Sex Drive (8 page)

“Your sister?” Day’s groggy voice almost made me toss my computer in the air.

D
amien grinned at the shocked expression on Theresa’a face.

“Don’t do that to me,” she said, staring at him above her reading glasses, one hand planted over her heart. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” He reached over and touched her arm, because it was hard to look at her and not touch her. Her mumbling had woken him, but she was so damned cute, he couldn’t be annoyed. The woman was definitely intriguing. Smart, sassy, sexy, sensual—but then she had those less sophisticated traits, like blushing and muttering to herself, that made her even more appealing.

And she was so much fun to tease. “Yeah, but it was hard to sleep through all that stuff about licenses and officiants and white lace. What the hell’s an officiant anyway?”

Her face scrunched up in embarrassment and she pulled off the glasses. “Was I talking to myself? Sorry. An officiant is the person who officiates at a wedding.”

“You academics know all the big words,” he teased.

She reached down and hefted a book that must have weighed five pounds. “Believe me, I know only about a hundredth of what’s in this book. I could have happily lived the rest of my life without learning the rest.”

He glanced at the title, which read
Planning for Perfection: The Wedding Planner’s Bible
. “Your sister’s getting married this month and you have to do all the stuff in that book? What are you, some kind of miracle-worker?”

“Of course I can’t do
all
of it. But I don’t want to miss anything important, and I want to have as many of the frilly touches as possible. Merilee’s that kind of girl.” She wrinkled her nose ruefully. “She’s pretty much my opposite.”

Yes, Theresa was feminine and sexy, but not the frilly type. She had the kind of look that went with the bridal gown they’d both admired.

He’d like to see Theresa in a dress. Not a wedding dress, of course. A sundress would be good. Pity she was connecting on to Vancouver—as he’d gathered from her conversations with her sisters—rather than stopping over in Honolulu like he was. He could find some mighty fine ways of killing a day and a night in Hawaii with this woman.

Could he persuade her to change her plans? Though she was conscientious about the wedding, she’d been as into their under-the-blanket play as he had.

He imagined the two of them sharing the oceanside hotel room he’d booked. Of him stretching Theresa out on the bed with the balcony doors open and a soft ocean breeze drifting in. Removing her clothes slowly, one by one, watching her chest flush, her nipples perk up…

He drifted back to sleep, and horny dreams.

When Damien woke again, it wasn’t to muttering. Theresa had put her computer and book away and was stretched back in her seat, sleep mask across her eyes, blanket draping her. Sleeping as neatly and efficiently as he imagined she did pretty much everything.

Except sex. That was one place where she seemed less in control, more spontaneous. Thank God.

He’d love to know what she could really be like, with privacy, time, a comfortable bed. Oh yeah, he had to persuade her to overnight in Honolulu. That is, if she didn’t freak out entirely when she realized who he was.

Damien was awake now, so decided he might as well do some work. He cranked his seat up from its reclined position, turned on a reading light, then glanced at Theresa. She didn’t move.

Soon he was engrossed in proofing the galleys for
Gale Force
. The galleys were his last chance to catch mistakes, so he always concentrated hard on them. He might write superficial crap, but damned if he was going to let any inconsistencies or typos slide by if he could help it.

He was in the middle of Chapter 2 when Theresa exclaimed, “Oh my God, you’re Damien Black!”

Startled, he jerked, then turned to her, a finger to his lips. “Sshh. People are asleep.” Well damn, he’d thought she’d be out for another couple hours. Now, here she was awake, and she’d figured out his identity.

She had shoved the sleep mask to the top of her forehead and was glaring at him. Her face, illuminated by his seat light, was a study in embarrassment and horror.

“Writer of superficial crap.” He held up his hand like a kid at roll call. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

“I…I…”

“Don’t know what to say?” he teased.

“I’m so embarrassed.” Her voice was low now. “I had no idea, in the bookstore. But that’s why you looked familiar; I’d seen your photo before.” Then she scowled. “You knew I didn’t know, and you let me keep on thinking—Oooh! And that’s why Carmen was so—Oh, you really are slimy.” Her voice had risen again as her annoyance built.

