Bad Boys Down Under

by Nancy Warren

  “Yes.” She gave a brisk nod. “What about it?”

  His eyebrow rose a notch. “You and I both know that you are lactose intolerant.”

  Amy’s eyelashes fluttered with surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “When attendance is required at institute events, you learn a lot about your coworkers.” Now was not the time to mention that he had noticed every little thing about her. “Explain this answer.”

  “What can I say?” She splayed her hands at her sides, frantically looking around the room for inspiration. Her face relaxed as she came up with an answer. “One always wants what one can’t have.”

  Marc straightened in his chair. She wasn’t going to fess up, huh? He was going to have to play hardball. “Then can you explain your answers in the sexuality section? Particularly the question in which you were supposed to check the scenarios you’ve participated in.”

  Her blush darkened. “I don’t remember it off-hand.”

  He looked at the questionnaire. “Some of the choices were anal, bondage, domination, exhibitionism, female-female sex, foot worship, male-male sex, leather, oral, orgy, solo, submission, tickling, threesomes, voyeurism and water sports.”

  “Mm-hmm?” The tips of her ears were beet-red.

  He held out the paper and pointed at her answer. “You checked ‘all of the above’.”

  Amy’s complexion turned scarlet but she said nothing. Her eye contact wavered. Her need to break away was almost tangible.

  “I’m trying to figure this out,” Marc said in a slow, gentle voice, “so maybe you can explain it to me. How did you manage the male-male sex?”

  Her pause hung endlessly. “I checked the wrong box.”

  “You think?”

  She winced at his biting tone. “Can I have a do-over?”

  “No.” He tossed the survey aside. His eyeglasses landed on top of the papers. “What kind of person cheats on a sensuality test?”

  “I wasn’t cheating! I gave you what I thought were the right answers. And why do you have an ‘all of the above’ box if it doesn’t make sense?” she added with righteous indignation.

  “Amy, don’t you understand?” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “There are no right answers.”

  “Oh, please.” She scrunched up her face. “That test is going to put me on a scale. I’m either frigid, average or a hedonist. And you know what? In sensuality, if you aren’t a hedonist, you’re a freak.”

  “That is not true.” He rested his arms on his knees and leaned forward. “The only time sensuality should be a concern is when it holds you back from living your life fully. When you can’t enjoy the life around you or when you enjoy it too much, then it’s a problem.”

  “Okay, fine.” She flopped back on the settee. “I get your point.”

  Marc knew her easy acquiescence meant she didn’t want to discuss it further. “What is the point of taking this survey if you weren’t going to answer it truthfully? Why even bother trying to be a part of this research project?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  He hesitated, reluctant to make the ultimatum. “You better make me understand, because as of this moment you’re off the project.”

  Amy gasped with alarm. “You can’t do that!”

  He didn’t want to do it, either, but he had no choice. “I can’t have you jeopardizing my research.”

  Her shoulders sagged with guilt. “I wasn’t trying to. I’m desperate, okay?” She raised her pleading eyes to meet his. “I need this sensuality makeover.”

  “Back up.” He held up his hand. “This isn’t a makeover. It’s about reclaiming your sensuality.”

  “What if you’re not sure you had it in the first place?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

  “Come on, everyone has. Remember when you were a kid? Every day was a discovery? Every moment was a chance to get messy as you explored the physical world?”

  “Not really.” Her smile was wry. “My upbringing was in a very controlled, very academic environment.”

  He saw the concern behind the smile. The fear that maybe she wasn’t sensual. That she would fail at this like she had presumably failed at everything sensual.

  Marc knew there was no way he could use her as research now. But if he kicked her off the project, it would be a demoralizing blow to Amy. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He couldn’t do that to her. And, if he was being completely honest, he didn’t want to destroy this opportunity he had with her.

  Unless . . . A glimmer of an idea began to form. Unless he did the makeover and kept it out of the Reclaiming Your Sensuality project. And not let anyone know about it—especially Amy.

  Amy would be furious if she found out any of this. But she didn’t even know that he had created an experiment just for her and said it was a part of his research project. Of course, that idea was now shelved, but not her participation. The only reason she had the courage to take part in the research was because she was helping out.

  If she discovered she was his pro bono case, and one that had nothing to do with the project, he would be dead meat. But there was no way of her finding out. It was the perfect plan.

  “I’ll let you stay on,” Marc said slowly as his mind searched for any hitch in the plan and found none, “only if you are completely honest from here on out.”

  “I will be,” she vowed as she crossed her heart with her hand. “I swear.”

  “Good. One more thing before we start. Why are you doing this?” He didn’t realize how much he wanted to know the answer until he asked.

  “I want a change.” She said it with straightforward simplicity. He could hear the determination behind it.

  “I got that, but why now?”

  Amy pressed her lips together. Marc waited patiently, knowing she wrestled over how much to reveal. She wanted to tell enough to convince him to keep her on the project, but not too much to use the information against her. He didn’t like the idea that she couldn’t trust him yet.

  “I need to go to an engagement party.”

  She was going to have to do better than that. “Go on.”

