Читать книгу Sex Drive - Susan Lyons - Страница 8

Damien Black grinned at the intriguing woman in the seat beside him. The sexy prof who was marking Sydney Uni exam booklets but didn’t have an Australian accent. The woman whose conversation on her mobile had given her a stress headache.

The literary snob who thought his novels were superficial crap.

Not that he necessarily disagreed. But, hell, they were fun to write and they were damned lucrative superficial crap. He had the best fucking job in the universe: making up stories, playing with imaginary friends, and getting paid well to do it.

The prof intrigued him, and not only because she was hot in a subtle, classy way. He wondered how she’d react when she found out he was the guy whose books she’d dissed, but he was going to hold off on satisfying his curiosity. They had a long flight ahead of them, and together they could make it a hell of a lot of fun. But he stood a better chance if she got to know him before she learned his identity.

“You’ve been shaking your head and heaving sigh after sigh,” he said. “And not drinking your champers.”

She glanced at his empty glass. “Not a problem you’ve been suffering from, I see.”

Had to admit, there was a definite appeal to a woman who wasn’t afraid to use her tongue. Banter was a good start. Maybe she’d soften up and think of a friendlier use for that tongue. “Drink up. It’ll help your headache.”

She frowned. “I don’t have—” Then she winced. “Well, maybe the beginning of one.”

The flight attendant arrived with the champagne bottle and a big smile. “So sorry, I certainly don’t want to neglect you.” She filled his glass.

“Ta, Carmen.” The flashy brunette had told him her name when he’d first got on the plane and she’d recognized him.

She cocked a brow at the prof. “You don’t care for it, Ms. Fallon? Can I get you something else?”

“No, it’s fine. I was just on the phone.” She held up her closed mobile. “Which is off now, and I’m about to enjoy the champagne.”

“Good on you,” Carmen said, then gave him a wink before she moved on.

Yeah, Carmen had gushed all over him when he came on board. She’d made it clear she was available for a little action. Her, and about a hundred other girls in the two years since his first book hit the bestseller lists and he’d become a familiar face on TV talk shows. Not to mention, been voted one of the country’s ten sexiest bachelors.

The “sexy bachelor” angle had featured prominently in the promo plan his agent and publicist had developed, a fact that at first he’d found humorous but had soon worn thin. This business of women flinging themselves at him had gotten a little old. Truth was, it wasn’t all that flattering when females swarmed all over a bloke just because he was famous and supposed to be sexy. Celebrity had its disadvantages.

Truth was, the prof interested him more than Carmen. She was a turn-on, with an appealing face that wasn’t caked in makeup, a slim, shapely bod, and boobs that looked to be all her own. Plus, she intrigued him. The woman presented a challenge. Though she clearly wasn’t immune to the physical spark between them, she sure wasn’t throwing herself at him.

Could he win her over before she found out who he was?

He held out his glass to her. “Bottoms up, safe trip, don’t let the buggers get you down.” He’d have said “bastards” but figured it might piss her off.

A chuckle spluttered out of her and her eyes warmed. Those eyes reminded him of the water in a billabong: shades of reddy brown brightened by specks of blue and green, like the reflections of red rocks and trees in blue waters. As with a billabong, a bloke could stare into their depths and lose himself. Especially now, when her amusement made them sparkle as if sunshine dappled the still water.

She clicked her glass to his. “The buggers?”

“Whoever’s got you sighing like a high wind through the gum trees.”

Her lips twisted, more in rue than amusement. “My sister. Actually, all my sisters.” Her eyes widened and he sensed the information had slipped out, laughter creating a chink in her reserve. She glanced away and raised the glass to her lips.

“Ah. Families. Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em. Easiest to just avoid them.” That was his current strategy with his own family.

“True.” She gazed into her glass. “But it’s not always possible.”

“No?”

She glanced up, eyes narrowing. “I really do need to work.”

Why was she so intent on keeping him at a distance? He was about to ask when he felt a hand brush his right forearm.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Carmen purred, not sounding sorry at all. “We’re readying for takeoff. I need you to fold up your tables. You can hang on to your glasses and I’ll be by with more champagne once we’re in the air.”

He heard a quick swallow on his other side, then the prof extended her glass past him. “I’m finished. You can take this, thanks,” she said coolly. He gathered she hadn’t exactly warmed to their flight attendant.

“I’ll keep mine,” he said.

When Carmen had gone, he turned to his seatmate. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

Her lips pressed together, their fullness folded in to make a thin line. When she released them, they were plump and a deep, natural pink. Ripe for kissing.

