Sex Drive (11 page)

“That’s what my agent says, but it’s good to have another perspective. Especially from someone who thinks I’m a crappy writer.”

“I never said that. You have a talent for storytelling.”

He pretended to reel with shock. “My God, an actual compliment. I don’t believe it. So why are you so down on my writing?”

This was surreal. I’d just had sex with this man, we’d clicked champagne flutes to toast more sex in Hawaii, and now we were back to literary criticism. I didn’t want to be rude but I didn’t want to be dishonest, either. I considered his question as I sipped my mimosa. “It’s just that you have talent
and
celebrity, and you could do so much more with them.”

He snorted. “Should’ve known it was too good to believe. Look, I do the best I can.”

“I’m just saying, you’re part Aboriginal, you have an Aboriginal Australian hero, you know the indigenous people have a raw deal. You’ve developed a huge audience in Australia. You could be using your writing skill to bring broader awareness to the problems.”

“Just because someone’s born into a group that’s disadvantaged, that doesn’t mean they’re obligated to devote their life to fighting for that group’s rights.”

“No, but—”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” He leaned toward me, brows raised. “Women are disadvantaged in society, but you haven’t chosen women’s rights as your field.”

“No. But I’ve never really experienced problems due to being female. Any discrimination against me occurred because I was so young.”

“Well, I’m only one-quarter Aboriginal and I never experienced any discrimination.”

He’d drawn a pretty effective parallel. “I see your point.”

Carmen interrupted our conversation by bringing us breakfast trays. Fresh fruit, omelets, croissants, and jam. She poured coffee for both of us.

I tore off the end of a croissant and nibbled it. “All right, I concede,” I told Damien. “You’re no more obligated to be an activist for indigenous rights than I am for women’s rights.”

“Too right.” He nodded, then concentrated on eating his omelet.

I tasted my own, but I’d never been one for big breakfasts. A croissant and fruit was much more my style.

After a few minutes, he said, “Why
did
you end up studying indigenous people? I bet your dad wanted you to go into his field.”

Remembering a fourteen-year-old kid standing up to her father, the eminent geneticist, I gave a rueful chuckle. “Yes, but I’m not big on microscopes. And Mom, who’s a litigator, wanted me to follow in her footsteps.” My strategy had been to deflect the two of them away from me and into arguing with each other.

“They’re both strong personalities,” I told him. “I wanted to find something special of my own, not just follow one of them. What I did get from them was a desire to help others. To make a difference in the world.” I gave him a pointed look, which he ignored.

“But why indigenous studies when you’re Caucasian?”

“There was a girl in grade six. A First Nations girl, Becky. I was younger than the other kids and Becky was older than them. She started school late, got bounced between home and foster care. Top that off with some learning problems…” I shrugged. “You can imagine.”

“Poor girl.”

“But she was the only one who treated me like a real kid, not a brainiac geek. Perhaps because we were both outcasts. Or because she was more open-minded. People called her dumb, but that wasn’t true. The system had failed her.”

“What happened to Becky?”

“We became friends, studied together. I figured out she was dyslexic. She’d never been in one class long enough for anyone to realize it. Once our teacher knew, Becky got the assistance she needed and did fine. She graduated high school, got into college, became a social worker.” I gave him a meaningful look. “She’s helping her people now.”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s a better person than I am.” He rolled his eyes. “So, Becky was your experience with discrimination.”

“Yes, and I learned that one person can make a difference. Me, then the teacher. And now Becky is making a difference in a bunch of people’s lives.”

He nodded. Then he eyed my half-finished omelet. “You gonna eat that?”

I handed my plate over. “Go ahead. I’m not a big breakfast eater.” The fruit looked good, though, so I spooned some up.

“Despite Becky, you left Canada. You specialize in Indigenous Australians, not First Nations Canadians.”

“I started out in Canada, but my experience with Jeffrey spoiled it for me. I didn’t want to work in the same field as him. I needed a big change. I liked Australia because it’s a long way from Canada, yet has a similar history and similar issues when it comes to indigenous studies.”

“Okay, so how are you making a difference for Indigenous Australians?”

Hadn’t he been listening last night? “Researching and publishing. Teaching.”

“Finding the few students each year who listen and learn, and maybe become better citizens.”

All right, he had listened. So, why the question? “That’s right.”

“And how about those publications? Who reads them?”

“They’re in professional journals. And I present papers at conferences.”

“Hmm.” He picked up his coffee cup, studied the contents for a few seconds, then took a swallow.

“Hmm what?”

The cup went down slowly, and he turned to me with a level, almost steely gaze. “You’re bright, a Harvard graduate. I assume you’re talented in your field. Seems to me, maybe you could be doing something more with that talent.”

