Читать книгу Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess? - Gemma Bruce - Страница 6

Andy knew that sitting on a windowsill, mooning over a stranger in a gym suit, was not going to find her aunt. If Mac even needed finding.

It occurred to her, though only for an unguarded second, that the whole thing had been a ploy by her family to keep her from going to Acapulco and acting out another chapter in her love-’em-and-get-left lifestyle. They were always trying to lure her away from relationships with actors. They thought she should hook up with a steady “stuntman”—like she needed more broken bones in her life.

Andy pushed to her feet and looked around. The décor of her cottage was disappointingly banal after the Greco hype of the larger Terra Bliss buildings. The walls were painted off-white. Instead of a gilt-edged chaise, an apartment-sized couch covered in a nubby tweed fabric rested against one wall. A light wood coffee table stood in front of it, and two matching end tables flanked each side.

An alcove to the right held a small kitchen just large enough for a counter with a toaster, blender, and coffeemaker lined up across the top, and an apartment-sized fridge underneath. A look inside the fridge revealed a bowl of grapes and a carton of skim milk, presumably for the coffee. But who was going to peel the grapes? The man in the blue gym shorts? Andy sighed. Not likely. He couldn’t get away fast enough.

She wandered into the bedroom and kicked off her shoes. The bed was covered with a white chenille bedspread and was large enough for two. Too bad she was solo. At least, she could catch up on some sleep while she was searching for Mac. She stopped at the luggage rack and flipped open her suitcase. She pushed aside the layer of underwear and the string bikini she’d brought on a whim.

Next came several pair of khaki slacks and oversized shirts. And beneath them, a coil of rope, a grapple hook, a flashlight, and a digital camera—all compliments of her demented family. And a bag of “necessities” from Betty. Not bath oil, nail polish, and eau de cologne, but two flares, a waterproof bottle of matches, and a compass. What were they expecting? A midnight escape from Goddess Land?

It was obvious that Andy wasn’t the only one in the family who had been in the stunt business too long.

She took the last item out of her suitcase. A box of condoms that she’d hidden on the bottom, just in case she could still make Acapulco. But hell, you never knew. She pulled out the drawer of the bedside table and dropped them in.

She sank down on the bed, and a cloud of white chiffon rose up on each side of her. She stood up and lifted it off the bed. A flowing length of sheer material. She held it up in front of her and turned to the full-length mirror.

A toga. Not a toga but a…chiton. That’s what wardrobe called the ankle-length garment she’d worn while filming Return of the Barbarians. One flimsy square of fabric, pinned at the shoulders with gold clips and gathered at the waist with a golden cord. It wouldn’t hide a birthmark, much less a bronzed, muscular stuntwoman’s body. Hell. She knew what she looked like in a chiton. She’d trashed fifteen of them in Barbarians, when she’d had to save the hero by leaping from her horse into his runaway chariot. She’d wrestled the rolling-eyed team to a stop with one hand while fighting off the hordes with a scimitar. All the while, the hero’s stunt double had lain at her feet with an arrow in his shoulder.

She’d dragged him to safety, past thundering hooves and revolving wheels, dust and flying pebbles. As soon as they were out of frame, the director called “Cut,” and the actors who had whiled away those fifteen takes in their air-conditioned trailers appeared—artistically torn and dirty—for the love scene. While they lay artfully arranged in a nest of PVC rubble, Ariadne had limped off to the first aid tent.

The stars had actually told a morning talk show host that they did their own stunts.

Ha. If twisting the top off a bottle of spring water was a stunt.

She wasn’t complaining. The money was good and the thrills were addictive. But something told her that wearing a toga while playing a plain Jane was going to push the parameters of her acting abilities.

She went back into the living room and picked up the Welcome folder from the coffee table. On top was the day’s schedule. Five o’clock orientation in the Pantheon Auditorium. Followed by dinner and a dessert party. Togas mandatory.

“So help me, Mac, if you’re sitting at home with a double bourbon and water, while I’m flitting around in a nightgown…”

She glanced at her watch. Four-twenty. That gave her forty minutes to transform herself into a Greek wallflower and stumble her myopic way downhill to the Pantheon. She headed for the shower, unbuttoning and unzipping and leaving pieces of her suit on the floor behind her.

