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Sex Drive

Page 24

by Susan Lyons


  Not wanting to interrupt his call, I stood there admiring his rear view. Then, with a start, I realized he was talking about me.

  “Yeah, she’s a sociology prof at the uni in Sydney. Indigenous people are her specialty.”

  Well, how about that? It seemed he was boasting about me to someone.

  “She’s researched the issues we’d want to put in the book,” he went on.

  The book? Was he talking about his next Kalti Brown book and my offer to help?

  “Credibility,” he said. “I have the rep as a writer and she has credibility as a sociologist. An expert.” He listened a moment then said, “I know, but we could cross-promote it with the Kalti books.”

  So it wasn’t one of his Kalti series. A trace of worry shivered through me.

  “Yeah, it would sure help if it was put out by the same publisher.” His voice took on a teasing tone. “And that’s your job, Alex. You can persuade them. After all, I’m their author. They wouldn’t want me taking the book somewhere else, would they?”

  So, he was speaking to his agent and had an idea for another book. Last night he’d talked about market trends and the need for an author to remain flexible, so maybe he’d come up with a concept for a new series. One he hadn’t mentioned to me. And yet now he was talking about me.

  I frowned, trying to remember his exact words. He’d said I had researched the issues he’d use in the book, and mentioned my credibility.

  “Yeah, I see it as commercial,” he said. “Not dull academic stuff. Definitely with a solid foundation, and that would come from Theresa’s research, but it would only be the skeleton. It’s the flesh that goes on it that makes it exciting. And saleable.”

  Oh my God. The chocolate bar dropped from my hand. He wanted to use my research as the basis for a book that he’d write, he’d sell, he’d take credit for. I’d offered to help him brainstorm ideas, but I certainly hadn’t had anything like this in mind. How dare he?

  It was Jeffrey all over again. It was all the boys in school who’d wanted my notes, my tutoring. My brain. To help them get ahead. I was numb with shock.

  There Damien was, all hyped up about the next big thing, a way to make more money, build an even bigger name for himself. Using my research to do it. Exploiting me, and no doubt also exploiting the Indigenous Australians.

  I bent down, picked up the chocolate bar, and heaved the thing in the nearest trash container, wishing I could dispose of Damien so easily.

  How could I ever have believed I cared for this man? I remembered staring into his eyes a few hours ago when we’d made love. I’d thought I’d read respect, passion, affection in his gray eyes. I was a naïve idiot. We hadn’t been making love, he’d been screwing me—in more than one way. My head pounded with anger and hurt so I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  I forced myself to take a few deep breaths before I exploded. And I thought about the things we’d done together, the things he’d said, the way he’d looked at me. The way I’d shifted from labeling him as an airplane gigolo to believing we shared something special. Could I have misjudged him so completely?

  Or was I overreacting now? Jumping to the wrong conclusion? I took another breath and focused again on his words.

  “Oh sure, the Aboriginal thing will help. I’m a successful Aboriginal Australian, and that’ll make people pay attention.” He listened. “Why do I need the prof’s research? To give the book weight. Credibility, like I said before.”

  He was going on, but I’d heard enough. I turned on heel.

  Oh yes, I’d been right. He intended to exploit me for my research, to make his book more saleable. And in the process, he might do serious damage to my professional reputation. I wanted to yank his cell phone out of his hand and whack him in the head with it, but instead I steamed toward the closest ladies’ room.

  So much for the notion that a man might actually care for me as a whole person. What had he called Tezzie? Beautiful, sexy, fun. And I’d actually believed him.

  I wanted to slam both fists into the wall of the impersonal gray-walled ladies’ room. I wanted to lock myself in a cubicle and cry until long after the flight had left, taking Damien Black out of my life forever. But those reactions would be childish. I was a mature woman, a professional. I would retain my dignity, damn it.

