Finding Isadora (52 page)

“
Pardon?” The sales clerk turned to me.

“
Sorry.” One of the hazards of spending so much time on my own; I had a bad habit of voicing my thoughts. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

The clerk grinned.
“No worries. Lots of readers disagree with you, though. He sure sells well. Me, I can’t put the books down. He’s kept me up all night, more than once.” She winked. “Wish he’d do it in person, though. He was just in signing these books and I gotta say, the man’s seriously hot.”

“
I’m sure ‘hot’ is an important criterion for making one’s reading choices,” I said dryly.

A male snort told me someone had overheard.

The clerk glanced over my shoulder. Her eyes widened and color flooded her cheeks. “Oops! Sorry.” She ducked her head and concentrated on stickering books.

I turned and saw a man who definitely qualified as hot. His clothes were as simple as you could get—worn jeans, a navy tee—but they showcased a tall, well-muscled frame. His face and arms were tanned dark, and he obviously didn
’t believe in haircuts. Though I wasn’t a fan of long hair, the shiny black waves hanging almost to his shoulders did suit him. He had a strong-featured face with a hint of the exotic, and bright gray eyes that were currently regarding me with a sparkle of humor.

I felt an odd kind of physical awareness. Of him as a man. And me as a woman. Which definitely wasn
’t the usual way I reacted to a guy. There was something familiar about him, yet I was sure I’d never met him. I’d have remembered that bizarre sense of awareness.

“
Not buying a book then?” he asked teasingly, with an Aussie twang.

Embarrassed by my reaction to him, I averted my eyes and muttered,
“No.”

As I turned to walk away, I heard him say,
“Each to his—or her—own.”

Why did I feel as if I was running away? I brushed the thought—and the man—out of my mind as I collected a bottle of water then found the magazine section.

How surreal to be browsing bridal magazines. “Let me count the reasons I hate this stuff.” Whoops, I was muttering out loud again. I continued my rant inside my head.
It’s a giant industry that manipulates brides into thinking the most expensive wedding is going to make for the happiest marriage. Don’t people know that
—

“
Excuse me? Are you buying that one?” A female voice broke into my thoughts and I realized a perky young redhead was gazing at me inquiringly.

“
What?” I glanced down at the magazine in my hand, featuring the ubiquitous bride clad in frothy white. “I haven’t decided.”

“
It’s the last copy. So, if you’re not getting it, I’d like to. It’s my favorite.”

“
Then take it.” I handed it over. “They’re all the same to me.”

“
Oh, no, they’re not!” Her tone suggested I’d said something sacrilegious. “This one’s for the
Australian
bride, and that’s me.”

She pointed to another on the shelf, using her left hand and flashing a small diamond.
“That’s for the modern
bride, the one beside it is more traditional, and oh, that one has the dreamiest things but they’re way too expensive, though some of their ideas can be replicated on a cheaper scale.” She grabbed a copy.

As she gushed enthusiastically, I studied the covers, thinking they all looked the same. Merilee had always left bridal magazines scattered around the house, but which had she favored?

The redhead had chosen three. “I’m getting married in April, so we’ve less than a year to get everything organized. It’s so much fun. How about you?”

“
Me? Oh, it’s not me who’s getting married, it’s my youngest sister.”

“
Oh.” She glanced at my ringless left hand. “That must be hard. But I’m sure it’ll happen for you too, quicker than you’d ever guess.”

“
God, I hope not.” The words burst out, and when her smooth brow creased, I said, “I like being single. Seems to me, we each find the path in life that’s right for us. I’ve found mine.”

She was still frowning a little as she raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers, making the diamond dance.
“And I’ve found mine. Maybe you’re right, but it’s hard to imagine someone choosing to live alone. For the rest of their life.”

It did sound rather like a life-in-solitary-confinement sentence, the way she said it. For a moment I remembered the way I
’d felt with Jeffrey. Life had been brighter, richer. Happier. At our simple registry ceremony, I’d been euphoric. I might not be a white lace kind of woman, but the promises I’d made had meant a lot to me. A future, a partnership, a sharing of life, love, work…

Sharing?
Oh yes, Jeffrey had definitely wanted
me
to share, but he hadn’t returned the favor. No, he’d lied to me from the start, then betrayed me. The pitiful truth was, I wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired a man’s love and loyalty.

“
Some of us just do better on our own,” I said to the girl. “But I hope you’re very happy.”

“
Your sister too.”

After she
’d gone, I chose the modern and traditional magazines she’d showed me. Might as well have both extremes—and see if I noticed the slightest bit of difference.

After paying, I squeezed the magazines into my carry-on. In addition to my laptop and the wedding planning book, it held undergrad exams to grade. Thanks to Merilee
’s late-breaking news, I was leaving the uni a week before the end of the semester.

When I entered the departure gate, business class was loading. I joined the line since, as a frequent flyer, I
’d had the luck to have been upgraded. On the ten-hour flight to Honolulu—the first leg of my trip to Vancouver—the perks of business class would make a huge difference. Decent food, a couple of glasses of nice wine, space to work, a seat I could actually sleep in.

Now, if only I got a seatmate who put on his or her headphones and left me alone.

The plane had two business class sections: one on the upper deck, which was more private, and one on the main deck. I was in the main one, assigned to a window seat in one of the side banks of two seats.

The seats in business class were different than the basic ones in economy. Rather than being linked together with shiftable armrests between, these were independent chairs. Kind of like those recline-in-front-of-the-TV loungers, except lodged inside a hard-shelled cocoon frame.

When I arrived at my row, a black-haired man was in the aisle seat, bending to stow a bag under the seat in front, and I couldn’t get past him. Behind me, people were making impatient sounds, so I said, “Excuse me? Could I slide by so I don’t hold others up?”

