Sex Drive (17 page)

Chuckling, I picked up my purse and the inexpensive but pretty shawl—gauzy black shot through with gold and silver threads—I’d purchased. “I’m ready. How far is the bookstore?”

“Only a few blocks. Should we call a cab?”

I rarely wore heels, but these shoes were comfortable. “Let’s walk.”

As we left the room, I noticed he’d slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder. “What are you bringing?”

“Bookmarks and pens to hand out. A sign-up book for the e-newsletter my assistant sends out each month. And my laptop computer. It has trailers for this book and my next one.”

“Trailers?”

“Short videos. Like for a movie or TV show.”

“People do trailers for novels?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator.

He shook his head tolerantly. “Sure can tell you’re not into fiction. Yeah, trailers have been around for years now. They’re on MySpace, YouTube, author Web sites, publisher sites, review sites. Some bookstores will play them.”

“You don’t make them yourself, do you?”

“I work with a designer. We discuss content, visuals, sound, and he makes it happen. We have a good time. He’s Aboriginal Australian and has fun with special effects for the spirits.”

“I’m learning a lot. It’s more complicated than with academic texts. We don’t do book tours, make trailers, and so on.”

We strolled through the lobby and I thought how noisy—how “look at me”—my high-heeled shoes were, clicking on the tile. But for once, I didn’t mind being looked at. I slipped my hand through the crook of Damien’s arm, straightened my back, held my head up proudly. Tonight, I was with one very sexy man, and looked as if I belonged here.

Outside the hotel, late afternoon was fading into evening. The sun was still out, but lower in the sky. The streets were busy, clogged with traffic and tourists, some people heading back to hotels and others starting out for drinks and dinner.

I saw several people noticing us. We stood out in our simple clothing, a bit more elegant than the typical summer garb. Perhaps people thought we were going to some fancy club. Maybe they even thought we were celebrities. And in fact Damien was, at least in Australia.

When we arrived at the store, he stared into the window and gave a rueful laugh. “Well, they did get books. Just an awful lot of them.”

The center of the big display window was filled with an elaborate construction of several dozen copies of
Wild Fire
, with a poster advertising tonight’s event. “That’s good, right?” I asked. “They must think the book’s going to sell well.”

“Mmm. Or the publicist sold them a bill of goods, and they’re going to be pissed when no one shows up.” He put his hand over mine and gripped tight. “Here goes.”

Was he actually nervous? This hot, sexy, amazing man was nervous? How very…sweet. I squeezed his hand in return. “If people don’t show up, it’s their loss.” And I meant it. I might wish he wrote more serious books, but I knew both he and his writing were compelling.

“Thanks, Tezzie.”

Our eyes met for a long, silent moment, then hand in hand we walked into the store.

A middle-aged Caucasian woman with deeply tanned skin and obviously dyed blond hair rushed up. “You’re Damien Black. I’ve been watching for you. I’m Marietta Harper, the events organizer. This is such a thrill.”

Damien shook her hand. “Marietta, it’s me who’s thrilled. This is my first event in Hawaii. My first time here, in fact. What a terrific place, and thanks so much for that super display in the window.”

I swallowed a smile. Whatever happened tonight, Damien would handle it brilliantly.

Despite her tan, the woman managed to blush. “My pleasure. We’ve had posters up for the last week, we’ve run ads in the papers, and it’s been in the events handout that goes in every customer’s shopping bag.”

“Couldn’t ask for more. Except, of course, that a few people pay attention and show up.”

The two of them exchanged a knowing glance. “Wish I could guarantee it,” she said. “You certainly deserve it, but the truth is, it’s unpredictable. We’re competing with the beach, not to mention mai tais and pupus.”

“Pupus?”

“Appetizers. Anyhow, you know how it is in the publishing business these days. So many people are into electronic media rather than good old-fashioned books. And prices are high, especially for hardcover.”

“There’s more value in a hardcover book that you can read over and over,” I said, “than in a few fancy drinks.”

“Dear, you don’t have to convince me,” she said fervently, then gazed at me curiously.

“Sorry,” Damien said. “Marietta, this is my friend, Theresa Fallon.”

