by Gemma Bruce
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 whi
te 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?
Chapter 3
Andy jumped out of bed in the predawn light and was half dressed before she realized she wasn’t on location and she didn’t have to be in makeup or wardrobe. It always took a few days after a wrap to retrain herself to sleep late.
And here she was in a mountain retreat with no warm body to induce her back into bed. She was starving. She’d made it only halfway through dinner before the water-dousing fiasco, and the grapes and skim milk had done little to assuage her hunger or her restlessness.
She made a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the porch. Night was slowly turning to day, but the sun wouldn’t appear for hours. She was anxious to begin questioning people about Aunt Mac’s disappearance, but breakfast wasn’t served until seven, and she couldn’t just stand here staring into the woods until then. She’d be stark-raving mad by the time the others woke up.
She needed exercise. The retreat had a gym and several pools, but she didn’t think her persona would survive being discovered in spandex gym shorts or a bikini.
