by Gemma Bruce
He yanked her to her feet. Held her with one arm, while he pulled the ski cap off her head. Her hair spilled over her shoulders.
They stared at each other for a heart-stopping moment. Then Dillon said, “Well, Miss Ariadne McAllister. This is a surprise.”
“I can explain,” she began automatically.
“I bet.” He broke off, cocked his head like a hunting dog on the scent. “But later.” He dragged her into the woods.
“Hey,” she protested.
His large hand clamped over her mouth and he pressed her into his body.
Then she heard low murmurs, getting louder as a pair of security guards passed by. When they had rounded the corner of the building, Dillon removed his hand from her mouth. Keeping her arm in a firm grip, he reached down for her backpack.
“But my—”
“Rope and grapple? They’re in your backpack.”
He slipped it over her shoulder and gave her a push up the hill.
Neither of them spoke as they moved through the woods. Andy was thinking furiously, trying to come up with some excuse she could use to brazen her way through this. Tell the truth? What if he was in cahoots with the Goddess directors? Not that she had any proof that they were up to anything but extortionate prices. There hadn’t been anything suspicious except those bank account numbers.
She risked a glance at Dillon. Not that she could see much. The trees hid what was left of the moonlight. But she could see the outline of his jaw. And it looked tense. Very tense.
He didn’t slow down when they reached her cabin, but hauled her up the steps, across the porch, and into the living room. Even then, he didn’t speak, just dragged her across the room and tossed her onto the couch.
She let him do it, though she was tempted to fight back. But she didn’t want to maim or disfigure him. Because if they saw their way clear of this, she planned to have her way with him, and she wanted him in good shape.
She grimaced. How could she be thinking about sex with a man who might be a thief, or worse.
He switched on the lamp and light fell across her face. He, of course, was in shadow. She gave him an ironic look. “Interrogation 101?”
No response, not even a quirk of those beckoning lips. Jeez. Stop thinking about his lips. She went on the offensive. “Just what were you doing skulking around in the dark outside the Pantheon in the middle of the night?”
He cocked his head. She could see the speculation, the suspicion in his eyes. Could feel his anger pulsing in the space between them. Okay, so the man had no sense of humor.
“What were you doing inside the business office?”
“How did—” And then it hit her. Dillon looking up at the windows. Dillon following her upstairs. He hadn’t just been waiting outside for her. He’d been inside with her. “What were you doing there?”
She knew she’d hit the mark.
“Cleanup detail.” He said it without missing a beat.
Dressed like Batman? She didn’t think so.
“I’m waiting.”
He could wait all night. Suddenly she didn’t like him very much. And didn’t trust him. Time for a change of tactics. “Look. It isn’t what you think.”
Silence, then, “How do you know what I think?”
Not friendly. He wasn’t going to give anything away. Fine. Neither was she. She tried to get up from the couch. He pushed her back down. Not roughly, just a flick of his wrist. And it sent her sprawling. She stared up at him. Her slave had some advanced self-defense training.
She was impressed. And turned on. And sure that she was in deep shit.
She fought the urge to squirm beneath his gaze. The man didn’t even blink. Like Night of the Living Dead, only with a butt that made her fingers tingle. She crossed her arms and stared back at him. She knew how to give the silent treatment. And boy, was he going to get it.
“Would you prefer to tell the police?”
She had to consciously stop her eyes from widening.
“Or maybe I should just turn you over to Hans.”
Hans? The masseur? He was a giant, with arms like anacondas, hands like sides of beef. The blood rushed from Andy’s head, and she had a hard time staying upright.
“Hans?” she squeaked.
“In addition to masseur, he’s head of security.”
Okay, the silent approach wasn’t working. Time for evasive tactics. She cowered back. “Don’t take me to Hans,” she whimpered. “Don’t hurt me.”
Dillon drew back as if she’d slapped him.
“I can’t help it. It’s a disease. Dr. Abramovitch says it’s because I’m repressed. That I feel the need to express myself, but I can’t open up to people. So I take things for the attention. He sent me here.” Her bottom lip trembled. “He thought it would help me with my problem.”
Dillon was staring at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “Bullshit.”
She could see his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. He really does want to hit me, she thought, suddenly truly uneasy.
Dillon glared down at her. “I know this is an act. I’m not planning to resort to torture.”
Yeah, the implication being that he could if he wanted to, thought Andy. Who was this guy? She knew nothing about him. Jeannie knew the entire history of Demetri’s life; even Loubelle and Evelyn knew things about Rusty and Louis. But Dillon hadn’t volunteered one personal fact in the three days she’d been here. Maybe she wasn’t the only one in Terra Bliss with something to hide.
“Leave or I’ll scream.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
She opened her mouth and filled her lungs. He lunged at her, his hand reaching for her mouth. At the last moment, she rolled away. It threw him off balance and he fell with her. Her arms automatically went around his waist. She couldn’t help herself. She was a woman after all.
“Don’t,” he growled and pushed her away. He staggered back, looked down at her with loathing.
This time she really did cower. She’d never seen anyone look so evil.
