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 |  A spicy, fun tale of what happens when a modern woman goes husband-hunting. |
| My good humour didn't last long. By the time I left my house to go to the recital, gloom had nudged it aside. I had no idea where I was going to find this paragon. Most men I knew were lawyers, for starters. I did frequent an inner-city gym, but it was renowned as being popular amongst gay guys, so whereas many women felt comfortable working out there, the straight guys tended to avoid it. I didn't have much of a social life. By the time Fridays came around, I was too tired to hit the pubs or nightspots, and generally returned home early to sit in front of the TV with a week's recording of Neighbours and a Chinese takeout. I spent most weekends with my girlfriends, most of whom were as reluctant as me to join the meat market, and so socialising usually entailed movie and a dinner. It would be a miracle indeed if I met my perfect husband under those circumstances. Maybe I could persuade my friend Lori to accompany me to some hot nightspot frequented by single men, I thought glumly as I entered the local community hall. Rows of plastic seats had been set up before the stage on which stood a grand piano and, near it, a stool and music stand. Already many of the seats were filled, I found an empty one and sank down on it, just as a man dressed in black coat and tails exited onto the stage from the wings to take a seat at the piano, closely followed by an elegantly-dressed young woman carrying a cello. As the thunderous applause died down, I shrugged out of my jacket and pulled off my tie, for it was warm and stuffy in the hall, and settled down for a few hours of musical pleasure. The warmth and stuffiness, combined with the day's stresses, and the soothing music, induced in me a languid stupour, and soon my eyelids were drooping and my chin falling to my chest. It was a thumping into the empty seat beside me, a loud sigh, and the unmistakeable smell of nicotine that roused me. I did not lift my head, but cranked open my eyelids. With my peripheral vision I perceived splayed long, masculine legs in dark red cords, large, roughened hands resting on splendid thighs - and truly delectable-looking loins. My interest immediately piqued, I lifted my head slowly, taking in a black, untucked shirt with no sign of abdominal protrusion, a broad chest with a light smattering of dark hair at the open V of the shirt, and solid arms. Up further went my eyes - and clashed at once with others shielded by dark glasses, keenly watching my inspection of his person. I felt uncharacteristic heat in my cheeks, and looked away at once, but not before he removed his glasses with a swipe, and I was subjected to what my girlfriends and I call a CFM look from velvety brown eyes. The facial features in which dwelt those bristly-lashed eyes were swarthy and rugged, with a sensual mouth and fine, straight nose. Over-long, curly dark hair which carried a hint of red, brushed his shirt collar, and long, thin sideburns encroached onto his cheeks. Very dangerous-looking, I thought, shivering in delight as I tried to concentrate on the music; and very sexy. Combined with the obvious habit of smoking, this man was obviously an imperfect candidate for my future husband. Still, I thought, his tempting thighs drawing my covert, sidelong examination again, he obviously liked classical music or he wouldn't be here. Perhaps I shouldn't be so hasty in dismissing him, especially as I needed some practice, even a trial run, in this husband- hunting business. I was distracted for many minutes then by a piece by Saint-Saens; after, the players stood and bowed to thunderous applause and walked off stage for intermission. Many in the audience stood to chat and mingle or moved to the tables set up at the back to help themselves to free coffee and biscuits. I caught the eye of Sexy Thighs and we exchanged a brief, polite smile, his broader and more friendly than my reserved one. "Can I get you a coffee?" he asked. He had a nice voice, the sort you hear on talkback radio after midnight - deep, smooth, soothing. "No, I'm fine, thanks," I murmured. I cleared my throat as a little awkward silence settled. "You like Saint-Saens?" I said at last. He looked interested. "Is that the name of the bloke at the piano?" I gave him a withering look. "No - that's the name of the composer of the last piece they were playing." This guy obviously didn't know his classical music! "Oh." He flashed a glaring white, self-deprecating smile. "I'm afraid Kenny Rogers and Slim Dusty are more in my line of music," he explained. "Who?" He looked horrified. "Coward of the County? The Pub With No Beer?" I shook my head, although I had a vague recollection that the last song was some Australian classic. "What are you doing here then?" I asked. "Just killing time?" He sighed and crossed his arms, a movement which bunched his chest and arm muscles nicely. "The girl playing the big violin is my cousin. I told my aunt I would drop by, seeing as I am now in Sydney - family support, you know." "It's a cello," I corrected him. God, I really should dismiss this guy, I thought. Only he was so darned sexy, it was hard to even look away from his face. My