Who Wants to Be a Sex Goddess?

by Gemma Bruce

  “Yes.”

  “You found the deceased?”

  “Yes.” So far things were proceeding according to script. She let out air and felt her shoulders relax.

  “Can you tell us what you saw?”

  Andy did, faltering only when she came to the part about Dillon being there. But if he’d killed Demetri, they probably already knew about it. Maybe even ordered him to do it. She told them about Jeannie coming in and screaming.

  All the while she knew the man in the suit was watching her. She could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, analyzing everything she said.

  And you’ve been doing too many movies, girl.

  The officer asked her a few more questions: Why she’d come to the Spa. What was her relationship to the deceased? What was her relationship with Jeannie Jenkins? What was Jeannie’s relationship to the deceased?

  Finally, Andy’s curiosity got the better of her. “Why are you asking all these questions?” Andy saw his gaze flick past her to the man stationed behind her. It was an involuntary reaction; she doubted if he was even aware of it.

  “Just routine,” he said. “It says here, you’re a librarian.”

  “What?” Oh, great, she’d forgotten that her nutcase family had filled out the forms. It was anybody’s guess what other outlandish things they’d made up about her.

  How the hell was she going to explain this without making herself look like a pathological liar—or the perfect suspect.

  “Ms. McAllister?”

  Andy thought furiously. “I’m . . . not working at the moment.” That was true enough.

  Once again his gaze flicked past her, a frown passed over his face. Then he said, “That’s all for now, Ms. McAllister. Please stay by the pool area in case we have more questions.”

  She stood up and headed for the door, but she couldn’t resist a quick look at the man who seemed to be controlling the investigation without ever saying a word.

  He met her look, but his eyes, his expression, his body gave nothing away.

  The officer who’d accompanied her to the Spa was waiting outside the door. As he ushered her down the hall, she saw another policeman bringing Jeannie in. She was clinging to him, looking small and old. Andy gave her an encouraging smile as they passed, but it only made Jeannie cry all the more.

  More policemen had arrived, and they were standing in a group looking over the crowd. Ariadne received several lasciv-ious—and a couple of disgusted—looks as she passed by. She ignored them. This must be what Katherine was talking about. It was obvious that the local force didn’t think highly of Terra Bliss.

  Andy looked out across the pool and thought how ridiculous they all looked, playing goddess and slave. Empowering themselves by dressing up in silly costumes.

  A siren cranked up, jolting her out of her thoughts. The ambulance drove slowly around to the back of the Spa. They were going to take Demetri out through the delivery door.

  For the next hour, Andy watched people go into the Spa and return. Dr. Bliss made brief appearances, then left Katherine to wander through the crowd, offering support. Andy wasn’t surprised when she stopped at their table. She said a few words to Jeannie, then turned to Andy.

  “Ariadne,” she said in her slightly toneless voice. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” said Andy, though suddenly she was bone tired.

  “Good. Dr. Bliss was concerned. They should be dismissing us soon. I know this can be very depressing. But you mustn’t dwell on it. Try to get some sleep. And be sure to attend the meditation session in the morning. It will help free you of any underlying stress or anxiety caused by this unhappy event.”

  “Do they know how he died?” asked Loubelle.

  “Heart attack is the initial diagnosis. Though I believe the poor man drowned.”

  “Oh,” said Loubelle, distress making her drawl more pronounced.

  “I’m sure he didn’t suffer. Tomorrow, Ariadne.” She melted away just as the group of policemen Andy had encountered at the Spa door appeared on the perimeter and began to spread through the crowd. They took statements while giving the goddesses a variety of unprofessional looks.

  At last, they were all dismissed to return to their cabins.

  Andy hadn’t seen Dillon since the proceedings began, so she was surprised to find him standing off to the side, talking to the man in the suit. Well, not surprised, exactly.

  The man was smiling. Dillon looked mutinous. She was confused. Were they colleagues? Or was the suit about to arrest him? Did he think Dillon killed Demetri? Did she?

