by Gemma Bruce
He turned around and frowned at her. She ducked her head. They started moving again, and Andy peered out cautiously from above her glasses. No wonder she’d tripped. It wasn’t just the body. They were beginning a steep ascent. Ahead of them she could see a stand of trees that rose steadily upward.
And dead ahead, a tiny opening that marked the beginning of a narrow, graveled path.
Andy gritted her teeth. What happened to elevator to the fourth floor? She didn’t need exercise. She needed a drink with an umbrella in it. She ducked her chin and plowed ahead.
———
Dillon stopped at the entrance to the woods and turned around to wait for his goddess-in-training. She was struggling along, her head drooped so low that he could see the part that ran down the center of her hair. It was nice hair, thick and deep auburn with red highlights that caught the afternoon sun. But he hadn’t seen a bun like that since his first grade teacher. And that suit and those glasses. Christ. If ever a woman needed a makeover, it was this one.
He shifted his hold on the unwieldy suitcase. It banged against his leg, and he sucked in his breath as pain shot up his thigh. Probably filled with books. He hefted it to his good side and started up the path.
They were barely into the trees when he heard a loud “umph.” He turned just in time to see her pitch forward and hurtle toward him, head down and feet war dancing as she tried to regain her balance. Dillon’s mouth opened in surprise. Before he could react, the top of her head butted into his solar plexus. His breath went out in a whoosh, the suitcase fell to the ground, and for a moment he saw stars.
She squawked and rebounded off him, while Dillon struggled to stay on his feet. The backpack dropped to the ground between them. He was almost positive he heard her say, “Shit.” But he must be mistaken. She didn’t look like the type of woman who said shit, even in private.
She took a step, her foot got hung up in the backpack strap, and she pitched forward again. This time, she fell against him, and his arms automatically closed around her. Her face was mashed against his shoulder, her glasses twisted on her nose, her breasts pressed to his chest. He could tell they were full and ripe, even separated by his shirt and her stupid suit.
And he was hit by a jolt of a totally inappropriate response that went straight to his groin. Christ. He was in sad shape if this poor woman could turn him on. Though she did smell wonderful: jasmine or honeysuckle or—
He pushed her away and settled her onto her feet. She shoved her glasses back up her nose, then dropped to her knees. He leaned over to help her up, then realized she was looking for her backpack. She must be nearly blind. It was right next to her foot. He could have picked it up and handed it to her, but he was mesmerized by the way she moved. A sort of graceful hysteria. And the way her rear end wiggled beneath the suit. She found the backpack and stood up.
He shook his head to clear it. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she said breathlessly. “How much farther?”
“A quarter of a mile.” This time he was sure she said, “Shit.” He picked up her suitcase and started out ahead of her. She stumbled and tripped her way behind him, past two groups of cabins, until they finally arrived at The Muses.
“Number twenty-two,” he said, stopping in the clearing in front of her cabin. “Watch the steps,” he said over his shoulder and climbed up to the porch to open the door.
She managed the steps, shuffled past him, and tripped over the threshold. Dillon shook his head and followed her inside.
While he rattled off the list of amenities, Ms. Mouse stood in the center of the room, clutching her backpack and staring at the floor. When he took her suitcase into the bedroom, she followed him to the doorway. He dropped the suitcase on the luggage rack at the end of the bed and started to open it.
“Don’t,” she cried.
Dillon jerked his hand back. Her undies must be near the top. He walked around the bed to the window, pulled back the gauzy curtains and pushed up the sash. Fresh mountain air filled the room. “Well, that about does it.”
She was still standing in the doorway. Dillon squeezed past her and felt a definite zing again. He forced himself not to breathe in her scent as he inched his way toward the front door.
“The air-conditioning, heat controls, and light switches are on this wall. The orientation meeting is at five. Do you need an escort? I’d be happy to come back . . .” Shit, he was babbling. There was no way he was coming back.
She shook her head, reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and held it out in his direction.
Dillon rolled his eyes. “We’re not allowed to accept tips, but thanks for the thought. Gotta go.” And he went.
———
As soon as Andy heard the screen door bang shut, she threw off her glasses and ran to the window. Dillon Cross was loping off down the path, in a slightly irregular gait that she recognized all too well. Every time she fell off a horse, or jumped out of a moving car, she ran like that for the next several days. God, she hadn’t hurt him, had she?
Damn, Lucian and his credibility nonsense. She’d almost neutered the guy when he tried to keep her from falling. And that would have been a shame. He was definitely hot.
What was wrong with her? A woman’s first response to a sexy man’s touch should be to kiss him, not deck him. Too many R-rated action films, she guessed. She needed a life . . . one where she played herself and lived happily ever after without ever having to leap from another burning building or karate chop her way through another gang of bad-guy ninjas.
She sank down on the windowsill as Dillon and his little blue outfit rounded a turn and disappeared into the woods. Tall, dark, and handsome—and pure temptation in those little shorts.
She was dressed like Miss Marple and had no choice but to act the part.
Chapter 2
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.
