Undressing Mr. Darcy (20 page)

Just as she raised her glass to take another sip, she saw the two women from the boat party across the room. She set down money for the drinks and tip. “Julian. Those two women are here.”

“They are?”

He almost turned around.

“Don’t turn around!”

“Absolutely right. Especially as I’m enjoying my time alone with you, and I don’t want to be interrupted. How can we escape them? How can I get you all to myself?”

Vanessa eyed them as they walked around toward the east side of the lounge.

“Come with me.” She grabbed his hand. Her plan was to take the elevator down, but when she looked back, she saw them coming toward them through the crowd, and there was nowhere to go—except the ladies’ room, which she knew had the best view in the entire lounge.

She led him into the ladies’ room, and there, as if it were meant to be, under a sink stood the neon yellow
DO NOT ENTER—RESTROOM CLOSED FOR CLEANING
floor sign. Without overthinking it, she took a page from Lexi’s book and set the sign right out front by the door, took a rather surprised Julian by the hand, and together they hurried, laughing, toward the stalls. As fate would have it, only one woman was at the sinks and, after raising her eyebrows at Julian, she dried her hands and left.

Vanessa laughed and leaned against the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of the stalls.

He moved closer to her, put his palms on the window above her, and, with a gaze into her eyes, asked, “What is it with you and . . . the water closet?”

She wanted him to kiss her. It seemed like he planned to kiss her, but she didn’t want to feel the sting of the letdown, so a deflection surfaced in her mind. She turned her head to look out the window. “Look, this view is better than the ones in the lounge.”

He was unimpressed by the knockout view of Michigan Avenue as a cloud broke open, revealing lights and liveliness below. Instead, he looked at her, his head cocked. She could see his face staring at her in the reflection of the window and the intensity of it made her quiver for a second.

She watched him, in the reflection, with his arms caging her, the flickering lights of the entire city below her, as he went in for her neck, the flesh just above her collarbone, her weak spot, the place only men who had known her for months would discover. He had figured it out in just a week.

He didn’t look as if he were kissing so much as confirming something, and the sensation of his lips, tongue, and even, for a moment, his teeth on her neck compelled her to lean her cheek on the window, inviting him to have more and coaxing him to let his hungry kisses move along her neck, shoulders, and back. He pressed against her in his breeches and she pressed against the window until finally she turned around and they kissed, long and hard, their reflection in the mirrors above the sinks across the room.

Though she didn’t want to break the kiss, urgency razored through her and she went for his cravat, untied it with the expertise of a Regency woman of pleasure, gave it a final snap, and cast it to the marble floor.

He lifted her entire dress over her head in one fluid movement and it slid out of his hands.

Now she stood in nothing but her lacy bra, her skimpy thong, heels, and her necklace dangling into her cleavage on the ninety-fifth-floor public restroom of a skyscraper, with her butt cheeks pressed against the window for the entire city below to see. Anyone could walk in the restroom at any time, too, really, so she had to be quick.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this, but she didn’t want to let her brain talk herself out of it. She had to work fast, racing against her own thoughts, tossing aside anything that smacked of reason or doubt.

Deftly, she stripped him of his coat, waistcoat, and billowing shirt, confident that the growing bulge in his breeches meant that yes, he wanted her as much as, or more than, she wanted him. He took pleasure in watching her strip him and he angled his body to help her remove each piece of clothing.

Julian was new, he was from far away, and exploring him felt like exploring a new continent. His Floris cologne, which he had told her had been first blended in the 1700s, spoke of musk and limes, and in her mind’s eye she saw cobblestone streets and gothic arches and centuries-old bridges over glistening water, and yes, she wanted to go there, and yes, he was the one to take her. There.

She yanked on the watch fob dangling from his waistline and looked up at him with a coy smile.

He kissed her fervently, his hands expertly moving all over her body, caressing and teasing and sliding her bra off.

He slid off his boots then cocked his hip as he brought her breasts to a new state of arousal with mere brushes of his fingertips.

“Do keep going, my lady,” he said as he kissed her more, and harder.

She unbuttoned the buttons on the sides of his breeches. When she unfurled the front flap, she realized he had no drawers on, and it both surprised and excited her; and once she’d peeled off the breeches, she went down on him with a hunger and aggressiveness she’d never known, and, pressing him between her breasts, she took him in as he rubbed his hands in her hair, tilted back his head in surrender, and breathed in and out deeply.

