Strapless. Leigh Riker

when. Or if Walt would suddenly decide—after her wayward nights on this trip—to bring Greta in her place. Then what did she want of Dylan? “I know it seems shallow, enjoying each other for a time…”

      He drew back against the next step to rest on his elbows. His face went taut.

      “I’m not using you.”

      “I’m not using you either. But where…where could this go?”

      “Anywhere we want.”

      Oh, God, he would turn her into a permanent mess of Silly Putty. That voice, those eyes, his hands, even this new edge to him…

      “Besides,” she said, “you seem to want things that I don’t. Not yet anyway.” She waved a hand again. “I don’t want to become my mother.”

      “What’s wrong with her?”

      “Nothing, except she lives a very different lifestyle from the one I’ve chosen.”

      He cocked his head. “Don’t tell me you pick up strangers in bars everywhere?”

      She flushed. “No, of course not. You were the first.” And last. She tried to explain. “Look. My mother named me Darcie. Darcie Elizabeth Baxter. Do you know what my initials make together?”

      He looked perplexed. Which only melted her heart.

      “D.E.B.,” she told him. “DEB. In the U.S. that’s a girl raised to be socially proper, to “come out” at eighteen at a dance where she wears a white dress and gloves, to meet the exactly right man who will elevate her position—” No, that didn’t sound right, it sounded kinky. “I mean, raise her standard of living to new heights, beyond even her parents’ and—”

      Dylan guessed right. “You didn’t want to be a deb.”

      “No! That’s such an old-fashioned system. I wanted to be my own person—not that we were rich enough for me to be presented to society. I want to choose the man I’ll marry someday, after my own career is in motion. I need to be able to take care of myself first. I want to be independent.”

      “Is this some of that women’s lib stuff?”

      She didn’t want to blow this. “It was. Years ago some women—not my mother—took a stand, and because of those women opportunities opened up for the next generation. Now, in my generation I can be anyone I want to be, do anything I wish. This trip to Sydney is my first chance to prove myself.”

      “And I’m part of that. Temporarily.” He paused. “Was that what picking me up in the bar was about? Is that why you went over the top that first night? Made yourself sick? Were you trying to prove how independent you are, as free with sex as any man? That’s not even possible, Darcie. Women get pregnant, men don’t. Were you showing your mother you aren’t like her at all?”

      This wasn’t going well. She didn’t know what else to say.

      “You know,” Dylan went on, “my mum’s probably like yours. Only she grew up on a farm, not in Cincinnati. She married my dad, had three kids—I have two sisters—stayed home to raise them.” He frowned harder. “She nurtured us, and him. He took care of her. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

      “It’s not wrong. But isn’t this more than premature?”

      “We’re having an intellectual discussion.” He gazed at her in the dark. The noisy toddlers had scampered off back down the tunnel. Their tired-looking parents trailed after them. The two teenagers were still necking in the corner. “But you think the opportunity will last forever?”

      She didn’t see why not, except for that biological clock Claire had mentioned. Darcie wasn’t ready to face that yet, either, much less a “relationship” with Dylan that had little chance of working out. On either side.

      “Do we have to have this conversation? I thought we were having fun.”

      She tried to rise but Dylan tugged her back down onto the step.

      He drew her into his arms and she didn’t—couldn’t—resist. Her heart pounded furiously, in excitement or alarm, she couldn’t distinguish. He moved closer, gathered her in, covered her half-open mouth with his.

      “Dylan.” She would dissolve if he didn’t stop.

      But what about Dylan’s view that a woman’s place was still in the home? The last thing she wanted was a Cincinnati clone—a man from the Outback instead of suburban Ohio, but with the same notions. The last thing Dylan wanted was a city girl with a mind of her own. Or did he?

      “This is us,” he said, “not your mother or mine. Not just some date, not a few nights in the rack…” His next kiss rocked her. His tongue twined with hers and Darcie lost her senses. She clung to him, the poignant classical music swirling around them, through them, like a school of graceful fish. “Don’t you see?”