  She frowned. Why was she thinking it? She knew Dillon hadn’t killed Demetri. Fear probably. It could really screw with your mind.

  She really wanted to know where he’d been the whole time the questioning was going on, but she was too far away to catch his eye. Too tired to wait for him to finish. Too depressed to do anything but sleep.

  ———

  “Go ahead, Talbot, enjoy yourself,” said Dillon as he watched Andy walk toward the woods.

  Grayson Talbot chuckled. “I think you look cute in a skirt.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, but don’t stand with your back to any open windows.” Then he realized Talbot was also watching Andy.

  Talbot shook his head. “I gotta tell you, Cross. You sure know how to pick them.”

  “I believe you assigned me this case.”

  “Lighten up. I was talking about the auburn-haired beauty.” Talbot drew his attention back to Dillon, but there was still a ghost of an appreciative smile on his face. “So what do you want to know about her? I’ve had the info for a day and a half now. Just waiting for you to pick it up. You haven’t been too prompt with your communications.”

  Dillon gave him a look. “It’s what we thought. The airways are scrambled inside the compound. I can only send and receive outside the walls. Which means climbing over a twelve-foot wall and hiking up the mountain to chat.”

  Talbot whistled. “Getting your exercise, I see.”

  “I’m also working out and running five miles a day.”

  “Chill. You’re too damn defensive.”

  “I have reason to be.”

  “Bullshit. You don’t have to kill yourself proving that you’re still useful. You are. It was never a question on our end. Just on yours.”

  Dillon fought the urge to clench his fists. Breathe. Be cool.

  Talbot saw his reaction anyway. He always knew how to read Dillon and vice versa. It was what made them such good friends, what made them trust each other with their lives. And Dillon had almost let him down.

  “Let it go, Cross.”

  Dillon nodded, just a quick jerk of his head. Sometimes it was awful being with someone who could read your thoughts. Like Talbot—like Andy. She could read his thoughts, too. It had been stupid to let her get so close to him. He’d learned his lesson with Isabelle. He didn’t think he’d ever forget it. And here he was, not even a year later, falling for Ariadne McAllister.

  “So do you want to hear the inside tract on your Ms. McAllister?”

  Dillon started. “She’s not mine.”

  Talbot raised one eyebrow and Dillon braced himself. “But I think you’d like her to be.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I never make the same mistake twice.”

  Talbot slowly shook his head. “So you got involved with Isabelle. It’s one of the hazards of deep cover. You start acting the part, the boundaries of reality get fuzzy. It happens to the best agents. That’s why we have debriefings. Isabelle was a pro and a damned good one. It could have been any of us.”

  “But it was me.”

  “And you took her out when you had to.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And pulled the mission out of the toilet.”

  “Dumb luck.”

  “Maybe, but luck counts.” He was silent for a moment. And the two men looked straight ahead, out over the dark lawn, not needing to see each other to feel the camaraderie and trust between them. “
Don’t let what happened with Isabelle sour your chance of a healthy relationship.”

  Dillon snorted. “Great advice. I don’t see a wife hanging on your arm.”

  A slow grin spread over Talbot’s mouth. “Wife, huh?”

  “You know what I mean. What did you find out about her?”

  “That she’s not a librarian.”

  “Hardly.”

  “That’s what it said on her application to Terra Bliss. I don’t know why she thought she needed three weeks at this place. If you ask me, if she unleashed any more sexual clout, we’d all be on our knees.”

  Dillon cut him a look.

  Talbot held up his hands. “Not me. But she’s not a reporter, either. You’ll never guess what she really is.”

  “A stuntwoman.”

  Talbot’s face fell. “If you already knew that, why have I had four people and computers on it for two days?”

  “I just found out. Yesterday. She came here—in disguise.” He couldn’t completely keep a reminiscent smile off his face. “Her aunt was here at the last session and has disappeared.” He filled Talbot in on everything Andy had told him.

