Sex Drive (3 page)

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.”

H
ad this very hot man—Day—really said what I thought he had? Flustered and skeptical, I asked, “Interested? In what way?”

He gave me the sexiest smile imaginable. “The usual way.”

As in, the usual way a man was interested in a woman. Usual for him—that was a no-brainer—but definitely not for me. My skin heated as if I had a fever, and a pulse fluttered in my throat. Another throbbed between my legs. My dormant sex drive seemed to have woken up.

No man had ever looked at me that way. Jeffrey’s interest had been immensely flattering and seductive, but his eyes had never held the heated gleam Day’s did. With my ex, I’d of course learned that his interest lay in appropriating my research, and the sex we’d enjoyed was merely a side benefit for him.

And Jeffrey had, let’s face it, been a short, prematurely balding prof who on his best day could be called cute. Not stunningly handsome like the man who was gazing at me with such intensity. A man who couldn’t possibly be interested in my research.

Day seemed sincere, not that I was any judge of male character. But I still didn’t understand. What did he want from me? I swallowed against that fluttery pulse in my throat and forced words out. “The usual way? What does that mean?”

His eyes burned even hotter. “It’s a long flight, Theresa Fallon. Bet we can figure out some interesting ways to pass the time.”

What ways did he have in mind? A more experienced woman would have known, or at least had a playful way of finding out. All I could manage was bluntness. “Day, if you wanted sex, you could have had it with Carmen.”

The corner of his mouth kinked. “True. Not saying I don’t want it, but if I did, it’d be with you. When you’re in the mood.”

“When?” My voice rose. I couldn’t believe his audacity. Did he really think I was as easy as Carmen? “Shouldn’t you have said
if?
”

A cocky smirk. “Nah. I’d bet on when.”

“You’re so damned sure of yourself.” The words burst out. How dare he! “Doesn’t any woman ever say no to you?”

He glanced upward, squinting like he was mulling over my question, then said, “Not in recent memory.”

The tone of his voice—amused self-deprecation—somehow defused my annoyance. “Did anyone ever tell you you have a swollen head?”

“You find false modesty appealing?”

“N-no, I suppose not.” When it came to my work, I was as confident as he. “If you’re good at something, it’s silly to pretend you’re not.” I rubbed my temple, where my tension headache had made a reappearance.

“There you go. I
am
good, I promise.”

He meant in bed. Or did he? Maybe my inexperience was making me read him wrong.

He reached over and stroked the hair back from my temple, then rubbed gently, his warm thumb finding the knot of tension.

People didn’t touch me, except for handshakes or an occasional brush of bodies passing in a narrow doorway. This touch was presumptuous. Intimate. I should have moved away. But it felt so wonderful. How long had it been since anyone had looked after me?

“Good at what?” I dared ask, not sure how I wanted him to answer.

“Mmm.” A small, very wicked grin. “How about curing headaches, for a start?”

“It’s not a bad start.” Where did he intend to go from here? Did he actually hope to seduce me into…whatever limited kind of fooling around we could do on an airplane?

Did I want him to? Right now, the caress that had unwound the knot of pain was winding up a whole different kind of tension. A hum of arousal that flowed through my veins like thick, warm honey.

Day had turned down the certainty of sex with a stacked flight attendant who had wavy black hair, pouty red lips, and no doubt ten times—no, make that fifty times—more sexual experience than I. And yes, knowing the plane as Carmen did, she’d have found a place where she and Day could actually engage in intercourse.

Was the man crazy? Or was it me who was crazy? Leaning closer to absorb the heat coming off that firm brown skin, to inhale that outdoorsy male scent.

I shouldn’t encourage him, shouldn’t let arousal build between my legs. Because of course I wouldn’t let him seduce me. I wasn’t that kind of woman.

No, Dr. Theresa Fallon—Ms. All Work—wasn’t the kind of woman who attracted a gorgeous man, flirted with him, took him for her lover.

When I put it that way…Wouldn’t it be nice, for one time in my life, to break out of the mold I’d always been cast in, and to be that kind of woman?

Day seemed to think I was. I’d have figured he was merely picking a convenient target if he hadn’t rejected Carmen. For the first time in my life, it seemed a man saw me as a sex object. The feminist in me said I should be insulted, but the truth was, I was hugely flattered.

