When she tripped for the third time, Dillon overcame his resolution to keep several feet between them and took her elbow.
Her arm grew rigid beneath his touch. Well, tough. He didn’t want to show up at breakfast with a scraped and bloodied remedial goddess in tow. He’d already taken a shitload of ribbing for dumping water over her the night before. Had been forced to listen to a few jokes about her idea of toga wear, and his taste in women.
They tromped down the path together, way too close for Dillon’s comfort, Ariadne taking in quick, short breaths beside him. As soon as they reached the lawn, she attempted to move away, but Dillon held on, and halfway to the main building, she seemed to resign herself to his help and relaxed against him.
So she wasn’t entirely a cold fish. Maybe she was just out of shape. Whatever it was, it made his pulse jump and sent warmth shooting through his arms and legs to settle low in his belly. He gritted his teeth, concentrated his thoughts on his mission, and managed to get her into the dining hall without throwing her on the grass and tearing off her clothes to see what was really underneath. This really had to stop.
Fortunately, breakfast was buffet style, and as soon as they were inside the door, he steered her toward the line in front of the warming trays and pushed a plate into her hands.
“Be right back.” He hurried off to his wait station to pick up a coffeepot and get back before she made it through the line. He didn’t trust her to carry an egg-laden plate across the room to her seat. The possibilities were unnerving.
He’d just reached the table, when Demetri came up and slapped him on the back. “Saw you come in with the frump. Don’t tell me she put out on the first night.” He reached past Dillon for a white thermal carafe.
“Show some respect, will you?”
Demetri grinned. “Anything worth looking at under all those clothes?”
Dillon put down the coffee carafe he’d just picked up. “Shut the hell up.”
Demetri glanced down at Dillon’s leg. “Ooh. Scary. Think you could take me with that gimpy knee?”
“If I have to.” He could still hold his own, even with his “gimpy” knee, the ravaged muscles in his thigh, his trick elbow, and the metal plate in his head.
“Hey, you guys are blocking the way.” Rusty was carrying a tray with juice pitchers.
Dillon stepped aside, glad of the interruption. Demetri didn’t move.
“I said you’re in my way,” said Rusty.
Demetri moved an inch to the side. “Is this better?”
“You’re pathetic.” Rusty tried to ease past him.
“My goddess doesn’t think so.” Demetri held his hand in front of Rusty’s face. A sapphire ring glinted from his little finger.
Rusty quickly looked around. “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. You know the rules, no seducing, no bragging—”
“Not me, man. I just did what she told me to do.” His thick eyebrows lifted in mock astonishment. “And, man, can that woman talk.”
“And no accepting gifts,” Rusty continued. “It’s in our contract, and you could get the rest of us in trouble.”
Demetri shrugged. “Relax. It’s just a trinket. No big deal.”
“You’d better not let JoJo see it.”
“Oooh, think he’ll spank me?” Demetri smiled. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing like a wealthy widow to set my blood on fi—er.” He did a little shimmy; his chest moved in one solid piece. “She’s old and saggy, I don’t care how many lifts she’s had. But hey, you gotta pay to play. I mean to play.” He wiggled his pinkie at them and walked away.
“I hate that guy,” said Rusty. “This is a great job and he’s going to ruin it for everybody.”
Dillon nodded and followed him to their table. He’d never been the chivalrous type, but there was something about Demetri’s attitude toward the women here that made Dillon see red.
Ariadne was already seated, and he realized he’d forgotten about her. Someone else must have helped her. Thank God for small favors.
Rusty put down his tray and stopped to talk to his goddess, a lady with a blue perm. Dillon moved to the far side of the table and began pouring coffee, concentrating on not spilling it on the goddesses or on the daily schedules they had spread across the table.
“I’m thinking about starting with Elements of Flirtation.”
Dillon carefully filled the cup and moved to Ariadne’s place.
“Not me,” said the redhead. “I’m going straight to Pussy Empowerment.”
Dillon fumbled his carafe. There was an intake of breath from the goddesses. He held on until the carafe settled back into his hand. Christ. It was hard enough pouring coffee while getting goosed, stroked, and fondled without having to listen to their plans for flirtation and God knew what else.
The redhead grinned at him. “Did I embarrass you, sugah?” She turned to Ariadne. “What about you, honey? What workshop are you goin’ to?”
“Uh,” said his goddess.
Well, that was a relief. He couldn’t imagine Ariadne empowering her—he couldn’t even say the word. Maybe he should take a look at the course list and give her some advice. She wasn’t really cut out for this kind of thing.
Actually, neither was he.
“What do you suggest?” asked Ariadne, lowering her glasses to watch Dillon walk away. God, he was gorgeous. She wondered what he usually did for a living. Surely he didn’t work the circuit of sex therapy workshops. It gave her the creeps to think of him waiting on woman after woman. Servicing woman after woman.
He didn’t even seem that comfortable around women. Maybe he was a cowboy; that scar on his back could have been caused by a bull. But his knee. She shuddered just thinking about it.
“Honey, are you all right?” asked Loubelle. “You’re not still upset about that little accident with the water pitcher last night, are you?”
“Well, you shouldn’t be,” said Jeannie.
“No, you shouldn’t,” agreed Evelyn, giving Jeannie a pointed look.
Jeannie looked innocent. “He was probably nervous. It’s obvious the poor man isn’t comfortable being around so many desirable women. Though with his looks, I don’t know why not. I could eat him with a spoon.”
Desirable wasn’t exactly the word she would have chosen to describe her fellow goddesses. There was something desperate about their need to control.
Okay, so maybe she was just jealous. She’d never had control of anything, except her stunt work. And half the time that went to hell, too. She had the scars to prove it.
Maybe she did need a little goddess training.
She picked up her schedule and began to peruse it. In the end, she opted for a workshop called Knowing What You Want. Which seemed like a good place to start, since she didn’t have a clue.
Chapter 4
Three hours later, Andy still didn’t know what she wanted or how to get it. Not that Carmen, the spitfire acolyte, didn’t do her best. She was a dynamo, all four-foot-eleven of her. Her hair was a riot of tight curls. Stretch capris molded themselves to muscular legs, and a knit top draped off her shoulders—a twenty-first century happening kind of goddess. Her tight little body thrummed with energy