"This is Dushyant," Roberto said as he entered the room. He was wearing a black T-Shirt and pressed, linen pants. I sighed a sigh of relief. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
"You speak Hindi?" I asked him.
"A little. I worked for Calvin Klein once, and he took me to India for a year when he was working on an idea to bring back the Nehru jacket."
Dushyant mumbled something.
"He says you need to take up the Salutation to the Sun pose."
I stood there, looking blankly. "I have absolutely no idea what that is."
Roberto rolled his eyes and pushed me to the floor, where he proceeded to mold my body in directions my body didn't want to go. We spent the next hour like that. Roberto abusing my limbs and me trying not to scream out in pain. It may be the worst thing I've ever done to myself— second only to the time I had to hide inside a UPS box for ten hours. Was it possible to kill someone with yoga? I'd have to think about that, once I got my mind off the excruciating pain.
Dushyant finally bowed and left, and Roberto helped me to my feet as the F-Troop theme started playing in the background.
"Wow, you're really bad at yoga," he said with a smile.
"Do you have some medical grade pain killers?" I asked.
Roberto nodded as if he heard that question every day. "I'll get you some. Do I need to carry you to your room?"
"No," I lied. "I'm fine. By the way, what does the name Dushyant stand for anyway?"
Roberto grinned. "Destroyer of Evil."
That made sense. Although after a week and a half of this, I was pretty sure it would mean "Destroyer of Paris."
"Go take your mud bath. You have lunch in thirty minutes," Roberto said as he left me in my room.
Mud bath?
CHAPTER TEN
Nora said: "I love you, Nicky, because you smell nice and know such fascinating people."
~Dashiell Hammett
The mud bath turned out to be my tub, filled with bubbling, brown ooze. One of the housekeepers glared at me as I came in. He didn't look happy to have to clean the tub after me, and I wasn't sure how he'd do it. I mumbled an apology as he left, because even my tongue hurt.
Roberto delivered two, large white pills while I was undressing. I did this very, very slowly. Every millimeter of movement felt like I was pushing that muscle through broken glass coated with lemon and salt. All of my concentration focused on simply removing the diaper.
Roberto watched for a while, then winked at me as he left. I swallowed the pills and stepped (again, very slowly) into the mud bath. It took half an hour to sit. I'm not kidding.
To my surprise, it was soothing. As I lay there, completely helpless (and hoping the women didn't know about it) the warm, thick sludge felt like a moist, hot hug. I soaked in it, feeling my muscles go slack. After thirty minutes it started to go cold, but it was hard to tear myself away. I'm serious. I could barely move, and now I was covered in cold mud. After a Herculean struggle, I stepped out of the tub and into the shower. The hot water gouged out rivulets of mud on my skin, and I just leaned against the wall.
Steam rose as the mud slid off my skin to the floor. All the pain from my yoga session was gone, and I was totally relaxed as I got out of the shower, clean at last. Unfortunately, I was completely weak from no breakfast, the pills, the mud, and the shower. How much time until lunch? I was starving but really felt more like a nap. A brief one wouldn't hurt, right?
I didn't even bother dressing. I just slid between the expensive sheets and was out before I knew it. And it felt good. Like that moment where you can't even feel your body anymore good.
"Is he dead?" a voice was saying, far, far away.
"No, he's alive," said someone who sounded like Roberto. "You go stall them. I'll get him up."
I heard the door close. My eyes refused to open. Maybe I was dead.
"Paris," Roberto's voice urged, "you have to get up."
"I know." At least my mouth was working. "I can't open my eyes." At least, that's what I was thinking. What I heard myself say was "Mmmmmmmth."
"You didn't take both of those pills I gave you and then take a mud bath, did you?"
"Yethhhh I thid. And it was wunnnnnerful."
There was some shuffling going on. I still couldn't open my eyes. Why couldn't I stay here?
"Time to get up," Roberto said.
"You go. You can be the Bachelor," I replied a little more clearly. And that was good because I was starting to think the yoga caused brain damage.