Oooh! He’d turned my words back on me. Indignantly I glared at him. “I’m a tenured professor, multipublished. I advise graduate students as well as teaching undergrad courses, and I present at international symposiums. What more, in your
esteemed
opinion, should I be doing?”

“Talking to the real world.” He spoke quietly, but with more than a hint of challenge.

“The real world? I haven’t a clue what you mean. Do, please, enlighten me.”

“Look, I’m not criticizing.” His gaze softened a touch. “Just saying your messages conflict. You think I should use my writing skill to preach to the world at large about discrimination. So why shouldn’t you do the same?”

“I’m an academic. I write scholarly papers.”

“I’m a novelist. I write fiction.”

I gave an exasperated sigh. “What I’m saying is, my audience is academia. Professional colleagues, students.”

“A narrow audience. Why not broaden it?”

“And do what?”

“Dunno. Come down from the ivory tower and write pieces for magazines, newspapers? Popular versions of those scholarly papers?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Academics tend not to have a lot of respect for other academics who popularize—commercialize—their work.”

“And it’s about academic respect? I thought it was about having a social conscience.”

He didn’t get it. He was so clearly not an academic. I picked up my coffee cup, only to find it was empty, and put it down again none too gently. “Fine, you’ve made your point. Neither one of us understands what the other is doing, and we have no right to criticize.”

He nodded slowly, then held out his hand. “Truce? No more career counseling from people who don’t know what they’re talking about?”

I considered a moment. “Fair enough.” I took his hand and we shook, then he held on to my hand and I let him. Though I was still steamed up, why let our differing viewpoints get in the way of the rapport we’d established? We were casual sex partners, that was all.

“Want more coffee?” he asked.

“Please. If you see Carmen.”

He held up his right hand, and in a couple minutes Carmen arrived with the silver pot and filled our cups. She took Damien’s empty tray, then glanced at mine, where half the fruit and croissant remained. “Still working on that?”

“No, I’m done. Unless you want it? Sweetie?” I added the “sweetie” to let Damien know I wasn’t holding a grudge.

A gleam of humor lit his eyes. “I’m full. Thanks anyhow, sugar.”

When Carmen had taken our trays, I said to him, “I do hope your book tour’s a big success.”

A grin flashed. “Thanks.”

“It must be fun, traveling around, meeting fans.” It was a kind of celebrity I’d never sought, but I did know the satisfaction that came from being respected in your field.

“There’s good and bad. I like seeing new places. Some of the folks at stores and local TV and radio stations are great. And I never get tired of hearing someone say they love my books.”

“I can imagine.” Of course his work was as important and personal to him as mine was to me, and I was sorry I’d been so critical. “What’s the bad part?”

“Bizarre travel schedules. Administrative crap that goes wrong. Stores that forgot you were coming and didn’t order your books. Signings that weren’t advertised, so no one shows up.” He chuckled. “Signings that
were
advertised, and the only person who speaks to me is a little old lady who wants to know where the loo is.”

“You’ve had signings where no one came?” Wouldn’t that be kind of like having no students enroll for your lectures?

“Oh, yeah. Especially in the beginning. It’ll happen again on this tour, because I’m not well known in America. But tours are as much about getting to know the booksellers, so they’ll hand-sell your books, put up a display, order the next one. And about media exposure.”

“Do you plan the tours yourself?”

“God, no. I’m a writer, not a planner. I have a part-time admin assistant who works with the people at the publishing houses. I go where I’m told, and contact her if there’s a screw-up like a flight being changed.” He sipped coffee. “What gets old really fast is the nights alone in a hotel room. Yeah, I always have writing to do, but those rooms are impersonal and depressing.”

“I doubt you ever have to be alone,” I joked.

“Nah, maybe not.” His mouth kinked up at one corner. “But picking up girls on the road gets to be pretty impersonal and depressing, too.”

Ouch. I stuck my chin out. “What about me?”

“You?” He shot me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a girl you picked up on the road. Or flight, in this case.”

“You’re different.”

“How? You can hardly say we’re kindred spirits. We’ve spent most of our time arguing.”

A quick laugh. “Yeah, right. But all the same, it’s different. I dunno how, I’m not that analytical. It just is.”

I liked the sentiment, even if he couldn’t put it into words. “Thanks for clarifying that for me,” I teased. “You do have a way with words.”

He laughed, squeezed my hand, and pulled our clasped hands over to rest on his thigh. “Maybe it’s attraction of opposites. You gotta admit the attraction exists, Tezzie.” He inched our clasped hands higher, until they rested against the bottom of his fly.