“Sshh,” he repeated, getting ticked off himself. “So, what was I supposed to say? Hello, I’m the guy who writes those books you think are so glib and superficial?”

“You let me…I thought…”

“Okay, maybe it was a little scummy not to tell you who I was before we, uh, fooled around. But I wanted you to give me a chance. I figured, if you knew I was the writer you hated, that’d prejudice you against me.”

Her eyes were still narrowed. “I didn’t say I hated your books. I read one and it wasn’t bad. Just…”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

“What you did wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.”

“What? Letting you get to know me before you judged me?” He struggled to keep his voice low, but damn it, this was one of his hot buttons. “Let me tell you, I’m damn tired of people making assumptions about me just because I’m ‘that writer.’”

As he spoke, her gaze had gone from angry to troubled. Her eyes softened with comprehension and maybe sympathy. “I always hated it when everyone saw me as ‘the brainiac’ and didn’t get to know me.”

“Besides, you did know my name. Carmen addressed me as Mr. Black and I told you my name was Day.”

“You told me it was Chinese,” she protested.

“Nope. You told me it was Chinese. I didn’t correct you.”

“You’re not the most principled person in the world, are you?” But the rancor had mostly died from her voice. Then she frowned. “Wait a minute, I thought you were part Aboriginal Australian. Isn’t that the hype? That you write about an Aboriginal police officer?”

“That’s another quarter of my ancestry, through my mom’s mother.” He twisted around in his seat and shoved up the sleeve of his T-shirt to display the tatt on his other arm. It was his own totem, done in the x-ray style of Aboriginal art, showing the skeleton and internal organs.

She stared at his arm, then reached out to trace the design. “An eagle?”

“Sea eagle.” Her soft touch sent whispers of arousal through him, reminding him of the intimacies they’d shared, and he shivered.

She jerked back her hand and focused on his face. “A Chinese dragon on one arm. A Chinese grandmother. You’re born in the year of the dragon, yes?”

He nodded, feeling a smile begin. No one would ever call Theresa stupid.

“And a sea eagle. Your totem animal? Your mother saw a sea eagle when she first felt you move in her womb?”

Another nod. “Yeah. I got the tatts when I was fifteen, getting in touch with my roots.”

“Hmm. You were young to be making a decision like that. Bet you didn’t ask your parents.” Absentmindedly, she pulled the sleep mask off her head and ran her fingers through her hair.

“No. They yelled a lot. Told me I was an idiot and I’d live to regret it.”

“Did you?”

Damien shook his head firmly. He wasn’t a guy who communed with the spirits the way his protagonist Kalti did, but all the same those tatts had become a part of him, as much as his hands and his creativity.

The prof’s gaze had softened, so he dared ask, “Can you accept the fact that, even if you think my writing stinks, I’m not such a bad guy?”

Her lips twitched. “I never said ‘stinks.’ You’re exaggerating.”

“Theresa?” Now he dared to reach over, tug the blanket free of her forearm, and run his fingers gently over her soft skin. “We made a connection. Don’t blow it over something, uh—” He broke off before he could say “silly.”

“I don’t like being deceived.”

He thought about her ex and winced. “I know. I’m sorry for that. It won’t happen again.”

“Well…” She shrugged. “I guess I can see your point. About not wanting me to prejudge you.”

“Friends again?” he wheedled, running his hand down to press the back of hers.

Her hand twitched, then slowly she turned it over and interlocked her fingers with his. “I guess. Though maybe we should keep away from the subject of your writing.”

“Sounds wise.” Except, had the writer been born who could resist reading bad reviews? Or asking the reviewer what the hell was wrong with her taste?

Theresa’s hand was so warm and soft in his. This was the perfect opportunity to turn off his seat light, cuddle up, and initiate some more sex play. “So, is it just
my
novels or do you think all fiction is superficial?”

Her hand tensed and she huffed out a breath. “Day. Damien? I don’t want to fight.”

He raised his free hand in a protest, a vow. “No fighting. Just satisfy my curiosity.”

After a long pause, she said, “I don’t read much fiction. I don’t see the point to it.”

“Yeah? What do you do for entertainment? TV or movies? Music?”

