Sex Drive
Page 20
With a startled, pleased expression, she glanced around, then flushed. “I think you’re right.”
“Just remember which guy you came in with.”
Her eyes softened. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
They reached their table and the maître d’ held her chair. Their table was beside a huge window, open to the night air and an ocean sky with a nearly full moon. It was laid with white linen and a green and purple corsage orchid floated in a brandy snifter. Ritzy. Damien was glad he hadn’t worn jeans.
He settled into his seat, feeling smug. Here he was, an author with a book on the New York Times extended list, the first signing of the American tour behind him—and more successful than he’d dared imagine. With the Honolulu evening on one side, the elegant restaurant on the other, and, best of all, the lovely Theresa across the table in that tantalizing buttoned sundress. Oh yeah, he was riding a high. “We need champagne. That okay with you?”
She nodded. “Yes, we do. It’s the right drink for tonight.”
She was so amazing. Sometimes their minds were on the same track and sometimes opposite tracks, but always she fascinated him.
He opened the wine list and decided on Roederer Cristal. What the hell, it cost more than he’d make off the royalties from tonight’s sales, but this occasion was special. When he gave the order, their waitress’s smile widened. “Tonight’s a celebration?”
“It is.”
When she’d gone, Theresa said, “Cristal? Wow. I mean, I knew the New York Times list was important and the signing was a success, but I didn’t understand how big all of this was.”
“Yeah, it’s all great…” Hell, what could he say? He wasn’t some mushy, romantic kind of guy. But the champagne wasn’t only about the bestseller list or the signing, it was about her. “Life’s been pretty good since I met you.”
“For me, too.”
The champagne arrived and the waitress opened and poured it with ceremony, a stream of pale golden bubbles into first Theresa’s glass, then his. “I’ll leave you for a few minutes, then be back to take your order.”
Theresa lifted her glass. “To a wonderful book tour.”
Weird schedules, cruddy beds, lonely nights in hotel rooms. Walking into stores always wondering if they’d have his books, if anyone would show up. Slowly he raised his glass.
“May they all be like tonight,” she said.
Tonight. Theresa’s hand in his as they went into the store. Her attentive face in the audience. Her assistance when the questions got tough. And now, finishing off the evening with her. Looking forward to undoing that row of buttons, one by one, and revealing the lovely, sexy body beneath. No other signing could measure up.
A little bummed, he tried to hide his feelings when he clicked his glass to hers. “Thanks for being here.” He lifted the glass to his nose, inhaling a complex mix of fruit, flowers, and nuts. Then he tasted, and the aroma translated into rich, creamy flavors on his tongue.
As that commercial said, there were some things money could buy. A wine like this.
There were other things it couldn’t. A great book signing. The company of a woman like Theresa. Ah well, tonight he had both. Mostly, he was a guy who enjoyed the moment and didn’t worry about tomorrow, so that was what he’d do. “Let’s take a look at the menus.”
They read, commented, then he said, “I’m going to go with the grilled steak.” It was marinated in soy, ginger, and a hint of lime, and served with garlic mashed potatoes and stir-fried vegetables. “If you don’t mind me eating garlic?”
“Not if you don’t mind me eating Maui onions. I think I’m going to have two appetizers instead of an entrée. The onion soup and the baked blue crab and rock shrimp. Served at the same time.”
After they’d ordered, Damien sat back and reflected on the signing, thinking what he could do better next time. And he realized something that hadn’t occurred to him before. Nor to his publisher, agent, or admin assistant. He leaned forward. “Can I ask a favor?”
“I’d guess it was something sexual, but you look unusually serious. What is it?”
“I’m going to get more questions like the one that student asked. Some people in Canada and America are going to be interested in how the situation with Australia’s indigenous peoples compares to theirs.”
“I’d think so.” She tapped her champagne flute thoughtfully, using the pad of her finger, not her nail. “This just occurred to you?”
He shrugged. “Like I said on the plane, I write fiction. I think of the stories, the characters. Not the, uh, sociological issues.”
“And historical, economic, political, legal, health, educational, and…well, I could go on, but I’m sure you see my point.”
Unsettled, he stared at her. “I was going to ask if you could give me a crash course, but you’re making it sound like I’d need years of university.”
Slowly she shook her head. “No. But Damien, maybe you don’t need a crash course. You have another option.”
Their waitress brought sliced bread, warm and fragrant, and he offered the basket to Theresa. “Go on. What’s the other option?”
She took a slice, buttered it, nibbled a corner. Was she stalling?
He took a slice himself. “It’s not like you to hold back, Prof. Come on, sock it to me.”
That won him a small grin. “All right. You could simply say what you just told me, that your writing is about stories and characters, not about issues. Say you’re at the signing to read them a story and to tell them a bit about your writing process, but not to discuss political issues.” She frowned. “Well, maybe that’s too heavy-handed. But you’re clever, charming, you can find a way to redirect a question and avoid answering it.”
Was that a compliment? He took a slug of the fine champagne, wishing it was a shot of rum. “No, that doesn’t feel right.” Before he met Theresa, before he heard her respond to the Hawaiian student’s question and saw the audience’s interest, it might have. But now it seemed like a cop-out. “How do I learn what I need to know?”
