by Leigh Riker
She put a hand to her heart. “Only to help you—”
“No,” he said, “to gather useful information.” He picked up the opener again as if he couldn’t bear not to touch it another moment. “I won’t give you the chance to sabotage me, too, sometime. Not after this.” He held the silver in his hands, as if to let his memories warm him. “My wife’s. Stolen. It’s the last straw, Greta. You’re done for the day. Go home. We’ll talk tomorrow about your future with Wunderthings.”
If she had one, Greta thought, fearing he could hear her thundering pulse.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Walter. Remember what we’ve meant to each other, the fresh chance we’ve discovered—” Their few shared kisses, his touch…except that it had never gone far enough to suit Greta.
Now, she knew, it never would. She watched his finger poise over the intercom that could summon Security if need be, then spun around to Darcie, who looked stunned.
“This is your fault, Baxter!” Greta said. She whirled back to Walter. “And you…I gave you my love but you only used me!” With that small exaggeration, she considered a dozen threats but as he continued to gaze at her without emotion, she felt the energy to spew all her hurt and anger begin to drain from her until, seconds later, it was only a trickle of sorrow.
Walter didn’t speak. In the long silence, neither did Darcie. Finally, Nancy turned and went out into the anteroom, leaving the door open.
“Make our reservations, please,” he called after her. “Darcie and I leave as soon as possible. Thanks, Nancy.” He didn’t mean just her work for him, her value as his assistant. “You, too, Baxter.”
Greta fixed a last, hard stare on Darcie.
“I’ll just, uh…” Baxter had no need to say more. With a vague gesture, she drifted toward the exit, too.
Leaving Greta alone with Walter Corwin.
Walter smoothed a finger along the edge of the silver letter opener, along the memories he clearly preferred over Greta. For once in her life, given the opportunity, she had nothing to say, not even to save herself. The realization stole the rest of her spirit.
Without a word, she followed Darcie into the hall and slunk back to her own cubicle, taking her love, her obsession, with her, Greta’s very posture a symbol of her utter defeat.
Three nights later, Darcie leaned back in her chair in the bar of the Westin Sydney—scene of her original crime, she thought—and while Walt downed his second Rob Roy, sipped her Perrier with lemon.
It didn’t ease her stomach, which felt testy after the long flight from New York to L.A. to Sydney. More jet lag. And it didn’t soothe her guilt. Neither did the red licorice whip she gnawed on from the package on the table.
Greta lingered in her mind. So did this opportunity. Walt—and Wunderthings—must not be that strapped for cash, or didn’t he trust her here to work on her own?
And that was just her professional life. If she’d never picked up Dylan…
But she had picked him up, singing “Waltzing Matilda,” no less. She’d seen him right here, talking to this same bartender, with a beer in his hand, and she had willed him to her side.
Zing.
I’ve never been the same since, he’d said.
Well, neither had she. Thanks to Dylan, she never would be again.
Darcie straightened in her chair. For a moment, she entertained the wild notion of calling him tonight. She’d ask the waiter to bring her a phone—her cell didn’t work this far from home—and lay the whole thing on Dylan’s broad shoulders. You creep, I fell for you and now…
That wouldn’t work. And right now she had the store to think of first.
Walt looked distinctly anxious, or depressed. Was he thinking about the Sydney opening, too? Or Greta?
Darcie reached out to cover his hand. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why not?” He drained the rest of his drink. Darcie chose another licorice.
“Well, I mean, I know you and Greta were…”
“It didn’t work out. I gave her a new assignment. The Albany store’s in trouble. Greta has good ideas—when she thinks of them herself. She’ll relocate. Maybe the fresh start will help her.”
“And Greta will work out her issues. I hope she will.”
As if conceding that was possible, Walt lifted one shoulder. Darcie hadn’t seen him signal the waiter, but when a fresh Rob Roy landed on the table in front of him, Walt took a long swallow. Darcie was still covering his other hand. She handed him a red licorice whip for comfort.
“I had really hoped,” he said after a moment, “that we…but hell, I should have known. You told me about Greta. So did Nancy. I guess I had to learn for myself. I knew all along not to mix pleasure with business.”