He backed up, staring at her like she was sewer scum, then spun around and strode to the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob. “I’ll be back in the morning for the truth. Don’t think about going over the wall. You wouldn’t last two days in that terrain, I don’t care who you are.” He opened the door and left.
Andy stared at the door, wondering what had just happened. One minute he’s threatening her, the next he’s running as though the hounds of hell were after him. She didn’t get it. He must be up to something. He hadn’t believed a word she said, and yet the way he’d recoiled from her touch had been real. And that bothered her. Bothered? It had been insulting, more than insulting. It had been humiliating.
She pushed off the couch, got a bottle of water out of the fridge, and went into the bedroom. He’d been repulsed by her. She couldn’t remember anyone reacting to her like that—ever. She pulled off her turtleneck. Took a sip of water. She had disgusted him. She pushed down her tights and kicked them off her feet. Took another, longer swig of water. And what did he know about the wall?
She unhooked her bra and turned to the mirror. Gave her body a good appraisal. She looked damned good. She had everything she needed—that Dillon needed—and more. She pulled her terry cloth robe out of the closet, cinched it about her waist.
She’d make him sorry. And then she’d make him tell her just who he was and what he was doing here. Then maybe, just maybe, she’d tell him the truth.
———
Dillon took the path at a run. His brain had begun to short circuit halfway through that confrontation. The woman was playing him. That was obvious. But who the hell was she? A crook? A pathological liar? A fed?
He should have stayed until he got the truth out of her, but when her arms had gone around him, it hadn’t been Ariadne McAllister drawing him down, but Isabelle Foubert. And he’d panicked. He still had the scars to remind him of the treachery of women. He wouldn’t forget again.
&nbs
p; He ran until he reached the men’s dormitory. Stole down the hall to his room. Closed the door and leaned against it, his lungs burning, his heart pounding, and his mind tormented by the past.
———
Andy sprinted down the path and stopped at the edge of the lawn. She scanned the silvered landscape. Not a soul in sight. Not that she’d really expected to see Dillon. He’d probably run all the way to the men’s dormitory and locked himself in. The man had been seriously freaked. That much of his act had been real, and now that she was more coolheaded, she thought it had more to do with him than with her.
She struck off across the grass, the dew wetting her feet. Past the pool and the gym, across another expanse of lawn. And still no sign of man or beast. Ahead of her, the dormitory was dark—except one window.
The dormitory was off-limits. But, hell, who needed limits.
She moved stealthily toward the door. Carefully tried the knob and when it turned, poked her head inside. A hallway. Good. She’d been afraid she might walk into forty hunky men, sleeping in rows in the buff. Something she’d ordinarily enjoy, but not tonight. Tonight she was interested in only one man.
She tiptoed down the hall, looking from side to side. How convenient that someone had placed nameplates outside each door. These Goddess people were certainly efficient. Halfway down the hall she came to Dillon’s name. Saw the light coming from beneath the door. Considered knocking. Decided against it. Strength in surprise. Taking a breath, she opened the door. The room was empty. She stepped in, looked around, opened a smaller door, and found a closet. Not hiding there.
The bathroom. It must be down the hall. She’d be waiting for him when he came out. She leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, then heard the sound of running water several doors away. She followed the sound to another closed door.
Should she? Shouldn’t she? There was no guarantee that it would be Dillon behind that door. But what was life without danger?
She opened the door and was hit by a heated wave of steam as it rushed toward the open doorway. It was a communal shower. Dillon was standing dead center, sleek and lean and covered in soap. He was facing the wall, his head raised so that the water slicked his dark hair to his skull. It pelted his shoul-ders—his broad, soapy shoulders. His back was shiny with water and heat. And his ass was . . . perfect.
An involuntary sigh of appreciation escaped her lips. He turned around, his face frozen in surprise, his hands pressed to the soap bubbles that formed a nest around his rather impressive erection.
“I’m a reporter.” She slipped the robe off her shoulders and closed the door.
Chapter 9
“Jesus Christ.” Dillon lunged for the towel that hung from a peg on the wall. One foot slid out from under him. He winced and shifted his weight to the other foot. In that split second, Andy grabbed the towel and threw it between her and the door.
He wasn’t going to get away without hearing her explanation. It wasn’t the truth, but it was nearly as good. It had taken her entire trip across the compound to come up with it. Well, actually she had lifted the idea from Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes seemed to be caught on her breasts.
She rolled her eyes.
“Get out. You can’t be in here.”
Her better self was telling her to just tell him the truth, but the savvy self, the one that had survived as a Hollywood stunt-woman since the age of four, said, Are you nuts? He could be one of their goons. If that were true, she’d definitely be in hot water.
“Why?” She cocked her head, focused on his slick, soapy chest, slowly panned down to his crotch, and his very ready erection. She sucked in air. Okay, maybe he didn’t want to want her, but he did.
Dillon jerked his head and pulled his gaze from her. He focused it on the floor. “You’re naked.”
“So are you.”
He lifted his eyes, then dropped them again. “You really need to get out of here.”
“Come on. It’s a communal shower. Let’s get communal.”
He shook his head once.
Andy sighed. What was it with this guy? “Come on. Live dangerously. Enjoy the thrill.”
Dillon stepped back. “Who are you?”
