“How long have you been married?” Theresa asked the older woman. “If you have a great-grandchild, it must be going on fifty years?”
“Ha! Trev and I are almost newlyweds. We married two years ago. The family in Vancouver is mine from my first marriage.”
“Well, congratulations,” Theresa said. “On the new addition to the family, and on finding happiness a second time around.”
“Thanks. And best of luck to the two of you.” She pushed her glasses up and went back to crocheting something so tiny it was clearly for the baby.
Damien turned to Theresa and raised his glass again. “To a happy wedding, and a happy marriage,” he said loudly. Then he mouthed, “For your sister.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She touched her glass to his.
They both took a swallow, then she said softly, “I want to ask you something.”
Had she put two and two together about his name? Warily, he said, “What?”
She glanced past him. “Can anyone overhear us?”
He shook his head. “Not if we speak quietly. The seats are too far apart, and the cocoon effect insulates them. What’s your question?”
“What did Carmen do wrong?”
“Huh?”
“You were flirting, encouraging her. Then you decided you weren’t interested. What did she do?”
“Her? Nothing. It was you, Theresa.” What the hell, why not go with honesty?
“Me? I don’t follow. And how did you know my name, anyway?”
“All work makes Theresa a dull girl? You said that, remember? Anyhow, I don’t think you’re dull. Fact is, I’m more interested in you than in her.”
3
Had this very hot man—Day—really said what I thought he had? Flustered and skeptical, I asked, “Interested? In what way?”
He gave me the sexiest smile imaginable. “The usual way.”
As in, the usual way a man was interested in a woman. Usual for him—that was a no-brainer—but definitely not for me. My skin heated as if I had a fever, and a pulse fluttered in my throat. Another throbbed between my legs. My dormant sex drive seemed to have woken up.
No man had ever looked at me that way. Jeffrey’s interest had been immensely flattering and seductive, but his eyes had never held the heated gleam Day’s did. With my ex, I’d of course learned that his interest lay in appropriating my research, and the sex we’d enjoyed was merely a side benefit for him.
And Jeffrey had, let’s face it, been a short, prematurely balding prof who on his best day could be called cute. Not stunningly handsome like the man who was gazing at me with such intensity. A man who couldn’t possibly be interested in my research.
Day seemed sincere, not that I was any judge of male character. But I still didn’t understand. What did he want from me? I swallowed against that fluttery pulse in my throat and forced words out. “The usual way? What does that mean?”
His eyes burned even hotter. “It’s a long flight, Theresa Fallon. Bet we can figure out some interesting ways to pass the time.”
What ways did he have in mind? A more experienced woman would have known, or at least had a playful way of finding out. All I could manage was bluntness. “Day, if you wanted sex, you could have had it with Carmen.”
The corner of his mouth kinked. “True. Not saying I don’t want it, but if I did, it’d be with you. When you’re in the mood.”
“When?” My voice rose. I couldn’t believe his audacity. Did he really think I was as easy as Carmen? “Shouldn’t you have said if?”
A cocky smirk. “Nah. I’d bet on when.”
“You’re so damned sure of yourself.” The words burst out. How dare he! “Doesn’t any woman ever say no to you?”
He glanced upward, squinting like he was mulling over my question, then said, “Not in recent memory.”
The tone of his voice—amused self-deprecation—somehow defused my annoyance. “Did anyone ever tell you you have a swollen head?”
“You find false modesty appealing?”
“N-no, I suppose not.” When it came to my work, I was as confident as he. “If you’re good at something, it’s silly to pretend you’re not.” I rubbed my temple, where my tension headache had made a reappearance.
“There you go. I am good, I promise.”
He meant in bed. Or did he? Maybe my inexperience was making me read him wrong.
He reached over and stroked the hair back from my temple, then rubbed gently, his warm thumb finding the knot of tension.
People didn’t touch me, except for handshakes or an occasional brush of bodies passing in a narrow doorway. This touch was presumptuous. Intimate. I should have moved away. But it felt so wonderful. How long had it been since anyone had looked after me?
“Good at what?” I dared ask, not sure how I wanted him to answer.
“Mmm.” A small, very wicked grin. “How about curing headaches, for a start?”
“It’s not a bad start.” Where did he intend to go from here? Did he actually hope to seduce me into…whatever limited kind of fooling around we could do on an airplane?
Did I want him to? Right now, the caress that had unwound the knot of pain was winding up a whole different kind of tension. A hum of arousal that flowed through my veins like thick, warm honey.
Day had turned down the certainty of sex with a stacked flight attendant who had wavy black hair, pouty red lips, and no doubt ten times—no, make that fifty times—more sexual experience than I. And yes, knowing the plane as Carmen did, she’d have found a place where she and Day could actually engage in intercourse.
Was the man crazy? Or was it me who was crazy? Leaning closer to absorb the heat coming off that firm brown skin, to inhale that outdoorsy male scent.
I shouldn’t encourage him, shouldn’t let arousal build between my legs. Because of course I wouldn’t let him seduce me. I wasn’t that kind of woman.
No, Dr. Theresa Fallon—Ms. All Work—wasn’t the kind of woman who attracted a gorgeous man, flirted with him, took him for her lover.
When I put it that way…Wouldn’t it be nice, for one time in my life, to break out of the mold I’d always been cast in, and to be that kind of woman?
Day seemed to think I was. I’d have figured he was merely picking a convenient target if he hadn’t rejected Carmen. For the first time in my life, it seemed a man saw me as a sex object. The feminist in me said I should be insulted, but the truth was, I was hugely flattered.
He stopped rubbing my temple and ran his fingers through my hair in a stroke that was half massage, half caress, pure bliss. It was hard to think rationally. And impossible to resist leaning into his hands the way a cat presses into the hands that stroke it.
“I like your hair,” he said.
“I thought men liked long hair.”
“The hair should suit the woman. Be shiny, feel nice. Not all glopped up with gunk.”
“You think it suits me?” I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, just genuinely curious. I’d chosen my hairstyle because it was easy, and I had better things to do than fuss with my appearance.
“Yeah.