  “My ex-boyfriend will be there.” Her foot began to tap frenetically. “With his new fiancée. It’s their engagement party.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The old, familiar anger burned his stomach. So Kevin got engaged to someone else and Amy wanted to steal him away. The basic love triangle, only love never had anything to do with it.

  “His fiancée is beautiful. No . . . sexy,” she continued grudgingly. “And I need to”—she waved her hands—“to . . .”

  “Compete,” Marc finished in a brusque tone. He knew exactly what Amy wanted. It didn’t matter who got hurt or what promises and vows were broken.

  She thought about it and shook her head. “Well, not really. More like—”

  “Win.” She wanted to win back her man and was willing to use every means available. The fiery sensation in his stomach seeped to his chest and abdomen.

  Amy frowned. She looked like she wanted to say something. Defend her goal? She changed her mind. “Okay, sure. I want to win. Do you think I can?”

  He shouldn’t judge her. After all, he stopped judging his parents long ago. His mom and dad embraced polyamory, or “many loves,” with fervor. It had taken Marc a long time to understand why his parents had married and gotten involved in the swinging lifestyle.

  Only when he was older did he understand that they craved the drama. They fed off the jealousies. When Marc did his graduate thesis on the swinging life, he found that some relationships thrived and flourished in that atmosphere. Others, like his parents, needed the drama.

  Marc knew he wanted something different. Fidelity and trust were major points—ones he had stressed to his former wife when they got married. He thought his life was going to be different than the one which he’d grown up in.

  That was, until he found his wife in bed with his business partner. On the analytical side, he cou
ld have broken it down as to why she chose to get caught, why she chose his business partner and why she chose that particular position she refused to do with him.

  But he didn’t feel analytical at that time. He felt all the rage, the hurt, the bitterness and the darkest emotions. The ones his parents relished every day. The ones he refused to live with for another moment.

  It had been a good decision to divorce his wife and dissolve the medical practice with his friend. He was right to become a resident scholar at the institute. So what if he’d been here for three years with little to show for it, thanks to academic bureaucracy and politics? This was all a step toward the life he wanted. This was the kind of drama he could handle. Could master.

  “Do you?” Amy repeated. “Do you think I can win?”

  “It’s possible,” he answered hoarsely.

  “Possible? Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Marc shrugged, trying to rid himself of the insidious fire. “I don’t know your competition.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Amy said reluctantly. “Her name is Tanya. She was the employee who received special favors from Kevin.”

  Ouch. “I see.” Marc kept his face passive so he wouldn’t show the sympathy coursing through him. “Then it’s time to get busy.”

  What the hell did she sign herself up for? Amy wondered as she looked around the institute’s art garden. She wanted a transformation, not a psychology test. Especially not one that required her to look at art and tell Marc what she saw. What was up with that?

  At least he didn’t use those ink blot tests. Or make her run through a maze like a rat. But still, if you’re going to ask a stupid question . . .

  The whole exercise was stupid, Amy decided as impatience welled inside her chest. She didn’t have time for these ridiculously cerebral Q&As. Amy wanted—no, needed—to skip steps, take shortcuts, and go straight to sensuality. Didn’t Marc understand that?

  She leaned against a metal structure that was still warm from the fading sun. This was so not her idea of a fun Friday night. And from the way Marc was knocking his forehead against the wooden sculpture, it wasn’t his first choice, either.

  “You’re going to get a splinter if you keep doing that,” Amy predicted as Marc knocked his forehead again. And again. And again.

  She could see it now. What did you do Friday night? I watched Marc give himself a concussion. But, Amy had to admit, spending the evening with Dr. Marc Javier was something short of a miracle. The fact that it was not a hot date was a minor detail.

  She folded her arms across her chest and studied Marc. Even when he butted his head with frustration, he looked sinfully sexy.

  The guy didn’t even know the full extent of his magnetism. Or he didn’t see the need to work it. Why should he? His presence alone stopped traffic.

  Her gaze traveled from his thick black hair curled in a haphazard fashion to the dramatic profile. His bronze face was comprised of severe angles and sharp slashes. His brown eyes were brilliant with intelligence and self-control. She sometimes wondered why he shielded them behind glasses. If he thought it diminished his allure, he was sadly mistaken.

  She couldn’t remember a time when he dressed formally. At work and fund-raising functions, it was basic casual wear. It suited him perfectly.

  The simple white T-shirt he wore now neither flaunted nor hid the sculpted muscles. It beckoned a woman to slip her hands under the hem and palm the hot, taut skin underneath.

  His jeans, however, embraced him like a lover. The soft denim clung to his compact muscles. The latent power of his hard thighs was evident.

  He was a masterpiece, Amy decided, and sighed with regret. It was too bad that they were at that ambiguous place between acquaintances and friends. She knew it would never evolve to anything more, other than in her most secret fantasies.

  Her skin prickled with awareness as the fragmented images swept through her mind. How many times had she been grabbed and imprisoned by those lean, authoritative hands in her Faceless Captor dream? Or when she saw his stunning face tighten with desire during the daydream when she danced for him at a scuzzy strip joint? She knew exactly how his eyes would grow hot with longing as she ripped her shirt off.