But her voice was chilly. “Believe me, I do. They make Theresa a dull girl. Which I am. So, you might as well get over yourself and let me get on with my work. I’m sure Carmen will be more than happy to let you chat her up.”

Interesting. Damien figured he was pretty damned observant for a guy—a writer had to be—and she’d just delivered a whack of information. Not only her name, but the fact that folks thought she was too serious and didn’t hold back from telling her. Now, what was that bit about Carmen? Did he detect a hint of jealousy?

This was going to be one interesting flight.

He decided to let Professor Theresa Fallon win this round. When they were in the air, having drinks and appetizers, she’d have to put the exams away.

“Okay,” he said easily. “You get on with your work then.”

Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t have work to do himself. This wasn’t a vacation. He’d finished a weeklong book tour in Australia, had a couple days at home in Sydney to get turned around, and was now headed off for a month’s tour in the United States and Canada. With him, he had the galleys for Gale Force, which had to be back to his publisher in a week. And of course, there was Scorched Earth, the book he was currently writing. Or had been, until a plot point had hung him up.

Beside him, Theresa was again studying the exam. Absentmindedly she lifted her hand and rubbed her temple through short, gleaming auburn hair. The gesture made him focus on her slim fingers, which, even with their short, unpolished nails, had a particular feminine grace. Fingers that he’d bet would feel nicer on his skin than Carmen’s red-tipped claws.

Usually, the width of the seats in business class was an advantage, but not tonight. In economy, Theresa’s arm would’ve brushed against his on the armrest. Her bare arm against his, the constant whisper of flesh against flesh acting like the friction of two sticks being rubbed together, the way some elderly Aboriginals still made fire. Friction, heat, friction, spark, more friction—then flames.

Of course, if he and Theresa had been touching that way, he’d have had a hard-on. Just being this close to her was enough of a tease to his senses. He was aware of her every movement. Her scent—something earthy yet fresh—made him think of sex in the great outdoors.

Damien shifted, wishing he could adjust his swelling package. Trying to distract himself, he decided to work on his plot knot. He closed his eyes and reviewed what he’d written to date.

The book started with Damien’s police detective protagonist being reamed out by his superior. Although Kalti Brown had solved his last case, he refused to reveal exactly how he’d identified the bad guy, and how that criminal had come to die in a freak windstorm. Kalti’s secret was that he had a special connection with his totem spirit and the creator spirits from the Dreamtime. When bad people went against the natural laws, the spirits were as determined to punish them as was Kalti, and they worked together in an alliance that was often less than comfortable for him.

As Damien reflected, eyes shut, he was dimly aware of the plane taxiing, then taking off. Of the elderly couple across the aisle telling Carmen they were going to Vancouver to visit family, including a brand-new great-grandchild.

Kalti, now, he was a loner for obvious reasons. But his boss had decided someone should keep an eye on him. Enter Marianna, his new partner. Female, Caucasian. A hard-line, play-by-the-rules cop.

Beside him, Damien heard the prof reach for her carry-on bag and pull out something that rustled. More exam booklets, he guessed, then he returned to his musings.

Marianna was tough and career-focused, and resented being assigned to a cop who had the reputation of being a renegade. She didn’t trust Kalti and he, a keeper of secrets, couldn’t trust anyone. And yet, partners were supposed to be a team and be able to rely on each other.

The two were assigned to a couple murders that might be the work of a serial killer. There was a ritualized aspect to the killings that made Kalti suspect—

Beside him, Theresa was muttering to herself, breaking his concentration. He heard something like, “For only six thousand dollars, you, too, can look like a strawberry parfait.” And then, “Or a mummy.” His brain couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing. When she said, “Can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. If a man hugged her, she’d snap in two,” he had to open his eyes and glance over.

What he saw made him laugh. She had a bridal magazine open. “Wedding gowns? What happened to all the work you had to do?”

Her cheeks flushed to match her sleeveless top. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Hard to sleep with all that muttering,” he teased.

“Oh damn. Sorry. It’s a bad habit.”

“No worries. But I’m curious. A six-thousand-dollar strawberry parfait?”

She flipped pages and he stared at a lacy concoction the color of a strawberry milkshake. He let out a hoot. “That’s ridiculous.” Its droopy lines made him think of melting ice cream, and there was a big pouffy red something-or-other at the waist that was probably a bow but looked like a giant squishy strawberry. “Aren’t wedding gowns supposed to be white? I mean, unless you’re Asian or something.”

“Pink is the latest trend. But yes, most are white or off-white. Look at this.”