Dillon stood in the employee’s lounge along with forty other men. He, like the others, was wearing his kilt. He was one of six new guys, who stood uncomfortably to one side of the veterans, who laughed and joked as if wearing a skirt and being a slave was a normal line of work. JoJo Carmichael waved from the other side of the room and came toward them, weaving through the other groups of men. He was on the short side, well-proportioned, with large blue eyes and a sweep of blond hair that fell over one eye. Definitely a ladies’ man, thought Dillon. He was also the veteran attendant in charge of training and making sure things didn’t get out of hand.

He reached the newbies and cast an exasperated look at the man standing next to Dillon. Then he lifted the hem of the man’s kilt to reveal a pair of light blue boxers.

“Tsk tsk,” he said, shaking his head. “No boxers. It’s for your own good. As you will soon see. Now, go take them off and contain the jewels.”

The slave blushed and slumped away. JoJo turned to Dillon.

“Jockstrap,” he mumbled before JoJo got any closer.

JoJo gave him an approving smile. “Hey. You shouldn’t have let Demetri talk you out of your original goddess. He plays fast and loose, and he’ll take advantage of you if you let him. I put him with the plain Jane on purpose so he wouldn’t cause any trouble. He’s already on probation.”

Dillon shrugged. He didn’t think he should volunteer that he’d been the one to suggest the switch. But now he was glad that he’d done it. For Ms. Mouse’s sake as well as his own.

“Don’t worry. She doesn’t look like the demanding type. It’ll give you time to get into the swing of things, and my guess is you’ll get snatched up by one of the other women before long. Just don’t let it take away from your appointed goddess. We’re paid to work; any perks are on your own time, unless it’s with your own trainee.” He turned to the rest of the newbies. “And I don’t need to remind you gentlemen that there will be no stepping out of line unless asked.”

They all nodded.

“And for you new guys. Don’t be surprised if some of the ladies refer to you as slaves. It’s just a little in-joke. You will at all times refer to yourselves as attendants.”

More nods.

This is sick, thought Dillon. Probably broke a slew of state and federal trafficking laws. But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was uncovering a murder conspiracy.

Andy heard the knock on the door and looked at her watch. Ten to five. She groaned. Please don’t let it be Body Beautiful. He was just too tempting. And if he kept escorting her everywhere, she would have a hard time keeping a blank look on her face and her hands off his butt.

Three women stood on the other side of the screen door: the tall, skinny redhead, Jeannie, who’d sat next to her on the bus, a round, shorter woman with pink cheeks and a blue perm, and a distinguished seventy-something with aquiline features and a swept-up French twist. They were dressed in long chitons and smelled of afternoon cocktails. They probably carried Gilbey’s in their suitcases, not rappelling rope.

Andy opened the door and got a brief look at their smiles, before their faces went blank and their mouths dropped open.

Okay. So she’d put on a long-sleeved white shirt under her toga. Muscular biceps and visible nipples were not exactly the look she was going for, so she’d resorted to camouflage. Her hair was pulled back even tighter than before, and an extra layer of pale makeup covered her face and lips.

Andy slipped her glasses on and stepped onto the porch.

“Dear,” the distinguished-looking woman said in a New England accent. “I’m Evelyn Monroe; this is Loubelle Smothers.” She gestured to the plump lady. “And I believe you’ve met Jeannie Jenkins. We thought you might like to walk with us to the orientation.”

“Sure, thanks,” said Andy, flattered that they had thought of her.

Evelyn tucked Andy’s arm in hers, and they all started down the hill. “You’re going to love the program. And you’ll feel more comfortable once you meet everybody.”

“They’re all just as sweet as they can be,” seconded Loubelle in a soft southern accent.

“Especially the slaves.” Jeannie laughed. “I tell ya, honey, not even Texas grows ’em like this. My Demetri is good enough to eat.”

Andy tripped over the hem of her toga. “Slaves?”

Evelyn grasped her elbow. “It’s what everybody calls the attendants,” she said. “But not in front of the staff.”

The path became steeper, and their talk turned to silence, then to huffing, as they maneuvered their way down through the woods. They crossed the expanse of grass to the main building and joined other groups of chiffon-clad women climbing the entrance steps.

