she could compete with the best of them. With that goal in mind, over the summer she had purchased two items, which she knew, at least from her limited experience of shopping through the sales racks at Banana Republic and J. Crew, had cost a small fortune: a heather-grey, 1920s-inspired cocktail dress with a scooping neckline and plunging back made of silk-chiffon; and a pair of black Magrit heels adorned with crystal satin bows.
Darby checked herself in the mirror. The dress was cute — sexy but sophisticated. Sort of a modern Audrey Hepburn, especially with her hair pulled up, although she doubted the style icon would have worn peep-toe platform shoes with four-inch heels.
They'd look stunning with just the lingerie, she thought.
Darby smoothed out her dress and eased the bathroom door open.
Coop was still standing by the bed, sorting through his new clothes — trousers, jeans, socks, packaged dress shirts and tees. He had taken off his shoes and shirt. She looked him over in the soft glow of light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. The white tank top hugged the curves of his broad and well-defined chest.
He had been hunched over the bed when he glanced up at her. Any doubt she may have had about her plan vanished when she saw his slack-jawed expression.
Coop straightened, eyes widening. He suddenly seemed self-conscious at the way he was gawking at her. His gaze cut to the nightstand, where he picked up a glass of what appeared to be Scotch.
'Well,' she said after a moment. 'Aren't you going to say anything?'
'You look amazing.' He swallowed, then added, 'You always do.'
'Thank you.'
He took a slug of Scotch and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Darby walked up to him and placed her hands lightly on his chest. In her heels, she was almost eye level with him. She could smell the alcohol on his breath.
She ran her fingers up his chest and across his shoulders. Gripped him gently by the back of the neck and pulled him closer and kissed him once, lightly on the lips.
'It unzips in the back,' she whispered. 'Like this.'
She heard the hitch in his breath when her dress fell to the floor. His throat flushed when he saw what was lying underneath the dress.
Coop cradled her face in his hands, and as he kissed her she reached across his back and pulled up his tank top. He raised his hands and she yanked it over his head and tossed it into the air. Her hands went back to his body, palms and fingers sliding across the smooth hardness of his chest. He feels like he's made of marble, she thought, and pressed herself against him.
They kissed more slowly, more deeply. Coop's warm, strong hands slid down the small of her back. His fingers moved underneath the elastic band of her panties and gently squeezed her buttocks. She let out a soft moan, feeling him growing hard against her, and realized how much this moment matched the fantasy she'd been nursing since the moment he left for London.
'One question,' she whispered.
'What?' The word thick in his throat.
'Shoes on or off?'
'On,' he said, swallowing. 'Definitely on.'
She kissed his neck. His breath caught again and she kissed his chest, slowly, and she heard his beating heart and the way his breath was now coming sharper and faster as she slid her hand over the bulge mashing against the smooth fabric of his trousers. She undid his belt buckle. His hands gripped her arms and she unbuttoned his trousers. They dropped to the floor, and his eyes slammed shut and his head arched back when she ran her fingers inside his boxers.
'Darby… I… I…'
His words trailed off. His eyes flickered shut and she ran her fingers back up his chest and cupped his jaw.
'Coop.'
When he looked at her, his eyes seemed wet, on the verge of tears. Was he crying?
'I love you,' she said. 'I always have, and I always will.'
'I know.'
He was crying.
'I know you do,' he said. 'But I can't. I'm involved with someone else.'
63
Darby was vaguely aware of Coop standing in front of her, eyes bleary, but she wasn't really in the room with him, her mind having separated itself from her body. She'd seen this kind of moment played out in TV shows and romantic comedies endless times — and always in a highly cliched and melodramatic fashion, with the scorned or rejected woman turning on the waterworks while crumbling into the role of a poor, pathetic victim. And every time she saw such a scene, a part of her would want to shout at the screen: Get your shit together, stop blubbering and say or do something.
Watching such a thing unfold from the comfortable and safe distance of a chair, though, was a whole galaxy away from actually experiencing it.
Coop wiped at his face, then scooped his trousers off the floor, but instead of putting them on, he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward — probably to hide his erection, which was still prominently displayed.
Well, at least you managed to turn him on, a critical voice chimed in. At least you did something right.
His elbows propped on his knees and hands dangling between his legs, he took in a long draw of air, his voice shaking when he spoke.
'I'm sorry, Darby.'
She opened her mouth, ready to speak — wanting to speak — but her brain had somehow disengaged itself from her tongue.
'I planned on telling you,' he said. 'I was just looking for the right moment.'
She found she could move now. She turned away from Coop and caught her reflection in a mirror mounted above the bureau across the room. She saw herself standing there in a $300 set of lacy thong panties and low-cut bra, and $600 shoes. Clothes she had bought specifically for him. When she saw the wounded, vulnerable look on her scarlet red face staring back at her, she turned away again, cringing, hating herself for it. For this.
She scooped up her dress from the floor and walked to the bathroom, numb. She shut the door. That sickening process of sinking back inside one's skin had started, and when she saw what was waiting for her — the hurt and anger and everything else mixed with it lying there like the proverbial lump in her stomach — she turned away from that too, by doing what she did best, the only thing that had never failed her: she got busy.
Dressed in a clean pair of jeans, socks and a black tee, the well-worn boots back on her feet and giving her back some sense of who and what she was, Darby opened the door and walked back into the bedroom.
Coop was standing now, near the windows. He had put on his trousers, buckling them, she supposed, to prevent her from further temptation. His tank top, though, was still on the floor.
'I'm sorry, Darb.'
'You've already apologized,' she said, working her arms through her shoulder holster. 'Saying it two, three or a hundred more times doesn't make it any more effective.'
She was surprised — surprised and glad — at how calm she sounded.
'What's the lucky lady's name?'
Coop didn't answer. She didn't care, busy looking around the room, trying to figure out where she'd left her jacket.
And then it came to her, the thing that was slightly off about the evening on John Smith's balcony. She looked at Coop standing on the other side of the bed and slightly to the right. When Smith had stood, he hadn't been standing directly in front of her but off to the side. The sniper would have had a clear shot at her but instead had