Darcie felt a twinge of fresh guilt. She followed Walt’s gaze across the room, as if he were giving up a last chance to find happiness—or searching, too, as she was, for Dylan at the bar. Reminding her that she shouldn’t make the same mistake. When his hand rotated to capture hers, Darcie’s guilt turned to surprise then empathy, before Walt spoke again.
“Speaking of business and pleasure, what about your Aussie?”
Surprised again, she admitted, “I don’t know what to do, Walt.”
When he squeezed her hand, she blinked.
“But that’s my problem,” she assured him. “I’m here to work.”
“So we are.” He eased back with a last pat of her hand. “So we will, Baxter.”
A few minutes later Walt went upstairs to bed. Darcie stayed, nursing her water and finishing her red licorice.
“I don’t think I could sleep,” she said to her glass. “I mean, I feel too sorry for Walt, who needs someone, sorry for myself if you want to know the truth.” She pushed the glass aside. “What next, almost-thirty-year-old Darcie Elizabeth Baxter?”
When a man’s laugh across the room reminded her of Dylan’s, she glanced up, her heart suddenly pounding.
Even the thought of his name made her weak.
Or was the man laughing at her for talking to herself? Darcie didn’t care.
“Hey, I’m here. Again.” To work, she’d promised Walt. “But after that, what?” she wondered aloud. “I’ve already done misery. Annie sure noticed. So did Gran and Claire. And Merrick. Even Mom and Dad. When they left with Annie’s cartons loaded in the van, they said, ‘If you need us, Darcie…for anything…just call.’”
She cleared her throat, tried to clear her vision. Tried not to see the curious glances from other people in the bar. Let them stare. Let them listen.
Muttering to herself might help. Laying an Australian ten-dollar bill on the table to pay for her water, Darcie eased her chair back. “Like Walt, I’ll go up to bed—without Dylan this time—and figure out my best course overnight.”
Without the beer he’d pushed on her before, without the sex, it should be simple. By morning, despite her fear, she would know what to do.
“For the first time in my life,” she murmured, “everything will make sense.”
She hoped.
“Please don’t say that,” Darcie told Rachel, her new manager, the day before the opening of Wunderthings Sydney. “The rest of the salesclerks didn’t show up?”
“They’re not coming in, Miss Baxter. Darcie.”
“Then they’re fired.”
“They already quit. Not enough pay.”
Walter—or could it be Greta?—strikes again. “Get me some new candidates.”
Rachel’s dark curls jiggled, like her perky little breasts. She glanced around, as if making sure Walt was busy elsewhere in the store.
“Beg pardon, but there are none. Mr. Corwin had us advertise in the newspaper when he was here last time. We put a sign outside the door, too, but…”
“Don’t tell me.” Grinding her molars, she realized she’d never been this nervous. “Set the sign out again and I’ll call an employment service.”
With a huffed-out breath, she went into the office at the rear of the store and shut
the door. Darcie leaned against it and counted to fifty. Not enough. She was still counting when the desk phone jangled.
Who was she to criticize Walter? She still had no plan about Dylan.
“Darcie Baxter here.” It was the building’s management on the line and she groaned at the man’s harsh tone of voice, his biting words. “Of course we’re planning to pay our rent,” she said and Darcie frowned. “I’ll look into it and get back to you immediately.”
This had all the earmarks of Greta’s fine hand. She dialed again.
But on the phone a subdued Greta, wakened from sleep, claimed no knowledge of the error. By midnight—all the gods be praised—Nancy Braddock had arranged to wire the funds, the QVB management was smiling again, and Darcie was entertaining notions of actually having her job when she got back to New York—providing the Sydney opening went well, which remained to be seen.
For instance, the display windows.
Darcie marched outside to take a better look. But up close and personal, the array of female mannequins in Wunderthings bras and panties and filmy negligees—Walt’s idea—made Darcie groan.
“Bland, isn’t it?” Rachel said beside her.