heartbeat was tripping along at an elevated pace and happy hormones were making me feel girlish and light-hearted. When by his grin I realised he had been joking, I couldn't help smiling in return. "You're not from Sydney then?" I blurted out. "I just flew in from London, where I've been for a few years. I'm from New Zealand, originally." A Kiwi? Could it get any worse? I thought, suppressing a giggle, silently joining the trans-Tasman rivalry and ribbing. He raised his eyebrows, detecting my amusement. "What's so funny?" "Nothing, nothing," I said. "I - er - didn't detect your accent, you took me by surprise." "I haven't lived in New Zealand for fifteen years - spent a long time here, as a matter of fact, then went to London. Following the work," he added by way of explanation. I couldn't ask him anything more, for the players were walking back on stage, and the audience members were resuming their seats. I recrossed my legs - sensing Sexy Thighs watched the movement with interest - and returned my concentration to the music. The players proceeded through a Mozart repertoire, which was seductive and absorbing. I forgot all about husband-hunting and the man beside me - that is, until I detected a low, discordant intrusion into the music, emanating from his direction. I shot a glance at him. His chin had sunk to his chest, his eyes fast closed, mouth opened - and he was snoring! So far, no one else had noticed. What should I do? I wondered feverishly. Should I wake him up? I had decided this was the best action, when he slowly slid to the right, and sank against my shoulder. With every passing horrified second, the pressure on me increased, and I found myself losing my balance. I braced both legs on the ground and gave him a shove. He swayed forward - and fell face down into my lap! For what seemed an eternity but was probably not even a heart beat, I stared at his thick, unruly hair and relished the heat of his breathing on my thighs. Then, as people around me started to stir and murmur, I ineffectually pushed at his shoulders, just as he slid in an ungainly heap to the ground. His landing seemed to rouse him slightly, for he grasped my legs in surprise - and pulled me down with him. "What are you doing?" I hissed, as he sank against my chest. "Wha -? Wha -?" he said loudly, stirring, his mouth brushing one of my nipples. I know it grew erect, for I felt the unmistakable tingle. I suspect he felt it also, for while the slackness left his body, his mouth stayed right where it was. Shocked, I even thought I felt a tongue flicker against its outline, the sensation burning through cotton shirt and lace bra. I pushed at him, and he grunted loudly in protest. "Shh," chorused several people loudly. Rapid, swishing, approaching footsteps. "Ma'am? Sir?" I looked up helplessly at an elderly, bent man, who had been at the door earlier greeting arrivals. I had given up trying to push Sexy Thighs away as he was leaning so heavily against me, although I rather suspected then that he knew exactly what he was doing, and was enjoying it. I have to admit, my hot juices were flowing, and my fingers were itching to touch those thighs, those arms, chest, hair... "I'm sorry," I whispered loudly. "I think he's fallen asleep." "I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the old man said in desperation. He gestured. "Please. Now!" Sexy Thighs then obviously decided enough was enough. He straightened and pushed himself to stand, swaying groggily. As more audience members murmured cross protest, I too stood up. The old man waved frantically. Glaring at Sexy Thighs, I brushed past him and in high dudgeon, stalked down the aisle to the exit. I heard a sauntering tread following me. It was a mild November evening, so I didn't bother putting my jacket back on. Seething with fury, I made for the entrance gate. "Hey! Wait!" I quickened my pace, heading down the street. Sexy Thighs caught up with me outside a café, a firm yet gentle grip wrapping around my arm. I turned to glare at him again. He drew a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry," he said. "Jet lag got the better of me." I remembered what he had said about just arriving from London. I had done that red-eye trip myself, many times. I relented somewhat. Sensing it, he dropped my arm, and looked as hopeful as a puppy dog. "I don't think it was all jet lag," I said, crossing my arms and pouting. His dark gaze dropped fleetingly to my bosom. Crossing my arms had created a cleavage, evident at the V of my shirt. I hurriedly uncrossed them, and the brown eyes returned to mine. The CFM look was back in them and a small smile formed on his mouth as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. "That's true," he admitted. "And I'm sorry for - er, licking you. Call me an opportunist." The word 'licking' had stirred all sorts of visions in my head, and I thought my loins were going to melt. I could only gape at him. He touched my fingers. "Let me buy you a coffee," he said soothingly and very seductively. "I owe you one." I shook away my temporary stupour. "Yes, you do," I said haughtily. I turned away and headed into the café. When he followed, I was certain he was taking a good look at my butt, and the realisation flustered me so much, I hesitated