Sex Drive (19 page)

“What are you…?” He glanced down at the book. “Well, I’ll be damned.” It was
Thunder Struck
, his first Kalti book. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She wrinkled her nose and gave him a rueful grin. “I’d read this book before, a year or so ago, and wanted to give it another go. I admit, when you read that passage, you hooked me. I guess there’s nothing wrong with a little pure entertainment from time to time.”

“Why’d you get this one, not
Wild Fire?
”

“I wanted to start at the beginning.” She reached under the table, pulled up a bookstore bag, and held it open.

Damned if she hadn’t bought all of his books. “Okay, that’s earned you a dinner out.”

Laughing, she came to her feet. “Now, what’s this about the
New York Times
bestseller list?”

“Only the extended list, but it’s a first for me.”

She stretched to give him a quick kiss. “Damien, that’s wonderful. And auspicious timing, with you starting your book tour.”

He hugged her tight, an armful of warm curves, then reluctantly let go. “You look so damn sexy and that row of buttons is so provocative, I’m tempted to say we should go back to the room and call room service.” He dropped a kiss in her hair, smelling rosemary from the shampoo and thinking of a summer garden. “But we’ve got all night to fool around, so let’s have a nice meal by the water, maybe take a moonlight walk on the beach.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I asked Marietta for the names of some good restaurants and she said our hotel is one of the best. Want to try it?”

“Sure.” She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “Damien, I was impressed. You did a great job tonight.”

He took her hand, squeezed it. “Thanks. The feeling’s mutual. We make a good team.”

As they walked out of the coffee shop, he discovered the light breeze had completely died down and there was a sultry, sensual quality to the flower-scented air. Weaving his fingers through Theresa’s, he said, “I could’ve been here alone. What a waste.”

They strolled hand in hand, not saying much, and he wondered if this was the time to talk to her about the future, back in Sydney. Normally he was confident with women, but he’d never been with one like Theresa before. Not only beautiful, sensual, and fun, but smart and career-minded. She intimidated him a little. And so, he kept quiet.

When they reached the hotel, they went directly to the candlelit restaurant, where the formally clad maître d’ said, “You’re in luck. An oceanside table just cleared.”

Following him, they crossed the restaurant. Tanned, well-dressed people chatted and laughed, light gleamed off wineglasses and silverware, and the scents of seafood, garlic, and coconut made his stomach rumble.

A few people looked up as they passed, and several male gazes stayed on Theresa.

“You’re turning heads,” he told her.

“What? No, that would be you.”

“Male heads? Huh-uh. That’s you.”

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.”

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?”

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.

He seemed equally content to stare back. I thought about my average face, which he’d termed perfect. Was it possible he found my face as attractive, as fascinating, as I found his?

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?”

“If sales really dropped. But for now, I’ll tweak what I’m doing with Kalti. I have to stay true to his character and meet reader expectations—like, there will always be the Dreamtime spirits and the sea eagle—but I can take him in new directions.”

“You have some ideas?”

“Two.” He gave me a quick grin, eyes bright. “I mentioned that I gave him a female partner in the new book? Well, I’m thinking there’s going to be a romantic attraction. Maybe that woman at the signing was right, and the poor old bugger’s due for the joys and torments of a love affair.”

“Torments?” I knew that, whether or not he realized it, Damien identified with Kalti. And Damien had just embarked on a…well, not a love affair, because it was only a one-time thing. But all the same, what did he mean about torments? He and I had shared some joys, and maybe I annoyed him from time to time, but torment was a strong word.

“I could give her a dress with buttons all the way down the front.” His eyes twinkled. “But seriously, a writer has to torture his protagonist. If life’s too easy, there’s no story.”

Hmm. That made some sense.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, ignoring the dessert. “And there’s got to be a certain amount of growth. A character can’t stand still or readers get bored with him.”

“And for growth, there has to be challenge,” I mused. “As in real life.” Damien and I had challenged each other, and as a result we’d both resolved to take our careers in a fresh direction. He had also, even though he might not be aware of it, challenged me to see myself as an attractive, sexy woman. A woman who, as he’d pointed out when we entered this restaurant, could turn men’s heads.

