by Gemma Bruce
“Well, I’ll just have to have a little talk with him about that, uh-huh.”
“No,” said Andy.
“Absolutely not,” said Loubelle.
“You should be ashamed,” said Evelyn. “Don’t pay any attention to her. Regardless of what some people think, the goddess program is not just about sex.”
Jeannie made a face. “But it’s the best part.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Loubelle. “And I’m having a delightful time.”
Jeannie sighed. “You sure you don’t want me to light a fire under that delicious tush of his?”
“I’m sure,” said Andy. “But thanks.”
Evelyn deftly changed the subject and it didn’t come up again. They left the dining room together.
“Well now, that’s my idea of a goddess class,” said Jeannie.
“Knowing What You Want—?” Andy swallowed the rest of her sentence. The KNOWING WHAT YOU WANT sign had been replaced by FELLATIO 101. Intriguing, she thought, then immediately changed her mind when a slave carrying a tray of unripe bananas knocked on the door and was let inside.
“Well, I know what I’m studying this morning,” said Jeannie. She toodled her fingers at them and followed him inside.
Loubelle pursed her lips. “I’m taking the morning off to get my hair done. See you at lunch.”
Andy was about to follow her out. Dillon would be finished with cleanup any minute, and she wanted to prolong the inevitable. “Well, I guess I’d better—”
Evelyn stopped her. “Don’t let the things Jeannie says put you off. She’s a kind soul. A heart of gold really. She does like her fun and can be a little too nosy. But you shouldn’t feel obligated to say anything you don’t want to. Relations between a man and a woman are meant to be private. I’m glad you respect that.”
Andy smiled, touched that Evelyn was actually concerned about her. And she felt a stab of remorse for her deception. “There’s really nothing to tell.” At least that was true. “Jeannie makes the whole situation sound more interesting than it was. Dillon was just fixing my glasses.”
“Ah,” said Evelyn, a twinkle in her eye. “Well, I better run or I’ll be late. See you at lunch?”
“Sure,” said Andy, though she had no intention of having lunch at the pool while Jeannie grilled her about Dillon, while Dillon served lunch and Andy tried to ignore them both. She’d never pull it off. Then he was bound to snag her and they’d have to have the talk. She’d had it before. She knew it by heart. Her throat tightened.
She would never be a goddess, just a hell-bent-for-leather stuntwoman good for a weekend fling.
She watched Evelyn walk down the hall, her posture erect, poised, every bit a lady even in capri pants and canvas tennis shoes. And she wondered what it would be like to be raised in a family where manners and good breeding were taken for granted. Where caviar was served under candelabras instead of frozen dinners in front of the television. Where the forks and knives were silver, not plastic. Charity balls and card parties . . .
Nah, it wasn’t for her. Her family swung from trees, crashed cars, jumped from burning buildings with only a thin layer of fire-repellant sheeting between them and a horrible death. Their idea of a good time was takeout Chinese while watching Xena reruns. Their motto in life, “Knock ’em dead.” And on the rare occasions they all had a few days off at the same time, they spent them jumping from makeshift training towers in someone’s backyard.
She sighed. It was a great life, but sometimes she wondered what it would be like to . . . Well, that was stupid. Besides. She hated caviar.
Andy passed by the Fellatio room and walked into the first door she came to.
After two hours of Flirting With Success, Andy was glad that she didn’t really aspire to a more normal life. She’d never been so bored in her life.
She waited until she was sure that Evelyn, Jeannie, and Loubelle had left for the pool, then went into the dining room. She sat at a table of women who didn’t eat much—probably owing to the number of bananas they had inadvertently eaten during the morning session.
After lunch she went out to the lawn to study the diagram of the Pantheon she’d torn out of her welcome packet. She walked around to the back of the building and came face-to-face with the yard crew. There were six of them, all men, dressed in olive drab jumpsuits, mowing, pruning, and raking to the low tunes of a boom box.
One turned and grinned at her. She nodded and went back to the lawn, where she sat in one of the little temples waiting for them to leave. Finally she heard their grounds cart start up, and when she walked behind the building a few minutes later, they were gone.
There were eight windows along the second floor, separated by an ornamental ledge from eight identical windows on the first floor. Gotta love those Greeks, she thought. She was pretty sure the farthest four of them belonged to the business section. They were simple casements that swung outward and were probably locked with a simple latch. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure which window belonged to which room.
She was perusing the façade when a window opened and one of the priestesses leaned out. Andy backed into the trees. The priestess took a couple of long drags on a cigarette before letting it drop to the ground. She fanned the air, then pulled the casements shut.
The staff room. Which made the window to its left the business office. Satisfied, she headed back to her cabin for a nap.
Andy was pulled from sleep by a knock at the door. So much for catching up on sleep while she was here. She rolled over and looked at the clock. It was almost six o’clock. Jeez. She’d slept for four hours.
When the knock came again, she reluctantly rolled off the bed. The girls had come to pick her up for dinner. She’d make her apologies. Plead a headache. The kind of ache she really had, she didn’t plan to share with anyone other than Dillon.