Another page flip, and he gazed at a pale, sad-looking woman whose thin body was wrapped round and round in what looked like gauze bandaging. A mummy’s wrappings. “She looks like a corpse, so I guess it’s fitting she’d be wrapped like one.”

Theresa giggled. Eyes sparkling, she turned another page. “How about this?”

No tits or ass on this one either. But God, she went beyond skinny to emaciated. “Jeez. A stick-woman.” He winced. “Scary. How could anyone find that attractive?”

She shook her head firmly, auburn hair lifting then settling. “I sure don’t.” Grimly she added, “What a horrible message it sends to young women.”

“Yeah. And take it from me, if they look like this, no guy’s ever going to marry them.” He couldn’t imagine any red-blooded man wanting to have sex with a skeleton.

And speaking of sex…Damien took the excuse to undo his seat belt, lean over, and let his arm brush hers, feeling a zing of connection.

Then, quickly, he shifted away. Shit, what was he doing? Obviously she was engaged, despite her ringless hands. So much for trying to seduce her.

Didn’t mean they couldn’t talk, though. He flipped another page, then another. “Well, this girl’s got curves. At least below the waist. Man, look at the arse on her.” Then he peered closer. “Or is that the dress, making her look so big?”

“I gather it’s called mermaid cut. Yes, it does accentuate the, uh, bottom, curving in like that then flaring out again so she can walk. Or at least hobble.”

“Yeah, she sure as hell wouldn’t be doing any waltzing in that one.”

“Waltzing?” She glanced at him quizzically. “You don’t look like the waltzing type.”

“Hey, I’m from Oz. ‘Waltzing Matilda’?” The truth was, he was one hell of a dancer.

“Yeah, right.” Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Isn’t that song about a swagman—i.e., a hobo—dancing with his swag, meaning his skimpy bundle of possessions?”

“Damned academics,” he groused. “Take everything so literally.”

“How did you know I’m an academic?”

“Grading exams from the uni?”

“Oh, of course.”

He glanced back to the magazine. “Hate those dresses with the rigid tops that don’t move when the woman does. And why do so many of these models look miserably unhappy?”

“Way to sell a dress, eh? What’s the myth they’re selling? Isn’t it supposed to be, this is the happiest day of your life?”

“Myth? You mean you don’t buy into it?”

She shrugged. “I guess it’s nice to start out feeling that way. Even if the reality is, you’ve got more than a fifty percent chance of being miserable.”

Whoa. A cynical bride? Of course, she must figure she and her fiancé would beat the odds. “How’d you come up with that depressing statistic?”

“Roughly half of marriages end in divorce. And lots of spouses are unhappy but don’t get divorced. Ergo, there’s probably something like a quarter of marriages that are actually happy.”

Ergo? What kind of woman said ergo? As for her statistics…Damien shook his head, bemused. He was thirty-three and had never met a woman who’d made him want to settle down, yet he’d kind of figured on getting married one day. Really married, in the traditional “grow old together” way. As the prof had laid out the facts, it sounded like he’d be crazy.

Absentmindedly he flipped another couple pages. Hmm, here were some dresses that were actually nice, worn by models who looked like real, attractive, smiling women. If he was Theresa, that was the designer he’d be looking at.

When he started to turn the page again, her hand caught his. “Wait.”

Her touch felt great, but she didn’t even seem aware of the contact. Instead, she stared at the magazine, transfixed. “That one. It’s lovely.” Her finger brushed the page reverently.

The ivory-colored dress was simple, but prettier than the fancy ones. The strapless top was soft rather than rigid, and decorated with pearls or lustrous beads. A band of lacy, pearly trim ran along the top and below the bustline, then the dress fell to the floor in a slim drift of fabric. A woman could waltz in it and it would bell out gently, romantically, drifting seductively around a guy’s legs. And under his hands, her back would be bare, soft, warm…

Not that he was into weddings or anything.

But for some reason, he felt a weird twinge at the thought of Theresa in that dress, whirling around the dance floor with another man. Then later, in the honeymoon suite of a fancy hotel, being unzipped. Or did the back have buttons? The dress would slip down her body to pool on the floor, leaving her clad in something white and lacy, very brief, showing off her slim but definite curves.

Double whoa. He shouldn’t be thinking this way about another man’s bride.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound objective. “It’s pretty and you’d look good in it. It’d show off your neck and nice arms. The model’s got that long hair all over her shoulders, but the dress’d look better with short hair like yours.”

She was staring at him, looking stunned. Shit, was he sounding all gay?

“Me?” she squeaked.

“It’s the prettiest wedding dress you’ve looked at.”