inside the café, and did not resist when he took my arm and led me with authority to a secluded booth. When I took a seat at a cushioned bench, he did not take one opposite, but slid along to sit close beside me. We ordered coffees, then Sexy Thighs groped at his chest pocket and with drew a packet of cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke?" he said, opening it and thumping one into his hand. "I do actually," I said at once. He stopped and looked at me in surprise. "Oh. Okay." He slid the extracted cigarette back in and returned the packet to his pocket. He smiled in an abashed, totally endearing way. He was so close, I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the nicotine mingling with some spicy after-shave or deodorant smell, count the fine lines radiating from his eyes, see the five o'clock shadow lining his strong jaw. I presumed him to be in his mid to late thirties. "I'm Adam Drake," he said, shoving his hand out between us. I slipped my hand into his, murmuring my name. He was not quick to release his subsequent grip. When he finally did, I swear everything inside below my waist had been reduced to seething, aching chaos; his flesh had been warm and smooth and dry, his grip strong. His fingertips lingered on my skin. He slid his arm along the top of the bench behind me. "As I said," he murmured, seeming to sidle closer - although perhaps in my state I imagined the pressure against my thigh, the keen inclination of his head to mine. "I am sorry. That music just put me right to sleep." He did look tired, I admitted to myself. The whites of his eyes were a tad dull and red-tinged. "You're back in Sydney for work then?" I asked, remembering what he had said earlier. He nodded as the waitress set our coffees down before us, and, to my disappointment withdrew his arm to rip open some sugar packets. "What's your line of work?" I pressed, stirring my own coffee, and trying not to seem too curious. He poured a generous amount of sugar into his cup and took a gulp of coffee. After issuing a grunt of satisfaction he looked back at me. "I'm an actor." I almost winced. "Film?" I asked in vague hope. He shook his head, a gleam of curiosity in his own eyes at my questioning. "Stage." Acting in films, with its association with red carpet, glamorous premieres and all the trappings of celebrity, I may have been able to excuse. But stage? So, he was nothing but an obscure, itinerant stage actor, who probably right now didn't even own a property or car, let alone a nice house on the North Shore or a Volvo. "Why do I get the distinct impression you have sized me up and found me wanting?" came a deep murmur close to my ear. I turned my head abruptly, and my cheek nearly brushed his, his lips so close to mine I would hardly need to move to kiss him. Nevertheless, I swayed away slightly, as I was going cross-eyed. I shifted in my seat so I was not so side-on to him, and in a more comfortable face-on position. Our heads were still so close, anyone looking at us would think we were intimate acquaintances. It was a bizarre realisation. I have never been one to shirk around the facts for propriety's sake, so I said, "I'm husband-hunting. At least, I was going to start tomorrow, so you are kind of my trial run." He blinked in surprise. "That explains it," he murmured. "I've suspected for a long time that I'm not husband material." He grinned; his teeth were like a film actor's anyway, I thought vaguely at that - white and perfect. "At least you're honest," he said. "I wish more women would admit to a guy they're after the commitment, kids, white picket fence thing - it would make relationships a bit less complicated." I stared at him in horror. "Oh, I don't want that!" I said with a shudder. When he raised an intensely curious eyebrow, I went on, "For work reasons, I need a marriage of convenience only - separate beds, separate lives, you know. I want the window-dressing only - the right window-dressing!" Fascinated, Adam Drake stared at me. "What work reasons?" I sighed. "Unfortunately, people suspect a woman like me is a lesbian after a while. There's nothing wrong with that in this day and age, of course - certainly in times of - er - drought I've wished I was one. But if you're after a promotion in an ultra-conservative firm, in an ultra-conservative profession, it's a no-no, I'm afraid." "Ah," he said, nodding. "You're a lawyer." He looked at me sympathetically as I nodded. "And I want that promotion," I said, "so I figure I have to do what I can do look respectable - and part of that is getting married." "And I wouldn't make good window-dressing?" Adam Drake asked, a false forlorn look appearing in limpid, melting eyes. "No," I said dryly. "That was pretty obvious from the outset actually." "Why not?" he said, still with that sorrowful look. I nearly laughed. "Let me count the ways," I said. "You smoke --." As I counted off one finger, he pulled the packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "I can quit," he said, taking aim at a garbage bin to the side of the counter some twenty feet away. The packet soared through the air and landed in the bin without touching the sides. I laughed aloud in amazement. I leaned in closer to him, half flirtatiously, half because he