Then, on an exhale, he brought her up and slid off her thong in an instant. She reached for her bag and rolled a condom on him, and he took her there, pressed up against the window, because he couldn’t wait anymore. Her legs wrapped around him, the strength of his arms supporting her, and with an urgent wildness he brought her to new heights. He lifted her up and down on him—she could see it all in the mirrors, her riding him, him angling into her, both of them gasping and breathless.

She shot a glance toward the doorway, willing that nobody would interrupt. There would be no way now that she would stop; she couldn’t stop. She wanted him and only him, all of him, and he let go of his famous control as they came together, and he spoke, finally, in that accent, the accent that now hit notes she never knew needed reaching, and he said, with every breath, just what she wanted to hear.

“I do believe we have something here” were among the words, and a smart comeback didn’t even cross her mind.

Afterward he held her as their bodies jolted and smarted with the thrill of it all, and the slickness of their skin warmed each other, and she leaned into his chest, still heaving with little aftershocks.

With a smile she thought to herself, she had not merely
undressed
, but
done
Mr. Darcy.

Or had he undone her?

“Would you like to spend the night at my place?” she asked.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

The image of him and his chiseled physique in her bed seared into her brain, and she wouldn’t soon forget it.

And then the restroom door opened, and as they scrambled for their clothes and locked themselves into the wheelchair-accessible stall to dress, Vanessa realized just how vulnerable, exposed, and naked she’d allowed herself to get with this man she’d only known for a short time and who’d be leaving for good tomorrow.

She tied his cravat for him in the mathematical style, and she worried about ties. Ties to a man she might never see again.

C
hapter 12

A
n eventful week later, at Vanessa’s condo, the doorman buzzed. “Your friend Sherry’s here,” he said.

“Send her up,” said Vanessa.

She unlocked her door and plopped back down in front of the flickering TV.

Sherry stepped in with Lexi right behind her.

“Lexi? How did
you
get past my doorman?” Vanessa teased.

“You know doormen are my specialty. Remember how I got up to that penthouse suite to meet George Clooney?”

Sherry’s mouth fell open so wide they could both see her pink bubble gum. “You met George Clooney?”

“I did more than just meet him—”

Vanessa held up her hand. “Stop. We don’t need to hear it, do we? Now, Sherry, why did you bring Lexi up here?”

Today Sherry had on a T-shirt that read,
What do you mean Mr. Darcy isn’t real?
She looked at her phone. “Well, my Ask Mr. Darcy app wasn’t helping us determine whether you really should go to Bath or not, remember? So I thought I’d bring Lexi over to help us think it through.”

Vanessa laughed. “There’s nothing to think through. I’m going. I just bought the plane tickets. Nine-day Jane Austen Festival, here I come!”

Sherry gave Lexi a worried look.

Lexi shot a glance at the flat-screen TV. “What the hell, Vanessa? You’re watching the 1995 version of
Pride and Prejudice
with Colin Firth?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Vanessa asked.

Lexi sat down and crossed her long legs. “Nothing—except you can’t stand
P&P
in any of its incarnations.”

“People change. Right, Lexi? Would you like a cup of tea?”

Lexi gaped. “Tell me about the car accident. When does that neck brace come off?”

Vanessa adjusted the padded brace around her neck. “Tomorrow, thank goodness. I’ve been too embarrassed to go out much with this thing on. Grab a seat, Sherry.”

Sherry sat.

“Okay, girls, let’s watch this—it’s my favorite scene! Where Elizabeth plays the piano at Rosings and Darcy gazes across the room at her, realizing that he loves her . . . This wasn’t exactly in the book, but . . .” She lifted her hand to her heart. “And Colin Firth is so hot!”

Lexi stood and paced. “Wait a minute. You read the book?”

Vanessa paused the video, freezing Colin Firth. “There’s
the Look
! Isn’t it fabulous?”

“When exactly did you read
P&P
? You swore you’d never read Jane Austen—you told me yourself it only served to remind you of your parents’ divorce and how you were suddenly transplanted into your aunt’s life. How it was nothing but drawing-room drivel.”

“Come on, Lexi, I said that years ago. Anyway, right after the accident, the doctor advised me not to use my electronic devices and not to watch TV for seventy-two hours because it would strain my eyes. He even gave me an eye patch, can you believe it? I looked like a pirate. So Aunt Ella gave me her audio collection of Austen novels. I listened to them all—a novel a day. Then I borrowed all of her Austen DVDs. It’s been a great week with Jane Austen. I haven’t slowed down like this—ever.” She pressed play and it continued.

“Can you pause that and spill it, Vanessa? I’m here to help.”

