Sex Drive (15 page)

They both extracted the flowers and umbrellas from their drinks. He picked up the frangipani. With its golden centre, ivory petals, and pink tips, the blossom was delicate yet resilient, kind of like Theresa. “Go tropical, Tezzie. Put the frangipani behind your ear.”

She took the flower and admired it. “They call it plumeria here.”

“Whatever you say, Prof.”

Hesitantly she tucked it into her hair and Damien nodded approval.

Thinking that this was quite the life, he sat back, sipping his mai tai. At home, he mostly drank beer or one of Australia’s excellent wines. But his first time in Hawaii called for something different, and the potent rum drink was perfect.

A few yards away, past a stretch of grass and the hedge of bougainvillea and palms that marked the edge of the hotel property, bathing-suit-clad people strolled along the beach or lay in the sun. Some were tanned so dark they must do this every day. Others were blindingly white and lathered with sunscreen, and several were so red they’d be hurting tonight. Tourists who hadn’t learned that the sun’s kiss should be treated with respect.

“This is such a luxury,” Theresa said.

“You know, they do have beachside restaurants and tropical drinks in Oz,” he teased.

“I know. I do go out occasionally. But I don’t think I’ve ever had such a sense of being relaxed and pampered.” Her eyes danced. “Maybe the great sex has something to do with it.”

He curled his fingers and polished them against his chest, in a taking-credit gesture. “Too right it does.”

That might explain why he, too, was feeling on top of the world. He couldn’t imagine a single place he’d rather be, or a person he’d rather be with. Now, if only the waitress would bring their food before his stomach began to growl.

Theresa took another sip of her drink. “These go down much too easily.” She smiled across the table. “I never finished what I was saying about the dragon.”

“There’s more?” Not only was she into research, apparently she had a perfect memory.

“He likes to be the leader, and he’s a good one. He likes power, too, and has lessons to learn about flexibility and compassion.”

“You mean he’s a control freak like you?” he joked. His personal opinion was, he’d learned a whole lot about flexibility since he’d started working with a team of women.

She made a face, then went on. “Then there’s the other tattoo. The sea eagle. The eagle flies high and symbolizes power, courage, and freedom. Spirituality and transcendence, too.”

“I’m not such a spiritual guy.”

“Your alter ego, Kalti, is.”

“He’s not my alter ego,” he said automatically. People were always asking if Kalti was really him, and the answer was no.

“If a writer chooses to write about one character over and over, rather than write different books about different kinds of people, I figure that character must resonate with him.” She raised her brows in a challenge. “He identifies with his protagonist, and the protagonist probably manifests a lot of his creator’s qualities. Or ones the author wishes he had.”

A novelist
wrote
. Or at least Damien did. “You’re sure you’re a sociologist, not a literary critic?”

“Fine. Back to the eagle. He’s
supposed
to have excellent vision and insight, as in ‘eagle-eyed.’ I guess some eagles are better at that than others, or maybe having only one-quarter eagle blood has dimmed the power.”

He snorted, and finished off his mai tai.

She chuckled and went on. “The eagle faces challenges, is brave, versatile and patient, and he survives. Maybe your eagle blood gives you some of the flexibility your dragon lacks.”

“You don’t believe this stuff, do you, Prof? You being an academic and all.”

Her brows drew together. “I don’t know. My dad’s a strong advocate of hard science. He’d say, nothing exists unless there’s objective evidence of it. But talking to Canadian and American First Nations people and the Indigenous Australians…Things happen that don’t have an easy scientific explanation.”

He leaned forward, nodding. “I saw that when I visited my Aboriginal relatives. For example, a man broke his arm so badly it was all twisted around, with the bone sticking through the skin. I figured he needed to get to a doctor or he might lose the whole arm. But they wrapped it up and the
karadji
—healer—performed a ritual and communed with the spirits, and within two or three days the man was lifting his little boy with that arm. Seemed to me, it healed like magic. Way faster than Western medicine could have done it. I still don’t know what to make of it.”

She nodded. “Of course there’s the explanation that if people believe in something, reality can be affected. That may be what happens with a healing ritual or a spiritual experience. On the other hand, as much as there’s no concrete proof that spirit ancestors and totem animals do exist, there’s no concrete proof they don’t.”