  I ran cold water and splashed my face and hands over and over again, but it did nothing to cool my temper. I should have known the whole thing was ridiculous. The idea of me being some kind of sex goddess, with a man like him. And I’d fallen for his manipulative come-on. He’d got his rocks off with an easy lay. He’d fed me a line, softened me up, so that when he asked for my help I’d give it willingly. How he must have chuckled to himself when, under the influence of champagne and moonlight and him, damn him, I’d offered to help with his books.

  Oooh, I’d been so pitifully needy. I hated myself for having been so damned easy. Just the same as with Jeffrey. So much for learning from my mistakes.

  Well, Damien Black had a surprise in store for him. At some point he’d be bound to bring up the subject of this new book of his, hoping I’d gush all over him and offer to help out in any way I could. And he’d soon discover he was no longer dealing with Tezzie, but with Dr. Fallon, and she wasn’t going to give him the time of day.

  My head was pounding, but my cheeks weren’t quite so flushed now and tears no longer threatened to spill. Spine rigid with cold determination, I strode back to the departure gate. To my relief, passengers were boarding. Damien was still on his phone so I grabbed my carry-on and string-handled Honolulu shopping bag from beside him, and rushed to join the lineup.

  Hurriedly, he said a few words into his cell, then closed it and came to join me. “Hey, sorry, I was talking to my agent.”

  “Were you?” I kept my voice even, though it took some effort. Then I removed his bottle of water and a couple of snack bars from the bag and shoved them at him, so he was kept busy juggling all his possessions and finding his boarding pass.

  When we were shuffling along the ramp toward the plane, he reached for my hand, but I avoided his touch, opening my purse and scrabbling through the contents.

  “Lose something?” he asked.

  I ignored the question, and continued to rearrange things in my purse until we stepped on the plane, where I wished desperately that I hadn’t let him switch his business class seat for economy. It had seemed so sweet at the time—I’d had no clue of his ulterior motive—and now the last thing I wanted was to be crammed side by side for more than five hours.

  Hoping I could change seats, my heart sank farther as we inched down the aisle. The plane was packed. Our seats were almost all the way to the back, in the middle section. We had an aisle and a center seat, and as we approached our row I saw the other aisle seat was already occupied. To overflowing. By a bald man reading a huge paperback.

  I did not want to be trapped between him and Damien.

  And I wouldn’t be. Damien could damn well sit in the middle. Yes, he’d sacrificed a seat in business class, but only so he could continue to finesse me. Why the hell shouldn’t he end up with his big body and long legs jammed into that tiny space?

  Giving him a saccharine smile, I said, “Did I mention that I’m claustrophobic? If I sit in the middle, I might have a panic attack.” It was a total lie.

  He grimaced, then, looking noble—the bastard—said, “No worries. You can have the aisle. I’d better put my bag in the overhead. You want me to put both of yours up?”

  “Just this one.” I handed him the shopping bag that contained new clothes I’d never wear again and several Damien Black books that would go directly into the garbage. Then I waited, deliberately not watching his muscles stretch as he stowed his bag and clambered into the seat beside the chubby man.

  I took the aisle seat and pulled out the wedding bible before I crammed my bag into the small space under the seat in front. Planning a happy-ever-after ceremony. Just what I did not feel in the mood for.


  Before I could open the book, Damien turned to me, his back to the man who was reading. “I want to tell you about my new book idea. That’s what I was doing on the phone, discussing it with my agent.” His bare forearm brushed mine on the armrest.

  I jerked my arm away and clasped my hands on my lap, atop my book. He was wasting no time. “Oh, really?” Yes, do please tell me, so I can say no and we can get this over with.

  “Alex isn’t sure about marketability. She asked me to tweak it, discuss it with you, write her up a short proposal. But I really think we can make it work.” He sounded as excited as a grad student who thought he had a brilliantly original idea for a dissertation.

  “Do tell,” I said through gritted teeth, staring at my hands rather than at him, amazed he hadn’t picked up on my animosity. The man was so full of himself.

  “Most of the problems faced by Indigenous Australians stem from either misinformation or prejudice. Right?”

