Sex Drive

by Susan Lyons

  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 fligh
t 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?