drew me like a magnet. I forgot about counting off my fingers and instead drowned in his CFM eyes, glinting with wicked humour. "You don't like classical music," I said. "I never said I didn't like it," he protested. "I just don't know it - I can learn!" "You're an actor," I surged on and made a tch-tch noise. "Hardly respectable, Adam." "I'm here to do Shakespeare with the Bell Shakespeare Company," he said defensively, the grin and the eye glitter defying his attempt at affront. "Hamlet, no less! Could you get any more respectable than that?" Now that did give me pause, but after a contemplative second, I surged on. "You don't live on the North Shore, and probably don't even own a car, let alone a Volvo or a Landcruiser." "That's true enough," he admitted. "I'm staying in a hotel right now, and I haven't had a chance to look for a place to live or a car yet - still, we can do those things together!" He was kidding me of course, enjoying the game as much as I was, which is why I had no hesitation in completing his list of faults. "And you're too darned sexy," I said. I drew away from him at that, straightened in my seat, and drew my coffee mug to my lips as if that ended the matter. It didn't. The arm along the bench draped around my shoulder, one sexy thigh pressed into mine. I practically dissolved. I took a gulp of my coffee and spluttered. "Why is that a problem?" he said in a low voice, which raised the tiny hairs on my arms. I cleared my throat and made an effort at assuming indifference. "I told you," I said. "This will be a marriage of convenience only - no sex! I suspect that resolution wouldn't last long with you." "Might be right there," he admitted. "Especially given I'm on the brink of ripping off your underwear this second - how would we be if we were alone in our house?" I cast a sidelong glance downwards at his thighs and saw the manifestation of the truth of his proclamation. Another hurried gulp of my coffee drowned a corresponding strangled sound of desire, which welled in my throat. It was only with a supreme effort of will that I didn't throw myself to my knees in front of him and start slobbering over his thighs. "I'm curious," he said after a few taut seconds. "Why don't you want to have sex in this marriage? Wouldn't it be a nice consolation?" "Oh, that's easy," I said, relieved to have moved slightly out of turbulent waters. "I'm no good at casual sex, especially good casual sex. The better it is, the more likely I am to grow fond of the guy. And casual sex is all it could be of course. " "Hmm" said Drake contemplatively. "And why is it that you can't grow fond of this prospective husband?" "Because I want the marriage to end tidily and without fuss after a respectable period - say, five years," I explained garrulously. "Then I intend to marry someone else." "Aha!" he said, examining me keenly. "You have someone in mind for that time, obviously." At my nod, he asked, "Why can't you marry him now?" "Because Steve's already married," I said. I looked at him, eager for approbation, finding only intense curiosity in his dark eyes. "He says he will leave his wife and marry me when his eldest child - oh, no, sorry - it's his youngest child now - reaches high school. Little Bradman is only in Year Two now, so that's six years away. But I can't wait that long for a promotion, so I have to marry someone else in the meantime." The curiosity became replaced by sympathy. I looked away. I'm not stupid. I knew the reason for it, deep down... "Blossom," Drake drawled. "That bloke will never leave his wife." "I disagree," I mumbled, my words lacking in conviction. "Anyway, even if he didn't, and therefore I have license to have sex with someone and grow fond of them, there is still issue of me remaining faithful to Steve in the meantime. So my 'No sexiness allowed' quality has to remain in my perfect husband." "Blossom," murmured my companion again. I turned to him. His gaze roamed my face, dwelling on my lips. "Why should you remain faithful to him, when without doubt he is still sleeping with his wife and not being faithful to you?" "He says he's not sleeping with her," I muttered. Drake tilted his head and just looked at me. I dragged my eyes away from his. The conversation had suddenly become too serious, and all too intimate. I had not even known this guy for an hour, and he knew more about me than my close girlfriends did. I put it down to the allure of the stranger. I tried to impose a distance between us, emotional if not physical. "I choose to believe Steve, and have faith in our relationship," I said primly. "So the need in my prospective marriage for separate beds remains." "Which disqualifies me," said Drake, with amusement. "You were disqualified long before I considered that issue," I said. I finished my coffee. "Now, if you excuse me, I must get back home. Some of us have to work tomorrow." He slid out of the booth, threw a ten dollar bill on the table and followed me closely from the café. Politeness dictated that I pause on the sidewalk when we reached outside. "Thank you for the coffee," I said coolly. "Nice meeting you." "Likewise. Sorry about the debacle at the recital." I shrugged, smiled stiffly and walked away. |
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