Sex Drive. Susan Lyons

you’re not married yourself?”

      “No.” Those billabong eyes studied him for a long moment. “Divorced. And not about to give it a second shot.”

      So, she had personal experience with those divorce statistics. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

      She shrugged nonchalantly, but shadows clouded her eyes. “It was a learning experience. How about you?”

      “Haven’t even come close.”

      “Guess you have more sense than I did.”

      “Not so sure it’s a matter of good sense. I’ve got nothing against the idea. In principle.” He gave her a quick grin. “Or at least I didn’t, until you started quoting stats. Just haven’t found a woman who doesn’t bore me.” Even as he said the words, he wished he could call them back. Not that they weren’t true, but they made him sound like a—

      “Don’t think well of yourself, do you?” she taunted.

      “Nah.” He laughed. “Well, kinda. You have to think well of yourself. I mean, who else is gonna do it?”

      She laughed. Man, the woman had a pretty laugh, soft and husky like a breeze rustling through gum leaves. “I’ll give you that. But how can you suggest that all women are boring?”

      “Not what I said.” He paused, setting her up. “Haven’t found a bloke I’d want to marry, either.”

      Another chuckle. “Somehow I don’t figure you as gay.”

      “You think?”

      Oh, yeah, he liked her smile, her laugh, the sunlight-on-water sparkle in her eyes. Things were definitely looking up.

      He didn’t even mind when Carmen arrived with the champagne. At least until she bent toward Theresa to hand her a flute glass, and shoved her left boob in his face.

      Not that he had anything against women’s breasts. In fact he might’ve taken Carmen up on her offer if he hadn’t been sitting beside Theresa.

      But now there was Theresa—whose lit-up face had transformed to a disgusted scowl—and he’d rather have her company. She was sexier, prettier, more interesting, and there was that challenge factor. The time limitation, too; he had only ten hours to charm her.

      He had to do something about Carmen. Theresa’s magazine gave him an idea. Could he persuade her to go along with it?

      When Carmen reached for the used glass he’d kept, he said, “Mind getting me a fresh one?”

      “Happy to.” She pirouetted and headed up the aisle, curvy arse wriggling.

      Quickly he turned to Theresa. “Do me a favor. Pretend we’re engaged.”

      “What? What are you talking about?”

      “Save me from that woman’s clutches.”

      “That…Carmen? But you’ve been flirting with her.”

      “Reflex. A stupid one I now regret. Help me out?”

      An eyebrow kinked. “You do know, she’d give you pretty much anything you want?”

      “She doesn’t have anything I want.” He glanced up and saw Carmen heading back from the galley. “Please?”

      “You’re sure?”

      Damien grabbed her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. Warm, soft skin; the interlocking of their fingers making him think of their bodies entwining. Oh yeah, his plan already had benefits. “Come on, sugar,” he said to Theresa as the flight attendant arrived beside him. “We’ve let the secret out. You just couldn’t resist looking at wedding dresses.”

      “I, uh…” she stammered.

      He lifted their clasped hands to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. Mmm, he could definitely do more of that. But right now he was on a mission, so he lifted his head and turned to Carmen. “I know Theresa and I said we weren’t together, but it was a lie. We just got engaged and it’s a secret. Don’t want the news slipping out before we tell her family.”

      His explanation might not make a lot of sense to Theresa, but it would to Carmen. She’d know the engagement of one of Oz’s ten sexiest bachelors would be big news for the tabloids. The kind of news his agent and publicist would be furious about, come to think of it, because it’d scupper one of the big features of their PR campaign. Shit. Telling Carmen might not have been his brightest idea. Especially given the glare she was sending him.

      “But, I thought—”

      “Sorry,” Theresa broke in. “I asked, uh…” Her eyes widened as she no doubt realized she didn’t know his name. Quickly she went on, “I asked my fiancé to pretend we weren’t together. I hope he didn’t go overboard, and make you think, uh…”

      The flight attendant’s eyes narrowed. “No, no, of course not.” Briskly she poured their champagne, not offering her congratulations, then shot him a nasty glance as she departed.

      “Good on you,” he told Theresa, squeezing the hand he still held. Funny how natural it felt in his. “Thanks.”

      She tugged it free and rolled her eyes. “Don’t send inconsistent messages to women. And, by the way, what the heck is your name? I almost blew it when I didn’t know my pretend fiancé’s name.”

      A good point, but she’d heard Carmen address him as Mr. Black, and if he said Damien she’d likely recognize his name. He wasn’t ready for that. Not when he’d got her to pretend they were engaged, which meant she’d have to act at least semi-friendly. “Day,” he said, giving her the nickname some of his friends used.

      “Day? That’s unusual.” She studied his face. “Is it Asian? There’s something about your features, your coloring.”

      He took the opening she’d offered. “My dad’s mother was Chinese.” He pushed up his left sleeve to reveal the Chinese-style dragon tattoo that wrapped around his bicep. Then he picked up his champagne glass. “Let’s drink a toast to—” He was about to finish with, “getting rid of Carmen,” when a voice, male this time, spoke from over his shoulder.

      “Did I hear you tell the flight attendant you’re getting married?”

      Startled, Damien almost dropped his glass. He turned to see the older man from across the aisle—who looked too young to be a great-grandpa, with his thick silver hair and bright blue eyes—standing beside him. “Er, yes, that’s correct.” Correct that he’d said it, at least.

      “Many congratulations.” The bright eyes went soft, a little misty. “Best day of my life when I married Delia. Every day’s been a blessing.”

      A snort came from behind him. “I’ll quote you on that, Trev, next time you’re whingeing about the way I cook your eggs.”

      The man turned and Damien could see his wife, a crochet hook in her hand and a bundle of yellow wool beside the champagne glass on her tray. Her eyes were blue, too, and twinkling above wire-rimmed reading glasses she’d shoved down her nose.

      “Better than having to cook my own eggs, isn’t it?” the man retorted with a grin, and made his way up the aisle in the direction of the lavatories.

      “Want some advice?” the woman—Delia—asked Damien.

      “Er…”

      Theresa leaned past him, arm brushing his, a hint of mischief in her voice when she said, “Yes, please.”

      “Don’t hold a grudge and don’t go to bed angry. It festers if you do that. Even if you’re furious with the other person, ask yourself, would your life be better without them? If the answer’s yes, then climb out of that bed and leave. If the answer’s no, give them a big kiss. Talk about what’s gone wrong, make up, and get over it and move on.”

      Damien