“Ooh! Are you getting married, Ms. Fallon?” Carmen was back, resting a hand on Damien’s shoulder so she could lean across and peer at the magazine. “Let’s see. Oh, those are too plain.” She dismissed the page he and Theresa had been studying, and flipped a few pages. “Look! Isn’t this one stunning?”

He peered at the picture. “Why’s it all caught up in those flouncy things? It looks like mosquito netting.”

Carmen’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Rolling her eyes, she said to Theresa, “Men. They have no taste when it comes to this kind of thing.” Using Damien’s shoulder for support—and getting in another squeeze—she straightened. “This calls for champagne. I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t—” Theresa started to say, but Carmen had gone. The prof turned to Damien with a mischievous grin. “I’m with you. That dress does look like mosquito netting.”

“Unless your guy’s into the whole wilderness safari thing, I’d stick with the other one.”

“It’s not me who’s getting married. It’s my baby sister.”

“Ohhhh.” The one syllable eased out of him slowly, on a breath of…Relief? No, it had to be pure sexual pleasure that she wasn’t already taken. That she was fair game, to stick with the safari analogy.

“I’m flying to Vancouver, where my parents and Merilee live, to organize the wedding.”

“And you’re not married yourself?”

“No.” Those billabong eyes studied him for a long moment. “Divorced. And not about to give it a second shot.”

So, she had personal experience with those divorce statistics. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, but shadows clouded her eyes. “It was a learning experience. How about you?”

“Haven’t even come close.”

“Guess you have more sense than I did.”

“Not so sure it’s a matter of good sense. I’ve got nothing against the idea. In principle.” He gave her a quick grin. “Or at least I didn’t, until you started quoting stats. Just haven’t found a woman who doesn’t bore me.” Even as he said the words, he wished he could call them back. Not that they weren’t true, but they made him sound like a—

“Don’t think well of yourself, do you?” she taunted.

“Nah.” He laughed. “Well, kinda. You have to think well of yourself. I mean, who else is gonna do it?”

She laughed. Man, the woman had a pretty laugh, soft and husky like a breeze rustling through gum leaves. “I’ll give you that. But how can you suggest that all women are boring?”

“Not what I said.” He paused, setting her up. “Haven’t found a bloke I’d want to marry, either.”

Another chuckle. “Somehow I don’t figure you as gay.”

“You think?”

Oh, yeah, he liked her smile, her laugh, the sunlight-on-water sparkle in her eyes. Things were definitely looking up.

He didn’t even mind when Carmen arrived with the champagne. At least until she bent toward Theresa to hand her a flute glass, and shoved her left boob in his face.

Not that he had anything against women’s breasts. In fact he might’ve taken Carmen up on her offer if he hadn’t been sitting beside Theresa.

But now there was Theresa—whose lit-up face had transformed to a disgusted scowl—and he’d rather have her company. She was sexier, prettier, more interesting, and there was that challenge factor. The time limitation, too; he had only ten hours to charm her.

He had to do something about Carmen. Theresa’s magazine gave him an idea. Could he persuade her to go along with it?

When Carmen reached for the used glass he’d kept, he said, “Mind getting me a fresh one?”

“Happy to.” She pirouetted and headed up the aisle, curvy arse wriggling.

Quickly he turned to Theresa. “Do me a favor. Pretend we’re engaged.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Save me from that woman’s clutches.”

“That…Carmen? But you’ve been flirting with her.”

“Reflex. A stupid one I now regret. Help me out?”

An eyebrow kinked. “You do know, she’d give you pretty much anything you want?”

“She doesn’t have anything I want.” He glanced up and saw Carmen heading back from the galley. “Please?”

“You’re sure?”

Damien grabbed her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. Warm, soft skin; the interlocking of their fingers making him think of their bodies entwining. Oh yeah, his plan already had benefits. “Come on, sugar,” he said to Theresa as the flight attendant arrived beside him. “We’ve let the secret out. You just couldn’t resist looking at wedding dresses.”

“I, uh…” she stammered.

He lifted their clasped hands to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. Mmm, he could definitely do more of that. But right now he was on a mission, so he lifted his head and turned to Carmen. “I know Theresa and I said we weren’t together, but it was a lie. We just got engaged and it’s a secret. Don’t want the news slipping out before we tell her family.”

His explanation might not make a lot of sense to Theresa, but it would to Carmen. She’d know the engagement of one of Oz’s ten sexiest bachelors would be big news for the tabloids. The kind of news his agent and publicist would be furious about, come to think of it, because it’d scupper one of the big features of their PR campaign. Shit. Telling Carmen might not have been his brightest idea. Especially given the glare she was sending him.