  “Think her disappearance is connected to the Southwaite death?”

  “It could be. It could be totally unrelated.”

  “But this death is number three anomaly. Too many coincidences.”

  “I don’t think Demetri died of a heart attack. Somebody killed him to keep him silent. He broke rules right and left. He never got fired. That says to me that he was holding something over someone’s head.”

  “Fiona Bliss?”

  “Bliss, her husband, or Katherine Dane, the business manager. He’d been bragging that he knew stuff, but wouldn’t elaborate. I searched his possessions, came up with zip.”

  Talbot rocked back on his heels, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I suppose we’ll have to stick with this investigation. But try to wrap this up as quickly as possible. The Southwaite family is breathing down our necks.”

  “I will. But do me a favor.”

  Talbot cocked his head.

  “Take Andy—Ariadne—out of here. If they know she’s here because of Miranda Houston, they might try to kill her, too.”

  “You think there’s a danger of them finding out?”

  “They already have her under surveillance.”

  Talbot whistled softly, but he had a gleam in his eye that Dillon didn’t like. He was already shaking his head, when Talbot said, “Bait.”

  “No.” Dillon rasped out the word. “I can’t protect her and continue to investigate.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “If I fuck this up . . .”

  “You won’t. Give yourself a break, Dil. If you decide to leave after this is over, fine. Until then, get back on the damn horse.” And with that, he sauntered away.

  Dillon stood watching until he climbed back into the black car and it drove out the gates of Terra Bliss.

  The night air turned frigid, and he crossed his arms under the skimpy cloak and started up the hill. There was a serpent in this pseudo-paradise. He’d be damned if he let Ariadne become the next victim.

  Her cabin light was still on, and as Dillon got closer, he could hear people talking. She wasn’t alone. He felt inordinately disappointed. He was cold, and he wanted Andy to warm him. He wanted to ask her questions about tonight. He wanted to warn her to be careful, ask her to leave. But most of all, he wanted to make mindless, raging love to her.

  To hell with girl talk. He stepped onto the porch and knocked. Andy answered. She’d changed to sweats. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. And she was frowning.

  “Evelyn and Loubelle brought Jeannie over. She’s really upset.”

  I’ll bet, thought Dillon. Because if one of the Terra Bliss scions hadn’t killed Demetri, his bet was on Jeannie Jenkins. “Is this girls only?”

  “Well,” Andy began.

  “No,” said Jeannie, her voice thick from a night of continuous crying. “Come tell us what they said to you.”

  Andy shrugged and let him in.

  Evelyn and Loubelle were sitting on the couch with Jeannie between them. Louis and Rusty sat on the floor. Dillon was surprised to see them. He hadn’t heard their voices. They both nodded at Dillon. Dillon nodded back.

  A box of crackers and a bowl of limp grapes were placed on the coffee table. Three bottles of wine were lined up next to them. One was already empty.

  Drowning our sorrows, thought Dillon as Andy wordlessly filled a plastic glass and handed it to him.

  She sat in the club chair across from the couch. Dillon sat down on the arm. Just being this close to her made him feel warmer. He longed to touch her, to run his fingers through her hair, to make love to her until the image of Demetri floating in the water was banished from his mind, taking all the other deaths he’d witnessed—had caused—with it.

  “Was it really a heart attack?” asked Jeannie.

  “That’s what they’re saying,” said Dillon.

  “But you were in there for so long. You must know something more.” Jeannie’s expression was so pitiful that Dillon felt bad about having to lie—but not bad enough.

  Jeannie sniffed. “They think I was responsible.”

  “No, no,” everyone expostulated. Loubelle patted her hand. Louis shook his head. Evelyn pursed her lips at Dillon, then said, “Of course not. You can’t give someone a heart attack.”