“
Sorry.” He straightened with a quick smile, a disarming one that crinkled gray eyes and flashed white teeth in a dark face framed with too-long hair. The man from the bookstore.

“
You!” Definitely not the seatmate I’d have chosen even if he was, as my secretary would have said, eye candy.

His smile quirked into a grin I had trouble reading.
“If it isn’t the discerning reader.” He rose and moved into the aisle to let me go past.

I
’m not clumsy by nature, yet I managed to trip over his feet. Big, brown, well-shaped feet in leather sandals.

When I stumbled, his right hand caught my shoulder and held it.
“Easy now.”

Easy? With the heat of his hand burning through my cardigan? My breath caught and I couldn
’t move. Something—a kind of energy—came off him. My body felt it like a tingly caress all over, though the only thing he gripped was my shoulder. There was a scent too, reminding me of field trips in the Outback: sunshine on eucalyptus—or gum trees as they’re called in Australia. And there was a gleam in his eyes that, if I’d been a more attractive woman, I’d have read as sexual interest. But hot, self-assured guys like him never gave plain, studious women like me a second glance.

I managed to unfreeze my muscles and plunked down in my seat, carry-on and purse on my lap.

“Put your bag up?” he asked, gesturing toward the overhead bin.

“
No, thanks, I’ll keep it with me.”

An elderly woman in the aisle quickly said,
“You can put our bag up, if you don’t mind.”

“
I can do it, Delia,” the silver-haired man behind her said.

“
Course you can, Trev. I just want to make this young man show off his muscles.” She gave my seatmate a wink.

He flashed her that dazzling smile and hefted the bag easily. When he hoisted it into the bin, his body stretched in a powerful, graceful motion. Muscles flexed in his arms and, as the left sleeve of his T-shirt rode up, I saw the edge of a tattoo—a dragon?—that appeared to curl around his bicep.

The shirt molded strong shoulders, hard pectorals. It was pulling free from his unbelted jeans. My gaze tracked down the line of his fly to register that the jeans, too, molded something quite appealing.

A shiver of sexual awareness rippled through me, making me squirm. Damn. Rarely did I notice a man in a sexual way. But then, not many men were worth noticing in that way.

He said, “There ya go,” to the woman.

Before he could catch me gaping, I busied myself with extracting a couple of student exams from my bag. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the older couple—a fit, attractive pair—taking the seats across the aisle in the middle section.

My seatmate sat down and his physical presence almost overwhelmed me. My uni colleagues were intellectuals like me, and rarely was I with someone like the man beside me. He pretty much exuded sexuality. Thank heavens for the spacious, independent seats. If I’d been crammed next to him in economy, arms and thighs touching each time we shifted position, I’d have ended up a mass of quivering hormones.

Sexual awareness was a rare feeling for me. I
’d always, since I was a little kid, been all about intellect, not about the physical aspects of life—and that’s exactly the way the opposite sex had viewed me. I was in demand as a tutor, but not as a date. Then I’d met Jeffrey. He’d chosen me from among the other young profs and grad students. He was only my second lover, and with him I’d learned to enjoy my body. To enjoy sex.

I
’d thought he was different. That he’d seen me, the woman, not just my brain. But I’d been wrong.

Easier, and safer, to do without men. The one time I
’d decided to experiment again, with an anthropology prof I’d met at a conference in Melbourne, the sex had sucked. Intellectual compatibility hadn’t translated into the physical equivalent. Thank heavens I had a low sex drive or I’d sure be frustrated with only my own hand and a vibrator to keep me satisfied.

I wondered what the man beside me was like as a lover. My guess was, either stunningly skillful or entirely self-centered. Not that I
’d ever find out. He definitely wasn’t my type, and I’d have bet that went double for him, about me.

Feeling warm, either from the stuffiness of the plane or the effect of my seatmate, I began to wriggle out of my cardigan.

“Help you with your cardie?”

“
No, I’m f— Before I could say “fine,” his hand was there again, on my shoulder, easing the navy cashmere down over the sleeveless top I wore beneath it. The top was rust-colored and brought out the auburn in my short brown hair. Plain I might be, but I wasn’t entirely without vanity. I strove for a look that was comfortable, practical, and passably attractive. No point trying for a glamour that could never be mine; I’d only have looked pathetic.

He drew the cardigan down slowly, fingers brushing the bare skin of my upper arm, and again I tingled all over. His touch felt like a deliberate caress, but that must be my imagination.

I slanted a glance sideways and saw the gleam in his eyes that I’d noticed before. His gaze skimmed my shoulder, landed on my chest, and I realized the V neck of my top was pulling down as the cardigan came off. Trapped inside the sleeves, I couldn’t reach up to adjust it.

My skin heated and I knew my cheeks as well as my chest were coloring to match the reddish tone of the sleeveless top. My nipples tightened. Finally, my arm came free and I hurriedly pulled up the neckline of my top and turned my back to him so he could work on the other sleeve. And so I could hide my budding nipples. I searched for something casual to say, to mask my discomfort.
“Why do Aussies do the ‘ie’ thing? Cardie for cardigan, barbie for barbecue?”

“
Just lazy, I guess. Brissie for Brisbane, bickie for biscuit.”

I tried to focus on his words rather than on those warm fingers taking far too long getting the damned sweater off my other arm.
“But the ‘ie’ forms are often no shorter. It can’t be laziness.”

“
Huh.” He paused. “Footy for football, tinnie for a tin of beer, damned if you’re not right. Guess it’s our way of making things a little friendlier.” With a final seductive stroke, he slid the sweater free. “There you go. Now, let’s see what others I can think of. Sunnies for sunglasses.”