Strapless. Leigh Riker

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      “I said, Global.” He grinned. “Isn’t that what you wanted? The Pacific Rim. It’s like a reprieve from hell. Nancy told me what happened—and tipped the balance in your favor. Hinckley stays here. Good presentation, Baxter—for which you get your fondest wish—the opening of Wunderthings, Sydney. It’s summer there.”

      Chapter

       Two

      “Balmy ocean breezes,” Darcie told her grandmother. “Hot sun…”

      “That’s a shame.” In the early evening after her trip home from Wunderthings, she watched Eden Baxter fluff another Oriental pillow on the oyster-white sofa. “I doubt you’ll have time for the beach. Corwin will expect you to work.”

      True. She had her chance now to prove herself—much to Greta Hinckley’s dismay—and didn’t intend to blow it, but excitement still flowed through Darcie’s veins.

      “The guidebooks tell me I can spend nine to five in the city, then be lying on the sand at Manly after a thirty-minute ferry ride.” Her specialty, Darcie supposed, owing to her daily commute across the Hudson. She might be new to this assignment, but she was a pro with ferries.

      Eyeing Gran’s huge gray Persian cat, which had just entered the room, Darcie felt her pulse hitch. She stepped back into the dining area. She never relaxed until she pinned down Sweet Baby Jane’s location—and took up her own position as far away as possible.

      “Maybe I’ll reverse commute into the city. Then I could run in the mornings at the beach, grab a few rays—”

      “Ah, to be young-er.”

      Eden flicked a feather duster over a spotless walnut end table. Another perk of living with Gran, Darcie acknowledged. She didn’t have to clean. Neither did Gran but that didn’t bear pointing out. Nor did the fact that in the glow of light from the end table lamp, her grandmother’s carefully groomed, rich auburn hair had an apricot cast. And white showed at her roots. She needed a touch-up.

      “You’ll always be young, Gran.”

      She couldn’t see a grin from her position by the dining table, well away from Sweet Baby Jane’s predatory feline prowl, but she heard her grandmother’s cheeky tone of voice. “My men keep me that way.”

      “You have more boyfriends at eighty-two than an entire block of apartment-dwelling single females on the Upper East Side.”

      “Isn’t that bad?” Meaning good. Darcie eased away from the table. In the living room Eden rubbed a slender finger over a gold picture frame, checking for dust. The eagle in the expensive print seemed to glare back in disapproval, as Darcie’s mother might.

      “You’re famed for your liaisons—in this building anyway.”

      Gran paused. “Has that naughty doorman been talking again?”

      “Julio?” Darcie raised her eyebrows. “I hear he’s the soul of discretion.”

      Eden snorted delicately. “As long as he gets his weekly tip for bringing up my groceries—gets that huge wad of bills I slip him every Christmas. I’m telling you, the list of maintenance people here who deserve ‘appreciation’ every holiday season is the nearest thing to extortion.”

      “Julio just likes the feel of your soft little hand in his pocket.”

      “Nothing soft about him.” Eden turned. “Myra Goldstein says he has a shaft the size of Long Island. And she should know.”

      “Jealous, Gran?”

      “Who, me? If I took half an interest in that man, he wouldn’t be able to walk for a month. Make that a year. Myra is no competition.”

      Darcie grinned but let a few beats pass while her grandmother scooped up a stack of newspapers, some magazines. She was addicted to the New York Times crossword puzzle and at least twenty financial publications. Since being widowed fifteen years ago, Eden had become a success in the stock market. Her love life was equally legendary.

      “If you don’t behave, I’ll have to tell Mom.”

      Eden made the sign of the cross. “Spare me, you thankless child. That son of mine could have married well. Instead, look at him. Henpecked by that virago of a wife in Via Spiga pumps and—have you seen it?—that faux fur jacket. It looks like road kill.” She admired her own thinly strapped sandals with three-inch heels. Sweet Baby Jane wound around Eden’s slim ankles before moving on. “Still, if it weren’t for Janet Harrington Baxter, I wouldn’t have you.”

      In spite of herself—Eden said such things a hundred times a day—Darcie felt her eyes mist. “I love you, too, Gran.”

      She waved away the sentiment. “You, and every man in this building.”

      “That’s hardly the same thing.”

      “God be praised.” Eden’s blue-green eyes twinkled like peridots. “I’m going to miss you, you know. There’ll be no one to keep those wolves from my door.”

      “With that sign dangling from the bell saying Abandon Trousers, All Ye Who Enter Here? I suppose not.” As she spoke, she tracked the cat’s slow saunter in her direction. Every time Sweet Baby Jane got near, she clawed the hell out of Darcie—on purpose, Darcie felt sure. She’d never known an animal so vicious at heart (dogs usually like me) but the small injuries seemed worth the free rent at Gran’s. Never mind the traffic.

      “Darcie Elizabeth Baxter, there is no such sign.”

      “There should be,” she had just said when, without warning, Sweet Baby Jane’s sharp teeth suddenly clamped down on her calf. Darcie yelped, but Eden chose not to notice. Her beloved pet could do no wrong.

      “I am far from being a promiscuous woman. At my age?” She covered her heart with scarlet-tipped fingernails. With the exception of her one mild heart attack years ago, Eden remained in excellent health, allowing for occasional bouts of angina during stress. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you even think of spreading that vicious rumor, no one will believe you.”

      Darcie shook off the cat, trying not to draw Eden’s attention, her leg stinging.

      “They won’t listen,” she teased. “They know you.”

      “Well.” Eden raised a perfectly penciled brow. “The last man who slept in my bed did leave with a big smile on his face.”

      “Norman?”

      “No, not Norman. Jerome Langley.”

      Darcie rubbed her injured calf. “The little bald Jewish guy who never holds open the elevator door? He picks his nose, Gran. I’m disappointed in you. Again.”

      “The last man—it may have been Norman at that—was six months ago.” Eden spun Darcie toward the stairs that led to the second level of the apartment. “How promiscuous is that?”

      “Not very. But you’re lying.”

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