“Ta, Carmen.” The flashy brunette had told him her name when he’d first got on the plane and she’d recognized him.
She cocked a brow at the prof. “You don’t care for it, Ms. Fallon? Can I get you something else?”
“No, it’s fine. I was just on the phone.” She held up her closed mobile. “Which is off now, and I’m about to enjoy the champagne.”
“Good on you,” Carmen said, then gave him a wink before she moved on.
Yeah, Carmen had gushed all over him when he came on board. She’d made it clear she was available for a little action. Her, and about a hundred other girls in the two years since his first book hit the bestseller lists and he’d become a familiar face on TV talk shows. Not to mention, been voted one of the country’s ten sexiest bachelors.
The “sexy bachelor” angle had featured prominently in the promo plan his agent and publicist had developed, a fact that at first he’d found humorous but had soon worn thin. This business of women flinging themselves at him had gotten a little old. Truth was, it wasn’t all that flattering when females swarmed all over a bloke just because he was famous and supposed to be sexy. Celebrity had its disadvantages.
Truth was, the prof interested him more than Carmen. She was a turn-on, with an appealing face that wasn’t caked in makeup, a slim, shapely bod, and boobs that looked to be all her own. Plus, she intrigued him. The woman presented a challenge. Though she clearly wasn’t immune to the physical spark between them, she sure wasn’t throwing herself at him.
Could he win her over before she found out who he was?
He held out his glass to her. “Bottoms up, safe trip, don’t let the buggers get you down.” He’d have said “bastards” but figured it might piss her off.
A chuckle spluttered out of her and her eyes warmed. Those eyes reminded him of the water in a billabong: shades of reddy brown brightened by specks of blue and green, like the reflections of red rocks and trees in blue waters. As with a billabong, a bloke could stare into their depths and lose himself. Especially now, when her amusement made them sparkle as if sunshine dappled the still water.
She clicked her glass to his. “The buggers?”
“Whoever’s got you sighing like a high wind through the gum trees.”
Her lips twisted, more in rue than amusement. “My sister. Actually, all my sisters.” Her eyes widened and he sensed the information had slipped out, laughter creating a chink in her reserve. She glanced away and raised the glass to her lips.
“Ah. Families. Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em. Easiest to just avoid them.” That was his current strategy with his own family.
“True.” She gazed into her glass. “But it’s not always possible.”
“No?”
She glanced up, eyes narrowing. “I really do need to work.”
Why was she so intent on keeping him at a distance? He was about to ask when he felt a hand brush his right forearm.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Carmen purred, not sounding sorry at all. “We’re readying for takeoff. I need you to fold up your tables. You can hang on to your glasses and I’ll be by with more champagne once we’re in the air.”
He heard a quick swallow on his other side, then the prof extended her glass past him. “I’m finished. You can take this, thanks,” she said coolly. He gathered she hadn’t exactly warmed to their flight attendant.
“I’ll keep mine,” he said.
When Carmen had gone, he turned to his seatmate. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”
Her lips pressed together, their fullness folded in to make a thin line. When she released them, they were plump and a deep, natural pink. Ripe for kissing.
But her voice was chilly. “Believe me, I do. They make Theresa a dull girl. Which I am. So, you might as well get over yourself and let me get on with my work. I’m sure Carmen will be more than happy to let you chat her up.”
Interesting. Damien figured he was pretty damned observant for a guy—a writer had to be—and she’d just delivered a whack of information. Not only her name, but the fact that folks thought she was too serious and didn’t hold back from telling her. Now, what was that bit about Carmen? Did he detect a hint of jealousy?
This was going to be one interesting flight.
He decided to let Professor Theresa Fallon win this round. When they were in the air, having drinks and appetizers, she’d have to put the exams away.
“Okay,” he said easily. “You get on with your work then.”
Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t have work to do himself. This wasn’t a vacation. He’d finished a weeklong book tour in Australia, had a couple days at home in Sydney to get turned around, and was now headed off for a month’s tour in the United States and Canada. With him, he had the galleys for Gale Force, which had to be back to his publisher in a week. And of course, there was Scorched Earth, the book he was currently writing. Or had been, until a plot point had hung him up.
Beside him, Theresa was again studying the exam. Absentmindedly she lifted her hand and rubbed her temple through short, gleaming auburn hair. The gesture made him focus on her slim fingers, which, even with their short, unpolished nails, had a particular feminine grace. Fingers that he’d bet would feel nicer on his skin than Carmen’s red-tipped claws.
Usually, the width of the seats in business class was an advantage, but not tonight. In economy, Theresa’s arm would’ve brushed against his on the armrest. Her bare arm against his, the constant whisper of flesh against flesh acting like the friction of two sticks being rubbed together, the way some elderly Aboriginals still made fire. Friction, heat, friction, spark, more friction—then flames.
Of course, if he and Theresa had been touching that way, he’d have had a hard-on. Just being this close to her was enough of a tease to his senses. He was aware of her every movement. Her scent—something earthy yet fresh—made him think of sex in the great outdoors.
Damien shifted, wishing he could adjust his swelling package. Trying to distract himself, he decided to work on his plot knot. He closed his eyes and reviewed what he’d written to date.
The book started with Damien’s police detective protagonist being reamed out by his superior. Although Kalti Brown had solved his last case, he refused to reveal exactly how he’d identified the bad guy, and how that criminal had come to die in a freak windstorm. Kalti’s secret was that he had a special connection with his totem spirit and the creator spirits from the Dreamtime. When bad people went against the natural laws, the spirits were as determined to punish them as was Kalti, and they worked together in an alliance that was often less than comfortable for him.
As Damien reflected, eyes shut, he was dimly aware of the plane taxiing, then taking off. Of the elderly couple across the aisle telling Carmen they were going to Vancouver to visit family, including a brand-new great-grandchild.
Kalti, now, he was a loner for obvious reasons. But his boss had decided someone should keep an eye on him. Enter Marianna, his new partner. Female, Caucasian. A hard-line, play-by-the-rules cop.
Beside him, Damien heard the prof reach for her carry-on bag and pull out something that rustled. More exam booklets, he guessed, then he returned to his musings.
Marianna was tough and career-focused, and resented being assigned to a cop who had the reputation of being a renegade. She didn’t trust Kalti and he, a keeper of secrets, couldn’t trust anyone. And yet, partners were supposed to be a team and be able to rely on each other.
The two were assigned to a couple murders that might be the work of a serial killer. There