I could actually feel him shaking his head. "I don't think I qualify. Now get up before I molest you."
That did it. I sat up and opened my eyes. Maybe I did it too soon because the room got all wavy.
Roberto helped me dress and led me out to the pool. I was wearing a white, buttoned down oxford with chinos and loafers. My arms and legs still felt like rubber, and my stomach was screaming for food.
The women were standing around the pool area wearing dresses. Each one of them had a glass of wine. Roberto was arguing with the bartender.
"I don't think that's a good idea. He just had two horse tranquilizers and a mud bath. He's practically comatose!" Roberto said.
Horse tranquilizers?
The bartender shook his head. "It's in his contract, and I'm not about to break that." He shoved a glass of clear fluid into my valet's hands and walked away.
"Is that for me?" I could really use a drink now.
Roberto held it out of my reach. "Did you seriously ask for grain alcohol from West Virginia?" He looked a little pissed off.
I pulled him aside and tried to pull my mushy thoughts together. "You know what? I think I did."
Roberto steered me to the buffet. "You'll eat this first. Before you drink anything."
I filled up my plate. It took all I had in me not to just start stuffing food into my mouth with my hands. After about two thousand shrimp and steak kabobs, I was feeling a little more myself. That is, until Kevin appeared.
"Everyone's ready for you." He pointed to the chaise lounges. Four clusters with three women each sat around the pool, waiting for me…staring at me as if they were eating me with their eyes. I spotted Cindee immediately and realized that no matter what the other women did, she'd always be the first one I noticed. It was impossible for me not to seek her out.
Kevin continued, "You only have a few minutes with each group. Then you'll make your choices." He pointed me to the first group.
As soon as I sat down, the women closed in around me. I actually had a hand on each thigh and one on my arm. Then all three pairs of hands were stroking me. It felt like being seduced by an octopus…an octopus with hair extensions and a weird absence of frown lines.
"Hey Paris," said a brunette named Wanda. "I really like you! You're so deep."
Deep? Why would she think that? I've only given her my name and a stupid, yellow rose. I opened my mouth to say something when Brunette number two spoke.
"I think you are more like a poet," she said. "We've only known each other for twenty four hours, but I can tell."
I'd barely known her for five minutes, and we hadn't spoken yet. I opened my mouth to ask her if her knowledge of poetry consisted of Eminem lyrics but was cut off.
"No," said the third woman—who I vaguely remembered as something like Monterrey. "He's more like a philosopher. He has a sensitive soul."
"I…" I protested. Time to call these women out. They were doing whatever they could to go to the next level, and I was concerned about what they considered the next level.
"Thank you, Ladies," Roberto interrupted. "He has to move on now."
"Wait, what?" I said as he pulled me away. "That wasn't even enough time to get their names."
Roberto stopped and looked me in the eyes. "Oh, my apologies. Should we go back and let them get to know you better?"
I pushed him forward. "No way. Let's just keep going."
The second group was no better than the first. Gloria, the redhead with a penchant for threesomes, didn't le
t the other women talk. She told me her astrologer thought we were perfect for each other and suggested we have couples acupuncture and go fire walking for one of our dates.
The third group wasn't timid either. They actually got into an argument over the proper way to massage a man's genitals. And while I found the subject matter intriguing, I wasn't thrilled with the cat fight that broke out. Impressed, and possibly aroused, yes, but not thrilled.
At last we came to the fourth group. I shouldn't say "at last" because each interview was only five minutes. I barely spoke during any of them. But this group had Cindee. My stomach jumped a little when I saw her smile. Unfortunately, this group also had Leila, the blonde who tongued me the first night.
"How are you holding up?" Cindee asked. Wow. Not one of the women had asked about me.
"Oh, I think he can hold it up just fine," Leila interrupted. She touched my ass as she spoke.
Cindee rolled her eyes. I had to admit, it was really cute.
