Strapless. Leigh Riker

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Kristi Goldberg, who first urged me to tell this story—

      and take a new direction. Your ongoing support and encouragement mean so much. Thanks, dear friend and fellow writer.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter

       One

      “I mean, it’s just logical—stuff happens. Right?”

      Like muttering to herself, Darcie Elizabeth Baxter thought, or trying to make sense of things, this was nothing new. Stuff happened, especially to a twenty-nine-year-old woman trying to figure out her life. Happiness. Men. Work. You name it.

      So on a sleet-drizzled Monday morning in January, it didn’t surprise Darcie to march into her cubicle at Wunderthings Lingerie International six floors above the Avenue of the Americas—and find Greta Hinckley rifling her desk. Again. Still, Darcie’s heart stalled. Even her grandmother told her she could be too trustingly naive. Although Wunderthings was not a huge corporation on the order of Warner, Maidenform, or Victoria’s Secret—the industry superstar—the smaller company had potential. Darcie wanted to be part of that, but she felt a sinking sensation. Had she left the draft of her proposal for this week’s development meeting in plain view?

      “Morning, Greta.”

      The other woman jumped—not high enough for Darcie’s taste—then whirled around, a sickly smile pasted on her narrow mouth. It made Darcie feel lush, as if she’d sprung for those silicone lip injections like all the female news anchors on TV. Everything about Greta Hinckley seemed narrow. Her horsey face, her shoulders, her blade-slim body…her mind.

      “Take anything that appeals to you.” Darcie set down her foam container of coffee, determined not to let her incipient PMS this morning send her over the edge. “Don’t let me stop you. Mi casa es su casa.” She didn’t know the Spanish word for desk. House would have to do. Greta wouldn’t notice.

      From the crinkle lines around her pale brown eyes, the faint gray streaks in her medium brown hair, Greta had passed her thirtieth milestone years ago. Still single, without a man in her life, according to the office grapevine, Greta lived alone in Riverdale and devoted her entire being to Wunderthings—and whenever she could, to stealing Darcie’s creative output.

      Too bad Darcie was the only person who knew that.

      It was enough to make her yearn for a full bag of red licorice whips for comfort. Darcie didn’t like confrontation, especially with Greta, and usually Greta’s “borrowing” concerned lesser issues. A suggested design to showcase next season’s bras or bustiers. An Un-Valentine’s Day Sale. New, high-traffic quarters for a not-quite-profitable-enough branch store. Not this time. A glance at the pile of papers on Darcie’s desk confirmed that her proposal for Wednesday was missing. Her global plan.

      She opened her coffee, took a sip, and burned her tongue. “Damn.” She liked to think of herself as a controlled person, even today when she knew better. With difficulty she mellowed her tone. “If there’s anything I can clarify, let me know.”

      “Clarify?”

      Darcie perched on the edge of her desk, crowding Greta. She hated the dumb act. As if this wasn’t enough of a disaster, Darcie’s mother was in town—the worst week she could pick for one of her surprise visits to check on Darcie’s “decadent” lifestyle in the big city. If only a fraction of that were true, Darcie thought, and struggled to remain calm. Maybe if she explained her position to Greta…

      “We’ve done so well in the States, in Europe, blah, blah, as Walt Corwin said at last week’s staff meeting, that the board has voted—as you know—to open up the Pacific Rim market. With the imminent recovery of the Japanese economy—let us pray—the decline of the Australian and New Zealand dollars, which gives us a growth opportunity at bargain prices, I’m suggesting…”

      Greta straightened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      Darcie arched a brow. “Then may the best woman win.”

      “Walter will decide—” Instantly, with their boss’s name, Darcie noticed Greta’s expression soften. “We’ll know then, depending on the board’s input, who will become his new Assistant to the Manager of Global Expansion. With my experience—”

      “Your brilliance,” Darcie supplied, her astonishment growing. Did she only imagine it, or did Greta’s tone turn to maple syrup when she mentioned Walter? Interesting.

      “Morning, ladies.”

      As if Darcie had cued her, Walt Corwin’s administrative assistant swept along the aisle between cubicles, dispensing her usual brand of daily cheer and memos. Greta beamed. If nothing more, Greta was a political barracuda, but Darcie, shaking 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,