Friend. That was a nice word. And I did feel as if we’d become friends. Maybe that was crazy. Our relationship had started out as a fling, but now, to me, it felt like more.

I didn’t have time to pursue that train of thought because she was pumping my hand warmly. Then she said to Damien, “Congratulations on your placement on the
New York Times
bestseller list.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I’m pleased.”

So he’d hit a U.S. bestseller list as well. He hadn’t mentioned that to me. When I’d first met him, I’d thought he had a swollen head, but I’d since learned otherwise.

Marietta went on. “Let me show you the setup. I hope I’ve thought of everything, but be sure and let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

We followed her as she said, “For fiction events, we put the speaker’s table and the chairs right at the entrance to the fiction section so people can’t miss it.”

There was a table with a chair behind it and a couple dozen chairs in front. I listened with interest as Marietta and Damien discussed the setup and format for the event. Then she said, “When you’re nearing the end, staff will put a table over there—” she pointed—“and pull some of the books from the window. People can bring them over to you to sign.”

The muscles in Damien’s throat worked. “Right.”

Was he wondering if anyone would be buying? At least Marietta’s plan would allow the staff to determine how many books to bring, depending on the size of the audience. I could imagine how embarrassing it would be if there were five dozen books stacked there, and only three people in the audience. I’d never have the guts to do this sort of thing.

Damien reached into his bag. “Is it okay to hand out bookmarks?”

“That’s great. I’ll have one of the staff do it as people come in.”

“Thanks.” He handed her a bundle, then pulled out his computer. “I have book trailers for all my books. Maybe your staff could set the computer up and run them for folks?”

“Good idea. Want to boot it up and show me how to access them?”

“Sure.” The two of them bent over the computer, then Marietta took it away and I saw her conferring with two young salespeople.

I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes to the seven o’clock start time. A few people were wandering around, looking interested but uncommitted.

Marietta bustled over to them. “Here to see Mr. Black? You’re in for a treat. I just finished
Wild Fire
myself, and let me tell you, I haven’t read anything so exciting in ages. Come in and get comfy.” The woman was upbeat without being pushy, and the chairs began to fill.

“I don’t think they’re all looking for the bathroom,” I murmured to Damien.

“Marietta’s done a great job.”

“Mmm. I’m sure that’s it. Your books couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it.”

He chuckled. “Seems there’s a few folks who like that glib, superficial shit.”

I poked him in the ribs with my elbow. Then I gazed at him, feeling nervous, excited, proud. In a day, I’d come to care for this man. It would be a troubling thought, if I wanted to dwell on it. Which I didn’t. “I’m going to find a seat before they’re all taken. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He brushed my cheek lightly, almost as if he was stroking a good-luck charm. “I’m glad you’re here, Tezzie.”

I chose a chair near the back, wanting Damien’s fans to get the best seats and also curious to observe the audience. I’d picked up a handful of bookmarks and now studied one, seeing that the design was simple, eye-catching, and effective. One side featured
Wild Fire
; the other had covers and blurbs for his previous Kalti Brown books and the next one in the series.

When about two-thirds of the chairs were filled, Marietta stepped to the front and cleared her throat. “Welcome, everyone. We have a real treat in store for us. Damien Black is one of Australia’s hottest authors—and, as you can see, ladies, I do mean
hot
.”

Several women chuckled and Damien, who’d taken the seat behind the table, gave his sexy grin. He truly did look hot, with his long, shiny black hair, his strong and slightly exotic features, the black shirt setting off his dark skin and hair, the white flash of his smile.

“He’s been voted one of Australia’s ten sexiest bachelors, but on top of that he’s a very accomplished writer. His first two books,
Thunder Struck
and
Killer Wave
—” she took them off the table and held them up—“have hit the bestseller lists in Australia, and now his new release,
Wild Fire
, has done the same, not to mention hitting the
New York Times
list.”

She held up the new book. “He’ll be reading tonight from
Wild Fire
—and let me tell you, it’s a page-turner—and he’ll also talk to us about his writing, and answer questions. Then, of course, he’ll sign the books that I know you’re going to want to buy. So, because you didn’t come here to listen to me, I’ll turn things over to Damien Black.” She stepped to the side.