The third woman, whose name was Bridget, smiled but didn't speak. Instead, she ran her carefully manicured hand up and down my thigh. This was a new strategy—the Just Go For It.
I removed Bridget's hand and turned to Leila. "I just want to get to know you." And then I uttered words I never thought I'd say to a woman who wanted me. "I have no interest in sleeping with you."
Cindee burst out laughing. Bridget and Leila froze for a millisecond, as if re-evaluating their strategies. Then, not knowing what else to do, they resumed their suggestive smiles.
"Time's up," Roberto said.
I rose to follow him. "I think we found our winner for tonight," I said.
"I like that brunette with the bob. But the other two…"
"Are just like all the other women on this show." I stopped at Kevin and told him that the last group would go to dinner, and followed Roberto back into the house.
"I just don't get it," I said to his back. "I thought these women would like being treated with respect. Am I wrong?"
Roberto stopped and turned to face me. "Come on, let's get out of here." He escorted me to the garage and into a sleek little black Corvette.
"Wait, should I be leaving like this?" I hesitated. "I mean, shouldn't I stay at the house?"
Roberto shrugged. "You can if you want to. But basically, it's the girls who are being filmed twenty-four seven. You just have to be there for the dates and the elimination round at the end of the night."
I got into the car. He was right. I'd never seen cameras following the guy on these shows. "So where are we going?" I asked.
Roberto smiled as he pulled out of the garage. "Somewhere safe."
"Thank you. I think we have everything we need," I told the waiter at the quiet club we were at. He nodded and left.
"I can't figure you out, Paris," Roberto said as he sipped the last of his cognac. "Most straight men would love an opportunity like this. You sure you're not gay?"
"Yes. I'm sure. I just never really enjoyed the whole lady-killer thing." I savored the last drop of the thirty year old single malt scotch I was drinking and picked up the knife and fork for another go at my steak. It was good…real good.
Roberto had taken me to a small club, hidden away in the hills. It reminded me of those old-school men-only places in London. Between the quiet atmosphere and Iowa corn-fed beef, the company and the excellent bar, I was feeling a little more like myself.
"Why not?" he asked.
"My cousin is like that. Or at least, he was. He's married now, and his priorities have changed."
Roberto pushed back from the table, wiping his mouth on a silk napkin. "So you hang out with men like that, but you're not like them."
"He's my best friend. I was his wingman. I probably scored as many hits as he did. But I didn't enjoy it as much."
"You've always wanted something special," he said.
"I always wanted something special," I agreed.
"So why haven't you found it? Is that why you're on this show? To find love?"
I choked on a bite of steak. Once I cleared my throat, I continued. "I'm on this show by accident. As to why I haven't found the right woman yet—I have no idea. "
"By accident?" Roberto laughed. "That's a new one."
"It's my sister's fault," I said. That was all I could come up with. I couldn't tell him the real reason.
"So, what exactly do you look for in a woman?" he asked, politely ignoring my lame excuse.
I sat back and pushed my steak away. "Someone smart, funny, that kind of thing."
Roberto laughed. "You sound like you're auditioning for the show." He pointed a well- manicured finger at me. "You'll have to do better than that, or I'll think you're just like the ladies back at the house."
He was right. "I want a real woman. A woman who is intelligent, who can make me laugh—I do want those things. But there's more to it than that." I fiddled with my scotch. "She should be able to put me in my place but understand my flaws. And she should not be afraid of wrinkles or the stray gray hair. She should be confident enough to be okay with that. I find that very sexy."
Wow. I'd always felt that way, but never said it out loud. Maybe that was because Dak would've laughed at me. At least, back in his playboy days. And mentioning it around Liv would've been…what? Unsatisfying. Why was that? Why didn't I have anyone other than this valet to talk to about it? That bothered me.
"Paris, you're a great guy," Roberto said. "You're gorgeous, smart and a true gentleman. And I wish you were gay."
I looked at my watch. "I think, and I can't believe I'm going to say this, that we should get back."