  “Yes. Or lack of information.” Wasn’t that what I’d been saying, or at least implying, yesterday? To reinforce the point, I went on, aware of how stiff, almost priggish, I sounded. “Most Australians don’t understand the structural disadvantages, nor the fact that government programs—no matter how well-intentioned—haven’t provided effective assistance.”

  “Prof, are you okay? You seem kind of odd.” Well, he’d finally noticed. And damn him, he actually sounded genuinely concerned. “Feeling claustrophobic?” he asked.

  More like sick to my stomach. Or to my heart. I resisted rubbing my pounding temples in case he tried that massage trick again. “I’m fine. Do go on. About your wonderful idea.”

  He didn’t catch my sarcasm and rushed on enthusiastically. “A book that’s nonfiction, but presented in an entertaining, easy-to-read style. It’ll be based on your research and have facts, some statistics, but they’ll come to life through true stories. I want to humanize, personalize, the experiences of the Indigenous Australians. So other Australians can relate. And include some parallels to what’s been happening in other countries, like we were talking about earlier. With Hawaii, the continental United States, Canada. So that Aussies will see this is a major social issue, not some odd little Australian idiosyncrasy.”

  Wow. “And perhaps also include examples of initiatives that have been successful in other countries,” I said, before I snapped my mouth shut. He’d drawn me in despite my being pissed off.

  “Brilliant,” he said enthusiastically.

  Damn the man, the book he was proposing could actually be good. And useful. Done well, it would have more impact than all my dry university lectures. The thought infuriated me, even as I felt a grudging respect.

  A flight attendant was making takeoff announcements, so I used that excuse to fiddle with my seat belt, while I said neutrally, “It’s an interesting idea.” Curiosity made me ask, “You think people would actually buy a book like that?” Surely he’d make more money off writing another Kalti book, and it would probably be less work. Could he actually be trying to do a good thing? Aside, that was, from those insignificant issues such as exploiting my research, harming my professional reputation, and crushing my feelings.

  He nodded vigorously. “If it’s packaged right. It’ll appeal to Australians who care about what’s going on in their country, and hopefully also to many of my readers. A book like this could really open some eyes to what’s going on.”

  Hmm. Maybe I really had awakened his social conscience. More likely, he was just saying these things as a way of manipulating me to cooperate.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked. “You’re the one with all the knowledge and statistics.” He grabbed my hand, squeezed it, and didn’t seem to notice that I didn’t return the pressure, or that I’d been avoiding looking at him.

  I was tempted to tell him I didn’t give a damn, but, being the typical nonconfrontational female, I didn’t have it in me. Instead I gave an honest answer. “Do I think it’s feasible? Yes. Though it’s not likely to hit the bestseller charts as your Kalti books have done.”

  “And you’ll work on it with me, Tezzie?”

  There it was. The question. The one he’d been working up to for God knows how long. He’d executed a complex and effective sales campaign that even included a midnight swim, and now he wanted to close the deal.

  Finally, I turned my gaze to his face. He looked as excited, as expectant, as a child on Christmas morning. Confident that the packages under the tree held lovely gifts for him. Confident that Tezzie would sign on the dotted line.

  Well, at least he was laying it out for me and asking, which was more than Jeffrey had.

  The truth was, he could write the book without me. Most of my research was in the public domain. As for the rest—comparisons to other countries—he could find that information with a little effort. Damien wasn’t stupid. He’d know he didn’t need me, but he’d also know I could save him a lot of time. Help him focus on the issues that mattered most. And my willing participation would lend his book that credibility he’d mentioned to his agent.

  Credibility with the public for him. Loss of credibility in the academic world for me. A number of my professional colleagues would look down on me for using my research this way, for simplifying it into lay terms and disseminating it in a commercial context. Helping Damien could jeopardize a reputation I’d worked very hard for.

  And yet…I could make my expertise count, do something constructive to help the people I’d been studying. Whatever I might think of Damien, the man had made me realize there wasn’t much point to research unless it was used to better the world.