Vanessa furrowed her brow. “I don’t need any help. I’m almost over the whiplash. Sherry, go ahead and tell her about the car accident. I don’t want to miss this scene.”

“O-kay. So. Vanessa and I were driving from here to the north shore hauling some stuff for her aunt. Her aunt’s moving in with her seventy-eight-year-old fiancé—”

“She is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s got to be tough for Vanessa.”

“She’s been really cool about it actually.”

“A little too cool, maybe? As in: she’s not dealing with it?”

“You know I’m right here, don’t you?” Vanessa asked.

“It’s all stuff you should be thinking about yourself anyway,” Lexi said. “No secrets here. Go ahead, Sherry.”

“That happened to be the day after she had to take the car keys away from her aunt, too.”

“Ugh. Taking away her car keys,” Vanessa said. “That was the worst. After all she’s given me over the years, I have to start taking things away from her. Like her independence.”

“They had gotten into a bit of a tiff over it,” Sherry said. “Anyway, so everywhere we go, Vanessa’s pointing out things—saying how everything in the whole damn city reminds her of Julian. She said all kinds of things, like, ‘Oh, there’s Oak Street Beach, where we danced the minuet; there’s the John Hancock, where we had sex in the ladies’ room on the ninety-fifth—”

“What? In the ladies’ room on the ninety-fifth floor?! How did they pull that off? What was it, during the daytime?”

“No, it was a Thursday night.”

“Well! I taught her everything she knows.” Lexi smiled. “But there is no escaping the one-hundred-story Hancock; you can see it from all over the city. Have sex up there and you’ll be reminded every damn day, for better or worse. Mental note taken.”

“So she’s driving along, talking to herself, saying she just needs a sign. Some kind of sign that she belongs with Julian.”

“Oh, no, that doesn’t sound like her at all. She doesn’t believe in signs or horoscopes or palm readings or any of that shit.”

“Really? Well,
that
I did not know.”

“I’ve been her friend a
lot
longer than you have.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow. “Anyway, she actually takes her hands off the steering wheel for a minute, saying ‘All I need is a sign!’ and boom.” Sherry clapped her hands together.

“Boom—what?”

“We rear-ended a semi on LaSalle Street.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Luckily nobody was behind us, but Vanessa kept thinking she had dropped a tray of her aunt’s teacups and favorite teapot. She kept talking about shattered china. It was very strange. But that only lasted a few minutes.”

“Oh, wow,” Lexi said. “Poor Vanessa. Once her parents finalized their divorce when she was a kid, she did drop her aunt’s china tea service, and it traumatized her. Into her twenties she would freak if so much as a wineglass broke and shattered. The crash must’ve dredged all of this up for her.”

“I don’t like broken things,” Vanessa said.

“The safety glass on the car’s windshield was decimated,” Sherry said. “We were very lucky, because I was fine and she was just diagnosed with whiplash and advised to stay away from screens for seventy-two hours to avoid eyestrain.”

“Huh. I can’t imagine her without her screen time.”

“Here’s the freaky thing,” Sherry said. “The truck had one of those big, huge logos on it. You’ve seen these trucks before. On all sides of the truck was
ENGLAND
in huge red letters. C. R. England trucking. As soon as we hit the truck, the Clash’s ‘London Calling’ came on the radio. Wild, huh? I told her after we got out of the ER, I said, ‘That was your sign.’”

Lexi laughed. “It’s called coincidence, Sherry; it wasn’t a sign.”

“Yes, it was. That was when she decided to go to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath. She said life is short . . . he may be the One . . . how will I know if I don’t give it a shot . . . But after that letter from him I’m not so sure.”

“Letter?” Lexi did a face palm. “Why didn’t you tell me about this letter sooner? Where is it?”

Vanessa pointed to her fake fireplace mantel, and there, propped up against a teacup, was a gorgeous thick envelope with
Vanessa
written on it in very ornate handwriting.

Lexi snapped it up and read it out loud.

Dearest Vanessa,

First and foremost, I would like to thank you for a wonderful time in Chicago. You are a lovely girl and we had a fantastic time.

I also would like to thank you for all the hard work you put into promoting my book, which raised more funds than I could have imagined.

I find it difficult to leave you this way, but, due to circumstances, I must. For that I am sorry, because you are a love . . .

All the best,

Julian

Lexi tossed the envelope and letter into Vanessa’s fake fireplace.

Vanessa leapt up off the couch and whisked the envelope and letter out, as if they would really catch on fire. “Don’t do that!”