Underneath the denim, he was beginning to grow. Feeling him, remembering how he looked naked, how he’d felt inside me, brought an instant rush of arousal.

“Yes, it exists.” Attraction of opposites. It wasn’t a thing I’d experienced before, because I’d always stuck to my own kind. With Jeffrey, I’d marveled at how alike we were. How compatible.

And look how well that had worked out.

“Let’s talk about Honolulu,” he said. “We’ll stroll the beach, drink mai tais, I’ll buy you a sarong and a thong bikini—”

“No way!” I narrowed my eyes.

“I’ll take you to bed and we’ll find out how fantastic we can be together. Sound good?”

Maybe he was right about that opposites thing. Perhaps that’s why we had such amazing chemistry. For twenty-four hours, why not stop being analytical, practical, and responsible, and let loose and have fun?

I nudged our clasped hands an inch up his fly. “A thong bikini, eh? Tell you what, I’ll wear one if you do.”

D
amien let out a surprised laugh. “No bloody way I’m wearing one of those things.”

“My sentiment exactly,” Theresa shot back at him, a twinkle in her eye.

A guy had to like a woman who didn’t let a squabble get blown out of proportion.

“Oh gosh,” she said, “What about my luggage? It’s checked through to Vancouver.”

“We can ask Carmen about getting it offloaded.” He frowned. “But if we’re engaged…”

“Our luggage would be together.” She finished his thought.

“Is there anything you really need?”

“Let me think. My work’s in my carry-on, along with a change of undies. I can buy shorts and a light shirt. As for toiletries, the airline amenities kit and hotel miniatures should do.” She shook her head. “No, I’m okay. Let’s not bother.”

Wow, a low-maintenance woman. What a treat.

When the flight attendants came through to do the final check before landing, Carmen said, “Congratulations again. When’s the big day? And where are you getting married?”

“We haven’t set the details yet,” Damien said. “We need to tell our families first.”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled. Unlike the single female population of Australia.”

When she’d gone, Theresa cocked her head in his direction. “You’re
that
well known?”

“Er, I was voted one of the ten sexiest bachelors in Oz this year,” he admitted.

“Jesus.” She raised her brows. “How did I miss that news flash?”

He ran his fingers up her bare arm slowly, just skimming the surface. “You wouldn’t have voted for me, Tezzie?”

She shivered. “You’re so damned full of yourself, Damien Black.”

All the same, she hadn’t said no, which made him grin smugly. “Guess I’ll have to prove I belong on that list.” He secured her hand in his as the plane descended for its landing.

Once they were down, he stowed his gear in his carry-on while she turned on her mobile and checked messages. “Friday,” she muttered.

“Should I ask, or are you talking to yourself again?”

“Sorry. That was Kat, the next oldest sister. She’s in Montreal, the head of PR for a luxury hotel.”

He heard a note of pride in her voice. Even though she and her sisters had their issues, there were bonds of affection, too.

“Anyhow,” she went on, “she’s booked train tickets.”

“She’s the one who doesn’t fly.” He’d overheard Theresa’s side of the conversation.

“She’ll be home Friday, and that’ll be another pair of hands to help with everything.” The prof didn’t sound thrilled to pieces.

“Let me guess. You’d rather do things yourself than share work or delegate.”

Her mouth squeezed into a rueful expression. “What can I say? I’m efficient. When we were kids, Mom would put me in charge of getting the chores done. I’d try to organize the others, but Kat always had something going on with her friends, and Jenna’d forget the moment after I told her what to do, so it was easier to do things myself.”

“You had schoolwork, though. Those accelerated courses must have taken a lot of time.”

“Sure, but…When the others did pitch in, it was slapdash. They didn’t do as good a job.”

Damien grinned. He could imagine the bossy older sister ordering the others around, not being satisfied with the results, and letting them know. If he’d been Theresa’s sibling, he’d probably have said, “Fine, next time do it yourself.” Family dynamics. He’d learned it was easier to avoid his family than deal with all the crap.

He and Theresa gathered up their belongings as the plane taxied to the gate. When the arrival bell dinged, Damien opened the overhead bin and took down the older couple’s bag. “Nice meeting you,” he said.

“You, too,” the man said. “By the way, we’re Trev and Delia Monaghan. And I’ve enjoyed your books, young man. Just read the latest before leaving home.”

“You know who I am?”

“Overheard the flight attendant. And don’t worry, we won’t be telling anyone about your secret engagement.”

“Appreciate that.”

“But you get that date set, son,” Trev said, “and marry the girl before someone else scoops her up.”

