Free Strapless by Leigh Riker Page A

You’re history, Merrick Lowell. If she didn’t make love again until the next half of the twenty-first century, she would darn well make some memories with this Australian sheep rancher to tide her over. She looped her arms around his neck to whisper in his ear.
    â€œHi. I’m Darcie Baxter. And you are…?”

Chapter
Four
    â€œD ylan Rafferty.”
    With a heavy sigh, Darcie came clean about her last-night lover. She sank gratefully onto a bench in Hyde Park that afternoon then stared down the allée of eucalyptus trees opposite the center fountain in front of her, not really seeing their silvery trunks or feathery branches. Not smelling their heady scent every time those limbs moved in the light breeze. Not hearing the splash of water, the twitter of birds. Not even responding to the name she’d finally uttered to Walt Corwin.
    â€œHe farms sheep?”
    He’d been pressuring her all day. Hank Baxter in disguise.
    She said, “Like a million other Aussies with millions of sheep, yes.”
    Walt scowled harder. “And you just had to go to bed with him our first night in Sydney?”
    â€œGee, I didn’t know you missed me.”
    â€œVery funny.”
    â€œI was off duty. You were brain dead from the trip,already asleep. WLI—Wunderthings—had no claim on me from 5:00 p.m. yesterday to nine this morning.”
    At which point she and Walt had met for a quick breakfast in the Westin club lounge before their morning meeting with a group of Aussie businessmen and representatives from city government, all of whom seemed concerned with a U.S. lingerie firm encroaching on New South Wales territory.
    â€œWe’re trying to develop Australian business,” they said.
    â€œYes. Australia is poised to become a world power, financially speaking,” Walt had agreed. “We can help. It’s time to bring one of America’s best-known and well-regarded corporations for women’s wear to this continent.”
    The word knickers kept coming up. And underpinnings.
    Odd. For most of the day, Darcie had wished for Dylan Rafferty’s presence—and not, this time, in bed. Maybe she could hire him as a translator.
    â€œWe’re concerned, Mr. Corwin,” said the crisply dressed executive who seemed to head the group, “with preserving and creating Australian jobs.”
    â€œWunderthings will bring more jobs.” Walt fumbled in his briefcase.
    Darcie came to his rescue. Swiftly, she handed out papers around the table. “I think you’ll find these projections mean serious revenue for Sydney.”
    Walt flashed her a look of naked gratitude. “And once we prove ourselves here, the rest of the country will benefit. Canberra, Adelaide, Melbourne…”
    Well, that didn’t prove the right thing to say. Apparently, a great rivalry existed between the cities of Melbourne and Sydney. To the old-guard social set from Melbourne, Sydneysiders were merely a bunch of ex-convicts, as Dylan had implied. Upstarts, someone said.
    It had been a grueling meeting and Darcie hadn’t recovered yet.
    Worse, her feet hurt.
    At four o’clock she wanted nothing more than to slip off her shoes and rub her toes until they stopped cramping.Please. If it wasn’t one cramp for a woman, it was another. And just like a man, Walt had dragged her up and downhill the rest of the day, heedless of the fact that she was wearing heels. Chunky ones, yes. But Darcie could scream from the pressure on her insteps now. The canted incline of the streets had turned her mood from morning-after tingles, courtesy of Dylan Rafferty, to late-afternoon agony. At least she was wearing a cotton dress. Summer in January? She couldn’t hate that.
    â€œHow many storefronts do you think we looked at today?” she asked.
    â€œNot enough.”
    â€œWalt, I think you’re taking the wrong approach.” When he glared at her, Darcie hastily added,