Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess?. Gemma Bruce
Behind them stood a row of security guards, dressed in navy blue jumpsuits, all buff, good-looking, and trained to kill. Dillon had already run into two of them when he was jogging near the wall that enclosed the compound.
The wall was twelve feet tall and reminded Dillon of a prison camp. When he’d asked about it, Rusty said, “The wall? Keeps out grizzlies and the local Evangelists.”
But once Dillon had seen the guards marching the perimeter, he knew they were doing more than bear patrol. Definitely serious stuff going on here.
Money? The whole setup was ludicrous. He was sure he’d seen something comparable to this on a late night Star Trek rerun. The togas, the fake Greek architecture, the orgies. And yet, the sex doctor was making a fortune. Maybe she did need armed guards. Because the security guards were definitely carrying.
The line moved forward, and he realized a woman across the way was waving at him. She was tall and skinny, with big red hair, and wearing green knit pants and a blue halter top. She had to be sixty if she was a day. She pointed to him and then to herself, and Dillon got a sudden sinking feeling. He quickly looked to the head of the line. She was his and she looked like she was ready for fun. He didn’t have time for fun. He was on assignment, such as it was. He glanced back at her, but his eyes snagged on the woman in front of her. Tall and stoop-shouldered, in a god-awful gray suit that made her look like a scared mouse on stilts.
He bet that she wouldn’t be making demands on her slave. She kept looking at the sky, then down to the ground, as though she were expecting rain.
Only on his parade, thought Dillon humorlessly. Then he got a flash of genius. He leaned over the shoulder of the serf in front of him, a stocky weight lifter, named Demetri.
“You want to trade?”
“Huh?” Demetri looked over his shoulder and gave Dillon an incredulous look. “You putting me on? You want the beanpole in the wrinkled suit?”
“Yeah. I do.” The line advanced another spot. “You better decide before it’s too late. Do you want the tall redhead behind her?”
“Like shit, yeah. We’re gonna be stuck with them for three weeks. The redhead was here for the first session. Richer than God and ready to rock ’n’ roll. Thanks, man. I owe you.” He dropped behind Dillon, and Dillon stepped forward just as he reached the head of the line.
Katherine Dane, the business manager, motioned him forward. She was a slim brunette with a smile that could freeze your balls. She lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Dillon, but said, “Ariadne, I’d like you to meet Dillon Cross, your attendant for this session. He’ll see to your luggage and get you settled in the Muses group—cabin twenty-two. Dillon, say hello to Ariadne McAllister.”
Ariadne? If Ms. Mouse’s mother could have seen into the future, she would have chosen a better name. The woman was the least likely candidate for goddess that he had ever seen.
Dillon cleared his throat. “Which suitcases are yours, Ms. McAllister?” He shot her a smile that was as fake as it was brief. He couldn’t bring himself to call her Ariadne.
“I only have one. It has wheels. I can manage.”
“It’s my job. Uh, my pleasure.” Hell, he should have practiced the script he’d been given. “And anyway, the wheels won’t help. Your cabin is uphill through the woods.”
She sighed and pointed to a frayed brown suitcase. He picked it up; a cloud of dust rose around it. God. It must have been in the attic for years. Pitiful.
She was clutching a black backpack to her chest. He reached for it, but she wrenched it away and took a reflexive step back. Good. She was afraid of men. That was even better. He’d be able to devote his time to collecting evidence, without having to worry about her getting in his way.
“If you’ll follow me, your cottage is this way.” He turned and began walking across the grass to the path that led into the trees.
Andy clutched her backpack closer, tucked her chin to her chest so she could see where she was going, and shuffled after him. After a few minutes of panavision green, she ventured a quick glance at her attendant—and stumbled when she got an eyeful of the silk shorts shifting over his glutes. Yowser. She checked out the torso and, yeah, it was just as good. Broad shoulders, muscular arms flexing as he carried her heavy suitcase. She mentally stripped him down to a swimsuit and stretched him out on the hot sands of Acapulco Beach. And tripped again.
He turned around and frowned at her. She ducked her head. They started moving again, and Andy peered out cautiously from above her glasses. No wonder she’d tripped. It wasn’t just the body. They were beginning a steep ascent. Ahead of them she could see a stand of trees that rose steadily upward.
And dead ahead, a tiny opening that marked the beginning of a narrow, graveled path.
Andy gritted her teeth. What happened to elevator to the fourth floor? She didn’t need exercise. She needed a drink with an umbrella in it. She ducked her chin and plowed ahead.
Dillon stopped at the entrance to the woods and turned around to wait for his goddess-in-training. She was struggling along, her head drooped so low that he could see the part that ran down the center of her hair. It was nice hair, thick and deep auburn with red highlights that caught the afternoon sun. But he hadn’t seen a bun like that since his first grade teacher. And that suit and those glasses. Christ. If ever a woman needed a makeover, it was this one.
He shifted his hold on the unwieldy suitcase. It banged against his leg, and he sucked in his breath as pain shot up his thigh. Probably filled with books. He hefted it to his good side and started up the path.
They were barely into the trees when he heard a loud “umph.” He turned just in time to see her pitch forward and hurtle toward him, head down and feet war dancing as she tried to regain her balance. Dillon’s mouth opened in surprise. Before he could react, the top of her head butted into his solar plexus. His breath went out in a whoosh, the suitcase fell to the ground, and for a moment he saw stars.
She squawked and rebounded off him, while Dillon struggled to stay on his feet. The backpack dropped to the ground between them. He was almost positive he heard her say, “Shit.” But he must be mistaken. She didn’t look like the type of woman who said shit, even in private.
She took a step, her foot got hung up in the backpack strap, and she pitched forward again. This time, she fell against him, and his arms automatically closed around her. Her face was mashed against his shoulder, her glasses twisted on her nose, her breasts pressed to his chest. He could tell they were full and ripe, even separated by his shirt and her stupid suit.
And he was hit by a jolt of a totally inappropriate response that went straight to his groin. Christ. He was in sad shape if this poor woman could turn him on. Though she did smell wonderful: jasmine or honeysuckle or—
He pushed her away and settled her onto her feet. She shoved her glasses back up her nose, then dropped to her knees. He leaned over to help her up, then realized she was looking for her backpack. She must be nearly blind. It was right next to her foot. He could have picked it up and handed it to her, but he was mesmerized by the way she moved. A sort of graceful hysteria. And the way her rear end wiggled beneath the suit. She found the backpack and stood up.
He shook his head to clear it. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she said breathlessly. “How much farther?”
“A quarter of a mile.” This time he was sure she said, “Shit.” He picked up her suitcase and started out ahead of her. She stumbled and tripped her way behind him, past two groups of cabins, until they finally arrived at The Muses.
“Number twenty-two,” he said, stopping in the clearing in front of her cabin. “Watch the steps,” he said over his shoulder and climbed up to the porch to open the door.
She managed the steps, shuffled past him, and tripped over the threshold. Dillon shook his head and followed her inside.
While