She yawned and opened the door. No one was there. Annoyed, she started to close the door, then saw Dillon, looking hotter than ever in his little skirt, waiting in the clearing.
Her mind immediately started tripping down fantasy lane at the same time her hand flew to her hair. God. She’d been so dead to the world, she hadn’t even checked her face before opening the door.
What if she looked awful? Worse, what if she looked like her? She opened her mouth to tell him to wait, but he stepped forward and said, “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said without thinking. “I had a headache.”
“Are you better?”
Good enough to go you a few rounds.
“You’re not dressed for dinner.”
She shook her head. “But you are.”
“As you can see.” He was frowning, but one corner of his mouth twitched. Well, hell, it was probably hard to keep any kind of serious attitude when you were wearing a skirt.
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
Every single time, bud. She almost laughed at herself. Her libido had taken over her thought process, and it was small wonder, with her hot feline slave half-nude in front of her. All around them, people were getting it on. She’d almost walked in on a couple using the temple for a lunchtime quickie. Hell, there was even a place called the Bower of Bliss, officially designated by Goddess International for fulfilling your every wish. Not that she’d be seeing the inside at the rate things were going.
“Yes. I’ll just be a minute.” And resisting the impulse to drag him inside and have dinner on the couch instead of in the dining hall, she hurried to dress. She didn’t want to walk to dinner with him, because she was afraid of what he might say. Then again, if he dumped her, she wouldn’t have to worry about how to get rid of him in time to break into the records office.
Chapter 8
It was two o’clock when Andy, dressed in a black turtleneck and black spandex tights, finally slipped out the cottage door. A black ski cap hid her hair. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder. Inside was everything she thought she might need: grappling hook and rope, penlight, met
al card for lifting the window latch, and a digital camera.
She silently stole through the woods. She was nervous as hell, but she kept telling herself she had done this thousands of times. Of course, there had always been a director to block the action, another take if something went wrong, and a team of EMTs in case of accident.
So pretend this is just another take, she told herself.
She reached the woods behind the Pantheon and stopped. Security lights shone from both corners of the building. She hadn’t taken them into account. Nor the full moon that cast a silver sheen over everything. Well, hell. Everyone was asleep. The staff lived in a guest house off to the far side. She couldn’t see it from where she was standing. Which meant, if anyone was awake, they wouldn’t be able to see her either.
She crouched down and opened her backpack. She stuck the camera inside her tights, the penlight between her teeth, and draped the rope and grappling hook over one shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she crept across the shadowed lawn until she stood below the window of the business office.
She looked up, gauged the distance to the concrete sill, and slid the rope off her shoulder. She took the hook in one hand and the end of the rope in the other, letting the rest of the rope fall to the ground. Once she was sure there were no tangles, she swung the hook to test its weight, then swung it toward the window. It arced through the air and hit the sill with a clunk that seemed to echo through the night. It bounced off, fell to the ornamental ledge, then slid down the side of the wall. It landed on the lawn with a dull thud. She reeled it in.
The night air was chill, but her hands were sweating. Her heart pounded in her throat. She took a deep breath, focused on the windowsill, and tried again. This time, when the hook made contact, Andy yanked down. The hook caught—and stayed. Keeping the rope taut, she walked to the building face. She shifted her hands on the rope until they were above her head, then pressed one foot against the stone facade. Her rubber-soled aquatic shoes found traction, and she began to scale the building.
She reached the second floor easily, clasped the sill with one hand, while her toes searched for the ornamental ledge beneath her. For a moment she hung there, half held up by the rope, the other half held up by the ledge.
She began to sweat. She had to hold the rope taut while pushing to a standing position. Any release of pressure would loosen the hook and she’d plummet to earth. Well, into the bushes. She sucked in air, pulled on the rope, and pushed against the ledge in one movement. Her other hand found the windowsill. She leaned forward on her elbow, braced there while she carefully let go of the rope. The grapple held, and she was perched on the side of the building, held by her feet and one elbow while she extricated the metal card from the neck of her turtleneck.
The latch was tight, and she was sweating by the time she had manipulated the card past the window ridge. At last, one side of the window swung outward. She thrust her arm inside. Holding on with all her might, she shifted her weight off her toes. She shimmied over the frame and balanced on her waist while she unlatched the second side. Then she threw her legs over the sill and dropped to the floor.
The office was dark as pitch. She reached back to pull the window shut, but not locked, in case she needed to beat a hasty retreat. Then, taking the penlight from her mouth, she clicked it on and directed it at the floor. It cast a circle of light barely five inches in diameter, but it was enough. She quickly scanned the walls. A desk, a water cooler, and a row of file cabinets. She started with the first one and found what she was looking for. Folders on each of the retreat’s participants.
With the penlight back in her mouth, she quickly flipped through the files until she found Miranda Houston. She pulled out the folder and opened it. The first page contained basic information, age, height, weight. The second, a list of hobbies and a paragraph on why she had chosen Terra Bliss for her retreat. Andy scanned the statements her aunt had made about her love life and her desire for a like-minded companion, and she quickly turned to the next page.