She began to feel just a little insecure. Why did he have to be so suspicious? “Like I said, I’m a reporter.” She stepped toward him.
He stepped back. Water pelted his head, sluiced down his chest.
“Freelance. I wanted to do an article on Terra Bliss, but the only interviews I could get were testimonials on how wonderful it was. I wanted dirt. So I decided to come see for myself.”
Dillon’s fists were clenched at his sides.
Jeez. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t trying to cover his crotch, so it couldn’t be shyness. He was supposed to be her slave. It was part of the job description. And he was getting bigger by the second. She’d better do something fast before they both exploded.
The room was steaming up again. She could feel the sheen of moisture on her face, feel the rivulets of condensation roll down the valley between her breasts. She reached down and wiped it away.
“What—” He cleared his throat. “What kind of dirt?”
“Nothing specific, just what goes on inside Terra Bliss. Look, I really need this story. And if you turn me in . . .”
“You’re going to seduce me to keep me quiet?”
“I’m going to seduce you because you’re hot and I want you.” She looked pointedly at his erection. “And you want me, too.”
He jerked his head. Was that a no, he wouldn’t tell, or no, he wasn’t buying it, or—God forbid—no, he didn’t want to.
She could cry with frustration. Most men would have been on their knees by now, and Dillon was just standing there, getting soaked.
The steam was so thick that he kept disappearing behind white clouds of it. Her body was covered with mist. His was covered with soap. It was a perfect combination.
She smiled—slowly. Stepped closer. Close enough to touch him. So she did. Just two fingers. Trailing across his collarbone and down his chest.
Dillon shuddered, but he kept his arms at his sides.
Down past his navel. He shifted to the right, but she stepped with him. They were only inches apart now. Down that line of dark hair. Feather-touched the tip of his erection.
Dillon sighed. Swayed on his feet. But his hands stayed by his sides.
Jeez. What did he want? Double backflips? She could do that. Or maybe this. She drew a line down the ridge of his penis until she reached his balls. They were soapy and hard.
“Don’t you want this?” she asked, rephrasing his question from the night before.
“Yes.” He lunged into her. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her against him, capturing her hands between his legs.
She gave in to him, pressing her body against his, her curves matching his valleys perfectly. God, this was better than she’d imagined. She lifted her face, and he lowered his to nuzzle her cheek, her neck, finally found her mouth. His lips were tentative. As though he still wanted to talk himself out of it. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth. He groaned and pushed his tongue in after his lip. Her tongue touched his and heat flared in her belly. Her hands tightened around his balls; he growled and deepened the kiss.
The water beat down on them until they slid against each other. His hands moved over her back, down her butt, kneaded the muscles there. Her hands slid up his cock and away. Around his back. He thrust against her stomach, his soapy penis sliding up and down her, tantalizing and seducing.
She circled her hips against him. His mouth slid off hers. His teeth nipped at her neck, her collarbone. Their bodies parted and he licked between her breasts. Her hands ran up his arms to his shoulders. The muscles flexed beneath her touch and a thrill shot through her.
He took a breast in each hand, lifted them, and rubbed his cheek against them. His tongue flicked at one nipple. It was already
so incredibly sensitive that she jerked, knocking him away. A smile curved his lips. He flicked again, then covered the nipple with his mouth and sucked. Electricity shot straight to her crotch. Her arms pushed down the muscles of his back. He smelled of soap and heat.
He moved to her other breast, sucked at the tip, his tongue washing around the aureole. His hands ran down her sides, outlining her curves. His mouth followed them down, nipping at her skin, flirting with her navel until he was curved into her like the discus thrower, a Greek god incarnate, a dangerous man, who was probably up to something illegal but she didn’t care.
This was primal and she was fully engaged.
His hands encircled her waist and turned them so that her back was to the wall. He reached past her and came back holding the bar of soap. He ran it over her chest, under her breasts, then down her center to her abdomen.
Andy leaned into the cold tiles, her knees too weak to support her. But his hands shifted to her back, rubbing the soap over her butt, into the crack that separated the cheeks. His mouth found hers for a brief kiss; then he moved away, looked at the suds streaming down her body, and slipped the soap between her legs.
“Open,” he said.
She opened her thighs. He smiled and looked down between them. It drew her eyes downward, too. She watched his soapy hands ease back and forth between her legs. Jerked spasmodically beneath his fingers. She didn’t think she could stand the pleasure that he wrung from her.
His hands moved to his cock and began lathering it with circular strokes. She moved his hands away and took over, sliding her fingers over the pulsing strength of him. Circled the tip, caressed the shaft with her fingers, and down again to coat his balls with suds.
He braced his hands on either side of her head, using the wall for support. He seemed to tower over her, and she felt small and vulnerable. And it was exhilarating. He assaulted her mouth with his, angling his head from one side to the other as he claimed her. His hands slid down the wall, his lips brushed hers, then he pulled away. “Shit. No condom.”
“Right pocket of my robe.”
“You did mean to seduce me.”
“Yep. And I’m going to.” Since he didn’t appear to be moving, she slid out from under him, picked up the now-soggy robe and pulled a foil packet from the pocket.
