Strapless. Leigh Riker

Darcie ran one finger down his belly, then lower. “This is too dangerous.”

      That distracted him. All over again. Just as she hoped, he reached for another packet on the night table. “What happens when I run out of condoms?”

      “We’ll…renegotiate.” She took him in her hand to help. Silk and velvet, strength and vulnerability. “We’ll improvise.”

      “Sounds like a plan.”

      He made it sound like a question, but Darcie agreed. All she would let herself think about was this: lovemaking, long and lazy, to be relished, the likes of which she’d never known before—take that, Merrick—or perhaps ever would again. They shared the last of the beer…five, or was it six? And over and over Darcie indulged herself, her fantasies, the tug of need low inside, for the rest of the night.

      In his arms, she dreaded the dawn—and ignored the first flutters of nausea.

      Until a few faint fingers of light finally penetrated the wall of windows in room 3101 of the upscale Westin Sydney. Then Darcie Elizabeth Baxter startled awake, hot bile in her throat—and bolted for the bathroom.

      Darcie gave one last gasp, swallowed twice, and straightened. Resting back on her heels on the marble floor, in the doorway of the toilet stall, she swiped the moistened washcloth over her face again, her parched lips, then drew long, deep breaths to steady her stomach.

      There. She would live now. Worse luck.

      Then she realized she was no longer alone.

      Without looking up, Darcie knew he was there, leaning a strong, broad shoulder against the green frosted glass of the bathroom door—and shirtless of course. A quick glance in the vanity mirror confirmed his naked chest. Darcie shuddered while her heart did a little tap dance of appreciation. All that expanse of sunbrowned skin over sleek muscle, warm and smooth under her fingers during the only half-remembered night of casual sex and talk…the feel of the silky dark hair that swept across his breast-bone…the lure of tight, dark twin male nipples…

      “Hi. How’s it going?” he said.

      Deep, throaty morning voice. Hint of amusement.

      “It’s not. I hope.”

      He laughed, low and intimate, reminding Darcie not only of her illness—wretched, so wretched to be sick away from home, sick in a strange man’s company—well, not exactly a stranger now, she had to admit—reminding her of the intimacies they’d shared. Now this…she heard the familiar chink of a can against the gold signet ring on his little finger. Darcie’s nose wrinkled at the smell of hops, malt and yeast.

      Oh God, he was drinking a beer.

      “What time is it?” she said, aghast.

      “Almost six.”

      “Six a.m.?”

      “Down Under. I can’t tell you what time it is in the States. You drank too much.”

      “I screwed too much,” she muttered.

      “The beer, the time difference, jet lag. I couldn’t help but hear the chunder here.”

      Her stomach rolled again. “Chunder?”

      “A local term for kissing the porcelain god. Aussie-style.” He took another swig. “Chunder on the Paramatta,” he mused. “Now there’s a name for a movie.”

      “Paramatta?”

      “It’s the river that flows into Sydney Harbour. I know, that doesn’t make any sense, but you have to admit it’s got title appeal. Still, there can’t be a worse sound for another human being to listen to,” he said.

      Which didn’t seem to bother him. If he could drink beer at this time of day he had a stomach like steel. The six-pack abs, she could certainly vouch for. That is, until she’d suddenly jolted from bed.

      “Believe me. I’d gladly trade places.”

      “I wouldn’t.” She heard the smile in his voice, the concern, too, but couldn’t face him. “I’ve done my time. Thought I’d let you have your privacy here. You sure you’re all right now?”

      She cleared her throat, her voice shaky. “I’m fine.”

      “You look kind of gray—like a battleship.”

      “How flattering.”

      But then, forget the closet mirror last night. Probably her wide behind spread over half the floor in this position. Tightening her muscles, she shot a glance in his direction. A better view, for sure. Bare chest, flat belly, jeans zipped but not snapped. And, oh dear lord, there was that heavy bulge again behind his fly. What kind of man got an erection looking at a sick woman? But Darcie’s face flushed with heat, and memory. Her own fingers twitched. She couldn’t keep her hands off…it…all night. Was half a memory better than none? She couldn’t recall much else. Maybe she didn’t need to, and eight—possibly nine—fully packed inches was sufficient. Or what’s a heaven for?

      Darcie groaned inwardly. Her thighs tingled. The depths of depravity to which she’d sunk since crossing the Pacific a day ago—or was it three?—continued to amaze her. Thirteen-plus hours on a jet from San Francisco with a good tail wind and she’d turned into a slut. A drunken…what was the Aussie term he’d taught her sometime during the night?…bit of a brothel. A mess, all right.

      After this interlude on her knees, how could she feel aroused by even a sunbrowned, muscled god of an Outback male? A cowboy, no less. The sudden image of his slate-green Akubra hat—what the hell had they done with that in the throes of their one-night stand passion?—flashed through the remnant of her mind. And she hadn’t even passed the city limits of Sydney to fall under his spell.

      As if he could have any interest left in her now. She’d picked him up in the Westin bar…practically dragged him to his own room. She could feel him watching her, most likely wondering whether to call the local version of those little men in the white coats. Or the vice squad. A doctor…but he had his own diagnosis.

      “It must have been the beer. You’re not pregnant. Are you?”

      “Pregnant? Me?”

      Her gaze shot to him again. His dark eyes clear and direct—no hangover for him, no matter how much he drank—he shifted his weight against the door frame. Early sun shafted through the bedroom window that overlooked Darling Harbour blocks away, penetrated the clear glass wall into the bathroom like a lover, and gilded him in soft rose-gold light.

      “I don’t mean from last night, darling—” in the mirror his eyebrows, darker than his hair, lifted “—but what about before?”

      “Not a problem, I haven’t had sex since 1985.”

      When she finally turned, he was scowling, perplexed. Darcie figured the teasing lie was payback for his comments about tucker.

      “How is that possible? You said you were a virgin till you were twenty-three. Six years, that would be—”

      “A joke.”

      “Which thing?”

      “Both.”

      He didn’t look like he believed her. Not the brightest bulb in the pack, she’d decided, but that body of his simply wouldn’t give up. Maybe, after Merrick, it was enough. She stared at him, her bout of nausea forgotten, then stared some more.

      To her utter disgust, fresh, fierce desire snaked through her. He followed her inspection with his eyes.

      “See something you like? Again?”

      Darcie gave in. What the hell. An ounce of Scope and she’d be good as new.

      Almost.

      Rising, she swished out her mouth then crossed the room to him on shaky limbs. You’re history, Merrick Lowell. If she didn’t make love again until the next half of the twenty-first