“So. You had sex with him.”

“It wasn’t
sex.
We made love.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was the most thrilling lovemaking
ever
.”

“The thrill was the excitement of maybe getting caught in a public restroom. And the fact that he had to leave. There’s nothing more thrilling than a man with an expiration date. It makes you want more.”

“You’re such a buzz kill.”

“It’s the truth. Half the LDRs I know wouldn’t last a week in the real world.”

“LDRs?”

“Long-distance relationships. They’re total bullshit and they’re only possible because of modern technology. Why be together when you can be apart and create a perpetual state of fake honeymoon? LDRs are for amateurs. A relationship means you’re
together
. What good is having a man when you have to wait six weeks to sleep with him again?”

“What’s wrong with a perpetual fake honeymoon?”

“Did you see him the morning after?”

Vanessa slid the letter back in the envelope and set it back on the fireplace. “No, but he left that letter. You know, nobody’s ever left me a letter the day after.”

Lexi sighed. “That’s because nobody’s ever left you! No guy in his right mind would ever leave you!”

“Wow, thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.”

“Well, it’s true. I’ve actually spoken to some of your exes and they still ask about you. I miss you, too. I wish you would forgive me already. And you’re a great catch.”

“Thank you. And I’m warming up to forgiving you—” Maybe she and Lexi could patch things up and be friends again. She could be a pain, but . . .

“My point is you’ve dumped every single guy you’ve ever dated. And how many proposals have you refused?”

“Two. One of which I accepted. I changed my mind the next morning, but still. Oooooh! Look! I skipped to the wet shirt scene!”

“Vanessa, you did not keep this Julian thing in the ‘lust’ stage, did you? Sounds like you went right from lust to romantic love to attachment in one night. Did you orgasm with him?”

Sherry buried her head in her hands.

Vanessa sighed. “Somehow I knew that was where this conversation was heading. And yes, I did. Four times. How’s that for TMI? I’ll never look at a pair of breeches the same way again.”

Lexi flopped down in a chair. “Oh, no. This means you got extra hits of oxytocin.”

“Whatever that is, I sure did!” Vanessa laughed.

“What’s—oxytocin?” Sherry asked.

“It’s a hormone that’s released during orgasm. It acts as a neurotransmitter in the brain and it helps us to bond, trust, love, and attach. Basically, a few orgasms with one person, and you’re hooked. It’s like a drug. It’s not love.”

“But it could be the
start
of something. I can’t help but think what might have been and what could still be. For once in my life I need to put myself out there. I need to go there and give it a shot. He and I had a thing going—”

“You and he had a one-night stand.”

“You’re wrong about that—I think. If I don’t see what this is, I’ll be thirty-six and wondering
what if
. You know what? Jane Austen
died
at forty-one. No time like the present.”

Lexi sighed. “Darcy himself said something very poignant.” She sucked in her cheeks, raised her chin, and lowered her voice for effect: “‘A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.’”

Vanessa glared at her. “I’m not thinking of marriage—yet. But what if he
is
the One? My last chance? How will I ever know if I don’t explore it?”

“Once you see him for what he is, you won’t want him anymore. I can tell he’s an ass. You were
his
last chance. He’ll never land a better woman than you. Forget your age. Forget your timeline. Look at his actions. He slept with you and left you a Dear Jane letter—”

“He had to fly off to New York.”

“And now he’s home. It’s been a week. Have you heard anything from him?”

“He doesn’t use his phone, you know that.”

“I’ve seen him use his phone. He
can
use it. It’s very convenient that he chooses not to. This isn’t really the 1800s.”

“Fate threw him my way. What’s the likelihood of my having any more Mr. Perfects thrown my way in the next five, ten years?”

“I’ll throw one your way tonight, and he won’t leave you in the morning! Trust me.”

Vanessa shook her head. “It never happens when you’re looking, Lexi. It happens when you’re
not
looking. With the most unlikely guy ever. I don’t want a hookup—especially now that I might have something meaningful on the line.”

The doorman buzzed again. “Miss Roberts? Floral delivery.”

She jumped up from the couch. “Send them up!” She shot a told-you-so look at Lexi.

Flowers! From Julian! She couldn’t wait to read what the note on the bouquet would say. She flung open the door and, with ceremony, accepted and carried the vase full of gorgeous cabbage roses, rose hips, foxgloves, and snapdragons and set it on her glass coffee table. For a moment she just drank in the feeling of getting such a clearly lavish and expensive bouquet from him. The pinks, purples, reds, and yellows heralded sunshine and promise.