Roberto signaled for the bill. "Yes, we don't want to miss your little date tonight."
I threw some cash on the table and mumbled, "No, we don't want me to miss that."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"There's an old saying in Hollywood: It's not the length of your film, it's how you use it."
~Ben Stiller
Teri was again my chauffer, and she ignored me as I got into the car with three women. I guess I deserved that. She dropped me, Cindee, Leila-the-tongue, and Bridget-the-mute, along with a camera guy, off at a sushi restaurant in Beverly Hills. I opened the door for the three women, and after introducing myself to the maitre d, I followed them to our table.
We had our own room, which was good because the cameramen were embarrassing in public. They all looked like homeless men dragged off the streets, handed a camera, and given an assignment. And they filmed everything from every angle possible. And I mean every angle possible. It was difficult to ignore them.
After we ordered, I decided to make another attempt to get to know these women. It wasn't their fault they only had seconds with me at the pool. They deserved the benefit of the doubt.
"So, Leila, tell me a little about yourself." I asked, hoping she'd go into a monologue about her work with orphans or something like that. This was an opportunity to tell the world that she was a real person.
Instead, she treated it like an interview for a gig as a Playboy centerfold.
"I'm a thirty-six double D," she began. "I like puppies and rainbows and my favorite movie is Titanic." She ended with an ear-splitting grin.
"No," I said, trying to give her one more chance. "I mean, who are you really? What are your interests?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cindee trying hard not to laugh. I was really in danger of liking her.
Leila struggled with an answer. She kept cocking her head to the side and stammering. Finally, she gave up. "What is the right answer?" she asked.
I shook my head. "There is no right answer," I said gently. "Just tell me what you're passionate about." I meant, does she fight for animal rights, or is she interested in women's rights.
What I got was, "I'm passionate about you, Paris." Her eyes were huge, and she was licking her lips.
I sighed and turned to Bridget, who was once again, smiling silently. "How about you, Bridget?"
"Don't listen to Leila," she said. "She's brain-dead from y
ears on the pageant circuit."
"You can talk!" I sputtered.
Bridget giggled. "Of course I can talk. What are you, stupid?"
I suddenly didn't want to talk to Bridget anymore. Unfortunately, she wanted to talk to me.
"I have goals in life," she continued. "I want to pursue a professional career. Not like that." She pointed at Leila, who actually hissed at her—something I didn't think women actually did.
"Okay," I said slowly, "what do you do?"
Bridget grinned as if she'd just one some sort of challenge. "I want to be a porn actress."
I didn't say anything for a moment. This woman went from telling me I was stupid, to informing me her biggest dream was to have sex with men (or possibly women) on camera.
I turned to Cindee. "Why are you here?" I asked.
"I believe I told you that already." She really looked amazing tonight, in a Chinese, red satin dress that hugged her ample curves. It was hard to take my eyes off of her.
"Thank God," I said to her. "You're not just trying to make it as a centerfold or in direct-to-video pornography?"
"No. And I'm starting to wonder why I'm here." She glanced at her two date-mates (who were arguing about who had better tits—their word, not mine). "These women are all nuts. I wish I'd never come here."
"I'm wondering about that too," I said.
"Why are you here then?" Cindee asked. "I got the impression you didn't think much of this kind of show."
I winced. "Can you blame me? You are the only woman here I find interesting."
Cindee frowned. "I don't really know how to take that. Am I just an exception to what you think is the norm? Or are you trying to cover up for slighting me on the trip here?"
"Yes. And no. You are an intelligent, thoughtful woman. And I haven't found anyone else like you among the contestants. You're the only one who will do well here."
"I guess I should be happy about that. It sounds like you think I have a better shot at you than the others."
I stared at her. Was I wrong about Cindee? Or was she mocking me? Her face was impassive. She wasn't letting me have any clue.
Paradise By The Rifle Sights (Greatest Hits romantic mysteries book #5) (Greatest Hits Mysteries) Page 6
