Sex Drive (23 page)

It was too soon to be thinking this way. Once they were back in Sydney, they’d have lots of time to see where their relationship might go. As lovers, and maybe more. Maybe even—strange as it might seem—as colleagues. She’d offered to help with his books. If she meant it…

An idea had been niggling away in the back of his mind, growing in scope and taking on a life of its own in the same way as happened with his best story ideas. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let it form.

What if they collaborated on a book? Not a novel, but a “pop” sociology book about Indigenous Australians? They could draw on her research but put it in layman’s terms, and make it come alive with real-life stories. The book wouldn’t have as wide a readership as his Kalti series, but they could include it in the Kalti promo, have two-book deals. Do signings of both books, talk on TV and radio shows. They could do this together. Him and Theresa. Pool their talents to create something that might make a real difference.

Would she consider it? Coauthoring a book as well as being lovers? It was risky. If their personal relationship blew up, what would it do to their professional one?

Gut instinct told him they wouldn’t be splitting up. Even if he was wrong, they were reasonable adults. They could work things out. Besides, his whole writing career was about risk.

But that was him. Theresa wasn’t a risk-taker, and was wary of trusting men. Besides, academic that she was, she might consider a project like this to be beneath her. The whole notion was probably a crazy one. Should he forget it? Hell no; the idea had a grip on him. Talk to her about it? Maybe better to run it by his agent first. If Alex didn’t think it was doable, there’d be no reason to mention it to Theresa.

“Damien?”

He became aware she was tugging on his arm. “Sorry. What?”

“Airport?” Her expression was one of amused tolerance. “I didn’t want to interrupt when you were deep in thought. I figured you were working on a story idea. But we’re almost at the airport.”

Glancing out the cab window, he saw she was right. “Sorry to be such bad company.”

“No problem. I know what it’s like.” She closed a small notebook and tossed it in her bag. “I spent the time making more notes for the wedding.”

The driver pulled up at the curb and he and Theresa climbed out.

Inside, check-in went smoothly and they headed for the departure gate. “I need to make a call,” he said, eager to talk to his agent, and to do it out of the prof’s earshot. “Mind picking me up a bottle of water and a snack bar for the flight?”

“Sure. I’ll get something for myself, too.”

“Leave your carry-on and shopping bag here, and I’ll watch them.”

The moment she’d turned away, he was dialing. Voice mail, damn it.

He’d called on Alex’s direct line, so now tried her assistant. “Hey, Bev, it’s Damien. I’m in Honolulu airport, about to catch a flight, and need to talk to Alex. Is she around?”

“I’ll hunt her up. Hang on a mo.”

He leaned against the wall, impatient, watching as the departure lounge filled. Lots of sunburns and gaudy Hawaiian clothes, tourists heading home from their holiday. Finally he heard Alex’s voice. “How was the Honolulu signing?”

“Really good. The woman at the store did a great job.”

“How many people? How many books did you sell?”

“I’ll e-mail you later. Right now, there’s an idea I want to run by you.”

“For
Scorched Earth?
”

“No. A different kind of book. I met this woman on the plane from Sydney and—”

“You want to write a sex manual?” she joked. “That’d sell like hotcakes, coming from one of the ten sexiest bachelors in Oz.”

He chuckled. Yeah, he and Tezzie could definitely write a sex manual.

I
found a shop around the corner from the departure gate, where I bought water for Damien and me, snack bars, and a couple of Ghirardelli chocolate bars with raspberry filling.

Leaving the store, I ripped open the wrapper on one of the chocolate bars, broke off a square, and popped it into my mouth. When I bit down, I almost moaned at the combination of rich chocolate and luscious semitart raspberry. Maybe if Damien was especially nice to me, I could be persuaded to share. But then, when had the man ever been anything but especially nice?

I recognized his voice before I turned the corner, and the familiar timbre sent a warm thrill through me. Then, there he was, leaning against a wall with his back to me, casual and masculine in jeans and a white T-shirt that showed off his great musculature. He held his cell phone to his ear.

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.