“Well, Prof, you’ve surprised me. I’d have expected you to be more hard line.”

The waitress arrived with their lunches. Sizable helpings, and the food looked great. “Thanks,” Damien said. “And I’ll have another mai tai. Theresa, want another drink?”

“Why not?”

After what she’d said about being so hungry, he’d figured she would dive immediately into her meal, but instead she gazed at him thoughtfully.

“Damien, you said your Aboriginal relatives think your books exploit your heritage and their beliefs. But you put the spirits in your stories not to make the books sell, but to honor the possibility that the spirits exist. Right?”

“Er…Honestly, for me writing isn’t such a deliberate, conscious process. The first thing I had was Kalti, and I knew—don’t know how—he was Aboriginal. So of course he had a totem, and I guess it was the sea eagle because that’s the one I know best.”

The waitress returned with fresh drinks and he nodded his thanks before going on. “I didn’t know if I’d ever sell the book. I’d written two before, and got a pile of rejections. But when I started out with Kalti, he really came to life, and I just typed what I saw, and what he told me. The ancestor spirits were
there
. It’s not something I planned.”

“Interesting. You’re intuitive, spontaneous.” She wrinkled her nose. “The opposite of me. I’m analytical. Can’t do anything without developing a project plan or at least making a list.”

He held out his glass to her. “And we’ve both done pretty damned well for ourselves.”

“That’s true.” She clicked her glass to his. “Now, let’s eat. Did I mention,
hours
ago, that I’m starving?”

He watched her dig into her fish, which was topped with toasted almonds and served with rice and sea asparagus, then picked up one of his popcorn shrimp and bit into it. It was great, the shrimp fresh and succulent, the batter crisp and tasting of coconut. Next he tried a french fry, which was also delicious, just the right combination of soft potato, oil-crisped skin, and salt.

“Want a shrimp?” He speared one with his fork and extended it across the table.

Theresa took a nibble off the end. “Good, but I like mine better. I’ll steal one of your fries, though, if that’s okay.”

“I don’t think it’s stealing if you ask. Help yourself.”

She offered him a bite of her fish, then they both agreed they preferred their own dishes and ate hungrily. Every once in a while, her hand darted across to poach one of his fries.

As they ate, they talked about what they’d do after lunch, and she agreed they had to walk Waikiki Beach. He checked his watch. “It’s after two, and I have to be at the bookstore around six thirty. I should be finished by eight, eight thirty. What say we have dinner after that, since we’re having such a late lunch?”

“Sounds good. Maybe I should buy something a bit more dressy for dinner.”

“I’m sure shorts are okay, but suit yourself.” He paused, slightly nervous. “Sorry that I’ve got some business to do.”

She glanced down, fiddled with the paper umbrella from her drink. “I could, uh, grade exams while you’re gone.” Avoiding his eyes. Not wanting to come right out and say she didn’t want to come to his bookstore thing? And why would she, since she disapproved of his writing?

He told himself he wasn’t disappointed. Besides, it might prove to be one of those events where not a soul showed up. All the same, it would be rude not to invite her. “Or you could come along with me.”

She lifted her head and studied his face, expression neutral. “Are you asking to be polite, or because you want me there? Either’s okay. I mean, I can understand, after the way I insulted your books…”

“It’s not that. Remember what I said, about sometimes the only one who talks to you is a person asking for directions to the loo?”

“Hmm.” Her lips curved. “Then I guess I should come, so you’ll at least have one person to talk to. Oh, I could pretend I don’t know you, and gush about how you’re my favorite author.”

He chuckled. “Nah, you don’t have to lie for me.” Then he reached over to touch her hand. “But it’d be great if you came.”

“Then I will,” she said matter-of-factly, freeing her hand and pinching another fry. “But I’m definitely buying a dress.”

“You could wear the sarong and bikini top,” he joked.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Not on a good idea.”

When they finished their meals, the waitress asked if they wanted dessert. “The mud pie is the best,” she said. “Kona coffee ice cream, a chocolate wafer crust, and chocolate sauce with a hint of espresso in it. Who can resist?”

