assistant, I shall be traveling there with him. Are you familiar with Coleoptera?”
He found it hard to keep up with her and took a moment to ponder all the things she’d just told him. “Cleopatra? Some ancient queen, that one who killed herself by letting a snake bite her. Hell of a way to go.”
Theodosia stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t say Cleopatra, Mr. Montana. I said Coleoptera. That is an order of insects having four wings, of which the outer pair are modified into stiff elytra that protect the inner pair when at rest.”
He barely understood a word she said. “We don’t have those kinds of bugs in Texas,” he snapped.
“Why, certainly you have beetles.”
“Beetles? Why the hell didn’t you just say beetles?”
“Do you know what a Pindamonhangaba beetle is?”
“Pinda—I can’t even say it.”
She clicked her tongue. “Pronounce is a better word choice than say. You cannot pronounce it. A Pindamonhangaba is a beetle that lives along the banks of the Pindamonhangaba River of Brazil. Dr. Wallaby’s extensive studies of the beetle indicate that its saliva may contain a chemical that will cure alopecia.”
“Alopecia?” He wondered what sort of dreaded disease alopecia was.
“Alopecia is baldness,” Theodosia explained, “and Dr. Wallaby has honored me with his willingness to interview me for the position as his research assistant.”
Roman frowned. “You’re going all the way to Brazil with some old man just to study beetle spit?”
Theodosia licked her finger, then rubbed it over the spot of dust she saw on the top of her hand. “Would you have the same attitude toward Dr. Wallaby’s research if you were bald? I think not. Most of the funding that Dr. Wallaby requires for his studies is given to him by bald sponsors.”
Beetle spit, Roman mused. If he’d heard of anything stranger, he couldn’t remember what it was. Imagine spending good money on something so stupid.
Shaking his head, he watched John the Baptist stick his beak into his water container.
The parrot flung the water every which way. “Dr. Wallaby, it is imperative that I conceive a child,” he screeched. “It would please me enormously if you would consent to be his or her sire.”
At the bird’s statements, Roman sat up straight and stared at Theodosia. “He said—”
“I heard him.”
“Who’s he imitating?”
Patting her lips with the tips of her fingers, Theodosia yawned. “Me. I’ve been practicing those very words ever since I left the Boston depot.”
Roman opened his mouth to speak again, but for a long moment words failed him. “You—are you marrying that skinny old scientist?”
“Marrying him?” She adjusted her pillow and lay back down on her sleeping mat. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Montana. I won’t marry him or anyone else. I only want to bear Dr. Wallaby’s child.”
Roman felt like smacking his ears; surely he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You don’t even know the man, and you’re going to sleep with him?”
Her eyes watering with weariness, she yawned again. “I am not going to sleep with him. I only plan to have coitus with him.”
“Coitus,” Roman muttered absently, completely astounded by Theodosia’s plans.
Theodosia closed her eyes; exhaustion seeped through her limbs, and she felt herself drifting along the edges of slumber. “Coitus,” she murmured sleepily, “is the physical union of male and female genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements usually leading to the ejaculation of semen from the penis into the female reproductive tract.”
Roman had bedded quite a few women in his lifetime, but he’d never thought of lovemaking the way Theodosia did. God, the way she described it, she made it sound like something two well-oiled machines might do when no one was looking.
He doubted seriously that Dr. Eugene Wallaby even had enough oil left in him to participate!
Roman smiled broadly, then remembered the reasons for Theodosia’s plans.
He found it hard to keep up with her and took a moment to ponder all the things she’d just told him. “Cleopatra? Some ancient queen, that one who killed herself by letting a snake bite her. Hell of a way to go.”
Theodosia stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t say Cleopatra, Mr. Montana. I said Coleoptera. That is an order of insects having four wings, of which the outer pair are modified into stiff elytra that protect the inner pair when at rest.”
He barely understood a word she said. “We don’t have those kinds of bugs in Texas,” he snapped.
“Why, certainly you have beetles.”
“Beetles? Why the hell didn’t you just say beetles?”
“Do you know what a Pindamonhangaba beetle is?”
“Pinda—I can’t even say it.”
She clicked her tongue. “Pronounce is a better word choice than say. You cannot pronounce it. A Pindamonhangaba is a beetle that lives along the banks of the Pindamonhangaba River of Brazil. Dr. Wallaby’s extensive studies of the beetle indicate that its saliva may contain a chemical that will cure alopecia.”
“Alopecia?” He wondered what sort of dreaded disease alopecia was.
“Alopecia is baldness,” Theodosia explained, “and Dr. Wallaby has honored me with his willingness to interview me for the position as his research assistant.”
Roman frowned. “You’re going all the way to Brazil with some old man just to study beetle spit?”
Theodosia licked her finger, then rubbed it over the spot of dust she saw on the top of her hand. “Would you have the same attitude toward Dr. Wallaby’s research if you were bald? I think not. Most of the funding that Dr. Wallaby requires for his studies is given to him by bald sponsors.”
Beetle spit, Roman mused. If he’d heard of anything stranger, he couldn’t remember what it was. Imagine spending good money on something so stupid.
Shaking his head, he watched John the Baptist stick his beak into his water container.
The parrot flung the water every which way. “Dr. Wallaby, it is imperative that I conceive a child,” he screeched. “It would please me enormously if you would consent to be his or her sire.”
At the bird’s statements, Roman sat up straight and stared at Theodosia. “He said—”
“I heard him.”
“Who’s he imitating?”
Patting her lips with the tips of her fingers, Theodosia yawned. “Me. I’ve been practicing those very words ever since I left the Boston depot.”
Roman opened his mouth to speak again, but for a long moment words failed him. “You—are you marrying that skinny old scientist?”
“Marrying him?” She adjusted her pillow and lay back down on her sleeping mat. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Montana. I won’t marry him or anyone else. I only want to bear Dr. Wallaby’s child.”
Roman felt like smacking his ears; surely he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You don’t even know the man, and you’re going to sleep with him?”
Her eyes watering with weariness, she yawned again. “I am not going to sleep with him. I only plan to have coitus with him.”
“Coitus,” Roman muttered absently, completely astounded by Theodosia’s plans.
Theodosia closed her eyes; exhaustion seeped through her limbs, and she felt herself drifting along the edges of slumber. “Coitus,” she murmured sleepily, “is the physical union of male and female genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements usually leading to the ejaculation of semen from the penis into the female reproductive tract.”
Roman had bedded quite a few women in his lifetime, but he’d never thought of lovemaking the way Theodosia did. God, the way she described it, she made it sound like something two well-oiled machines might do when no one was looking.
He doubted seriously that Dr. Eugene Wallaby even had enough oil left in him to participate!
Roman smiled broadly, then remembered the reasons for Theodosia’s plans.
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