“But, I thought—”

“Sorry,” Theresa broke in. “I asked, uh…” Her eyes widened as she no doubt realized she didn’t know his name. Quickly she went on, “I asked my fiancé to pretend we weren’t together. I hope he didn’t go overboard, and make you think, uh…”

The flight attendant’s eyes narrowed. “No, no, of course not.” Briskly she poured their champagne, not offering her congratulations, then shot him a nasty glance as she departed.

“Good on you,” he told Theresa, squeezing the hand he still held. Funny how natural it felt in his. “Thanks.”

She tugged it free and rolled her eyes. “Don’t send inconsistent messages to women. And, by the way, what the heck is your name? I almost blew it when I didn’t know my pretend fiancé’s name.”

A good point, but she’d heard Carmen address him as Mr. Black, and if he said Damien she’d likely recognize his name. He wasn’t ready for that. Not when he’d got her to pretend they were engaged, which meant she’d have to act at least semi-friendly. “Day,” he said, giving her the nickname some of his friends used.

“Day? That’s unusual.” She studied his face. “Is it Asian? There’s something about your features, your coloring.”

He took the opening she’d offered. “My dad’s mother was Chinese.” He pushed up his left sleeve to reveal the Chinese-style dragon tattoo that wrapped around his bicep. Then he picked up his champagne glass. “Let’s drink a toast to—” He was about to finish with, “getting rid of Carmen,” when a voice, male this time, spoke from over his shoulder.

“Did I hear you tell the flight attendant you’re getting married?”

Startled, Damien almost dropped his glass. He turned to see the older man from across the aisle—who looked too young to be a great-grandpa, with his thick silver hair and bright blue eyes—standing beside him. “Er, yes, that’s correct.” Correct that he’d said it, at least.

“Many congratulations.” The bright eyes went soft, a little misty. “Best day of my life when I married Delia. Every day’s been a blessing.”

A snort came from behind him. “I’ll quote you on that, Trev, next time you’re whingeing about the way I cook your eggs.”

The man turned and Damien could see his wife, a crochet hook in her hand and a bundle of yellow wool beside the champagne glass on her tray. Her eyes were blue, too, and twinkling above wire-rimmed reading glasses she’d shoved down her nose.

“Better than having to cook my own eggs, isn’t it?” the man retorted with a grin, and made his way up the aisle in the direction of the lavatories.

“Want some advice?” the woman—Delia—asked Damien.

“Er…”

Theresa leaned past him, arm brushing his, a hint of mischief in her voice when she said, “Yes, please.”

“Don’t hold a grudge and don’t go to bed angry. It festers if you do that. Even if you’re furious with the other person, ask yourself, would your life be better without them? If the answer’s yes, then climb out of that bed and leave. If the answer’s no, give them a big kiss. Talk about what’s gone wrong, make up, and get over it and move on.”

Damien grinned at her. “Sounds like wise advice.”

“It does.” Theresa’s voice sounded a little sad, and he wondered if she was thinking about her own marriage. Had it been her or her hubby who’d climbed out of that bed? Did she regret it? She’d said she didn’t intend to get married again. Was that because she was disillusioned with men, skeptical about marriage, or still in love with her ex?

“How long have you been married?” Theresa asked the older woman. “If you have a great-grandchild, it must be going on fifty years?”

“Ha! Trev and I are almost newlyweds. We married two years ago. The family in Vancouver is mine from my first marriage.”

“Well, congratulations,” Theresa said. “On the new addition to the family, and on finding happiness a second time around.”

“Thanks. And best of luck to the two of you.” She pushed her glasses up and went back to crocheting something so tiny it was clearly for the baby.

Damien turned to Theresa and raised his glass again. “To a happy wedding, and a happy marriage,” he said loudly. Then he mouthed, “For your sister.”

“I’ll drink to that.” She touched her glass to his.

They both took a swallow, then she said softly, “I want to ask you something.”

Had she put two and two together about his name? Warily, he said, “What?”

She glanced past him. “Can anyone overhear us?”

He shook his head. “Not if we speak quietly. The seats are too far apart, and the cocoon effect insulates them. What’s your question?”

“What did Carmen do wrong?”

“Huh?”

“You were flirting, encouraging her. Then you decided you weren’t interested. What did she do?”

“Her? Nothing. It was you, Theresa.” What the hell, why not go with honesty?

“Me? I don’t follow. And how did you know my name, anyway?”

“All work makes Theresa a dull girl? You said that, remember? Anyhow, I don’t think you’re dull. Fact is, I’m more interested in you than in her.”