Leigh Riker - Strapless

Claire frowned. The small but upscale women’s lingerie company had seemed like a good opportunity for Darcie four years ago, but she’d gotten stuck behind Greta Hinckley—who wasn’t naive at all—and Claire feared she would lose her creative momentum to Greta’s continued sabotage. She pushed aside her own muddled emotions and the topic of Merrick Lowell.

“You’re really worried about your job?”

With a groan Darcie strode away from the windows and Claire regrouped. She’d heard all about Greta.

“Listen. Hinckley’s so caught up in her own underwire, gel-enhanced bra—top-of-the-line of course—she doesn’t hear people whispering behind her T-strap back.”

“Whispering what?” Darcie said. “About her stealing underwear, or getting the new assignment we’re competing for in Expansion?”

“She won’t get it, sweetie.”

“She’s a shark.” Darcie told Claire more about the stolen proposal yesterday and Nancy Braddock’s rescue, then forced a smile. “I’ll know whether she mentioned that to anyone else by noon tomorrow. Either way I’m having lunch with Walt. If he chooses me, I won’t have time for men,” she added. When Claire snorted, Darcie said, “I may need sex but that’s all. Until I get my life in order.”

Claire bobbed her head. “I see. Then sex is why you stay with Merrick. What a deal. He gets laid with no strings. You get screwed with no consideration….”

“If so, that’s my choice. Temporarily.” She plucked a throw pillow from the sofa and threw it at Claire, who dropped the last of her cookie. “End of discussion.”

Claire retrieved the chocolate macadamia nut crumbs from the carpet. “A new assignment is the least you deserve for all your hard work. For instance, rewriting Corwin’s reports so they sound like a form of intelligent life wrote them in the first place. Working late three nights out of four on his projects—then coming in on weekends. If that slimeball Hinckley does get the spot, I swear—”

“I’ll kill her myself. Walt, too.”

“Give me a call. In this case I don’t mind being an accessory to murder.”

“We get along so well. We could share a cell.”

Claire grinned. “Hang curtains, lay rugs…a few pictures, and it’ll be home.”

“Listen to us. Home for the Criminally Insane.”

Claire joined her in a snicker then sobered. “But about Merrick…”

“He’s okay. He takes me out, opens doors like a gentleman—”

“Once a month. The rest of the time he just pokes you.”

Darcie couldn’t argue except to add, “He’s smart, makes good conversation—”

“When he’s not on top of you.”

“And he loves his nephew,” Darcie finished.

Claire gaped at her, her own fatigue forgotten. “See?”

“What? Now you’re saying his nephew doesn’t exist? Merrick carries his picture in his wallet, and why would he lie? He’s a sweet little boy with fair hair, the Lowell smile…” But she grabbed a cookie from the plate and so did Claire.

“I’m telling you, Darce. Wake up. The guy is married.”

At noon the next day on the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Fifth, Merrick Lowell was the last thing on Darcie’s mind. She stepped off the curb reciting her own vital statistics.

“Darcie Baxter. Twenty-nine years old and, possibly, about to be cast aside. I stand five feet four in my panty hose, which are soaked at the moment—no, not with lust but, like the rest of me, from this freaking rain.” On the other side she marched along the sidewalk in the freezing January downpour. “I live with my grandmother, whose cat despises me. I’m sleeping with a man who likes his cell phone better than me, and obviously—” she drew a deep breath “—I talk to myself.”

A yellow cab rushed past splattering slush over her down trench coat and nearly running Darcie over.

“I have a college degree, right? I’m not a total washout in the brains department, if some might disagree. I shower every day, use deodorant. I shave my legs before the hair even needs curlers. I don’t lie—except for tiny fibs now and then, usually to protect someone’s feelings. And only this morning I helped a little old lady cross the street.” Or did Gran’s daily trip to the convenience store next to her apartment building count? She’d been half a block ahead of Darcie the whole way. “I can’t be that bad. Oh—and I do my job.” In fact, she thought her presentation that morning to the board had gone well. She hadn’t fainted or lost the power of speech. “So why give the goodies to someone else?”

She walked on, mumbling. No one noticed. On a dismal, gray day in Manhattan with a raw wind whipping off the East River and blowing through the canyons of skyscrapers, turning hats and people into sails, no one would. In New York, unlike Cincinnati, they scurried from meeting to deal, from glossy restaurant to trendy bar. They fought for cabs on the street. Except in times of crisis, they left others to their own devices.

Which proved to Darcie that she was in real trouble.

Maybe she should have stayed in Ohio. Bite your tongue, Gran would say.

In the middle of the block, she turned in at The Grand Vitesse. Its burgundy canopy looked to be the priciest thing about the place.

Inside, she spied Walt Corwin immediately. His thin hair lay plastered, as usual, against his scalp and he was—what else?—reading the Wall Street Journal.

Darcie waved off the waiter, who tried to take her damp coat. She plopped down across from Walt, propped her chin on her hands and beamed at him. Think positive. “Well?”

“Well what?” He continued to peruse the paper and her heart sank.

“Unless you’re reading the fourth column—one of those cutesy feature stories—would you mind putting that down?” Another deep breath. Might as well get this over with. Then she could go home, peel off her sodden panty hose, pour a stiff belt of scotch—even though she hated liquor—and cry. “Did I lose out this morning?”

Walt’s myopic blue eyes winked into some kind of watery focus.

“What makes you think that?”

She shook out her napkin. Real linen. Maybe the place wasn’t that cheap, or Walt.

“I didn’t lose?”

“Darcie, you need confidence. Why would you assume—”

“Desperation.” Greta Hinckley, she thought.

“Take my advice. In the corporate jungle, never let ’em see you sweat.”

“Walt, I need a raise in order to eat. I need this assignment to Global so my brain won’t rot.” She paused, not daring to hope. “You’re my boss. Tell me. The board meeting…”

“Went to hell in less than five minutes.” He glanced up again from the paper. “Four minutes after we dealt with your presentation. Order anything you like. I’m told the daily special—coq au vin—is pretty good. Chicken,” he said when Darcie just blinked.

Blindly, she took the menu she was handed. She couldn’t decipher a word, but not because it was in French. Even the translation didn’t register. Her mind whirred in circles. Walt had warned her only yesterday that as a relatively junior employee it was unlikely the board would approve her appointment. And, Darcie knew, with Greta Hinckley in contention…

Hope skipped inside her. She scanned the entrees for the most expensive item, testing the waters. “How about lobster Newburg?”

“Go for it.”

Her pulse sped. “You mean…”

He laid the newspaper beside his salad plate. His lips twitched. “Let’s order wine. Or would you prefer champagne?”

Her mouth went dry.

“I…don’t like champagne.”

Could it happen? More money…a future? As if signaling the start of her imagined prosperity, Walt snapped his fingers. The waiter appeared with a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. Darcie watched him pour a pale-golden stream into her glass after Walt had tasted the wine. Her heart hammered harder than it did whenever Gran’s pet Persian cat cornered Darcie in a surprise attack. When they were alone again, he lifted his stemmed goblet.