“Exactly. Growth—character arc—is especially important to female readers. In general, male readers focus on plot, females care more about character.”

“Hmm.” I paused, fork raised to my mouth. The coconut pie was incredible, but his words interested me more. I was beginning to understand how fiction could reflect and even inspire real life. “So, most books are aimed at both male and female readers?”

“Nope. Techno-thrillers are aimed mostly at men and romance is targeted mostly to women. With mystery and suspense, some go more one way and some are in the middle, like mine. Of the genres, by far the most sales are in romance.”

“Really?” Damien was teaching me a lot. “So, most people—women readers?—are romantics at heart?” Like my sisters Kat and Merilee. They’d always had a stack of romance novels in their rooms.

“They like happy endings—so do mystery readers—but romance readers care more about character than plot. Mystery and suspense is about solving the crime, the puzzle, and stopping the bad guy. Romance is usually about emotion—stuff I’m not so great at writing—and character development, two people beating the odds and winning love.”

Winning love. With Jeffrey, I’d felt as if love had miraculously landed on my doorstep. Then, when the going got tough, I had assumed he’d never loved me at all. Neither of us had grown one bit from the moment we met until the day we divorced.

I’d grown more, in all sorts of ways, in one day with the fascinating man who sat across from me. And, to my amazement, I’d had an impact on him, too. “Tell me how all of this relates to your Kalti books.”

“Like I said at the reading, I’m a typical guy. There’s got to be murder and mayhem to keep me happy.” In the wide grin he gave me, I saw a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a kid. A bit of a daredevil. And that daredevil lived on, in Kalti. Damien could be a grown-up with a successful career and let his boyish macho side come out to play in his writing.

“So my books are heavy on plot,” he went on, “but there’s also character development. Kalti’s a complex, intriguing guy. A bit of a lost soul, an underdog, a bad boy. Women are fascinated by that kind of man.”

“They are?” I smiled a yes at a busgirl who was offering coffee refills. “I don’t see the appeal. Maybe it’s sexy in high school, but after that it’s just immature. And I can’t imagine that’s the type of man women want to marry.” In a husband, a woman wanted, first and foremost, a man she could trust. A man like Merilee’s Matt, not like my ex.

“After he’s matured and gentled down some. With the help of a good woman and all.”

“Seriously?”

“And vice versa. Two people meet, fall for each other, and that’s the catalyst for each of them wanting to grow into a better person. That’s typically what happens in a romance novel.”

“It sure didn’t work that way for Jeffrey and me.” I made a face. “Which I guess should have told me something, if those romance writers are to be believed.” I shrugged off the memory of Jeffrey. And the intriguing thought that Damien’s words were a fair description of what had happened between the two of us. Except, of course, our relationship was a short story, not a novel. “Let’s get back to Kalti. He’s a bad boy because he’s a renegade cop, he’s an underdog because he’s Aboriginal Australian, and he’s sexy, yes?”

“Men readers relate to the take-no-prisoners cop. Women like a strong hero and they’re intrigued by the other facets of his personality. But I’ve just realized that they may get tired of him being such a loner when it comes to romance.”

I nodded. “Even your male readers would probably appreciate a hot female character, and some sizzling sex.”

“Oh crap, you’re saying I have to write sex?” He looked dismayed.

“I’d say you’re eminently qualified.” I shot him a mischievous grin and fingered the button at the neckline of my dress.

He chuckled. “Doing it’s not the same as writing it.”

As I sipped coffee, I thought back on our conversation. A thread was still hanging loose. “You said you had two ideas for taking the Kalti books in a new direction?”

“Yeah. I want to incorporate some of the issues about Aboriginal Australians, like we were talking about. And the stuff about perceptions and prejudices.”

He’d meant it when he said he wanted to make a difference. “I’m glad, Damien.”

“It still has to be a good story. Not preachy.”

Thoughtfully, I nodded. “I’ve seen in my classes how students perk up and listen when I tell an anecdote about real live Indigenous Australians.”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? We’ve evolved from people who hunkered around the fire at night, spellbound by the storyteller.”

I’d studied enough anthropology to know he was right. In primitive society, storytellers had immense power. The same was true today. And Damien was one of them. I reflected on what he was planning to do. “You have an interesting task ahead of you.”