Here she found a list of the courses Mac had attended with comments from her workshop leaders. Andy took a second to read through these. Flirtation. Mac didn’t need lessons in that. Retraining Your Man. She didn’t have one. Meditation. Meditation? Mac never sat still in her life.
The last page was a financial report. The numbers of the credit card she had used to pay for the retreat and a series of others that looked like bank accounts. It was the first thing that sent up any red flags in Andy’s mind. Did they really need to know all her bank accounts?
At the bottom of the page were the dates of her visit, with the note, Left after one week. But no reason for her early departure.
Disappointed, Andy returned the folder, and then just out of curiosity reached to the back of the drawer for the one for Ariadne McAllister. She quickly leafed through it until she came to the leader reports. Low self-esteem. Painfully shy. Unadventurous. Unwilling to share. Andy swallowed. Well, gee, the disguise really worked.
She returned the file and shut the drawer, then opened the next and looked for Imogene Southwaite. The same forms and financial report were in her folder, except there were more bank accounts and a complete listing of the workshops she’d taken. There had been quite a few as well as numerous Spa Days, Yoga, and Meditation. The comments and progress reports told of a lonely woman, whose money, she thought, had prevented her from finding a lasting relationship.
Andy was so engrossed in Imogene Southwaite’s story that she almost missed the click of the door opening. She flicked off the penlight and slid it into her turtleneck. Shoved the Southwaite file into the drawer and eased it closed.
Hopefully, it was just a security guard and he would go away. As long as he didn’t turn on the light, she’d be okay. If he did . . . She was gauging the distance to the window just as the door opened a crack and a dark figure slipped inside. He didn’t turn on the light, but he didn’t go away. Instead he stepped farther into the room and quietly closed the door.
Andy froze, her mouth suddenly dry and her heart pounding against her ribs. She squatted by the file cabinets, not daring to move. Shit. She was screwed. But why was he just standing inside the door, not moving.
And it occurred to her in a flash of sudden intuition that maybe he wasn’t security. She wrestled between two urges. See who he was? Or get the hell out. Though it was unlikely that she would get as far as the window without being caught.
She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh at the absurdity of two people breaking into the same place at the same time. It would make a great comic scene.
A giggle bubbled up inside her. She pushed it back down. This was no time for hysteria or flights of imagination. This was time for someone to yell, “Cut.”
She shifted toward the window, ready to attempt an escape. Her knee bumped against a metal wastebasket. It rattled on the floor. She felt the figure in black turn and begin to move toward her.
Andy’s body quivered with adrenaline. Time for diversion and run. She carefully picked up the wastebasket and lifted it over her head. Just as he rounded the corner of the desk, she threw the basket at him and bolted for the window.
She heard his muttered oath as the trash can made contact, the rustle of papers as they spilled across the floor.
She thrust the window open and vaulted onto the sill. Heard another crash, another oath. He must have tripped over the trash basket.
Still, there was no time to use the rope and get to the cover of the trees. She released the grapple and tossed it to the ground. Then pirouetted on the balls of her feet until she faced the window. She sprang upward and just managed to catch the eaves of the flat roof. She scrambled up the façade, threw herself over the edge, and lay there trying not to breathe.
She waited for a sound. Something to tell her if he was following. But she heard nothing. Had he given up? Was he inside burgling the place? That took some nerve.
Cautiously, she inched her way to the edge of the roof. He was looking out t
he window, down toward the ground. She drew back, heard the window close.
And it hit her. She had no way down. Why, oh, why hadn’t she looked for an alternative exit before playing It Takes a Thief? She needed a script, damn it.
She leaned back over the side. Only two floors to the ground. The bushes would break her fall. She might get a few scratches, a sprained ankle even. She’d done worse without a harness. Of course, there had been a foam pit waiting for her at the bottom.
Her mind flashed on Betty and the sight of her mangled body that first day in the hospital. Her life of dragging a paralyzed body from room to room, day after dull day. Never to work again.
Okay. Don’t panic. She could use the window to lower herself down. Then it would only be a one-story jump. Piece of cake.
But what if he was waiting for her at the window. Stupid. Use another window.
She scooted along the roof, leaned over the side. She looked left. No sign of the other intruder. She took a calming breath and let herself over the side.
She stretched the full length of her arms until her feet found the windowsill. Pressing her knees against the window well, she carefully released one hand from the roof, then the other— and hovered there, willing herself to stay. Then she slid one foot off the sill and lowered herself until her foot almost reached the ledge. But it was a no go. There was no place to hold on to while she lowered her other foot. She’d have to jump from here.
She looked over her shoulder, gauged the distance to the ground, then pushed away from the wall. There was a moment of free fall; then she felt the scrape of the bushes as she fell past them. She landed on both feet, automatically curled into a ball and rolled onto the grass. And rolled—and rolled until she came to a stop against a pair of running shoes.
She turned her head just enough to peer up two long, black-clad legs.
“Busted,” said the voice above her.
Andy blinked. She knew that voice. It was her slave. “Dillon. Thank G—”