“Yes, sir.” Damien faked a salute.

Theresa leaned past him to say, “Have a wonderful visit with your family.”

“Thanks, dear,” Delia answered. “And don’t forget that advice I gave you.”

“We won’t.”

Damien stepped back to let them go down the aisle first, then he and Theresa took their place in the queue.

Once they were into the airport, they both lengthened their stride and passed the people who were walking more slowly. “Feels good to stretch,” she said.

“Sure does.” He glanced around. “Nice airport. It’s my first time in Honolulu.”

“I often stay over. It breaks the trip.” She sniffed the air, an appreciative expression on her uplifted face. “Mmm, I love the feel and scent of the air here.”

Now that she’d mentioned it, he realized how balmy the air was. And scented with tropical flowers. Kind of like at his place in Queensland. This wasn’t the unpleasant climate control so typical of airports. In fact, the airport was only partially roofed and a couple of small birds darted around. “Whoever designed this place got it right.”

“There’s even a garden. You can go for a walk or sit on a bench. But right now, I need to see about getting my ticket changed.”

Since she knew the airport, he let her take charge. For a macho dude, he sure had a pack of women bossing him around. Editors, agent, publicists, admin assistant, and now the prof.

Damn, he was glad she’d agreed to stay overnight. In fact, he was so glad, it was disconcerting. Likely he’d have had no problem finding a woman to share his bed, but he didn’t want just any woman. He wanted Theresa. A control freak with a streak of vulnerability. Frustrating, challenging, intriguing. Sexy. Fun.

With brisk efficiency, they retrieved his baggage, then Theresa found the ticket desk and made her inquiry of a stunning young Hawaiian woman.

“Want the good news first, or the bad?” the woman asked with a smile. Then, without giving them a chance to answer, she went on. “Yes, Ms. Fallon, I can get you on the same flight as Mr. Black, but business class is full, so I can’t give you an upgrade.”

“D’you have two seats together in economy?” he asked.

“Yes, if you don’t mind being downgraded.”

“Hmm,” he mused. “A business-class seat and service versus…” He studied Theresa, faking a cool, appraising gaze, but badly enough she’d know he was kidding.

She stuck her nose in the air. “Separate seats are better anyhow. By the time I’ve spent a day with you, I’m sure I’ll be getting bored.” The corners of her mouth twitched.

The ticket agent glanced from one to the other. “So, uh, you do want separate seats?”

Damien reached over to wrap an arm around Theresa. “No bloody way.”

At first her body was tense, as if she wasn’t used to this kind of physicality, then she softened and melded against him, putting her arm around him too.

White-tipped fake nails tapped quickly on a keyboard, then a printer hummed, and the agent handed him an envelope. “Here are your tickets. Mr. Black, you’ll need to check in tomorrow with your luggage. Now, Ms. Fallon, I can see if we can get your baggage off the plane.”

“No, that’s all right, thanks. But can you make sure it’s held in Vancouver?”

“Of course. I’ll notify our people at YVR.” The Hawaiian grinned. “Good excuse to shop in Honolulu, isn’t it? As if a girl ever actually needs an excuse.”

They thanked her and moved away from the counter, Damien shoving the ticket folder in the back pocket of his jeans. “Let’s get a taxi.”

She groped his butt—no, she was pulling out the folder. “You should take better care of this. Let me put it in my bag.”

The joys of being with a control freak. He’d never lost tickets in his life. Well, except for that one time in Melbourne…If she wanted to be in charge, let her. His ego could handle it.

She zipped the tickets into an inside compartment of her purse. “Taxis are this way.”

He followed her, backpack slung over one shoulder, tugging his wheeled bag.

When they climbed into the next cab in line, the middle-aged Hawaiian driver said, “Where to?”

“Waikiki Beach.” He pulled out the hotel confirmation e-mail. “The Queen Lili…” Damn, Aboriginal Australian names weren’t so unpronounceable.

“Queen Liliuokalani?” Theresa asked, the syllables gliding melodically off her tongue, though she sounded skeptical.

“Yeah, that’d be it.” He showed her the e-mail printout.

“Gotcha,” the driver said, pulling away from the curb.

“That’s quite the hotel,” Theresa said. “Right on the beach.”

“You’ve stayed there?”

She snorted. “Hello? I’m the one who flies economy.”

“Mostly I’m in budget hotels. But I decided to splurge since it’s my first time in Hawaii.” He’d imagined working out the airplane kinks with a long run on the beach, then having a burger and a couple drinks in a beachside bar, followed by some sightseeing. Now all he could think about was Theresa naked in a big bed.