It looked like a cattle call for a Ben Hur remake. Every age, shape, and size, all swathed in flowing white.

The lobby buzzed with conversation. A woman with a clipboard and a purple sash stretched diagonally across her toga, à la Miss America, was directing women to different lines.

“What does the purple sash stand for?” asked Andy.

“Priestess,” said Evelyn. “She’s passed all the levels of goddess training and is qualified to lead her own workshops. Loubelle and I go to the Initiates, since we’re second-year returnees. We’re aqua. And Jeannie—”

“Gets to wear royal blue. A Handmaiden at last,” said Jeannie, giving a little shiver of pleasure. “That’s your line over there. The Novices.” She pointed to the longest line where women were receiving light blue sashes. “But before you go, just let me give you a little get-go. A pretty girl like you doesn’t need to hide her assets. After you get your sash, you just go on into the ladies’ and change out of that shirt. Like my mamma always said, ‘A big smile and a little flesh will get you everywhere.’” She winked what had to be false eyelashes at Andy. “We’ll save you a place at dinner.”

Andy took her place at the back of the line of Novices and slowly made her way to the front. The name of Dr. Bliss rose from every conversation and floated around the room like an effervescence. Everyone seemed fascinated by the TV guru. She hadn’t been at the Welcoming Ceremony, and Andy was curious to see her.

When she reached the head of the line, another purple-sashed priestess gave her a stick-on name tag and a light blue satin sash.

She followed the others into the auditorium and saw Evelyn, Loubelle, and Jeannie sitting near the stage with the other higher ranking goddesses. She found a seat in one of the rows of folding chairs at the back of the room, reserved for the Novices. Peeking over the top of her glasses, she began a systematic search of each row, looking for a tall, auburn-haired, middle-aged stuntwoman—just in case—and came up blank.

She did find Dillon Cross, standing in the line of men on risers at the back of the stage behind a long table that presumably would seat the staff of the retreat. The men were bare-chested and dressed in short white kilts. They were all handsome and fit, though some looked self-conscious and some looked ridiculous.

Unfortunately, Dillon looked good enough to make her forget her reason for being here. He was also perusing the rows of seats, a slight frown on his face, and she took the opportunity to get a good look.

He was tanned and buff, sleek more than built—like a panther, Jeannie had said. There was something predatory about him. A natural grace that was only slightly disturbed by the hitch in his walk. He had long legs and a developed chest that tapered to a narrow waist. A gold braided belt was fixed several inches below his navel.

Andy gave herself a buzz, just imagining what was under that little pleated skirt.

Suddenly he looked right at her. Something zinged in the air between them. He smiled, then shook his head and grinned. Andy shoved on her glasses, chastising herself for being caught ogling her attendant. The world became a blur again.

Conversation abruptly ceased as several priestesses, all dressed in flowing white robes and purple sashes, entered from a side door and took their places at the table on the stage.

Katherine Dane came next and stopped at the podium at the center of the long table. She was wearing an off-white silk pantsuit and no sash, just a purple jeweled pin fastened to her lapel. Two men followed her onto the stage.

The first man, a giant blond with powerful muscles swathed in undulating white pajamas, walked to the far end of the table and sat down. The second man was much shorter, slight, with dark shiny hair that receded from a high forehead. He was dressed incongruously in a pinstriped suit. The overhead lights picked out a sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he sat down.

Ms. Dane signaled for quiet. The rustle of conversation gradually subsided, and the house lights dimmed until only the stage was left in light. She nodded to the audience, welcomed them again, read off a few announcements, and reminded everyone to apprise themselves of the rules of the retreat.

“And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the founder and guiding spirit of Goddess International, Dr. Fiona Bliss.”

At last, Andy thought and removed her glasses to get a better look.

All eyes turned expectantly to the closed door. After a few seconds, the door opened, and Dr. Bliss entered, followed closely by two serious-looking young women in white robes crossed by gold and purple sashes.

The room, as one, sprang to its feet, and deafening applause reverberated through the air. Dr. Bliss walked to the podium, and Katherine Dane stepped into the background. The supreme goddess lifted her hands, palms upward, and though to Andy it looked like a gesture to continue their accolades, the hall immediately became quiet and everyone returned to their seats.