“Poor Walt must be pining for…well, never mind. We need to get people into this store, not send them running for the opposite end of the QVB. This is hopeless. Tear it all down.”
She stood, tapping one foot against the floor, thinking. Praying, really. The fear of failure at this—the chance of a lifetime to prove herself to Walt, but especially to the Wunderthings board of directors—set her creative synapses whirring like the innards of a mainframe computer. If only Walt had sprung for a professional display person…
Then it hit her. They didn’t need professional. They needed…sex.
Darcie’s first memory of Dylan Rafferty sped through her mind. She’d had the fantasy even then. Dylan, in a shop window.
“Find me some different models. Male mannequins.” Rachel’s eyes lit up and knowing she was on the right path, Darcie added, “Tall, dark, built, as gorgeous as you can get. We need them here by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.”
“That’s not much time.”
“It’s enough.” She went back inside to search through cartons of merchandise. “Where’s the shipment of the new Aboriginal line?”
Rachel blinked. “I didn’t know there was one.”
Darcie’s patience flew out the window onto King Street. She headed again for the phone. When the shipment finally showed up after a dozen calls, Darcie let out the pent-up breath she seemed to have been holding all day. But by the time this store opened, with a new contingent of salesclerks, including several males, she’d probably be hyperventilating. Still, while she and Rachel unpacked the prints fresh from the Canberra factory, it began to look as if everything could work out.
At least with Wunderthings Sydney. Her baby.
The designs from Henry Goolong and his son looked wonderful in silk and the microfiber version, too, with strong, dark colors and classic images. They felt soft and sensual. Darcie hoped they would be a hit. She needed one.
Inspired, she got her second wind and worked the rest of the evening with Rachel setting up displays of panties and bustiers, arranging shelves of nightshirts and gowns, organizing teddies and corsets and “minimizers” and Wunderthings’ last season highlight, gel- and water-filled push-up brassieres.
Buying herself time.
After the opening, she thought. She would face Dylan then.
Darcie got up the next morning before her alarm rang or the backup call from the front desk at the Westin Sydney came through. Stumbling from bed, she hurried to take a shower.
She’d formed some beautiful memories here amid the green frosted glass and chrome. Not Room 3001’s fault she had pursued the matter in New York—and wound up totally confused about her life.
When she came out, and put on her best power suit, her most expensive pumps, she felt better.
By the time she and Walt reached the QVB, she was at least ready for business.
Rachel had coffee waiting for them.
“Good news. The mannequins arrived. Five minutes to spare.”
“Thank you, God. Get them out here. We open in an hour.”
Snatching up some of the Aboriginal pieces, Darcie headed for the windows.
Even she couldn’t believe the effect they produced.
“You were right,” Walt said, nodding his approval, too.
The male models draped with transparent lingerie looked just about perfect. Darcie tried not to feel that something was missing. There was no time to ponder her personal life when her professional future was at stake right now. Still…
“Ack,” she said, startling Rachel, who was adjusting a lacy bra to hang from one dark-haired mannequin’s hand. “We need hats.”
“Hats?”
“Akubras. There must be a store in this mall that sells hats.”
“They won’t open until ten.”
“At the stroke of, you be there. Buy four of them. Different colors.”
“To complement the Aboriginal lingerie.”
Darcie said, “Brilliant woman.”
Her heart beating fast with excitement—and terror—she helped Walt open the main doors to the store at precisely ten o’clock. With his help and Rachel’s, she set the sandwich board signs on either side of the entry announcing the Opening Day Fair with its Two for One Sale on Select Items—not the new Aboriginal line—rechecked the snacks and drinks, the glass container of red licorice whips, then took a deep breath. And waited for business.
The day flew past.
The Akubra-ed mannequins, bare-chested and well-muscled, stopped traffic. The lingerie draped around their necks, over their shoulders, tucked into jeans waistbands and through belt loops brought smiles to the trendy shoppers’ faces. The Aboriginal lingerie pulled them into the shop. Darcie’s gleaming furniture even in pecan, Regency Stripe wallpaper, and Oriental rugs set the right tone.
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 am
ong 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?”