Theresa groaned. “That sounds lovely, but I’m too full.”

“Nothing, thanks,” he told the waitress, then when she’d gone he said to Theresa, “Later, when we’ve walked and digested, I bet we can find ice cream cones.”

The bill arrived and, with minimal argument, Theresa let him pay it. Then she said, “I know you want to get out on the beach, but would you mind if I stopped to get a dress? I promise, I’ll pick the first one that’s halfway decent, and not try on a dozen.”

“Oh please, not
decent
.”

He let her drag him through one shop where she didn’t see a single thing she liked, then into another that met with her approval. She made him plunk his arse in a chair near the door, saying, “Wait here. I don’t need editorial comment.”

It wasn’t much more than five minutes before she returned, carting another bag.

“Hey, you’re not going to show me?”

Her grin was mischievous. “You’ll have to wait. Besides, isn’t it beach time?”

Oh yeah, he wanted to stick his toes in the ocean.

However, when they were back in their hotel room and she emerged from the loo, his body rapidly came up with a different priority. “Oh man, look at you.”

She still had the plumeria blossom in her hair and she wore the green bikini top, which was classy, sexy, and set off her terrific body and pretty coloring. The green matched one of the shades in the knee-length sarong she’d wrapped around herself. Damien liked sarongs. They were feminine and enticing, highlighting a woman’s curvy hips and slim waist, showcasing her legs. Making a guy imagine what lay beneath.

The bottom of that green bikini.

His cock stirred inside his board shorts, which were the only clothing he wore, and he reached for the sarong fabric she’d tied at her waist. “You’re just asking to be unwrapped.”

She darted away. “The beach?”

He groaned, released her, and willed his cock to subside. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ve slathered on sunscreen and I have my sunglasses. Do I need anything else?”

How refreshing to be with a woman who didn’t feel the need to tote a bag full of junk wherever she went. He patted the pocket of his shorts. “I’ve got the room key and some money. That should do it.”

They made their way down to the courtyard, an oasis of interestingly shaped pools surrounded by ceramic tile, lush green vegetation, and bright tropical flowers. Most of the lounge chairs by the pools and the seats at umbrella-shaded tables were occupied, the guests sipping fancy drinks or reading paperback novels.

Damien could never stop himself from scanning the covers of people’s books. There’d been a couple times when he’d been in a coffee shop or airport and seen someone reading a Kalti Brown novel. Of course he knew his sales stats—or as accurate a picture as royalty statements could give—but seeing real live human beings engrossed in his books was a high.

And so was stepping out the gate that guarded the pool area, and onto the pale sand of Waikiki. He caught Theresa’s hand and hustled her, laughing, through a half dozen tourists who were strolling along the beach, and down to the edge of the ocean. There, past the burning heat of the dry sand, he kicked off his sandals and she did the same. He gathered up both pairs and hooked the fingers of his free hand through the straps.

Then he stepped into the water, pulling her along with him. It was warm, the gentle waves rippling over their feet and onto the sand. Around them, toddlers played in the shallows, older kids squealed as they jumped around and dove through waves, and farther out, adults swam. He wanted to be out there, knifing through the water. “Are you a swimmer?” he asked Theresa hopefully.

She shook her head. “Not much of a one. It was never a priority.”

He knew that if he asked, she’d sit on the beach and wait while he went for a swim, but he got lots of chances to swim back in Australia. Right now, he’d rather be with her. “Let’s walk.” He turned in the direction of Diamond Head and they started out, him walking in the water, kicking it up from time to time just for the heck of it, her on the firmly packed damp sand above the waterline.

“This is nice,” she said. “I’ve never done this before, even though I’ve stayed in Honolulu several times.”

He wondered if, the next time she overnighted here, she’d come down and walk the beach and think of him. Or maybe, the next time she’d be with some other guy. Or she’d come alone and some guy would hit on her—like the ones who watched with hungry eyes as she strolled, seemingly unaware of their admiring gazes.

Feeling possessive, he let go her hand and instead wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. She smiled up at him and reciprocated, her slim arm circling his waist, thumb hooking into the pocket of his shorts.