Except for her two acolytes. They stood at chairs on either side of the doctor. There was a brief standoff as the two women eyed each other, and not at all worshipfully. A slight gesture by Dr. Bliss and they sat simultaneously.

Dr. Bliss was close to six feet tall, strikingly poised with classical features and silver hair that was swept back in an elaborate coiffure. She wore a sleek, floor-length caftan decorated in gold braid. She looked magnificent with the row of slaves creating an exotic tableau behind her.

Silence fell over the room, and Dr. Bliss thanked her “dear Katherine” for the lovely introduction. Andy’s gaze drifted back to Dillon. He was staring down at the floor, completely motionless.

She turned her attention back to Dr. Bliss, who began talking about finding your inner goddess and how the classes at the retreat would help your self-fulfillment. How women could empower themselves and find satisfaction by discovering their essential woman-ness. The audience hung on her every word.

“Our detractors dismiss the precepts of the goddess program as mere sex therapy.” She smiled across the rows of listeners. “But it isn’t just about sex…It’s about power.”

Andy could swear she heard eighty slave gonads shrivel up and play dead.

Dr. Bliss began to introduce the staff, starting with the priestesses at the far end of the table. Each stood and smiled and nodded to the audience when her name was called, then sat down as the next one was named.

The pajama-wearing hulk was Hans somebody, the retreat’s masseur, and more, if the sighs around Andy meant anything more than wishful thinking.

Then the doctor turned and smiled down at the smaller man. “And this is my husband and help mate, Bernard Bliss, who will be conducting the Eternal Orgasm sessions.”

Bernard Bliss stood up and with a deprecating smile, nodded to his high priestess wife. She began the applause that was quickly taken up enthusiastically throughout the room.

Andy stared. There was the sex guru, surrounded by forty half-naked studs, and the nerd with the sweaty forehead was giving her eternal orgasms. Hell. Life was sometimes stranger than the movies.

When the applause finally died down and Mr. Bliss had taken his seat, Dr. Bliss smiled between the two remaining women. “And these are my assistants, Jane Parsons and Carmen Gutierrez.”

The two women stood. Jane was a tall, svelte blonde; Carmen was dark and compact. They smiled at their mentor and glared at each other. Dr. Bliss sang their praises, carefully alternating their names as she spoke, meticulously showing no favoritism. Still, the icy looks they reserved for each other boded no good. No doubt about it, thought Andy. There was trouble in Goddess Land.

The dining hall was set with round tables covered in white linen tableclothes. Andy sighed with relief that she wouldn’t have to eat while lounging on pillows, though she’d been looking forward to peeking up Dillon Cross’s kilt when he leaned over to pour her wine. He definitely had the kind of body that rang bells in her libido.

She stood just inside the door and pushed her glasses down to the tip of her nose. The glasses were a real nuisance. She couldn’t find her dinner mates. How could she find evidence of her missing aunt? They’d have to meet with an untimely demise. And soon.

After a minute, she spotted Jeannie’s red hair at a table at the back of the room. She was draped over the stocky attendant named Demetri.

Dillon was standing with his back to Andy. She just caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders before he was blocked from view by a passing group of goddesses. The last woman trailed a finger along the edge of his kilt.

Dillon jumped as if he’d been goosed, and Andy felt a rush of possessiveness. He was her attendant. She shoved her glasses up and hurried toward her place.

By the time she reached him, he was a mere blur, but she could swear she’d recognize him by his scent, which was soap and all man. He stepped back and she sprawled across a chair, that she hadn’t seen. He must have just pulled it out for her. As she struggled to get up, a hand grasped each of her arms, and she was lifted into the seat. Then he shoved the chair closer to the table, while Andy blushed hot with embarrassment and frustration.

It killed her to not be able to tell him what she was really like, that she could out-goddess Athena without breaking a sweat.

“Better?” he asked, leaning close to her. His breath was warm and tickled her ear. Her nipples tightened beneath her toga and shirt.

I’d be a lot better if you’d just take me under this table, she thought, but she said, “Yes. Thank you.” And stared down at her plate—at least she thought it was a plate—until he moved away.

Dillon was feeling more kindly toward Ms. Mouse. And grateful. She was the only woman who hadn’t tried to grope him since he’d donned his damn kilt. He began to fill glasses from a heavy silver water pitcher and felt a twinge in his elbow. Christ, he couldn’t even pour water without pain.

