.

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, Theresa 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 skilful 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 have been 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?”

      “Fine, thanks.” I was surprised she’d addressed us by name. Obviously in business class the flight attendants had a list of seat assignments.

      Her brow furrowed. “You’re not traveling together, are you?”

      “No,” I said quickly.

      The man shot me an amused glance.

      “Right, then,” the woman said, face clearing and another smile flashing. “It’s a long flight, but I’ll do my best to make it a pleasant one.” Now she was looking directly at my seatmate, leaning into his space as still-boarding passengers stepped around her, and I thought she’d put a special emphasis on the word “pleasant.”

      “That’s good of you, Carmen,” he said, seeming quite happy that the fabric of her uniform trousers brushed his jean-clad knee. He sent her one of those eye-crinkling smiles.

      So he knew her name, too. I could see her being his type. Well, pretty much any man’s type. I gathered the two of them had been chatting—flirting?—before I arrived.

      Not that I cared, except I’d as soon not be ignored when it came to service. I cleared my throat to remind her I was there. “Thank you.” I paused. “Carmen.”

      She gave me a smile that looked a trifle pitying. Women like her always gave me an irrational urge to spout off the fact that I’d been awarded a PhD—summa cum laude—at the age of twenty-two. Ridiculous, because I knew perfectly well that academic credentials wouldn’t impress her. She’d be looking at my average figure, average face, average clothing, and knowing my attributes could never compete with hers.

      “May I offer you a glass of champagne?” she asked me.

      I swallowed the silly surge of…surely not jealousy? “That would be lovely.” The treat would be a nice start to a long trip, and maybe distract me from the man beside me.

      “Same for me,” my seatmate said.

      “Of course. Coming up.” Was she actually fluttering her eyelashes at him?

      When she went to talk to the older couple across the aisle, he turned to me. “All psyched up for ten hours on a plane? Any ideas how to pass the time?” he asked in a suggestive tone.

      Great. He was a “love the one you’re with” guy who’d flirt with whichever female was closest. Even a woman like me.

      The urge to banter had left me. “I have work to do.” I slid my tray table out of the arm of my chair and slapped the exam booklets down on it.

      “Yeah, happens I do, too.” Despite his words, he didn’t take out any work, just reclined his seat, adjusted the footrest, and closed his eyes.

      Fine. He didn’t care whether I chatted with him. I’d got what I’d hoped for: a seatmate who would leave me alone. Not that I wanted the attention of an arrogant flirt like him, but sometimes it truly irked me that men found me so easy to ignore.

      I tried to adjust my own footrest, but it didn’t cooperate, so I focused on the first exam. I’d barely started when my mobile—no, cell; I had to transition to Canadian terms again—rang.

      I pulled it out of my purse and saw from call display that it was my sister Kat. There were four of us, a three-pack plus one, with the one—the unplanned afterthought—being Merilee. I was the oldest at thirty-two, the plain brainiac.