Strapless. Leigh Riker

over this latest intrusion into her space, into her mind, could only smile weakly in response. And wonder if Greta really had a yen for their boss, the least of her problems.

      This reminded Darcie of her own precarious hormonal state. Tonight, she would see the man in her life—a loose term to be sure—for their weekly “get together.” With luck, those few hours between the sheets might help her forget Greta and her own mother.

      As she passed by, Nancy Braddock brushed the edge of Greta’s desk across the way. The in-basket wobbled and a sheaf of papers that had been sticking out slid onto the floor. In the midst of her morning parade, Nancy paused.

      “Sorry, Greta.”

      Deliberately, she picked up the stack, tamped the pages into precise order—for Nancy, everything had to be in order, a habit Darcie admired—and started to set them back on the desk. Then she stopped again, glancing up with an intent frown in Greta’s direction, the most expression the unflappable Nancy ever showed.

      After a brief inspection, she handed the papers to Darcie then walked on.

      Darcie stared down at them. My proposal. How long would it have taken Greta to scan the document, change the author’s name, then print out a fresh copy for Walter Corwin—and even more important, for the Board of Directors?

      Darcie nudged Greta away from her desk. “Excuse me. This has to be in Walt’s office by ten today and I need to make a few additions. I can’t imagine how it ended up on your desk, Hinckley.”

      The words didn’t satisfy. She couldn’t seem to blast Greta, except in her mind, and mentally Darcie stiffened her spine. She would let the proposal speak for itself. Damned if she would go under without a fight.

      “If my hormones weren’t on a total rampage, I’d just leave.”

      Ever since Greta that morning, Darcie’s day had gone downhill. Muttering to herself that night, she stared into the mirror of the usual room at the Grand Hyatt Hotel and shuddered at the sight. She always cringed at this time of the month, so that was certainly nothing new. She had a dozen friends who felt the same way about their appearance—miserable fat slut no one could love—twelve times each year. Darcie was in her own puffer fish phase: four extra pounds, cheeks too full, breasts engorged and aching, belly out to here…

      PMS Psycho.

      Unfortunately, she also felt horny.

      Darcie caught Merrick Lowell’s reflection in the glass and frowned. Only moments ago he’d plied her with kisses, soft and hard, a caress or two of her tender nipples, before he abandoned foreplay, and her, for the telephone.

      “I mean, go. As in, ‘I’m outta here.’ Let Mary Thumb and her four daughters ‘handle’ his problem.”

      The selfish thought couldn’t be avoided. What about her problem? Why stand less than six feet away from a man who obviously wanted her only one night a week? Darcie considered moving straight toward the door, into the hall, down in the elevator and out onto Forty-Second Street. Since she’d begun to think of chain saw murder, tonight no longer held the promise of passion. She’d just grab the shuttle to the ferry, then cross the Hudson for home. Merrick seemed more interested in checking his voice mail—again—than in making love.

      When Darcie turned away from the mirror into the room, he held up a finger. Wait a minute. Then we’ll screw. And her resolve tightened.

      Lovely. She should leave him.

      Her friend Claire told her so, repeatedly.

      Give up, Claire said. Darcie’s relationship with Merrick—Darcie couldn’t even call it that—wouldn’t go anywhere. And when Darcie, who prided herself on logic, began to believe the same thing…

      As if he knew what she was thinking, Merrick put down the phone with a smile that could melt granite.

      “Sorry.”

      And that fast, her mood lifted. No more holdover from this morning with Greta Hinckley. No more chain saws. No more PMS. Again, she was a normal person, sort of, with regular moods instead of periodic plumpness, a human being with a job at risk, Darcie admitted, a woman who needed a man. Now.

      “No problem,” she murmured.

      She reminded herself that Merrick liked schedules, which Darcie—since her migration from Cincinnati—was trying to despise, a minor glitch in their quasi-affair. So what? Marriage wasn’t her top priority—even if Merrick would be her parents’ Catch of the Day—and one reason Darcie had come to New York.

      Darcie wouldn’t want a big home in some fancy suburban development facing a golf course. She wasn’t ready for Janet Baxter’s statistical two point four children—how could you manage that?—and a new gas-guzzling SUV in the three-car garage. Or the adoring husband who would come home every night to do half the chores and parenting. Ha. Darcie’s father never helped around the house, and Janet Baxter hadn’t worked outside their home in thirty-four years.

      Darcie didn’t want a husband yet. Someday she might, assuming marriage improved her lot, but until then Merrick Lowell turned her on—every Monday night. Sex wasn’t everything either, she admitted, but theirs was a pragmatic arrangement. At the moment, like an opportunity to climb the company ladder right over Greta Hinckley, it suited Darcie.

      She even smiled. “Oh, suck it up.”

      Merrick was undoing his shirt, not looking at her. Instead, Darcie looked at him. Button by button, inch by inch of bared male skin, she felt her heart beat quicken. Hurry.

      “What?” he finally said.

      She cocked her head. “I’m admiring the view.”

      “Well, come over here. I like your admiration hands-on.”

      So he could be a little egocentric. Merrick had his faults, but he also looked gorgeous, which made up for a lot where her wayward hormones were concerned. Not that she wanted to seem shallow. Not that he was, really, her type.

      His thick, honey-blond hair, in contrast to Darcie’s fine, straight but often unruly dark bob, didn’t bother her. Lighter hairs even sprinkled the backs of his hands, redeeming him as a too-pretty boy in her mind, strong hands that could make Darcie moan. Soon, she hoped. Important point in his favor. He had deep-blue eyes to her own bland hazel gaze, a sexy mouth that made Darcie feel positively thin-lipped without those silicone shots. But of course he dressed like a GQ model—Ick—and had a too-cool name, when hers was just a name, and he came from old Connecticut money while she sprang from middle-class Ohio. He made Darcie, a product of public schools, feel she didn’t have the inside track somehow. His education— Choate and Yale—reeked of class and privilege and had, naturally, led straight to his job on Wall Street where, without a Greta Hinckley in his path, he made tons of money…as he kept telling Darcie.

      So he was a jerk.

      Holding her smile, she started across the room. And felt a swift kick of anticipation when Merrick didn’t smile back. He didn’t seem distracted now. His eyes had taken on that darker, intent male look that meant business, and heat streaked along Darcie’s spine. Sexual business.

      He said, “You’re sure taking your time.”

      “I’m meditating. On your sheer physical perfection.”

      “Jesus, Darce, will you just get over here before I lose my hard-on?”

      Despite her own practical mood, a flutter of disappointment slowed her steps.

      “That’s romantic,” she murmured.

      He frowned. “I don’t have time for romance. It’s not like we only met, or something. I have to get up at 5:00 a.m.”

      Slightly peeved again, Darcie reached out to help him unfasten his French cuffs. Those gold-and-onyx links must have cost a fortune. Well, he had one to spare. Another thing they didn’t have in common. Sex would have to do. She peeled off his shirt, dropped it to the carpet, then moved in close to run her