Finding Isadora(120)

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.”

I turned to face him and took the sweater he handed me. “Thanks.”

“Hottie for…” He paused, eyes twinkling.

Damn, he was thinking back to the bookstore clerk’s comment about him being hot, and my response. Crossing my arms across my chest, trying to salvage my composure, I said, “Hottie? That’s one I haven’t heard.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “That’d be short for hot water bottle.”

I had to chuckle. He’d set me up perfectly. “Not something I’ve had much need of in Sydney.”

“Nah? Got something better to warm your bed?”

“That would be telling.” My gosh, was that me? Almost … flirting?

“Here you go,” a female voice broke in. I looked away from gleaming gray eyes to see a very attractive brunette flight attendant with a wide smile. “Amenity kits from L’Occitane.”

She handed us the little bags. “Mr. Black, I see you’re all settled. And you’re Ms. Fallon. How ya going?” This was the Australian way of asking everything from “How are you?” to “How’s it going?” or “How are you doing?”