At least he didn’t have to carry the heavy tray of covered dishes that Demetri was wielding like a Frisbee. He braced his arm with his other hand and leaned over to fill his goddess’s glass.

He felt something crawl up his inside thigh.

What the hell? He was thinking bug, when a hand slipped between his legs and cupped his jockstrap. He jerked up; water sloshed out of the pitcher, splashing the table.

He’d spoken too soon. The bitch had just goosed him. He turned on her, frowning. She was glaring back at him. And with good cause. She was drenched. Water ran off her hair and fell in drops off her nose. Her toga and that prim white shirt she wore underneath it were soaked through.

His anger quickly took a backseat to lust as his gaze stuck on the full, rounded breasts that were outlined by the wet fabric. His mouth opened involuntarily. And he was hit with an image of Ms. Mouse with her thick hair flowing down her back, her toga without the tailored shirt wet and clinging to luscious curves.

The hand settled back on his crotch and squeezed.

He glowered down at Ariadne. She was using both hands to wipe water out of her eyes. He whirled around and caught the wrist of the woman on his other side, just as she pulled her hand out of his kilt. It was the redhead he’d traded away that morning.

“Oops,” she said, grinning, and picked up her knife and fork.

He turned back to Ariadne, dimly aware that everyone was gaping at her. Great. He’d probably be fired. Wouldn’t that just seal his future for him. He couldn’t even handle an assignment this simple. But one look at the dripping woman and he forgot his own problems. She looked mortified. He was such an ass.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am. Are you okay?” Not waiting for an answer, he handed her a linen napkin.

She snatched it from him and wiped her face. When she took it away, a smudge of pasty beige had transferred from her face to the napkin. Across her cheek was a patch of darker skin. Ms. Mouse had a tan…that she was covering up. Had someone told her a tan wasn’t sexy? Didn’t she ever watch television? Go to the movies? Maybe the tan stopped at her neck. That would explain the buttoned-up shirt.

She stood up and tossed the napkin on the table. She mumbled something and stumbled away, leaving her glasses next to her plate.

He grabbed them and went after her.

By the time he reached the hallway, it was empty, which was strange since he’d been right behind her. He hurried down the hall, knocked on the door of the ladies’ room, and hearing nothing, poked his head inside.

“Ms. McAllister? Ariadne? Are you in there?”

No answer.

“I brought your glasses.”

Nothing.

He eased inside and knelt down to look under the doors to the stalls. No feet. No flowing white fabric. He sighed and went back the way he had come. The auditorium was completely dark. Surely she wasn’t hiding in the dark. “Ariadne,” he whispered. “Please come out, I have your glasses.”

Still nothing. He ran his fingers along the wall until he came to the bank of light switches. He flicked them on. The room was empty except for rows and rows of folding chairs.

The only place left was outside. In the dark. She was a disaster in the making.

Dillon pushed through the double doors and took the front steps at a run. There was no one on the lawn, and a shiver of unease lifted the hairs on his forearms. Where was she?

He headed toward the woods, where the lights from the cottages winked through the trees. It was really dark beneath the trees. He imagined her running blindly through the woods, humiliated and cold. She’d probably fall or run into a tree or something before she made it back to her cabin.

He mentally kicked himself for reacting to that lascivious touch like an amateur. He just hadn’t expected it. It wasn’t every day that a total stranger slid her hand between his legs. At least, it hadn’t happened recently. And instead of playing it cool, he’d humiliated the most pitiful wallflower in Terra Bliss.

He felt like a heel. And worse, he was worried.

He began to run up the path. “Ariadne,” he called. “Wait. You forgot your glasses.” He stopped and listened. Heard nothing, not even the crunch of gravel beneath sandaled feet.

He imagined her hurt and lying on the ground, too shy to call for help. He called again, fear making his voice warble in the night air.

He was in a near panic by the time he reached her cabin. Not that she would be there. There was no way she could have beaten him. She’d have to be an Olympic sprinter.

Her lights were on, but everybody’s lights were on. He was wondering if he should bother knocking when he heard a low sound. He froze, listened. Humming. A woman was humming.

