by Gemma Bruce
She could do sit-ups and push-ups in her living room, but the air was crisp and smelled of pine needles, and she hated the thought of going inside again. The day was growing lighter, even though the surrounding trees kept her cabin in shadows. But higher up . . . An energetic climb would work.
And she was sure no one would see her. Everyone else was still sleeping. Andy had heard them carousing late into the night, but had no inclination to join them. She’d finally had to stuff her pillow over her head to get to sleep and overcome the desire to see if Dillon was among the partiers.
She drank off the last of her coffee and went inside. A few minutes later, she was dressed in running shoes and sweats. She jumped off the porch, bypassing the two steps, and started up the path toward the mountains.
She’d just passed the last few cabins, when the path narrowed and underbrush began to encroach on the gravel. A hundred feet later, she came to the stone wall she’d seen from the bus.
So much for her hike; she wasn’t even breathing hard.
A metal gate, as high and as solid as the wall, blocked her way. A lichen-covered sign warned, NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS POINT.
She rattled the padlock and chain, but the gate didn’t budge. Why lock it? Why was there a wall at all? To keep wildlife out? Or to keep the trainees in.
Andy couldn’t shake the memory of the newspaper article about Imogene Southwaite falling to her death. She supposed people did stranger things than accidentally walking off a third-story balcony. But she had also appeared in too many thrillers not to think the obvious. Had Imogene Southwaite been killed for her legacy?
That would mean that someone in the Goddess organization was a murderer. It couldn’t be. They were all too busy running around in nightgowns, trying to flirt their way to success. Murder didn’t seem like a viable flirtation technique.
Nonetheless, Andy had a sudden urge to see what was on the other side of the wall. Not that she thought she would find the abandoned body of her favorite aunt, but she had to look. Just in case. Even though it was ridiculous. She hoped. She began looking for a place to scale the wall.
There were several trees growing nearby, but their branches had been pruned so that she couldn’t reach even the lowest one. She began searching along the wall and found something better. A fallen oak tree had wedged itself at an angle between the wall and a solid spruce. She’d be able to walk right to the top.
She placed one foot on the trunk. Several slivers of wood crumbled beneath her feet. She kicked them away until she found a solid core.
Hands out to her sides for balance, she tightroped her way up the tree and was soon standing on the top of the wall.
On the other side was a steep incline of trees. No problem getting down, but first, she needed to find a way to get back up. Always plan your escape before your entrance: a motto that had saved many stunt actors from serious injury or worse. And besides, she didn’t want to find herself locked out of the retreat. It could take days for her to trek her way back to the front gate. And living on mushrooms and wood grubs was not her idea of a vacation.
She found a tree with several sturdy branches within reach of the wall. Its lowest branch came within six feet of the ground. She could jump high enough to get a handhold.
Gauging the distance to the nearest branch, she sprang from the wall. She caught the branch with both hands. It swayed as it took her weight, and she hung there until it came to rest, and she could steady her feet on the limb below. Shifting her weight from her arms to her legs, she let go and dropped straight down. She grabbed the limb on either side of her feet, then slid her feet from the branch. She dropped to the ground and landed in a deep-knee bend.
The earth between the trees was spongy, covered in moldy leaves and pine straw. Tangled bushes erupted like witches’ brooms from the ground. She wiped bark and sticky resin off her hands and looked around. A few yards away, a smaller path continued up the mountain.
Andy began to climb, winding in and out of patches of early morning light, finding footholds in rocky outgrowths and slipping over patches of moss. She heard rumbling in the distance and thought it must be the highway. But as she climbed steadily higher and it became louder, she realized it was the sound of rushing water.
She scrambled over detritus and fallen logs and came to a swollen stream. Its banks churned with foam as water coursed downhill toward a section of agitated rapids.
She followed it upward to where the steam disappeared into a crevice between two jagged boulders. She had no equipment to climb the face of the rock, so she skirted around it, back into the deep woods, until she finally glimpsed water again. Breathing heavily, as much from the altitude as exertion, she stepped out of the forest and into sunlight.
She was standing on a flat boulder. A crystal-clear lake stretched before her, forming an hourglass of blue in the surrounding woods. Across the lake, a waterfall rushed over a palisade of rock and tumbled into a cloud of mist. But here, the water was calm and serene. Trees grew right to the water’s edge and reflected on its surface. Clumps of yellow flowers dipped into the water, and in the patches of grass, tiny slips of wildflowers were waiting for their petals to be opened by the sun.
She sat down so that the sun beamed down on her face and shoulders. It was peaceful here. A perfect place for swimming and sunbathing, for solitude or romance. If she were going to run a goddess retreat, she’d have made this a part of it.
Two days of inactivity had been too much. And the lake was tempting. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head, kicked off her shoes and socks, and inched over to the edge of the boulder. She stuck her toes in the water, let out a gasp, and snatched her foot back.
It was freezing. But exhilarating. A polar bear’s dream pool.
She stripped off her clothes. The water was deep, but so clear she could see the bottom. She bent her knees and dove in. She surfaced with the air wrenched from her lungs. She let out a “brrr” that echoed across the water and began to swim.
