Strapless. Leigh Riker

hated lying. Liars, most of all.

      Blinking, she straightened in her roomy club chair. Her glass clicked onto the marble tabletop. What if he carried some STD? That’s all she needed to remember Merrick Lowell—genital herpes or warts. As if she didn’t feel enough of a sexual outcast.

      She pressed a hand to her suddenly thumping heart. But they had used protection. Every time. Remember, Merrick didn’t relish having kids. Darcie grimaced. Then why did he seem to have two of them? Maybe it was only her imagined children he didn’t want. Her middle-class genes.

      With a sigh, she fell back into the deep chair again.

      Twirling the stem of her glass, she gazed around the dimly lit room—and oh, as if a band had struck up the national anthem, “Advance Australia Fair,” would you look at that. Yummy. A lone man stood talking to the bartender, another Aussie male Darcie had noticed earlier. Now, she barely saw him. Eclipsing every other man in the room, this one had dark hair, unlike Merrick’s (a point in his favor) thicker, longer. Hair a woman could twine her fingers through, letting its sinuous silk send a message of desire straight to her achy loins.

      His broad shoulders blocked out the bartender to his left, behind the bar. He lounged in three-quarter profile to her, an amazing profile if she bothered to linger on it. Better than Merrick’s. Busily, Darcie’s gaze swept like a huntress down his long frame, from those incredible shoulders and well-developed deltoids—bunched, and nicely rounded, under his chambray shirt—to his washboard belly, then his muscled, jeans-clad legs and, finally, his feet. Boots, she saw. Good ones, if she could judge from this distance. His fingers looked lean and graceful wrapped around the beer bottle in his hand, and when he lifted it for a long swallow, Darcie watched his Adam’s apple work in his strong, beautiful throat. It was true. Australian men were not to be believed.

      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,