Leigh Riker - Strapless

Could he be any more perfect? Like a fantasy come true, even the Akubra hat from Gran’s wish list lay next to him on the bar. Darcie decided it was on her agenda, too.

“You jolly swagman,” she murmured, sending him a flirty smile.

Heck, why not? She was on her own, for tonight at least, in an exotic foreign environment—for once in her life. No one watched her, certainly not all the executives at the next table who were telling loud jokes and laughing among themselves. Their cigarette smoke created a cloud of anonymity, like the famed Blue Mountains with their eucalyptus haze. Janet Baxter—or Darcie’s father—were nowhere to be seen. And Cincinnati, though not quite as far away as New York, could be ignored for one night. Not that she needed to care. For good measure, feeling defiant after Merrick, she tipped her glass in salute.

She detected no response to the smile or the toast, but his steady gaze did even crazier things to her equilibrium, to her lower abdomen, and Darcie swallowed hard. With her nod in his direction—three strikes, you’re out—the beer bottle stopped halfway down and he stared at her. Then he glanced over his shoulder as if to see whether she’d been signaling the bartender for a refill, not coming on to him. He picked up his hat. What else could she do? Darcie looked down into her half-full glass, and waited. Pulse pounding. Stomach clenched.

Would he come over?

When a tall shadow fell across the table a moment later, she realized she’d been holding her breath. Raising her eyes, Darcie exhaled. Seeing him up close, she struggled not to slip out of her chair onto the floor in a puddle of need.

“If you were a mate—” he pronounced it “might” “—which you’re clearly not, I’d say G’day, but we Aussies don’t use the expression between the sexes.” The word hung between them. “You’re a blow-in, eh? Welcome to Sydney.”

“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?