She could feel her muscles come to life as her arms sliced through the water and her legs kicked beneath the surface. Within minutes, she was back in form, her body sleek and powerful. She dove in and resurfaced, arched her back, and lifted her face toward the sky. She kicked once and curved backward into a somersault, then rose again and floated on her back. Her nipples grew hard from the cold. The water caressed her sides, her arms as she waved them back and forth to stay afloat. She turned and swam, first on her stomach and then on her back, rolling in the glassy lake like a dolphin.
And her mind conjured a playmate, muscular and sleek, as handsome as—Hell, he looked just like Dillon Cross.
Well, why not, she thought. When in Rome, only perhaps she should think, When in Greece. It didn’t matter. Her fantasy was in full swing as she imagined their bodies coming together, slick to the touch as they passed within inches of each other—darting in and out of reach. Then they would float, side by side, while desire rose, and their dolphin flirtation would begin again. This time, more intimate. Her breasts skimming his chest as their legs entwined in the water, his fingers gliding between her legs, his dick sliding between her closed fingers. Finally their lips would touch and their tongues would lock in a kiss.
Andy sighed as her own hands slid down her thighs to touch herself, before once again paddling the water to stay afloat.
It would be lovely. And when they tired of swimming, they’d climb out of the lake, holding hands like two primeval beings, born of the water like Aphrodite and—
Ick. Been there, done that, got the paycheck. Andy scissor-kicked, dipped beneath the surface, and came up to spout water into the air. Reran the scene. They would climb out of the pool, holding hands like Adam and Eve . . . no, like Tarzan and Jane. Yeah, that was better. She’d never gotten to play Jane.
So-o-o . . . Without speaking, they stretch out on the hard rock. The warmth of it seeps into her back. Dillon rolls over and presses his body into hers, at first cold and wet, rubbing along her stomach and
breasts, until the motion sends a tingle of warmth through her skin and his erection grows heated and hard with the motion.
She’d throw her head back and arch up as he slid that heat inside her. Warming her completely. The warmth would turn to fire in her belly as he filled her and filled her with his thrusts.
They’d mate like wild beasts, crying out and writhing as they pushed themselves to the brink of annihilation. And when they came together, fireworks would explode above them.
Not fireworks, too clichéd. The heavens would sing. No. That didn’t work, either.
They would come together in a conflagration, the forest bursting into flames around them. Dillon would collapse onto her, his heart beating wildly. Then they would begin again.
But later. Right now, her teeth had begun to chatter, and her lips were probably turning blue. They were so stiff with cold she couldn’t have puckered up if Apollo, himself, appeared naked on a golden cloud.
Andy uprighted herself and began to tread water. Besides, what was she thinking? As soon as they climbed out of the water, the director would yell “Cut,” and the actors, spritzed with warm water, would replace them for the hot and heavy love scene, while Andy and Dillon shivered their way back to their trailers and hot showers—solo.
Disgusted, she swam back to where she’d left her clothes and climbed out of the water. She wrung water from her hair and sat down to let the sun dry her skin. The granite was abrasive, and she had to roll to one cheek to brush a pebble off her butt.
So much for love on the rocks.
She pushed damp legs and arms into her sweat suit, laced up her running shoes, and climbed back down the mountain.
The retreat was just showing signs of life as she let herself over the wall. She stole unseen past the other cabins and was feeling smug, when she saw a flash of light blue in the clearing in front of her cabin.
She quickly withdrew into the shelter of the trees.
Damn. It was her attendant. Too late for her fantasy, but too early for breakfast. Now what was she going to do? She eased around to the back of her cabin. The bedroom window was still ajar. She pushed it open and swung herself over the sill.
———
Dillon leaned against a tree, a Styrofoam cup in one hand and Ariadne’s glasses stuck in the waistband of his gym shorts. He’d been waiting for nearly an hour so he wouldn’t miss her. His coffee had grown cold and so had he. It was almost seven o’clock and still no sign of her.
His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Not from spending the night casing the retreat’s business office, like he should have done, but from thinking about the enigmatic Ms. McAllister. Every time he started to drift off, his pre-REM state morphed into fantasies about her naked and in his bed, and he woke up again.
He had to get over this infatuation. He wasn’t given to flights of fancy. Those kinds of things were sure to get you killed, as he knew all too well. He’d nearly died because of his desire for a unearthly siren, who also happened to be a double agent. But Ariadne was no siren. And she was certainly no agent. She was a long, tall, gawky, near-sighted librarian.
Still, he couldn’t get his body’s response to jibe with his visual take on her. Something posttraumatic, he guessed. He’d been through a lot, physically and mentally, and wasn’t sure he could completely trust his reactions.
That was why he was standing outside her cabin, waiting to accompany her to breakfast. If she came out of her cottage this morning a complete fright, he’d know he was loosing his grip. And if she came out like the advanced goddess he’d been imagining . . . He’d know he’d already lost it.
But one way or the other, he needed to get a closer look. And besides, he still had her glasses.
At last, he heard the shower running and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes until breakfast. It probably took her twice as long to wrap all that hair into a knot. He started to pace.
