostled the baby, making her giggle. “Sam wants Mom and Dad to…cuddle up together. Why, she asked me only yesterday about a baby brother or sister for Christmas.”
“Won’t happen. This is April.”
“Might be early.”
He sounded serious, and Claire felt her heart tighten. He’d also acted pushy the day they helped Darcie move.
“Peter, I can barely handle Samantha. It will take me years to feel co
mfortable with motherhood. I’m very disappointed in myself—”
“Claire Spencer, Overachiever.”
“Well, I am. I can’t help it. I’m usually good at what I do—anything I do.”
“Sam adores you. So do I. What else do you need?”
“Competence.”
He frowned. He looked so good dressed in dark pants and a collarless shirt, his sandy hair brushed and gleaming for Darcie’s party, that Claire’s breath caught. She almost felt tempted. Stay home, make love…she could scarcely remember what it felt like. Assuming her body still worked after Samantha had played Roto-Rooter through her vagina.
“You’re totally competent, Claire. I can’t believe you said that.” Peter paused to stare down at his daughter. “You mean the three-days-a-week routine isn’t working any better?”
“Think Tildy. Peter, I am the laughingstock of my office. On the phone with one hand, trying to nurse Sam who’s propped up with my knee, signing letters with the other hand. At the end of the line some guy is saying, ‘What? I can’t hear you,’ because she’s crying, and I see my career flash in front of my eyes because I just realized I’m talking to the CEO of Heritage.”
She dove into her dresser drawer, looking for her top. It wasn’t in her closet. Half the time she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to be doing—or had done in the past two minutes. Peter apparently agreed.
“Maybe you’re right. We should go to the party. You need to get out more.”
“Like I need a shrink?”
Peter strolled over to her, and something soft plopped onto the dresser top. “Your blouse. It was on the bed. In the middle of the bed. Funny, how red shows up against white.”
Straightening, she made a futile gesture. And Claire’s attempt at a party mood vanished with his next words.
“Good idea. See someone, Claire. You may not remember but I do. We had sex on December 24. Competence is not the issue.”
“Where is Claire?” She’d promised to be on time.
When the doorbell rang, Darcie flew from her bedroom—the scene of more than one strange-middle-of-the-night meeting with Cutter Longridge—to answer it. But it wasn’t Cutter or Claire who stood there.
“Merrick.”
“Am I early?” Unsmiling, he peered around her into the empty living room. “You did say eight o’clock.” He was a stickler for promptness.
“You’re counterfashionable,” Darcie assured him. “Did you bring the scotch?”
Wordlessly, he produced a bottle.
“Put it in the kitchen, will you? You’ll see the bar we set up on the counter. Pour yourself a drink.” He clearly needed one. “Oh, and take those pastry puffs from the oven, will you? It’s Annie’s job but she disappeared. They must be done.”
A minute later, Merrick called out in a surly tone.
“They’re burned.”
Smoothing a hand across her hips in the slinky bronze dress she’d chosen for the party, Darcie muttered a cuss-word under her breath. He would continue to be difficult tonight—like all nights lately since her move. So much for her handsome date, her elegant soiree—if that was the word she wanted—and her apartment full of stylish guests. As if on cue, Annie appeared from her room with the Harley man in tow. Darcie groaned inwardly. He hadn’t taken off his black leathers and a huge silver lightning bolt winked in one ear. His slicked-back dark hair made her shudder, so did his nearly black eyes, but Annie clung to him like a woman hanging on for dear life to the back of a motorcycle.
They both staggered a little, and their smiles looked silly. Alarm jolted Darcie. Had Annie been toking with him in the bedroom? Or were they playing slap and tickle?
“You burned the puffs,” Darcie informed her. “Send Harley to the store for another batch. Hurry. Everyone will be here soon.”
She hoped.
What if no one came?
Darcie wouldn’t blame them. A cloud of smoke hung over the room, hazing her vision. The puffs were scorched, Claire hadn’t shown up with the potstickers for which she’d once been famous among their friends, and for some reason Merrick looked like a thunderhead.
“His name’s not Harley,” Annie said, smoothing the skirt of her ultra mini-leather skirt. “It’s Malcolm.”
“Then send Malcolm to the store.” When Annie started to go with him, Darcie said, “You stay here. Add a bit more garlic to the onion dip.”
“Darcie, it’s so strong now that unless everyone in the place takes a scoop, none of us will be able to stand each other.”
“That could be true anyway.”
Darcie rearranged a vase stuffed full of red licorice whips, her favorite, on the refreshments table. Dammit, Claire. And why was Merrick prowling the apartment like some lost animal from the zoo? She’d begun to pray for another of Cutter’s forays through her bedroom window. Darcie had quickly decided against the metal grate for security.