He stopped rubbing my temple and ran his fingers through my hair in a stroke that was half massage, half caress, pure bliss. It was hard to think rationally. And impossible to resist leaning into his hands the way a cat presses into the hands that stroke it.

“I like your hair,” he said.

“I thought men liked long hair.”

“The hair should suit the woman. Be shiny, feel nice. Not all glopped up with gunk.”

“You think it suits me?” I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, just genuinely curious. I’d chosen my hairstyle because it was easy, and I had better things to do than fuss with my appearance.

“Yeah. Shows off your long neck, pretty face.” He ran a finger along the outside of my ear, giving me pleasant shivers. “Cute ears.”

I’d never thought much about my ears, but guessed they were okay. A pretty face, though? If he wanted to seduce me, he needed more than generic flattery. “My face is average. Not round, not square, but somewhere in between. My features are the same. Not big or small.”

He studied me intently. “Huh. Guess that’s right. Except, where you say average, I say perfect. Symmetrical.”

No generic compliment this, and he delivered it with a sincerity that made me glow.

“Like Goldilocks and the…What was it?” he asked, mischief sparking his gray eyes. “Oh yeah. Beds. Who’d want too big or too small, when you can have just right?”

“It was the chairs that were too big and too small,” I protested halfheartedly, remembering the story I’d read to Merilee a few times. “The beds were too hard and too soft.”

“Ah, well…” The spark danced again. “Too soft definitely isn’t good. Too hard, though? Hmm, you’re the woman. Is there such a thing as too hard, when a gal’s in bed?”

Oh my God. My cheeks flamed. This man was so out of my league it wasn’t funny.

If I had any sense, I’d tell him not to be crude. Tell him to remove his hand from my neck, where he was caressing my nape in a way that sent more shivers of pleasure coursing through me. I’d pull out the exams and get back to being Dr. Fallon.

Instead, I glanced at his lap. Under the fly of his jeans, an already impressive bulge was expanding. I forgot all about being Dr. Fallon and wondered what he’d look like naked, how he’d feel under my hand as my touch made him grow. Then, how he’d feel between my legs, where my long-neglected female parts had sprung to needy awareness.

Oh God, this sexy, assured, experienced man truly was turned on by me. I’d never had such a sensation of pure female power. It gave me an unprecedented sense of sexual confidence.

Trying to ignore my flaming cheeks, I said, “Too hard? Not in my experience.” Day didn’t need to know how limited that experience was.

The flare of surprise in his eyes pleased me, and I went on. “Of course, as you pointed out, I’m an academic. Hypotheses need to be tested.”

He laughed and his hand clasped my shoulder. “I’ll volunteer to assist with that test.”

Oh God, what had I got myself into? Did he think I was offering to have sex with him? People did speak of the mile-high club…

“Dinnertime.” It was Carmen, brisk and professional. “I’m taking orders. We’re starting with either Atlantic salmon tartare, pâté de foie gras, or wild mushroom soup. Then your choice of beef tenderloin with peppercorn sauce, coconut curried chicken, or bug salad with mango-ginger dressing.”

“Bugs,” I said. I loved the crustaceans, with their taste somewhere between crab and lobster. “And the salmon tartare, please.”

“The mushroom soup for starters,” Day said, “and I’ll have bugs as well. And wine. Last time I flew, there was a Lenton Brae Sauvignon Blanc?”

“We have it.” Snidely, she added, “You’re ordering for your fiancée as well, of course?”

He glanced at me. “Sugar, does that wine sound good to you?”

I didn’t know the wine, but played along. “Of course, sweetie.” Gathering my courage, pleased to have an excuse to touch Day, I leaned into him and pressed a kiss to his T-shirt-clad shoulder, absorbing an amazing jolt of heat and energy.

Hmm. If kissing his shoulder through cotton was that powerful an experience, what would lips to lips be like? I had a growing—let’s face it, irresistible—need to know.

Carmen handed us warm, damp towels and departed.

After I’d wiped my face—a benefit of not wearing makeup—and hands, and placed the towel on my tray table, I said to Day, “What’s the wine?”

“It’s from the Margaret River region. Dry, crisp, kind of lemony, a hint of spicy oak. Should go well with the bugs and appies.”

Hmm. He was getting more interesting by the moment. A hot-looking guy with a dragon tattoo who was a wine connoisseur. And flew business class. For the first time, I wondered what he did for a living. I was about to ask when his lips quirked up at one corner and he said, “Sweetie? You called me sweetie?”