She was way over on the other side of the seat, so he slid over, reaching for her hand. Instead of meeting his grip, she gestured to her seat belt. “Do yours up.”

“Is there a rule you don’t follow?” he grumbled.

“Not if the rule’s there for a good reason.” She watched as he did up his belt, then, eyes twinkling, added, “Like that one about not, uh, what is it? Smoking in the lavatory on a plane?”

“Gosh, no,” he teased back. “I sure wouldn’t want to, uh,
smoke
in the loo.”

Now she did let him take her hand, but it sure as hell was frustrating, not being able to even rub thighs. Oh well, he could entertain himself with thoughts of how they were going to heat up that bed.

Apparently, the prof’s thoughts were taking a whole different tack, because she said, “She was the last monarch of the Hawaiian islands.”

“Huh?”

“Liliuokalani. She was quite a woman. She didn’t want to lose Hawaii to the foreigners. She did her best to preserve the monarchy and keep the islands for the native people.”

“Fighting a losing battle.” He didn’t know a lot of history, but he did know that the native people always got screwed.

“Yes. The American immigrants—especially the wealthy, powerful ones—wanted Westernization and of course control of the economy. They overthrew the monarchy, deposed Queen Liliuokalani, and set up a provisional government, which became the Republic of Hawaii.”

“Who took over from the queen? Let me guess, some white guy.”

“Good guess. Sanford Dole.”

“You actually remember his name?”

“Dole pineapple? It was his cousin who founded the pineapple empire.” She ran a hand through her hair, lifting wisps of bang off her forehead.

The cab was stuffy, so he lowered the window, though now that balmy Hawaiian air was scented with exhaust rather than flowers. “And then Hawaii became an American state?”

“No. The American president was Grover Cleveland, and he actually favored the monarchy. He believed it had the support of the Hawaiian people, which was no doubt true. Anyhow, there was lots of politicking and an attempted uprising. Liliuokalani did eventually swear allegiance to the Republic of Hawaii.”

“That must’ve burned her off something fierce.”

“I imagine so. Not only for herself, but for her people. The loss of independence.”

“As always happens when the white man ‘discovers’ a new country.” Bitterly he thought how true it was in Australia, with the Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders. In fact, a court had even held that the lands were vacant when the colonizers arrived. Basically, saying the Indigenous Australians weren’t human beings. It pissed him off whenever he thought about it.

Theresa was going on. “Yes, precisely. So then, in, mmm, I think it was 1898—the U.S. president was McKinley by then—Hawaii was annexed to the States. It didn’t actually become a state until something like the late 1950s.”

How about that? He’d assumed the American states had all been states for a century or more. The prof sure made him feel ignorant. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I’ve studied all the indigenous societies in the world.”

“Here you go, folks,” the taxi driver’s voice broke in. “The Queen’s hotel.”

With a start Damien realized he’d missed the entire trip from the airport. Maybe there’d been scenery, but he’d been caught up in Theresa’s story and the intent expression on her face.

He started to get out and almost strangled himself on his seat belt. By the time he got around to the trunk, the driver was extracting his bag and their carry-ons and handing them to a hotel porter, who made a small stack on a luggage trolley.

Damien pulled out his wallet, handed the driver some American bills, and said, “Thanks, mate. Keep the change. And I’ll need a receipt.”

“Thanks.” The driver glanced up at the hotel. In a neutral tone he said, “Things sure would’ve been different if Liliuokalani’d got her way.”

As he drove away, Damien studied the hotel. Two cream-painted towers, their balconies dripping with purple bougainvillea, were connected by a much lower building with a palm-thatch roof. The porter, a tanned young man with streaky-blond hair who Damien would bet was a surfer, gestured toward the glass doors. “Good morning. Welcome to the Queen Liliuokalani.”

The greeting reminded him it was only nine in the morning here. And, because of crossing the international date line, it was nine o’clock
yesterday
morning. His mind boggled at the concept. It was almost as if there was a parallel universe, one in which he had yet to even leave for this trip.

A universe in which he hadn’t met Dr. Theresa Fallon. Tezzie. No, he didn’t like that universe at all.

Together they stepped into the lobby and he gazed around, appreciating the design. Under the high thatched roof, airy rattan and glass furniture was scattered, and vivid purple orchid plants decorated every surface. A soft breeze wafted through, carrying the scent of ocean, tropical flowers, and a hint of sunscreen.

The other side of the lobby had no wall. It was open to a landscaped area with a pool, lounge chairs, and tables with umbrellas, and beyond that the beach. The wings of the hotel extended in a ragged V-shape away from the lobby, framing the pool and garden, a formation that would give every room an ocean view.