Cautiously, he followed the sound. It led him around the side of her cabin. He stopped suddenly as his attention fixed on the light coming through the bedroom window.

A thin, lithesome figure was silhouetted by the gauzy curtains. She lifted her arms and his breath caught.

The clinging robe rose along her body. The light caught the sensuous curve of her hip, the narrow waist as she wiggled free of the garment and tossed it aside. She paused, and he knew she was unbuttoning the shirt beneath. And he knew it had to be his mousy goddess, and yet….

The shirt slipped from her shoulders, and the edge of a near perfect breast came into view.

He shouldn’t be watching, but he couldn’t look away. He was vaguely aware of his dick hardening beneath his kilt, straining at the confines of the jockstrap. His mouth grew dry, and he seemed to be having trouble taking a simple breath.

Could this possibly be the skinny, stooped, shy woman who just this afternoon had stumbled blindly after him to this very same cabin and then tried to tip him a dollar? Maybe he had the wrong cabin. But he knew he didn’t, even before he dragged himself away from the view long enough to check out the sign on the porch post.

He should return her glasses and get the hell out. But instead, he crept back to the side of the cabin and peered through the window. Her elbows were lifted now, showing a body that was curved in all the right places. She turned profile. Her hands slid beneath her breasts, and she tilted her head as if looking in a mirror.

Dillon licked dry lips. Tried to swallow. She arched back, lifted one plump breast, and ran her fingers over the tip.

Desire swept through him, hitting him so hard that his knees buckled.

Her hands moved again, this time to her hair. She was pulling out the pins that confined it in that unflattering bun. His mouth opened in anticipation. He tried to adjust his erection, but her hair fell loose and spilled over her shoulders, and the touch of his fingers almost caused his climax. He yanked his hand away.

He could see her almost as if she weren’t hidden behind the curtain. Could imagine the feel of her hair, thick, and slightly wavy.

Christ, what was going on with him? An out-of-body experience? A hallucination? He’d had a few in the hospital, but not since. And none as enjoyable as this. If only his jockstrap wasn’t cutting off the circulation to his balls. His dick was throbbing, searching for escape like a caged animal.

He ordered himself to back up, leave the glasses on the porch, and get away. But he stood riveted to the spot as she picked up a brush and began to pull it through her hair. His hand drifted to the bulge in his kilt. His eyes closed as he pushed himself into his palm. It was a hell of a time to get the first real rush of desire he’d had in ten months.

It was sick to be standing here like a voyeur at a peep show. It was disgusting. Perverse. Then she turned to the window and walked straight toward him as if she could see him. He ducked behind a tree, but couldn’t help peeking out again. She pushed the curtain aside. Raised the window. And he got a moment of full frontal.

Jesus. This couldn’t be happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again as the curtain fell back and she walked out of sight.

Dillon leaned against the tree. His heart racing. Okay, she was safe. Inside. The vision he was having of her must be the product of a not fully healed mind. And the fact that he hadn’t had sex in a really long time, hadn’t even wanted to have sex. The curtains were distorting her image….

The rational part of his mind was trying to tell him something. It had tried earlier at dinner, but he’d been too concerned about Ariadne to listen properly. And now he was too blitzed. He stood there, the tree holding him up until his pulse returned to normal and he could breathe again.

Okay. It was over. There was solid ground beneath his feet, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way. He was still holding her glasses and was relieved to see that he hadn’t broken them in his fever of lust or whatever it had been. He should knock on the door and return them to her, but even now, he didn’t trust himself to leave it at that. And to be honest, he didn’t want the spell to be broken.

On second thought, he’d keep them. Bring them back first thing in the morning, before she left for breakfast. Yeah. That was a better plan.

He’d get a good look at her in the daylight. She’d be wearing something god-awful. He’d be brought back to his senses and his sense of duty. See tonight for what it was. Some bizarre, waking wet dream.

She would go her way and he would go his. And while she was learning to flirt, he would find a murderer.

His fingers closed around the glasses and he backed away from the cottage.

And, finally, away from her allure, rational thought kicked into place, and it occurred to him that maybe Ariadne McAllister wasn’t as plain as she wanted everyone else to believe.

Because if what he’d seen through the window was even half as good as it appeared, Ariadne McAllister was a knockout.

So what was she up to?