And Gran should have been here by now.
“I need new friends,” Darcie murmured.
By the time most of her invited guests did arrive, she felt certain of it.
“Mingle,” she kept saying, but no one did.
Back from the store, Harley—Malcolm—fell bonelessly into the far corner of the living room with Annie on his lap. Most everyone else joined them, so to speak, by sitting down, and Darcie felt her heart sink. Long ago, Janet had tried to teach her how to entertain. A party on its feet was a successful one.
At least the food and drink were flowing. Merrick drank four scotches before Darcie stopped counting.
“Are you offended by Annie’s date?” she asked him, following his gaze to the corner again.
“He makes me wonder about your upbringing in Ohio—but no. I could care less. She’s an adolescent. Send her home.” He glanced around, Britney Spears’s voice spiraling through the room at the top of the stereo’s volume. “Who are these people?”
“You know Eden. And that’s Julio.” She turned. Nothing surprised her tonight, but Gran and her latest man were quarreling in low voices.
“Excuse me,” she told Merrick, and crossed the room to them.
“What’s the problem?” she asked her grandmother.
“Julio took one look at your guests, then at me and decided he was too young.”
Darcie stared at him. “Don’t even think about hurting my grandmother.”
“Oh, that helps,” Eden said, blinking.
“It is not that I care less about you,” Julio assured her. “It is that I do not wish to seem like a…” he searched for the phrase. “How do you say? ‘Little toy.’”
“Boy toy?” Gran flushed. “Really, Julio. If I’ve ever treated you as if I thought—”
“No, mi corazón. But I am such a younger man….”
“One thing I adore about you.”
“That’s better,” Darcie said, and with a kiss on Eden’s cheek, she left them to work things out. Julio had a good point, though. She could see no future to their relationship. Sooner or later, Julio would leave Gran, even if he didn’t intend to hurt her. They seemed as different from each other as she and Dylan. Troubled, Darcie slipped a hand through Merrick’s arm.
“There’s Claire with Peter—at last—no, wait,” she added with a sinking feeling yet again, “they’re not talking to each other. See how Claire is throttling her drink? And it’s noncaffeinated soda because she’s nursing. Peter has his shoulder turned to her, talking to Walt Corwin. You’ve met Walt…”
Merrick looked away. He seemed oddly disoriented.
“Come on,” she said with a sigh of desperation. “I’ll introduce you to Greta.”
Greta’s new sparkly outfit lit up the room. Leaving Merrick in Greta’s clutches, talking about stocks, Darcie headed across the room again. In her bedroom doorway Cutter Longridge had just stepped in from the fire escape like an answer to her prayers, and Darcie gave him a brilliant smile.
“Cutter. I’m so glad you could come.”
He sent her an amiable grin. �
��No sense ringing the bell like everyone else.”
She saw Merrick watching them. Or was he studying Cutter in that assessing way? Across the living room laughter rose—Claire, sounding brittle? Annie, teasing Harley?—and another CD kicked in. Alicia Keys.
“You look amazing in that dress,” Cutter said, his gaze moving down then up to fix on her exposed throat. “That coppery shade does wonderful things to your eyes.”
“It does?” He’d never flirted with her, seriously, before.
“Better than black leather on Annie.”
“That’s Harley’s jacket. She’s in her biker phase. It’ll pass. I hope. She had a great dress for tonight. Wonder where it went?”
When Cutter kissed her cheek then her mouth, Darcie’s pulse stalled. The night was looking up. Then he eased back, and set her away from him almost before the kiss could register, and Merrick frowned across the room, even when Cutter left to find himself a drink. Merrick’s gaze tracked him. Over the blare of music and laughter, the sound of a breaking glass, Alicia was singing, “How Come U Don’t Call Me?” Darcie heard the phone ring, and welcomed the intrusion.
Dylan raised his voice against the din at her end of the line.
“Sounds like you’re raging there. I mean, having a party.”
“I’m trying. It’s supposed to be my housewarming.” Suddenly she wished he was here. Ready for a beer. Laid-back, mellow, easy to talk to despite their differences.
“I’d be in for that,” he said, “give it a go, but by the time I got there, it’d be over. Wouldn’t it? Even if, with the time change, I’d arrive the same time I left.”
After Dylan hung up, Darcie turned back into the room and saw the front door close, softly, like one of her mother’s rebukes. Cutter handed her a drink.
“Some guy in an Armani suit just left,” he informed her.
Merrick. Guilt swept through Darcie. “Did he look angry?”
“No. He looked…” Cutter shrugged. “Puzzled.”
“Why did Merrick leave?” Eden materialized beside them, a glass of wine in one hand, Julio held close with the other. “Did someone hurt his feelings, dear?”