  Not unless you have the right drugs, thought Dillon and wondered if Jeannie had a heart condition. It wasn’t clear that Demetri’s death had anything to do with Southwaite’s death or Houston’s disappearance. But it was damn suspicious. Someone might take advantage of those incidences to do Demetri in and make it look like it was related. It could be anybody. Jeannie. Rusty? Hell. JoJo had been mad enough to commit murder when they refused to fire Demetri. They all had motives.

  But Demetri’s death hadn’t been an act of passion. It was cold, and it was premeditated. He glanced down at Andy. At least he could rule her out. He’d been following her all night. But he could tell from her expression that she wasn’t so sure about him.

  He dragged his attention from Andy’s face and looked sympathetically at Jeannie. “You’re not thinking clearly. You should get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

  “We all need some rest,” Evelyn said and pushed to her feet. Rusty and Louis stood. Rusty helped Loubelle up, then turned to Jeannie. “Come on, Jeannie. We’ll see you home.”

  “You can stay with me tonight,” said Evelyn and led the way outside.

  “Smooth,” said Andy. She began to clear off the table. Dillon grabbed the empty bottles and followed her into the kitchen, where she was dropping everything into the garbage can. Dillon tossed the bottles after the grapes.

  Andy leaned her back against the counter and watched him.

  He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Maybe finding a dead body in the whirlpool?”

  He stepped toward her. “I know. I’m sorry. What made you look in the Spa?”

  “I saw the light and—” She broke off. “And what were you doing there, standing in the dark? And who was that man in the suit you were talking to? Just what and who are you, Dillon Cross?”

  So much for questioning her. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Maybe they should forget about the investigation until later. He slipped his arms around her and pulled her away from the counter.

  She gave him a look. “Dillon . . .”

  “Hmmm,” he said, breathing in her hair.

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Hmmm.” He found the bottom of her sweatshirt, dipped his fingers beneath it. Pulled her close, while his hands explored her back. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “You’re trying to distract me.”

  He rubbed against her. “Is it working?”

  “Hmmm.” She unfastened the pin that held his cloak together. It f
ell to the floor. She pressed both palms to his chest, and he felt suddenly warm. Warm. Hell. He was getting hotter by the second.

  He pulled off her sweatshirt, found the elastic of her sweatpants, and pushed his hands beneath it. Spread his fingers across her firm butt. Slid lower. She wasn’t wearing underwear. His dick swelled against her stomach.

  “Hold that thought.” He pulled his hands out of her pants, lifted his kilt, and pulled off his jockstrap, freeing his erection. He sighed and tossed the jockstrap across the room.

  A tremor passed through her.

  “Laugh. Go ahead.” He thrust his hands back into her sweats.

  She rubbed against him. “After we’ve had our way with each other . . .” Her hands moved from his chest to his ribs. He flinched as she touched the ticklish part of him. “After the torture and the tease . . .” Her hands slid between their bodies, over the rough chest hair, tweaked his nipples. “After all that . . .” Her hands moved to his kilt. Found the buttons and undid them. She tossed his kilt across the room to join the jockstrap. And he was standing butt naked in front of the cabin window.

  He tried to shift them out of the light, but she grabbed his butt and pulled him back. “After that . . .” She started to pull him to the floor.

  “Wait,” he said. He grasped her wrists and steered her across the floor.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bedroom. Bed. Mattress. White sheets. Pillows.”

  “Missionary position?”

  “Whatever works.” He kicked the bedroom door open and tossed her onto the bed. She stretched out her arms and he fell into her.

  “After that,” said Andy, cupping his butt, “you’re going to tell me exactly what happened tonight in the whirlpool.”

  Chapter 21

  Well, this was novel, thought Andy as she stretched along Dillon’s body between the covers, flesh to flesh, front to front. She sighed contentedly. They’d just had missionary sex and it was incredible. Who knew that you didn’t have to swing from the chandeliers to make sex everything that it should be and more.

  She had to admit this was really good. No pebbles sticking in your butt. No slippery shower tiles to balance on. No fighting off smothering pillows to get to the yummy parts of each other. Beds were good.