“You called me sugar.”

“It popped into my mind. Because you’re so sweet, and all,” he teased. “So, d’you call all your guys sweetie?”

“No.” I’d called Jeffrey “dear” occasionally, but mostly used his name. I wasn’t the endearment type. I gave Day a saccharine smile. “Only you, sweetie.”

He laughed. “I like you, you know that?”

“I’d kind of hoped so.” I paused a beat. “Since we’re engaged and all.”

“Speaking of which.” He lifted his flute, which had an inch of champagne in the bottom. “Shouldn’t we have a toast to our upcoming…”

I raised mine, too. “Nuptials?”

Slowly, eyes gleaming, Day shook his head. “Not what I had in mind.” He clicked his glass gently against mine, then lifted it and drained the contents in one swallow.

“So I’m supposed to drink a toast to whatever you had in mind?” All the same, hand trembling as I lifted the glass, I did it. It wasn’t a promise I’d have sex with him, only a promise to…What?

To play his game, which I had to admit I was enjoying even though it made me nervous. Not to mention aroused. He’d banished my headache, made me forget about work, and also, I suddenly realized, made me forget to phone my sister Jenna.

Now I seized on the excuse to distance myself a little, to let some of the sexual tension dissipate. “Oh, gosh, I need to make a call.” Jenna should be home by now. Alone? Yesterday she’d said she had broken up with the surfer guy she’d followed to Santa Cruz. She hadn’t sounded heartbroken, but that was no surprise. For Jenna, relationships were about having fun while they lasted, not about the long term.

“Go ahead.” Day gestured to the onboard phone, then lay back, eyes closed.

I took a moment to admire the length of his legs, the press of firm thighs against worn denim, the bulge at his groin that had receded since Carmen’s arrival but was still impressive. His forearms rested on the arms of his seat, firm and tanned, sprinkled with black hair. My fingers itched to touch his arm. Among other bodily parts.

I dialed my sister’s number and waited. After several rings, I was readying myself to leave another voice mail, when I heard her voice, breathless. “’Lo?”

“Hello, Jenna, it’s Theresa.” I curled sideways in my seat, away from Day. Not only for the illusion of privacy, but to avoid the distraction offered by his hunky body.

“Hey, sis. Call display didn’t show your name.”

“I’m on the plane. Did I wake you?”

“Nope. Just got in. There was a beach party. So, you’re on your way home?”

“Didn’t you get my e-mail? I said I’d get a flight Sunday night.”

“Is this Sunday?”

“I think it’s Saturday night there.” The time differences did get confusing, even for efficient me. As for Jenna, she’d so rarely held a regular job, the days of the week held little significance to her. Nor did keeping track of time. Or keeping track of much of anything. How paradoxical that she’d chosen to participate in a count-the-falcons survey.

“How about you?” I asked. “When are you heading to Vancouver?”

“Still working on it.”

“Jenna, you’re the one who picks up at a moment’s notice and heads off in a new direction. What’s the big issue about leaving Santa Cruz? Did you get back together with what’s his name?”

“Surfer-dude Carlos? No, we’re history. But wow, the surfing is fabulous right now. I’m getting really good.”

“And improving your surfing skills is more important than your sister’s wedding?”

Day snickered and I turned to glare at him, but his eyes were still closed.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Okay, Jenna. Anyhow, if you’re tied up, I’ll do the wedding on my own. I mean, with Kat’s help,” I amended quickly.

“Yeah, right. You hate it when we try to help. All you can do is criticize.”

“I like things to be done right,” I muttered.

“
Your
idea of right, Ms. Perfectionist.”

Why could we never act like rational adults? “Let’s not argue. We all said we wanted to give Merilee a great wedding, so we need to cooperate. I’ll set up a project plan and work out the tasks, then we can figure out who does what.”

“Yeah, sure, a project plan,” she said disdainfully. “Whatever.”

“Of course, you can’t actually
do
anything until you get to Vancouver,” I added.

She sighed. “I’m trying. Honest, Tree.” Jenna was the only one who used nicknames. I was Tree because that’s how she’d first pronounced my name. “But it’s not easy. I need to raise some money.”

“Money?”

“Yeah, like to fly home?”

“You don’t have money for the flight?” Hadn’t she been working?