Lust Abroad

Piper Valentine knows all too well that life is short. Off to Peru to heal after a grievous loss, she finds more than solace in the hot, charismatic travel journalist sitting across from her on the airplane. Derrick King’s had a brush with death, too, but he has no idea that he’ll face it again — and again — after giving in to his instant attraction to Piper. Their journey to the top of the world, filled with parties, humor, and fun, is turned topsy-turvy as they’re pursued by mysterious gunmen. Determined to reach Machu Picchu and fulfill her promise to her dead husband, Piper finds that having Derrick along makes her feel safer, even as his lust for her endangers her heart. She’s never found another man so sensual, and with danger on their trail, they keep ending up in each other’s arms. Derrick’s a man with needs — and secrets. Will Piper find strength in surrender? And can Derrick find a way to believe in a future — for both of them?

Two frickin’ hours I sat there smelling that man and his intoxicating scent. Two hours! My mind raced as I pretended, for the most part, to read the book in my hand. While my pulse pounded like a monastery gong through my veins, I continuously shifted in my seat, inconspicuously watching him edit photos. Beautiful images of scenery and animals, volcanoes, and beaches. Each one more breathtaking than the last, and while I didn’t think they needed an ounce of editing or touch-up, he was meticulous in his craft, tweaking lighting here and a shadow there. He spent nearly an hour alone on a photo of a stunning spectacled owl.

I hated the book in my hand. My mother had bought it for me after Ray had died. Apparently, a friend of hers had recommended it after her husband had passed, so my mum thought that I would benefit from it as well. You know, because every widow is the same.

It was a piece of damned garbage. Telling me that I would be angry. And that I would blame Ray for his own death. Maybe other women, other people, followed the seven or however many stages of grief, but I didn’t believe I did. I never once felt angry toward him. We both knew the risk of his job and the assignment he was on. If I’m upset about anything, it was that my last words to him had not been, “I love you.” But I could never be angry at my husband for dying out there on that boat. If anything, it’s Mother Nature who I’d like to take to the mat. She’s the one who took him from me too soon, she’s the one who ended my marriage before it’d even really began. I swallowed hard and put my head back down and read the title of the next chapter: Going Forward Without Looking Back.

For the most part, the book was about acceptance and moving on. Giving me a time frame for how long each stage should last, and that by now I should be well on my way to moving on altogether. No longer thinking of him every day. Missing his very smell, his smile, the way his hair felt between my fingers as we sat on the couch in the evenings and I twirled the soft golden strands at the nape of his neck around my finger. The way he used to lightly cup my butt when he’d walk behind me, or pick me up and gently carry me to bed, after I’d fallen asleep at my desk, having studied myself to pure exhaustion in those final months of school. I wasn’t supposed to think about those things every day. Maybe once a week, once a month. But not every day. So, apparently, I was doing it all wrong. I was a crappy widow, a crappy griever because I was taking far longer to get over my dead husband than the book suggested I should.

But I was hardly able to focus on the piece of shit in front of me anyway. I’d catch the odd passage like, “Remove all memories of your loved one from plain sight. Photos, knick -knacks, their favorite items, to reduce the sudden rush of emotions. Purge your space of reminders, and you’ll purge your mind.” Several times I’d wanted to burst out laughing, but I’d catch myself, my lips twisting into a weird grin instead, or a small and unladylike snort would silently rumble through my nose. I still carried a photo of Ray in my wallet. Our wedding photo. And I wore my wedding and engagement rings on a chain that I kept tucked into my shirt. Only I’d left those back home in Victoria because all the guidebooks said if I had anything of value on my person in this part of the world, chances were I’d be robbed in the streets.

So, instead, I watched Mr. Handsome Photographer Man edit adorable baby sloths and cheeky monkeys, while I pretended to read about how awful a grieving widow I was being. I checked my phone briefly and noticed that the battery was getting low, but all the outlets around me were occupied, so instead I turned it off and picked up my book.

What cologne was he wearing? What was that scent? It smelled exotic, like…warm sand and fresh linen, beachy and clean and incredibly inviting…but also manly, very manly. What was his name? Where was he from? What were his plans in Lima? Was he single? Was I ready to start dating? The book said I needed to move on, meet people, find happiness again…which was why I was currently in the Panama airport and on my way to Lima. To do what Ray and I had always planned to do, and that was visit Machu Picchu. This would be our two-year anniversary, a belated honeymoon, seeing as we never got to go on one after we were married. This had been our dream, this had been the plan, and I wasn’t anything if not a planner and a promise-keeper.

He closed his laptop, leaned forward and pulled out the plug, stowing his computer in a canvas shoulder bag. I took the opportunity of the free outlet and leaped up from my seat, falling to my knees at his feet, plugging in my phone. And then realizing that my position on the floor, directly in front of him, gave me a much better view of his face, and after I’d been staring at his profile for two hours, I made myself comfortable. Now I got to see all of him. I pulled my book back up and continued to eye-fuck the bejesus out of Mr. Handsome Photographer Man until we were called to board.