Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess?. Gemma Bruce
Dillon Cross unpacked the duffel bag the human resources department of Goddess International had issued him on his arrival at Terra Bliss. Three pairs of powder blue silk gym shorts with matching T-shirts. Two pairs of sweats in the same color, and a shear white, pleated—skirt.
Great. Grayson Talbot was going to pay for giving him this assignment. He didn’t do skirts. And this one was ridiculously short. Some kind of Greek slave wear, he supposed.
He shucked off his jeans and wrapped the skirt around his waist. Then he looked in the mirror attached to the back of his dorm room door. The skirt barely covered his crotch, and it left the jagged scar from his latest knee surgery exposed. He pulled it down, until it hung low on his hips. That was a little better. He turned around and looked over his shoulder at his reflection. Now the scar on his back was showing. Shit.
He thought he’d blown his “audition” when he had to strip down to his underwear. But to his surprise, he passed with flying colors. Evidently, some women thought scars were a turn-on. Some women—but not the ones he knew. Those women could turn from randy she-devil to Mother Teresa at the first touch of rough skin. It brought out their nurturing instincts. He hated nurturing types. Which explained his lack of a sex life. At least, partially explained it.
He was jarred from that train of thought by a knock on the door. It opened, and Rusty Slayton’s curly head appeared in the opening. This was Rusty’s second summer at Terra Bliss, and he’d offered to show Dillon the ropes.
“Shorts and tees for afternoon. The kilt is for dinner.” His gaze fell on Dillon’s thigh. “Jesus.”
Dillon stepped behind the bed and gritted his teeth. The look of horror he could take; it was the following sympathy that made him see red. It was his own fault for pulling this dickhead assignment. But hell, it was the only kind of assignment he was good for.
“Better shake it,” said Rusty, regrouping and giving himself a quick once-over in the mirror. “The bus will be here in ten minutes, and all the slaves—attendants, I mean—have to be lined up for the welcoming address. Wear your tightest jockstrap. Some of these ‘ladies’ think a sensuality workshop is one long sex orgy.”
Slaves? Dillon shuddered. He owed Grayson a lot. The man had saved Dillon’s carcass on their last assignment and had convinced the agency to keep him on, even though he was no longer of use in a war zone—or anyplace else for all Dillon knew.
He looked down at his powder blue outfit. Before the accident, he’d been a damn good covert operator. Now he was nothing more than a covert boy toy.
Andy stared out the window at the blur of scenery as the bus climbed up the mountain road to Terra Bliss. She should never have let her family talk her into this, especially after they insisted on the disguise. But here she was, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her feet stuffed into “sensible” shoes. And after a five-hour car ride and another two hours on the chartered bus, her conservative, gray linen suit looked as if she’d slept in it.
She’d balked at the idea of bleaching away her tan. She’d earned every UV ray–induced inch of it. And she’d absolutely refused to wear the prosthetic buck teeth. But when she’d tried to nix the glasses, there was a general outcry.
“Come on, Andy,” Lucian had pleaded, the devil in his eyes. “You’ll never pass as a plain Jane if anybody gets a good look at your face.”
She’d put them on and swayed. “I can’t see a thing.”
“Sure you can,” said Lucian. “They’re just props. You’ll get used to them after a minute. It’ll add to your credibility.”
Except they were Coke-bottle thick, and hours later, the scenery was still a blur. She knew they had driven through the town of South Lake Tahoe and circled the lake to climb higher into the mountains. But the woman sitting next to her was a blob of green and navy blue. Probably just as well she couldn’t see, thought Andy. She had a sneaky suspicion that the woman was wearing a golf outfit.
The bus slowed down, and the driver announced that they were entering the Terra Bliss grounds and would have no further cell phone or Internet service. Andy heard the scurry of last minute calls starting up around her. She didn’t bother. Everyone who mattered knew where she was, and the others would be too busy partying to care.
The bus passed through what appeared to be a stone arch. The deep forest gave way to a wash of lighter green. Andy slid her glasses down to the tip of her nose and looked over the tortoiseshell frames—an extensive, perfectly manicured lawn that stretched for acres and was surrounded by a high stone wall.
To the far left was a large, Greek-styled building with entrance columns and an ornamental frieze that ran between two stories of rectangular windows. To the far right sat a swimming pool and two buildings that looked like a gym and a dormitory. In between, the lawn was sprinkled with copses of trees, white marble fountains, and smaller structures that suggested ancient shrines and made Andy think of vestal virgins dancing in the moonlight.
Taking this goddess theme a bit far, she thought. Then wondered hopefully if there would be any Greek gods in attendance.
All around her, chatter rose in excited trills. The woman next to her began talking in a thick Texas accent.
“Isn’t it just like a real paradise?”
“Um,” said Andy. It was about all she could manage, except, Are you nuts? It looks like a sound stage from the last “Xena” season.
The bus stopped and the doors whooshed open. The driver instructed them to step down and form a line to the right, where they would be greeted by the retreat’s director, Katherine Dane. The forty women filed down the aisle. Andy stayed close on the heels of the wavering blue-green mass in front of her. Until it stopped suddenly and Andy plowed into it.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. She was going to have to find a way to ditch the glasses.
“That’s all right, hon. There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is my third summer here and I love it to death. You’ll see. You won’t even recognize yourself when the session is over.”
Not to worry, thought Andy. She was never wearing these clothes or glasses again.
“I’m Jeannie Jenkins.”
“Ariadne McAllister.”
“Nice to meet you. Now hurry up and let’s see how yummy the slaves are this session.”
Slaves? Andy followed Jeannie down the steps.
They formed a line along the side of the bus. Katherine Dane began her speech. Andy missed most of it. She was trying to see across the drive where a line of blue wavered in the sunlight. More people, she guessed. The slaves? Intrigued, she dipped her head and looked over the top of her glasses; she could see only halfway across the driveway. She pushed the glasses up and peered through the slit at the bottom. It gave her a crick in the neck.
Next to her, Jeannie wriggled her fingers at someone across the way. “I just love it here. Even the security guards are hunky.” She pointed across the drive. “Yum, I think that’s my slave. The tall one with black hair. He’s a knockout. Yessiree bobtail. Sleek and trim, like a panther. Ooo-eee. Do you like yours?”
Andy crammed the glasses back up her nose so quickly that it made her queasy. “Uh.”
“He’s cute, too. Shorter and hunkier. I remember him from last session. Demetri. Definitely a keeper. You just keep him guessing and you’ll drive him crazy.”
The line started to move. Andy took a deep breath and stepped forward. She was about to flirt her way through a missing person investigation. Gloria Steinem would be appalled.
Dillon stood in line waiting to meet his goddess and schlep her luggage to her cabin. All the participants were assigned an attendant and a private cabin set back in the woods—for reflection and study—and, Dillon would lay odds, for clandestine meetings with the retreat’s cadre