Finding Mr. Perfect. Nikki Rivers

doctor said she’s in wonderful shape.”

      “Mom’s in fabulous shape,” Emerald said, tossing her head. “That’s never been the problem—has it?”

      “No,” Darcy admitted, but she thought, It hasn’t been much of a solution, either.

      Their mother, Olivia, had been a great beauty in her day. She was still stunning, tall and shapely, with platinum-blond hair she wore in a sleek chignon.

      Emerald was small and wiry and brown-haired, like her father, and she had inherited their mother’s blue eyes. Darcy had her mother’s height, but she was dark-eyed and slim like her father.

      Olivia had married three times. Now she was a widow, and if she was not exactly merry, she seemed content with her lot. She’d lived in Austin for the past twenty years, but had grown up Portland, Maine. When her third husband had died last autumn, she’d waited a decent interval, then bought a vacation condo back in Maine.

      She wanted to spend her summers on the seacoast she’d loved as a girl. For the past month she’d been in Portland, working on the condo with a decorator.

      “Oh, God,” Emerald said in exasperation. She threw herself down in the studio’s one armchair. This caused more clanking, and her sword stuck out at an awkward angle. “I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

      “Would you take off that sword? You’re going to run it through either my cushion or yourself.”

      Emerald ignored her. She threw back her head and stared at the ceiling dramatically. She sighed.

      “I mean,” Darcy said, brushing back a dark strand of hair, “if you went home, why didn’t you take off the sword? Why didn’t you change clothes? You didn’t have to come stomping in here sounding like a bag of hubcaps.”

      “I was too upset,” Emerald said, and scowled harder at the ceiling.

      “Upset why?” Darcy demanded. “You said it’s about Mother. What is it?”

      “I’m trying to tell you,” Emerald said righteously. She put her gloved hand over her mailed heart. “Oh, Gad.”

      Darcy cleared the scraps of Velcro from the corner of her worktable and sat on its edge. “Yes?” she prodded.

      “I don’t know where to start,” Emerald said. Her voice quivered.

      Darcy wanted to snap just start, dammit! But she knew this tactic never worked. Instead, she mustered her best semblance of kindly patience. “Well—why don’t you just begin?”

      Emerald slumped more deeply into the chair and gazed more fiercely at the ceiling. “Do you know that laptop computer you bought Mama?” she asked. She gave the word computer a sinister fillip.

      “I should,” said Darcy. “I’m the one making the payments.”

      She had bought the computer so their mother could e-mail them from Maine. It was cheaper than ordinary mail and than phoning, and Darcy, who was new to the computer world and excited about it, had thought it an inspired idea.

      “Well,” said Emerald, “you know how she said she had a phobia about it?”

      Darcy waved away the thought dismissively. “Once she gets used to it, she’ll wonder how she lived without it. That phobia’ll fly out the window.”

      “It has flown out the window,” Emerald said ominously. “And guess what’s flown in?”

      Darcy lifted one brow. “I can’t guess. Just tell me.”

      “A man,” wailed Emerald, sitting up straight again. “She’s got herself a gigolo! This—this e-mail Don Juan. She’s head over heels. She’s gaga—she sounds like a teenager—our mother!”

      Darcy looked at her sister and shook her head. “No,” she said with certainty. “Not Mother. Not Olivia.”

      “She has,” Emerald said, her cheeks flaming even more hotly.

      “She’s only had the computer six weeks,” Darcy argued. “I don’t think she’s ever turned it on.”

      “She took it to Maine,” Emerald said accusingly.

      “Only because I nagged her. She hasn’t sent a single message yet.”

      “Maybe not to you, she hasn’t,” Emerald said, her eyes suddenly glittering with tears. “But to him she’s sent plenty. I’ve got proof—she sent me one by mistake. It’s this—this steamy love note.”

      “What?”

      Darcy did not want to believe this improbable news. Yet Emerald’s tears were disturbingly real, and despite her sense of drama, she truly hated for anyone to see her cry.

      Emerald got to her feet and began to forage in her scabbard. “Damn!” she said. She stripped off her black leather gloves and threw them to the floor. She groped in the scabbard again. “I’ve got the letter,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

      “You could,” Darcy said dryly, “carry a purse, like other women.”

      “Joke all you want,” Emerald retorted. “You won’t think it’s so funny when you read this.”

      She thrust a folded paper at Darcy, then angrily dashed the tears from her eyes. “Mama’s too old for this kind of thing,” she said bitterly.

      The paper crackled as Darcy unfolded it—it clearly was an e-mail printout—but she told herself that Emerald had to be exaggerating; she always did.

      But as Darcy read the message, she felt the blood drain from her face and her brain dance dizzily.

      SUBJECT: I Saw You in My Dreams

      From: [email protected]

      To: [email protected]

      Copy To: [email protected]

      Hello, you big sexy thing—just a little mid-morning hello (and a hug and a kiss and a squeeze and another hug and another kiss…I could go on and on!!)

      Last weekend was too fabulous; you’re too fabulous. I dreamed of you again last night, of your green eyes, your slow hands, your deep chest, and your divine Etcetera.

      I had a thought for your free week—what do you say to coming here? I got the brochures you sent on lower Florida. You’re right; it looks like an excellent buy.

      Oh, darling, I’ve got to figure out when to tell my girls about this, but I think it’s way too soon. They don’t even know I’m online yet. You’re so-o-o brave to tell your family.

      But I will try to drop Em a short note today. I worry about her. I know she’s twenty-one, and it’s time for me to let her fly on her own, but it’s hard for a mama to let go. You know, darling—you’re a parent yourself.

      Love to you (and your Etcetera)

      Olivia, whose mouth waters for another taste of her BanditKing.

      P.S. Thanks again for the anniversary roses. Who could believe we met only three weeks ago? Blessed be the name of the Chat Room. Oh, darling, we do live in an age of miracles!!

      Darcy stared at the message in bewilderment. “Ye gods.”

      “Well,” demanded Emerald. “Still think it’s funny?”

      “Maybe we’re reading too much into this,” said Darcy. “Maybe we’re—misconstruing it.” But the explanation struck her as pathetically weak, even as she said it.

      Emerald snatched back the paper. “How do you misconstrue something like this—? Her ‘mouth waters for another taste of her BanditKing’?”

      “Maybe he’s a chef,” Darcy said lamely. “Maybe he cooked for her.”

      “Something’s cooking, all right,” Emerald retorted. “Mama’s libido.