  But, even for an excellent cause, could I work with a man who was using me to build his career? A man I’d been falling for, who’d misled me into believing he might care for me, too? I pulled my hand free of his. “I have to think about it.”

  His handsome face fell. “I know, you have your own work, your teaching. I guess this is the kind of book an academic like you might think of as superficial.”

  Many would. Probably before I’d met him I’d have been one of them. Now, I thought it could be valuable if it was done right. Could I trust him, without my help, to do it right? “Look, I said I’ll think about it. Besides, you don’t even know your agent will go for it. Write up your proposal and if she thinks the book would sell, drop me an e-mail and I’ll consider it.”

  His eyes narrowed and he clipped out a “Fine.”

  If I did opt in, we could work by e-mail and hopefully I’d never have to see him. Now I knew he hadn’t meant those things he’d said about getting together in Sydney. Or, if he had, it was because he thought he could ensure my continued cooperation with great sex.

  Great sex. Yes, he’d given me that. As well as a sense that he found me special, that the two of us together had a certain magic. Damn. I had to face it. This whole interlude with Damien proved what I already knew. My instincts about men were appallingly bad.

  “I know you have other priorities,” he said, voice cool and distant now. “Just thought you might want your ideas to get some broader exposure. You might want to do some real good, as you said last night at dinner.”

  Great, he was playing the guilt card. Maybe I should come right out and tell him I didn’t appreciate being used.

  “Look,” he went on, sounding as stiff as I had, “I should tell you my other idea, in case it factors into your decision. I thought I might find some really worthwhile project that benefits Indigenous Australians, like in health, education, or mentoring, and donate my royalties to it. What do you think?”

  Oh, great. A double guilt card. Reluctantly, I admitted, “I think it’s a great idea.” And generous of him. It sounded as if he really did want to do some good.

  “I’m not saying you’d have to do it, too,” he added quickly. “I mean, if you did agree to work on the book with me.”

  “Uh…I don’t follow. Do what, too?”

  “Sorry, I mean, it could be just my royalties.”

  My head
was really pounding now. Perhaps that was why I couldn’t follow what he was saying. “What are you talking about?”

  He took a breath. “Look, I don’t mean to offend you, Theresa, but I know the uni doesn’t pay huge salaries. What I’m saying is, just because I’d donate my royalties, it doesn’t mean you’d have to donate yours.”

  “My…royalties?” Royalties went only to authors. A spark of hope made my pulse speed. I swallowed and tried to collect my thoughts—a hopeless endeavor at this point, what with my confusion and the pounding in my head. “Damien, what exactly are you proposing?”

  He looked baffled, exasperated. “What I just said. That we collaborate on a pop sociology book about Indigenous Australians.”

  “Collaborate?” The word could have a dozen meanings.

  “You have the knowledge. I’m a good storyteller. Together, we can write a book that will really have an impact.”

  Hope beat in my throat, making it hard to speak. “Do you mean, as coauthors?”

  “Well, yeah, that was the idea. But you’re obviously not so keen.” His voice was empty of all his earlier enthusiasm.

  “Coauthors. Damien Black and Theresa Fallon.”

  “Or the other way around if you want. Though we’d have more market recognition if we put my name first.”

  Recognition. The word resonated through me, carrying a glow of happiness. Damien intended to give me full recognition for my work. Oh no, he wasn’t another Jeffrey. What an idiot I’d been to let my own insecurity get in the way, and make me misjudge him so badly.

  He was going on. “We make a great team. Hasn’t it been fun—and challenging—discussing the issues? Sharing ideas?”

  “It has,” I said softly, feeling the tension begin to drain from my temples. “Yes, it’s been stimulating. And fun.”

  He nodded, a light sparking in his eyes again. “Imagine it, Tezzie.” He took both my hands and this time I returned his warm pressure and let myself enjoy the sense of energy and sexual awareness that flowed between us. “Brainstorming together,” he went on. “Arguing over the best way to phrase things.” One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Taking sex breaks. Traveling to do research, interviewing people and recording their stories.”

 

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