“We can figure out the most likely questions and work out answers. You already have a fair idea of what’s happened—and is happening—with the Indigenous Australians. Yes?”
“Yeah, I read the papers, hear the news.” And, because he was a quarter Aboriginal, he noticed items that affected the indigenous population. He was almost reluctant to admit it, because his typical response was to feel lucky he’d been raised white. The problems weren’t his. Problems like poverty, alcohol and drugs, inadequate health care, unequal access to jobs…Talk about a cop-out.
“Now you need to learn a bit about the situation in Canada and the United States,” she said briskly. “You’re starting in Vancouver, so you should know that a B.C. case, Delgamu’ukw, formed part of the foundation for the Australian High Court’s reasoning in Mabo.”
“Which overturned the doctrine of terra nullius and affirmed native title, which led Parliament to enact the Native Title Act.”
She nodded, eyes flashing with excitement. “There’s a parallel in the Stolen Generations issue, too. In Canada, First Nations kids were removed from their families and stuck in residential schools where they were supposed to, in essence, lose everything that made them Indian and become white. And many of them were abused, physically and sexually. There have been lawsuits against the church and the government. It’s a huge issue. And there was an apology too, in 2008, by the prime minister.”
“Apologies,” he reflected. “They’re recognition. Acknowledgment. But they don’t fix what’s wrong. Like in Australia, the government’s had this program and that program, but in the end not much changes. There’s talk, but little action.”
“Exactly.”
Her eyes were fiery in the candlelight, all red earth tones now, the colors of the Outback. Challenging him. He said what he knew she was thinking. “Things don’t change because too many people, like me, sit back and don’t fight to change them.”
&nbs
p; Something flashed in her eyes. Surprise that he’d admitted it? Then she ducked her head, tapped her champagne glass thoughtfully.
His breath caught in his throat. Was this where she said that a woman like her, who studied the issues, cared about them, and tried to educate people didn’t belong with a superficial arse-hole like him?
Theresa’s shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath, then she folded her hands in her lap and looked across at him. “No one has the right to tell someone else they’re not doing enough. That’s between a person and his or her conscience. And I think my conscience is telling me I’ve been hiding behind the, uh, academic façade, as you suggested on the plane. Yes, I make a few students think. Maybe my writing reaches other scholars and impacts their work. But the vast majority of Australia’s voters haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing because I don’t make the effort to tell them.”
Her confession—apology?—touched him. “You could,” he said earnestly. “Like tonight when you took off your academic hat and talked to that girl and the rest of the audience. You were damned effective, Theresa. If you did that on TV, people would listen.”
Her head started to duck again, but she pulled it upright. “I’m shy when I get outside my comfort zone. But that’s not an excuse.”
He reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”
She lifted one hand from her lap and let him link their fingers.
“Theresa, you’re amazing. And you’re right. I’m going to stop being one of those people who sits back. I want to learn more, and have more of an impact.”
Her whole face lit up, and he grinned back at her. Then he lifted his champagne flute. “This deserves another toast. To both of us being better people.”
She raised her glass. “To putting our beliefs into action.”
They clicked glasses, then both drank.
Damien felt as if the proverbial weight had lifted from his shoulders. Funny how he hadn’t even realized the weight was there until it was gone. “Prof, what do you say we start the crash course tomorrow? For the rest of the evening, let’s just relax and enjoy being together here in Hawaii.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan.”
“Okay, then I’m changing the subject. I have a very important question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Just how many damned buttons are there on your dress, Tezzie?”
13
I toyed with the top button. “I’ll let you count them later.”
“Tease.”
Me? Dr. Fallon? I was trying to figure out how to respond when our dinners arrived.
We tasted, shared, then began to eat hungrily. After I’d taken the edge off my appetite, I said, “Have you always written, or were you in some other line of work?”
“Yes to both. Always liked to write, so I got a journalism degree. I worked at newspapers but didn’t enjoy it. Being forced to cover stories I had no interest in, take the political slant of the paper or, at best, stick to the boring facts. So I started writing fiction. It’s way more fun.”
Oh yes, despite our growing intimacy, he and I were different. My life was all about gathering and measuring information, because I’d thought it was only statistics that made an impression. And yet, Damien’s readers probably numbered more than a hundred thousand and, I had to acknowledge, my own work reached only a few hundred people.
His eyes crinkled. “I said something at the event tonight about having problems with authority? So, yeah, I knew I wanted to be my own boss. I wrote a book, submitted, got rejected. Again and again, which pissed me off. I knew I could write, but no one else seemed to see it.”
“That must have been frustrating.”
“Yeah, but it made me determined to prove them wrong. When I wrote my first Kalti book, I sensed I had something different. It seemed like this was my true voice as a writer. Anyhow, I found an agent who either agreed or took pity on me and took me on.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “Alex suggested a few revisions, I made them, then she shopped Thunder Struck and, believe it or not, got a small bidding war happening.”