“Uh, I listen to some music, but only as background when I’m reading journals or working. I watch the occasional documentary or news program. And I travel, doing research and attending conferences.”

“Listen to yourself. I ask you about entertainment and you tell me about work.”

She pulled her hand free and her chin lifted. “I told you. All work, no play.”

The woman must have a genius IQ to have hopped through all that schooling like a kangaroo on amphetamines, so how had she managed to miss the fact that her parents had done a real number on her? He grabbed her hand back and squeezed it, even though she didn’t respond. At the moment he was more interested in her life than her views on his books. “Let’s try this from another angle. What gives you the most pleasure in life?”

“Uh…I guess…teaching. Seeing students get fired up.” Now she turned toward him. “It’s amazing how many Australians—like people in other countries that were colonized—don’t understand their own history, especially as it relates to indigenous people. And they don’t realize that government funding and policies are doing so little to help. Even after taking a class or two, most still don’t really grasp it, but each year there are a few. I know they’re going to be more responsible citizens, maybe even work to improve things.”

“That’s great.” He’d been raised in a “white” middle-class household, but those drops of Aboriginal blood had sensitized him to the fact that Australia’s indigenous people had got, and were still getting, a raw deal.

“Your books…” Her voice was low. She’d looked away from him, biting her bottom lip.

Right, that’s how this had started out. “Yes?”

“I only read one and it was more than a year ago, so maybe I’m not being fair, but you don’t seem to take on the issues.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your police officer is a full-blooded Aboriginal Australian. He’s got some kind of mystical, spiritual connection with mythical beings. Right?”

“Yes. With his totem and with ancestor spirits from the Dreamtime. Although some would argue they aren’t mythical.”

She nodded. “True. Anyhow, I gather your protagonist always solves the crime, and it’s a struggle for him to hide the involvement of the spirits.”

“Right.” It sounded formulaic, but what the hell, most successful mystery series depended on some kind of tried-and-true blueprint.

“And he has trouble with the other police officers and his superiors because he’s secretive.”

“Yes.”

“Not because he’s Aboriginal per se.”

“How’d’ya mean?”

“Discrimination, Damien. Indigenous Australians frequently face discrimination—in terms of education, health care, housing, and in the workplace.”

“I
know
that.” And Kalti Brown did deal with some, but it was never a big part of the story. “When people read fiction they’re looking for escape, not nasty realities.”

She did that chuckle-snort thing again. “Serial killers and annihilation of bad guys by ancestor spirits are fine to read about, but prejudice against Indigenous Australians is too nasty?”

He hated it when people got on his case about what he chose to write. Thank God for his agent and editor. They said every writer attracted criticism, and the more successful he got, the more there’d be. They told him to never fall into the trap of thinking he had to justify his writing to anyone. His only job was to produce the next fantastic book.

Now, here he was, justifying. His own damn fault. The prof had suggested they not discuss his writing. “One’s entertainment. The other is social criticism. Preaching to the reader.”

“What’s wrong with a little preaching? People need to hear the facts. Lots of Australians act like ostriches, thinking the government has everything under control. Avoiding the truth.”

He didn’t avoid it in his books, just didn’t belabor it. “Then teachers like you can educate them.” Each person chose their career and he’d found a great one. He didn’t appreciate being hassled about it.

“You’re one-quarter Aboriginal Australian. You have a totem on your arm. You should care about this.”

“I do. But…Look, it’s not like I grew up Aboriginal. My grandfather died in an accident when I was a baby, and my Aboriginal grandmother went back to her family. They lived in the country and we never visited them. The Chinese side, by the way, lives in New Zealand. My parents were both pale enough they could pass as white and that’s what they did. They raised me as a white kid.”

“And yet you got that tattoo. And your mother told you about your totem animal.”

He sighed. “My mother said they were at the beach, and this sea eagle swooped down just as she felt me move for the first time. She didn’t say anything about totems. Then, when I was fifteen, I ran away from home. I felt like I didn’t really know who I was, with this whole hidden side to the family. I found my Aboriginal grandmother and her people, and went to visit them. They taught me some things, like about totems and the Dreamtime.”