“Don’t,” she cried.
Dillon jerked his hand back. Her undies must be near the top. He walked around the bed to the window, pulled back the gauzy curtains and pushed up the sash. Fresh mountain air filled the room. “Well, that about does it.”
She was still standing in the doorway. Dillon squeezed past her and felt a definite zing again. He forced himself not to breathe in her scent as he inched his way toward the front door.
“The air-conditioning, heat controls, and light switches are on this wall. The orientation meeting is at five. Do you need an escort? I’d be happy to come back…” Shit, he was babbling. There was no way he was coming back.
She shook her head, reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and held it out in his direction.
Dillon rolled his eyes. “We’re not allowed to accept tips, but thanks for the thought. Gotta go.” And he went.
As soon as Andy heard the screen door bang shut, she threw off her glasses and ran to the window. Dillon Cross was loping off down the path, in a slightly irregular gait that she recognized all too well. Every time she fell off a horse, or jumped out of a moving car, she ran like that for the next several days. God, she hadn’t hurt him, had she?
Damn, Lucian and his credibility nonsense. She’d almost neutered the guy when he tried to keep her from falling. And that would have been a shame. He was definitely hot.
What was wrong with her? A woman’s first response to a sexy man’s touch should be to kiss him, not deck him. Too many R-rated action films, she guessed. She needed a life…one where she played herself and lived happily ever after without ever having to leap from another burning building or karate chop her way through another gang of bad-guy ninjas.
She sank down on the windowsill as Dillon and his little blue outfit rounded a turn and disappeared into the woods. Tall, dark, and handsome—and pure temptation in those little shorts.
She was dressed like Miss Marple and had no choice but to act the part.
Chapter 2
Andy knew that sitting on a windowsill, mooning over a stranger in a gym suit, was not going to find her aunt. If Mac even needed finding.
It occurred to her, though only for an unguarded second, that the whole thing had been a ploy by her family to keep her from going to Acapulco and acting out another chapter in her love-’em-and-get-left lifestyle. They were always trying to lure her away from relationships with actors. They thought she should hook up with a steady “stuntman”—like she needed more broken bones in her life.
Andy pushed to her feet and looked around. The décor of her cottage was disappointingly banal after the Greco hype of the larger Terra Bliss buildings. The walls were painted off-white. Instead of a gilt-edged chaise, an apartment-sized couch covered in a nubby tweed fabric rested against one wall. A light wood coffee table stood in front of it, and two matching end tables flanked each side.
An alcove to the right held a small kitchen just large enough for a counter with a toaster, blender, and coffeemaker lined up across the top, and an apartment-sized fridge underneath. A look inside the fridge revealed a bowl of grapes and a carton of skim milk, presumably for the coffee. But who was going to peel the grapes? The man in the blue gym shorts? Andy sighed. Not likely. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
She wandered into the bedroom and kicked off her shoes. The bed was covered with a white chenille bedspread and was large enough for two. Too bad she was solo. At least, she could catch up on some sleep while she was searching for Mac. She stopped at the luggage rack and flipped open her suitcase. She pushed aside the layer of underwear and the string bikini she’d brought on a whim.
Next came several pair of khaki slacks and oversized shirts. And beneath them, a coil of rope, a grapple hook, a flashlight, and a digital camera—all compliments of her demented family. And a bag of “necessities” from Betty. Not bath oil, nail polish, and eau de cologne, but two flares, a waterproof bottle of matches, and a compass. What were they expecting? A midnight escape from Goddess Land?
It was obvious that Andy wasn’t the only one in the family who had been in the stunt business too long.
She took the last item out of her suitcase. A box of condoms that she’d hidden on the bottom, just in case she could still make Acapulco. But hell, you never knew. She pulled out the drawer of the bedside table and dropped them in.
She sank down on the bed, and a cloud of white chiffon rose up on each side of her. She stood up and lifted it off the bed. A flowing length of sheer material. She held it up in front of her and turned to the full-length mirror.
A toga. Not a toga but a…chiton. That’s what wardrobe called the ankle-length garment she’d worn while filming Return of the Barbarians. One flimsy square of fabric, pinned at the shoulders with gold clips and gathered at the waist with a golden cord. It wouldn’t hide a birthmark, much less a bronzed, muscular stuntwoman’s body. Hell. She knew what she looked like in a chiton. She’d trashed fifteen of them in Barbarians, when she’d had to save the hero by leaping from her horse into his runaway chariot. She’d wrestled the rolling-eyed team to a stop with one hand while fighting off the hordes with a scimitar. All the while, the hero’s stunt double had lain at her feet with an arrow in his shoulder.
She’d dragged him to safety, past thundering hooves and revolving wheels, dust and flying pebbles. As soon as they were out of frame, the director called “Cut,” and the actors who had whiled away those fifteen takes in their air-conditioned trailers appeared—artistically torn and dirty—for the love scene. While they lay artfully arranged in a nest of PVC rubble, Ariadne had limped off to the first aid tent.
The stars had actually told a morning talk show host that they did their own stunts.
Ha. If twisting the top off a bottle of spring water was a stunt.
She wasn’t complaining. The money was good and the thrills were addictive. But something told her that wearing a toga while playing a plain Jane was going to push the parameters of her acting abilities.
She went back into the living room and picked up the Welcome folder from the coffee table. On top was the day’s schedule. Five o’clock orientation in the Pantheon Auditorium. Followed by dinner and a dessert party. Togas mandatory.
“So help me, Mac, if you’re sitting at home with a double bourbon and water, while I’m flitting around in a nightgown…”
She glanced at her watch. Four-twenty. That gave her forty minutes to transform herself into a Greek wallflower and stumble her myopic way downhill to the Pantheon. She headed for the shower, unbuttoning and unzipping and leaving pieces of her suit on the floor behind her.
Dillon stood in the employee’s lounge along with forty other men. He, like the others, was wearing his kilt. He was one of six new guys, who stood uncomfortably to one side of the veterans, who laughed and joked as if wearing a skirt and being a slave was a normal line of work. JoJo Carmichael waved from the other side of the room and came toward them, weaving through the other groups of men. He was on the short side, well-proportioned, with large blue eyes and a sweep of blond hair that fell over one eye. Definitely a ladies’ man, thought Dillon. He was also the veteran attendant in charge of training and making sure things didn’t get out of hand.
He reached the newbies and cast an exasperated look at the man standing next to Dillon. Then he lifted the hem of the man’s kilt to reveal a pair of light blue boxers.
“Tsk tsk,” he said, shaking his head. “No boxers. It’s for your own good. As you will soon see. Now, go take them off and contain the jewels.”
The slave blushed and slumped away. JoJo turned to Dillon.
“Jockstrap,” he mumbled before JoJo