Leigh Michaels - The Corporate Marriage Campaign

The man turned to face her. His raised eyebrows said that he doubted very much that she could be of any assistance at all. No surprise there, Darcy thought. In her baggy, mismatched sweats, stained with india ink and acrylic paint, with her hair piled in a makeshift turban, she no doubt looked more like the cleaning lady than the confidential secretary she was supposed to be today.

Especially in comparison to his own elegant good looks. He was made for a courtroom, she thought—tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, with a profile that looked as if it had been chiseled by a Renaissance master and a pinstriped suit that could have been fitted by the same loving touch. He was looking down his classic nose at her, obviously waiting for her to justify her existence.

Well, it was all right with Darcy if Mr. Elegance found her unappealing. She’d had her fill of guys who were gorgeous and knew how to use their looks to advantage. Packaging wasn’t everything.

“You’ve taken us a bit off guard this morning, I’m afraid,” she said. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I phoned right before we came over,” he said curtly.

The voice matched the rest of him, Darcy thought—deep and rich but with a hard edge.

That’s great, she thought. He must have talked to Dave while she was in the shower, and now Darcy looked like either a liar or an idiot. Where do we go from here?

She let her gaze drift from the man to his companion, and blinked in surprise. Who went out in public these days wearing a black picture hat with a heavy veil? Grieving widows? Movie stars? Someone who had no idea what a cliché she was wearing?

Even more surprising, Darcy thought, was why hadn’t she noticed that attention-grabbing hat before now. Surely it should have jumped out at her the instant she laid eyes on the couple. Not that Mr. Elegance wasn’t worth looking at all by himself—but it almost seemed as if he’d been trying to get in the way, as if he’d been deliberately trying to block her view of his feminine companion.

Dave called from the kitchen, “I’ve got it, Darcy. Just as soon as I get the coffee poured I’ll be in. Show them into my office, will you?”

Darcy took a step back and with a purposely theatrical gesture invited the couple toward the back of the house, where Dave had converted one of the cottage’s original bedrooms into his office.

If he’d been expecting clients, it wasn’t obvious—at least, the clutter looked just the same to Darcy as it had yesterday. Dave had dropped his briefcase into one of the two chairs supposedly reserved for clients, just as he usually did. Darcy fished it out and set it atop a pile of law books on the credenza, and then tried to clear off enough space on the desk so he could set down a tray.

Just yesterday, she remembered, she’d told Dave that he should rearrange the front room—currently the law library—enough to put in a desk. That would create a public office, an attractive and restful place to meet with his clients away from the disorder of his working desk. He’d told her that the clients he was most interested in didn’t mind untidiness, and Darcy hadn’t argued the point because on second thought she’d realized it would only give him another flat surface to fill with clutter.

Dave came in carrying not a tray but three foam cups, full to the brim with steaming and very black coffee. That was Dave, she thought—straightforward and without an ounce of pretension.

She wondered what Mr. Elegance thought of the service, and shot a look at him from the corner of her eye. “David, perhaps your guests would like cream and sugar?” she suggested gently.

“Trey doesn’t use it,” Dave said. “But I don’t know…” His gaze rested on the woman in the hat. He looked worried.

“Cream, please,” she said softly. “I don’t think I can drink it so hot.”

“Would you get the cream, Darcy?” Dave asked. “But first let me introduce you. This is Trey—”

“Smith,” Mr. Elegance said.

Darcy was still watching Dave, feeling bemused by the concern in his face as he looked at the mysterious lady under the picture hat, and she saw his eyes widen ever so slightly. Someone who didn’t know him well might not even have realized he was startled, but Darcy wasn’t fooled. Dave’s client was lying, and Dave knew it.

Of course, who wouldn’t be suspicious? Smith… Honestly, couldn’t the man come up with a better alias than that?

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith,” Darcy said dryly. “We get so many of those among our clientele, I hope you won’t mind if I have trouble keeping you straight from all the others. And Mrs. Smith, I presume?”

“Come on, Trey,” Dave said. “This is my sister Darcy. She’s helping out on short notice today because my secretary’s sick.”

Mr. Elegance—or Smith—looked Darcy over from head to toe.

She’d never felt more like a dust mop in her life. Which was a ridiculous reaction, she told herself. Just because he was beautifully attired in a hand-tailored suit didn’t give him any right to judge her costume. “Actually,” she confided, “I dress this way because it makes the criminal element among our clients feel right at home. I was going to wear my Property Of Cook County Jail jumpsuit today, but I’m afraid it’s in the laundry. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get the cream.”

The cream was at the back of the refrigerator, still in the big plastic supermarket jug, and of course, she couldn’t find anything to serve it in. If Dave had ever owned a cream and sugar set, she couldn’t remember seeing it, and the only alternative was yet another of the ubiquitous foam cups. And of course she couldn’t find a tray. So she put the cream jug and the sugar canister on a pizza pan, along with a couple of spoons and the last of a package of paper napkins she found crumpled in the back of a drawer.

She was just starting through the cottage toward the office when Dave called, “Darcy! Bring some ice, too!”

Ice? What next? With any luck, Darcy decided, she might manage to get upstairs to dress sometime before noon.

At least there was an ice bucket—which she supposed said something about Dave’s priorities, or perhaps those of his clients. She tipped out the receipts which had collected in the bucket onto the kitchen counter, rinsed it out and froze her fingers dipping cubes from the ice maker.

“Isn’t it a little early for cocktails?” she asked as she backed into the office.

Then she saw why Dave had wanted ice, and she almost dropped the pizza pan.

The mysterious woman in the picture hat was mysterious no longer. At least, she wasn’t hiding her identity anymore, though Darcy would bet there was quite a story behind the blackened eye, the bruised jaw, and the angry-looking cut on her upper lip. No wonder the woman had said she couldn’t drink her coffee hot.

Darcy set the pizza pan atop Dave’s desk, pushed the cream and sugar off the dish towel she’d used to cover up the discolored surface of the pan, dumped the ice into the towel, and held it out to the blonde. “Car accident?” she said. “Or—something else?”

“Something else,” the blonde said. “Thanks.” She cradled the towel against her cheek.

Mr. Elegance held out a hand. “I’m Trey Kent,” he said gruffly. “This is my sister Caroline. Dave assures me you’re able to keep a secret—and now you know why I was concerned about that.”

“Yes,” Darcy said. “If I can help in any way—”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss with Dave,” Trey said.

Dismissed. Darcy felt like saluting.

They were still behind closed doors when she came back downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in heather tweed slacks and a short-sleeved sweater. She was leaning over Mrs. Cusack’s desk, reviewing the day’s calendar, when she heard the doorknob of Dave’s office give its characteristic groan, and she pushed the calendar aside and hurried toward the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.