I paused, a spoonful of onion soup raised to my lips. “A bidding war? You mean, with more than one publisher trying to outbid each other to buy the book?”
“Cool, huh? Especially after getting a hundred rejection letters. Anyhow, we sold, got a two-book contract, and the publisher put some marketing dollars behind Thunder Struck. It was an author’s dream come true, and it doesn’t happen often. I was one hell of a lucky bugger.”
“What part doesn’t normally happen?”
“All of it. Bidding war rather than rejections. Two-book contract rather than selling one and worrying whether you’ll ever sell again. A marketing push from the publisher rather than being left to sink or swim on your own. Helped that all of us saw the Kalti books as a series. It gave my publisher something more than a single book to promote.”
“And your books are bestsellers.” I could understand why. If a reader wanted pure entertainment—and obviously there were lots who did—Damien delivered.
“Yeah. Which wouldn’t have happened without the publisher’s support. They bought co-op space in stores, sent out review copies, placed ads, arranged tours and interviews.” “Co-op space?”
He took a quick bite of steak. “You know when you walk into a bookstore and there are those tables at the front promoting certain books, and there are end caps, book dumps—”
“Book dumps?” His business, like mine, had its own jargon.
“Those cardboard display boxes? Well, all that promo stuff is paid for by the publisher. And they gave me the full-meal deal.”
“That’s great. So, you gave up your journalism job?” I savored another bite of baked crab and shrimp.
“It was a gamble. But my publisher wanted the second book quickly. I figured, if they were going to promote me, I was damned well gonna produce for them. The advance was decent, so I quit the day job, downsized my lifestyle, locked myself away, and wrote like crazy.”
“That was gutsy. And disciplined.” Discipline, I well understood and respected.
“Some days were hard. But my gamble paid off.”
“You paid your dues to get where you are.” And I respected him for it. In the candlelight, he was incredibly handsome and sexy. But the man was proving to be so much more. It was scary, being attracted to him in so many ways. Starting to care for a man who was only a fling.
He nodded. “I did, but so do most writers. In relative terms, success came easily to me. And I never take it for granted. That’s one thing you learn in this business. You may be the flavor of the month now, but next month the publishers and readers may want something completely different.” A grin broke through. “Guess that’s a good thing. Keeps me on my toes.”
I spooned up the last of my soup as he finished his steak. When the waitress asked if we’d like dessert, I said, “I’m full.”
“What’ve you got?” Damien asked her.
She reeled off a list of yummy-sounding treats, finishing with, “My favorite is the coconut cream pie. It’s light, tangy, a thoroughly modern, Hawaiian version of the old classic.”
“I’ll have the pie,” he told her. “Bring two forks, in case I manage to tempt the lady.”
Manage to tempt me? Those words summarized our history together.
When the waitress had gone, he reached across the table and took my hand, his warm gaze holding mine. “Hey, you with the buttons. Fantastic evening, isn’t it?”
Cristal champagne, a moonlit sky, the scent of tropical flowers, the gleam of candlelight. And, most of all, the man across from me. I felt intoxicated by him and this magical night. And it wasn’t only the buzz of sexual attraction, but a true sense of intimacy as we got to know each other better and better. The sex between us was wonderful, and so was the conversation—and so was doing nothing at all except staring at his striking gray eyes and the strong planes of his face, framed by wings of glossy black hair.
When coffee arrived, it was hard to look away from Damien and thank the busboy. Then our waitress brought a plate holding a fluffy dessert, which she put in the middle of the table.
I pushed it over to Damien. “Yours, I believe.”
He took one of the two forks, ate a bite, and a wicked smile crossed his lips. “You’re so lucky I’m a generous bloke.” This time, when he forked a bite, he offered it to me.
I leaned forward to take it, and an explosion of flavor hit my taste buds. Creamy coconut, toasted coconut, a hint of lime, more than a hint of rum—it was utterly delicious. My expression must have told him so, because he shoved the plate back to the middle of the table. “Help yourself.”
He was the one who’d ordered it, which meant I should have been polite and protested. Instead, I reached for a fork. “Thanks, Damien. This is sinful.”
“Tastes as good as sex, doesn’t it?”
I chuckled, then felt a hum of arousal as I thought about how he tasted. A little salty, a touch musky, definitely a darker, richer taste. “Uh-uh. This is too sweet and light. You taste more like, hmmm, dark chocolate with…” I tried to think what food might compare, but gave up. Damien’s taste was unique. Delicious.
“Ah,” he said softly, “but it’s you that I taste, and you’re sweet all right, Tezzie. Sweet, a little tangy, and definitely addictive.”
Heat flushed my body. Cheeks, chest, pussy. I imagined him licking me all over. I was almost ready to abandon the coconut pie and suggest we retire to our room. Maybe just one more bite…Oh God, it was good.
His eyes met mine, sparkling with humor and sexual promise. Then he picked up his fork and broke off some pie.
I studied him as he munched, and thought back to what we’d been talking about. “You were saying that market trends keep you on your toes. But you’re writing a series. Or are you saying, you’d quit the Kalti books and do something else?”