Finding Isadora (54 page)

“
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 reddish 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 take-off. 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 week-long 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 U.S. 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 was a ritualized aspect to the killings that made Kalti suspect—

Beside him, Theresa was muttering to herself, breaking his concentration. He heard something like, “For only six thousand dollars, you, too, can look like a strawberry parfait.” And then, “Or a mummy.” His brain couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing. When she said, “Can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. If a man hugged her, she’d snap in two,” he had to open his eyes and glance over.

What he saw made him laugh. She had a bridal magazine open.
“Wedding gowns? What happened to all the work you had to do?”

Her cheeks flushed to match her sleeveless top.
“I thought you were asleep.”

“
Hard to sleep with all that muttering,” he teased.

“
Oh damn. Sorry. It’s a bad habit.”

“
No worries. But I’m curious. A six thousand dollar strawberry parfait?”

She flipped pages and he stared at a lacy concoction the color of a strawberry milkshake. He let out a hoot.
“That’s ridiculous.” Its droopy lines made him think of melting ice cream, and there was a big pouffy red something-or-other at the waist that was probably a bow but looked like a giant squishy strawberry. “Aren’t wedding gowns supposed to be white? I mean, unless you’re Asian or something.”

“
Pink is the latest trend. But yes, most are white or off-white. Look at this.”

Another page flip, and he gazed at a pale, sad-looking woman whose thin body was wrapped round and round in what looked like gauze bandaging. A mummy
’s wrappings. “She looks like a corpse, so I guess it’s fitting she’d be wrapped like one.”

Theresa giggled. Eyes sparkling, she turned another page.
“How about this?”

No tits or ass on this one either. But God, she went beyond skinny to emaciated.
“Jeez. A stick-woman.” He winced. “Scary. How could anyone find that attractive?”

She shook her head firmly, auburn hair lifting then settling.
“I sure don’t.” Grimly she added, “What a horrible message it sends to young women.”

“
Yeah. And take it from me, if they look like this, no guy’s ever going to marry them.” He couldn’t imagine any red-blooded man wanting to have sex with a skeleton.

And speaking of sex
… Damien took the excuse to undo his seat belt, lean over and let his arm brush hers, feeling a zing of connection.

Then, quickly, he shifted away. Shit, what was he doing? Obviously she was engaged, despite her ringless hands. So much for trying to seduce her.

Didn’t mean they couldn’t talk, though. He flipped another page, then another. “Well, this girl’s got curves. At least below the waist. Man, look at the arse on her.” Then he peered closer. “Or is that the dress, making her look so big?”

“
I gather it’s called mermaid cut. Yes, it does accentuate the, uh, bottom, curving in like that then flaring out again so she can walk. Or at least hobble.”

“
Yeah, she sure as hell wouldn’t be doing any waltzing in that one.”

“
Waltzing?” She glanced at him quizzically. “You don’t look like the waltzing type.”

“
Hey, I’m from Oz. ‘Waltzing Matilda’?” The truth was, he was one hell of a dancer.

“
Yeah, right.” Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Isn’t that song about a swagman—i.e., a hobo—dancing with his swag, meaning his skimpy bundle of possessions?”

“
Damned academics,” he groused. “Take everything so literally.”

“
How did you know I’m an academic?”

“
Grading exams from the uni?”

“
Oh, of course.”

He glanced back to the magazine.
“Hate those dresses with the rigid tops that don’t move when the woman does. And why do so many of these models look miserably unhappy?”

“
Way to sell a dress, eh? What’s the myth they’re selling? Isn’t it supposed to be, this is the happiest day of your life?”

“
Myth? You mean you don’t buy into it?”

She shrugged.
“I guess it’s nice to start out feeling that way. Even if the reality is, you’ve got more than a fifty percent chance of being miserable.”

Whoa. A cynical bride? Of course, she must figure she and her fiancé would beat the odds.
“How’d you come up with that depressing statistic?”

“
Roughly half of marriages end in divorce. And lots of spouses are unhappy but don’t get divorced. Ergo, there’s probably something like a quarter of marriages that are actually happy.”

Ergo?
What kind of woman said ergo? As for her statistics… Damien shook his head, bemused. He was thirty-three and had never met a woman who’d made him want to settle down, yet he’d kind of figured on getting married one day. Really married, in the traditional “grow old together” way. As the prof had laid out the facts, it sounded like he’d be crazy.

Absentmindedly he flipped another couple pages. Hmm, here were some dresses that were actually nice, worn by models who looked like real, attractive, smiling women. If he was Theresa, that was the designer he
’d be looking at.