  Amy pressed her thighs together as her abdomen grew heavy in response to the memories. All those fantasies and the hundreds of others had one recurring theme. Dr. Marc Javier. He had the dubious honor of starring in her erotic dreams. She always knew it was him, whether she couldn’t see his face or whether he was a lust-crazed warlord determined to take her virginity.

  But those fantasies were just that: fantasies. She’d had them for quite some time, never acted on them and never planned to. She certainly never told anyone, not even Nicole. What purpose would it serve? Nicole would point out that someone like Marc would never be attracted to someone like her.

  Amy didn’t need to be reminded. She knew how the world worked. But maybe things would change after her sensuality makeover.

  “Okay.” He moved away from the wooden sculpture. “Let’s take this back to the beginning. We are here to exercise your sense of sight.”

  “Listen.” She held up her hand and interrupted. There was no reason to prolong the exercise. “I am a patron of the arts. I have been to more museums than I care to admit.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Marc said. Her pulse leaped as he approached her. “But this field trip isn’t about interpreting the artist’s intent. It’s about what you see.”

  “The two are the same.”

  “Close, but not the same. When you interpret, you are recalling everything you learned in your art appreciation courses. You are making informed, analytical opinions about the artwork.”

  She slid him a look. “That’s what you’re supposed to do,” she said with exaggerated patience.

  “Not in this course. I want you to forget everything you learned. I will have you look at things differently.”

  Amy drew back as uneasiness coiled in her stomach. “I’m not sure I want to relearn everything.” With the exception of her sexual allure quotient, she was doing just fine with what she knew now.

  “You are making it harder than it is.” He curled his hand around her arm and escorted her to another sculpture. His casual touch made her nerve endings jitter. “Tell me what you see with this sculpture.”

  “It’s a stone artwork depicting a family,” she said in a rush. She did her best to ignore the fact that his hand was inches away from brushing against her breast or that her nipples tightened with anticipation. “The female form is holding the child form, indicating that—”

  “Stop, stop, stop.” Marc released her as he fended off the summary with his hands. “You’re telling me what the artist intends. When you look at it, what do you feel?” He motioned at the stonework.

  She placed her hands on her hips and looked at the stone. “That it wasn’t worth the hundred grand the institute paid for it.”

  His nostrils flared. “How would you describe it?”

  “Vibrant. Alive. Flowing.”

  He glared at her with suspicion.

  “Oh, all right.” She huffed with exasperation. “That’s what the art curator said about this piece.”

  “Do you automatically accept an expert’s opinion?” His eyes gleamed with challenge.

  “No. I’m still questioning the purchase of this artwork.”

  “How would you describe it to someone who knew nothing of art and she wasn’t here?”

  Amy shrugged. “It’s a block of stone.”

  Marc’s tight expression relaxed. “Okay, great. We’re onto something here. Why did you mention the shape and the medium?”

  Was the man obtuse? “Because it’s a block of stone.”

  “I know that.” Marc looked like his patience was holding on by a thread. “But why would you mention the shape instead of the size? Why didn’t you mention that the stone was both smooth and rough?”

  Because she didn’t notice those things! She didn’t question t
he texture or the size. It was a block of stone. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Because the stone is symbolic—”

  He held his hand up to stop her. “I think we need a break.” For a moment she wondered if he would thwack his head against the stone. Instead he glanced at his watch and relaxed instantly. “Yep, we have to hurry to the Arts Center or we’ll be late.”

  Late? For what? Amy wondered. Another exhibit? Art appreciation used to be easier. She’d received perfect grades in her college art classes because she recalled what the experts said about the work. She’d read up on the artists and understood their underlying themes and interests.

  “I’m giving you fair warning,” Marc said as he led her across the brick courtyard. “You will not have a free lunch hour for the next few weeks.”

  Amy whimpered. Becoming sensual was hard work. “Why?”

  “I’m making arrangements with the salon down the street. You will be there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday during your lunch hours. Hair, nails, whatever.”

  The whimper fizzled into something joyous. Cool! She’d be getting a makeover. She couldn’t wait to be the “after.” Hmm . . . that could be expensive. “I’m not sure I can afford that.”

  “It’s taken care of,” he said almost distractedly. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Right. She forgot. Research projects got a lot of grant money and the like. Although she was sure the government wasn’t expecting to pay for eyebrow shaping.

  “How many weeks are we talking here?” With unlimited money and herself as a blank canvas, she might not see a free lunch hour until retirement.

  “I’m putting you on the accelerated course,” he informed her as he opened the glass door for her. “You should be finished within a month or six weeks.”

  Amy smiled at the news. She was doing better than she thought. Heh. Who would have thought?

  “I don’t know when this engagement party will take place,” Marc continued. “But I’m using that event as your final exam.”

  Amy’s smile froze. “Great.” Just add another stress factor to the occasion. “Hey, we took a wrong turn. The art collection is on the main floor.”