Strapless. Leigh Riker

      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?

      She hurried on. “The man I work for told me to go home. I can’t seem to get my clock turned around, though. I don’t know whether to yawn or do my morning bends and stretches.” Then she knew. Shocked, Darcie swallowed. A working girl.

      “You think I’m—” A lady of the night?

      “Darling, I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve seen. But I don’t do hookers.”

      “I’m glad to hear that.”

      Hoping she’d convinced him of her relative innocence, Darcie leaned against the up button at the bank of elevators opposite the Westin gift shop. It was closed now. In the past hour the executives in the bar next door had raised their level of laughter and camaraderie another few decibels, and several women in trendy power suits had joined them. She and the cowboy had also taken their new “relationship” onto a different plane. Talk about verbal foreplay—once she made him understand that Walt Corwin wasn’t her pimp. The elevator doors glided open. Darcie and the sheep farmer entered the car.

      He punched his floor, she punched her button…so to speak…then with his hand catching hers, he nailed her up against the rail along the wall. His gold signet ring clinked against the wood. Darcie still wore his Akubra hat when his mouth lowered to her throat. His warm breath sent a thrill of lust from the roots of her hair to her too-high shoes, toes cramped like her uterus into a suddenly too-tight space.

      Murmuring, he kissed her neck, her earlobe, then drew it between his teeth. Beautiful teeth, she remembered. His hands began to roam. “So, you’re in retail.”

      She’d had to tell him something about herself. That wary look on his face had threatened to spoil their evening. Darcie kept things general, though, except now he knew she was staying here. Well, of course he did. Her head swam a little from the wine but she could still think. More or less. They were in the elevator, rising quickly to the upper floors, not out on the street saying goodbye. Darcie had a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Monday nights with Merrick at the Grand Hyatt…

      “It’s a new job,” she said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it.”

      His low tone sent flame along her already singed nerve ends.

      “I imagine you can do anything you set your mind to.”

      She paused, remembering Walt. “My boss is sleeping,” she informed him.

      “With you?”

      “Next door. In his own room.”

      He drew back to smile at her. “You’re drongo. Funny, that is.”

      Or did the slang mean idiot? Her stomach sank another notch. Men and hotel rooms were becoming a habit. And who wanted a comedienne—as Merrick said? Now, the Aussie would laugh at her, pat her on the head—smashing his own Akubra hat with the motion—then send her to her room. Darcie’s Big Night in Sydney Goes Belly Up.

      “Funny in a good way,” he added.

      “Let’s see.” She watched him move in again, felt his lips trail along the column of her neck to the first button on her white silk blouse. “I’m cute. I’m a laugh riot. I’m—”

      “You’re—” A big, pathetic joke with jet lag, PMS and no chance now of getting “close” tonight. “Sexy as hell,” he finished. With his low words of reprieve, Darcie’s legs went weak. She leaned her head back farther to give him access to her throat. His tongue swept across the hollow there, down to her breasts, into the slight cleft that passed for cleavage—when she wore the right bra. She wasn’t.

      And for a moment Darcie’s sensible side prevailed. Walt was upstairs. They were here to work. In any case she shouldn’t take a stranger to her room. Was she nuts? Forget Merrick Lowell. Not only were hotels becoming her second home, a bad habit, but this seemed risky. Possibly dangerous, Darcie cautioned herself. Certainly the rash notion showed a lack of common sense on her part. She couldn’t help asking.

      “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

      His tongue whisked along the valley of her breasts.

      “Like I’d tell you.” At the droll statement she could feel him smile against her skin. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Which floor are you on?”

      “Uh, thirty-three.”

      He took her mouth, sent the words inside. His tongue, too. His husky tone.

      “I’m on thirty-one. Let’s go there. It’s closer.”

      Her pulse soared like the rising elevator and Darcie stopped finding reasons to resist. Hell, take a chance—like Annie. By the time the doors opened onto the quiet hall, his hat had flopped over her left eye. By then, Darcie supposed the hotel security staff had had their fill of elevator foreplay, verbal and physical, on the video monitors. He took her hand, led her to the corner room on the corridor, and, while kissing her again, slipped his key card into the chrome slot beside the door that flashed red when no visitors were wanted. The light turned green—go, Darcie—and they tumbled inside.

      Darcie had a quick impression of light wood, butter-cream walls, the frosted celadon-green glass door of the bathroom—like her own room. Before she breathed again, he had her up against the mirrored closet doors in the entryway. Still kissing, he caught her hips in his hands and bumped up against her, better than Gran had said.

      Darcie wound her arms around his sturdy neck. With her head tipped back, the Akubra smashed against the glass, she hung on tight. Oh, God, he could kiss. God, he could…

      In about five seconds, with his hand flicking open buttons like this down the front of her blouse, then his chambray shirt (he obviously didn’t need practice) Darcie wouldn’t even be breathing.

      His hand dropped to his buckle. The belt snapped from the loops. It clanked onto the marble floor. Outside, through the plate glass window wall on the opposite side of the room, the stars—those unidentified constellations—sparkled in the black nighttime