There was a polite ripple of applause as Damien stood and came from behind the table. “Thanks, Marietta.” He hiked one butt cheek up on the table, looking casual, relaxed, and friendly. “And thanks to all of you for forgoing sunset on that amazing beach, not to mention a round of mai tais and pupus, to come and visit with me. I hope I’ll make it worth your while.” Again he grinned, and again a few people laughed.

The man was a quick study, picking up what Marietta had said, even the word pupus that he hadn’t known before, and incorporating it.

“First, I’d like to tell you a bit about what I write. In Oz they say my books are genre-benders. Stores aren’t sure whether to shelve them as mystery, paranormal, or thrillers. You’ve probably all noticed this trend in the publishing world. Used to be, there were clear boundaries in commercial fiction. A book was a mystery, sci fi, a romance, a thriller. It was shelved in a particular section and the cover art told you if the book was going to be a cozy mystery or a hard-boiled one, a historical romance or a sweet contemporary or a sexy one. When you picked up a book, you knew what you were getting. Right?”

Heads had begun to nod even before he got to the question at the end.

“These days it can be confusing because there’s more selection. We still have classic genre books, but we have genre-benders as well. Paranormal cozies, erotic historical romances. Erotic paranormal historical interracial romantic suspense—and whew, that’s a mouthful!”

More chuckles. Clearly, Damien knew what he was talking about, and his audience was relating. Not only to his words, also to him as a person. As a teacher myself, I gave him full points for presentation. He was more effective than many of my colleagues, speaking without notes, his voice full of energy and loud enough to carry without booming, his face animated as he made eye contact with first one person, then another. Of course, it didn’t hurt one bit that he looked gorgeous and had a charismatic personality.

“And it’s a more interesting world for readers, right? You sure aren’t going to get bored.” He caught my eye and winked. “It’s more fun for writers, too, because we’re not stuck having to conform to rigid guidelines about what’s appropriate in a mystery, a romance, sci fi, and so on. We get to write what interests and challenges us.

“Now for me as a reader, I’ve mostly been into mysteries and thrillers.” He grinned. “Typical guy, right? Someone needs to get killed, something needs to get blown up.”

Oh, he’d definitely hooked his audience. And as he spoke, people who’d been walking by on their way to the fiction section had stopped to listen, then found seats.

“So, my protagonist, Kalti Brown, is a cop. He’s challenged to solve some pretty nasty crimes. Now, I’m not a guy who does real well with rules, and it would’ve been hard for me to write a straight-arrow cop. No surprise that Kalti turned out to be a guy who has some problems with authority.”

I grinned to myself. Earlier, Damien had denied that Kalti was his alter ego. Maybe he didn’t even realize it himself.

“Somehow I knew he’d be Aboriginal Australian, but I didn’t know until I started to write that he has a special connection with the Dreamtime creation spirits and his totem animal. With a spirit world that—” He broke off. “Well, does it exist or doesn’t it?”

The audience stared raptly at him. By now, every chair was filled and a few people were standing at the back and along the sides.

“Does any god or spirit exist?” he went on. “Yes, in the minds of the people who believe. But in actual, scientific, measurable reality?” He glanced my way, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Paranormal fiction has exploded since the beginning of the twenty-first century. Do vampires, shape-shifters, superheroes with supernatural powers, ghosts, and so on really exist? I doubt anyone cares. They’re just having a hell of a good time reading and writing about them.”

Damien leaned forward,
Thunder Struck
in his hands. “The heart of a book is the hero. He’s got to be strong, larger than life in some ways, but he’s got to ring true. Gotta be human. Have a touch of vulnerability. Readers like to root for the underdog, right?”

Several people in the audience had leaned forward, too, and heads nodded.

“So here’s Kalti. A bright guy, a competent cop, but a bit of a renegade. An Aboriginal Australian, which means he’s not automatically one of the gang. It’s kind of like being a female cop. You have to work twice as hard to win respect.”

I was glad he’d mentioned that point rather than ignoring the discrimination issue. It seemed as if the audience could relate, too. A number of women were nodding. A few native Hawaiian men as well, and a couple of black men.