She came out twenty minutes later, dressed in baggy khakis and an oversized shirt, buttoned at her wrists and neck. Her hair was pulled so tight that he was surprised her eyes weren’t slanted. And the pale makeup was back.
He had a nearly overwhelming urge to pull the shirttail out of her khakis and wipe the makeup off her face. He had an even more overwhelming urge to lick it off, himself. Or better still, tear off her shirt and—He blew out air and stepped back while he tried to force his brain back up to his head.
Ariadne strode across the porch, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She jogged down the steps, and Dillon automatically rushed to help her. Then he stopped as he realized that she had navigated the steps perfectly fine without her glasses. Contacts?
He stepped in front of her. “I have your glasses.” He reached under his shirt and pulled them out of his waistband.
Her eyes widened for a millisecond; then she squinted in his direction.
She’s faking this whole eyeglasses thing, he thought. But why? What was she up to? He could think of several possibilities, but most of them were results of a paranoid mind.
Not paranoid. You’re just being careful. The way you were trained to be.
Ariadne reached for the glasses. Her fingers brushed his as she plucked them from his hand. A tingle went up his arm. No doubt about it, he was in bad shape.
He peered at her face, trying to understand why she caused this reaction in him. It couldn’t be her, could it? She gave off nothing but insecurity. Not the kind of woman he liked—used to like. Maybe that was it. She was completely nonthreatening. He growled inwardly. You’d think he was the novice and not her.
“Look, about last night. I’m sorry.” he said.
She quickly looked up at him, her eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. Not brown, not blue, something in between.
She turned away and started down the path. He had to hurry to catch up with her.
———
Andy stumbled along, cursing Dillon Cross for finding those damn glasses and then for keeping them in his shorts. They were still warm from his skin, and she imagined she could smell his scent on them.
He caught up to her and she lowered her head even more.
“Why do you wear those glasses?”
“So I can see where I’m going,” she mumbled.
“They don’t seem to be helping much.”
No shit. They made her seasick every time she put them on. But she wasn’t about to confess that to him of all people. She wished he would go away and let her get on with her work. Because it was really hard to concentrate on anything but the feel of him striding along beside her, the heat radiating off him like sunshine on water. Or to imagine another night going by without just coming out and propositioning him.
Too bad she hadn’t been assigned the muscle man in front of him, that Demetri character. Him, she could resist. She’d never really cared for pumped-up men. Hollywood was full of them. But this one was sleek and predatory in design.
He must know it.
Except he didn’t put out those vibes. At least not with her. Maybe her disguise was working too well.
Stupid, she thought. It’s supposed to work. So she could find out what happened to Mac, not have unbridled sex with a stranger.
Her toe caught on something and she stumbled against him. He pushed her back to her feet.
His breath tickled her skin and she knew he was laughing at her—At her. This was the last, absolute last, time she’d let her family talk her into one of their madcap schemes. She could be having raunchy sex with a movie star on a tropical beach. She tried to picture herself and Jason lying on the white sands of Acapulco, but the face and body that appeared belonged to the man escorting her down the path to breakfast.
———
When she tripped for the third time, Dillon overcame his resolution to keep several feet between them and took her elbow.
Her arm grew rigid beneath his touch. Well, tough. He didn’t want to show up at breakfast with a scraped and bloodied remedial goddess in tow. He’d already taken a shitl
oad of ribbing for dumping water over her the night before. Had been forced to listen to a few jokes about her idea of toga wear, and his taste in women.
They tromped down the path together, way too close for Dillon’s comfort, Ariadne taking in quick, short breaths beside him. As soon as they reached the lawn, she attempted to move away, but Dillon held on, and halfway to the main building, she seemed to resign herself to his help and relaxed against him.
So she wasn’t entirely a cold fish. Maybe she was just out of shape. Whatever it was, it made his pulse jump and sent warmth shooting through his arms and legs to settle low in his belly. He gritted his teeth, concentrated his thoughts on his mission, and managed to get her into the dining hall without throwing her on the grass and tearing off her clothes to see what was really underneath. This really had to stop.
Fortunately, breakfast was buffet style, and as soon as they were inside the door, he steered her toward the line in front of the warming trays and pushed a plate into her hands.
“Be right back.” He hurried off to his wait station to pick up a coffeepot and get back before she made it through the line. He didn’t trust her to carry an egg-laden plate across the room to her seat. The possibilities were unnerving.
He’d just reached the table, when Demetri came up and slapped him on the back. “Saw you come in with the frump. Don’t tell me she put out on the first night.” He reached past Dillon for a white thermal carafe.
“Show some respect, will you?”
Demetri grinned. “Anything worth looking at under all those clothes?”
Dillon put down the coffee carafe he’d just picked up. “Shut the hell up.”
Demetri glanced down at Dillon’s leg. “Ooh. Scary. Think you could take me with that gimpy knee?”
“If I have to.” He could still hold his own, even with his “gimpy” knee, the ravaged muscles in his thigh, his trick elbow, and the metal plate in his head.
“Hey, you guys are blocking the way.” Rusty was carrying a tray with juice pitchers.
Dillon stepped aside, glad of the interruption. Demetri didn’t move.
