by Susan Lyons
“Carmen told you? I hope she also told you it was a secret. And yes,” I couldn’t hold back a grin, “I’m very lucky.”
It struck me that, if Damien ever did get engaged, his fiancée would indeed be a lucky girl. Not that he was my type, of course. I wanted a man who was far more serious, and had a social conscience. But the guy did have a lot going for him.
As I made my way back to my seat, I saw a few people were stirring, chatting quietly, watching their video screens. A glance at my watch told me we had about an hour and a half before we’d be landing.
Damien greeted me with a knowing grin and squeezed my bottom when I slid past him to take my seat. His long, wavy hair was a mess—from me dragging my fingers through it. Gently I reached up to finger-comb it, sliding my fingers through the rich silk, thinking that a mix of Aboriginal, Chinese, and Caucasian blood made for great hair, as well as those slightly exotic, handsome features.
“I like the way you touch me, Tezzie,” he said softly.
“Tezzie?”
“Theresa’s pretty, but I want something more personal. I’m an Aussie, after all. Tezzie seems just about right.”
Wonderingly, I said, “The only person who’s ever given me a nickname before is my sister Jenna. She calls me Tree, which dates back to her being a baby and not being able to pronounce my name.”
“Nah. Tezzie’s softer, more fun. Suits you better.”
“I like it.” It was a good name for this new me, the woman who was having a fling with Damien Black. I also liked the fact that he’d made up a special name for me.
The cabin lights blinked on, startling both of us, and a female voice announced that juice and champagne would be served shortly, followed by breakfast.
Damien’s hand gripped mine. “We cut it tight on our timing. If we’d have stayed in there another five minutes, there’d have been a queue at the door.”
In fact, drowsy people were shuffling up the aisle, and the lineup had already started.
“I’d have died of embarrassment.” Though the experience would have been worth it. I gazed at him, filled with a sense of unreality. I’d never done anything so outrageous in my life. “You’re a bad influence.”
He gave me a wicked grin. “Or a good one. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
I couldn’t help but grin back. “So it is.”
When Carmen came by with a reserved smile, heated towels, and a tray of drinks, we both accepted glasses of orange juice. Damien persuaded me to have a glass of champagne, too.
After Carmen had moved on, he held up his flute in a toast. “To you and me in Honolulu. With a bed.”
Oh God, yes. “I’ll drink to that.” We clicked glasses, drank, then I said, “I’ll have to e-mail or call my family. My parents and Merilee are expecting me at the house tonight.” I raised a hand and scrubbed my palm over my forehead. “What am I going to say?”
“The truth won’t cut it?” A humorous light made his gray eyes dance.
For a moment, I indulged in imagining my family’s reaction. Shock? Envy? Worry? No, probably not. “They’d never believe me,” I said wryly. “It’s so out of character.”
Having drunk his toast, I now blended my remaining champagne with the orange juice to make a breakfast mimosa. “Damien, why are you staying over in Honolulu?”
“Got to do a reading at a store.” He followed my example with the beverages and took a sip. “I’ve just done a tour in Australia, and now I’m starting a month-long one through America, with a couple stops in Canada, too.”
“Wow. You’ve really hit the big time.”
He shrugged. “I’m better known in Australia, where I was first published.” There, his books topped the bestseller lists. “But an American publisher bought foreign rights and has published my old books, plus released an American edition of Wild Fire to parallel the Aussie edition. They’re putting some money into promotion, hoping to create the same kind of popularity in North America.”
“I can see that working.”
“Yeah?”
“I think your stories will have the same kind of appeal as they do in Australia, and maybe even more because of the novelty factor of the foreign setting and the Dreamtime spirits.”
“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.”
8
Damien 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?”