The room, as one, sprang to its feet, and deafening applause reverberated through the air. Dr. Bliss walked to the podium, and Katherine Dane stepped into the background. The supreme goddess lifted her hands, palms upward, and though to Andy it looked like a gesture to continue their accolades, the hall immediately became quiet and everyone returned to their seats.
Except for her two acolytes. They stood at chairs on either side of the doctor. There was a brief standoff as the two women eyed each other, and not at all worshipfully. A slight gesture by Dr. Bliss and they sat simultaneously.
Dr. Bliss was close to six feet tall, strikingly poised with classical features and silver hair that was swept back in an elaborate coiffure. She wore a sleek, floor-length caftan decorated in gold braid. She looked magnificent with the row of slaves creating an exotic tableau behind her.
Silence fell over the room, and Dr. Bliss thanked her “dear Katherine” for the lovely introduction. Andy’s gaze drifted back to Dillon. He was staring down at the floor, completely motionless.
She turned her attention back to Dr. Bliss, who began talking about finding your inner goddess and how the classes at the retreat would help your self-fulfillment. How women could empower themselves and find satisfaction by discovering their essential woman-ness. The audience hung on her every word.
“Our detractors dismiss the precepts of the goddess program as mere sex therapy.” She smiled across the rows of listeners. “But it isn’t just about sex…It’s about power.”
Andy could swear she heard eighty slave gonads shrivel up and play dead.
Dr. Bliss began to introduce the staff, starting with the priestesses at the far end of the table. Each stood and smiled and nodded to the audience when her name was called, then sat down as the next one was named.
The pajama-wearing hulk was Hans somebody, the retreat’s masseur, and more, if the sighs around Andy meant anything more than wishful thinking.
Then the doctor turned and smiled down at the smaller man. “And this is my husband and help mate, Bernard Bliss, who will be conducting the Eternal Orgasm sessions.”
Bernard Bliss stood up and with a deprecating smile, nodded to his high priestess wife. She began the applause that was quickly taken up enthusiastically throughout the room.
Andy stared. There was the sex guru, surrounded by forty half-naked studs, and the nerd with the sweaty forehead was giving her eternal orgasms. Hell. Life was sometimes stranger than the movies.
When the applause finally died down and Mr. Bliss had taken his seat, Dr. Bliss smiled between the two remaining women. “And these are my assistants, Jane Parsons and Carmen Gutierrez.”
The two women stood. Jane was a tall, svelte blonde; Carmen was dark and compact. They smiled at their mentor and glared at each other. Dr. Bliss sang their praises, carefully alternating their names as she spoke, meticulously showing no favoritism. Still, the icy looks they reserved for each other boded no good. No doubt about it, thought Andy. There was trouble in Goddess Land.
The dining hall was set with round tables covered in white linen tableclothes. Andy sighed with relief that she wouldn’t have to eat while lounging on pillows, though she’d been looking forward to peeking up Dillon Cross’s kilt when he leaned over to pour her wine. He definitely had the kind of body that rang bells in her libido.
She stood just inside the door and pushed her glasses down to the tip of her nose. The glasses were a real nuisance. She couldn’t find her dinner mates. How could she find evidence of her missing aunt? They’d have to meet with an untimely demise. And soon.
After a minute, she spotted Jeannie’s red hair at a table at the back of the room. She was draped over the stocky attendant named Demetri.
Dillon was standing with his back to Andy. She just caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders before he was blocked from view by a passing group of goddesses. The last woman trailed a finger along the edge of his kilt.
Dillon jumped as if he’d been goosed, and Andy felt a rush of possessiveness. He was her attendant. She shoved her glasses up and hurried toward her place.
By the time she reached him, he was a mere blur, but she could swear she’d recognize him by his scent, which was soap and all man. He stepped back and she sprawled across a chair, that she hadn’t seen. He must have just pulled it out for her. As she struggled to get up, a hand grasped each of her arms, and she was lifted into the seat. Then he shoved the chair closer to the table, while Andy blushed hot with embarrassment and frustration.
It killed her to not be able to tell him what she was really like, that she could out-goddess Athena without breaking a sweat.
“Better?” he asked, leaning close to her. His breath was warm and tickled her ear. Her nipples tightened beneath her toga and shirt.
I’d be a lot better if you’d just take me under this table, she thought, but she said, “Yes. Thank you.” And stared down at her plate—at least she thought it was a plate—until he moved away.
Dillon was feeling more kindly toward Ms. Mouse. And grateful. She was the only woman who hadn’t tried to grope him since he’d donned his damn kilt. He began to fill glasses from a heavy silver water pitcher and felt a twinge in his elbow. Christ, he couldn’t even pour water without pain.
At least he didn’t have to carry the heavy tray of covered dishes that Demetri was wielding like a Frisbee. He braced his arm with his other hand and leaned over to fill his goddess’s glass.
He felt something crawl up his inside thigh.
What the hell? He was thinking bug, when a hand slipped between his legs and cupped his jockstrap. He jerked up; water sloshed out of the pitcher, splashing the table.
He’d spoken too soon. The bitch had just goosed him. He turned on her, frowning. She was glaring back at him. And with good cause. She was drenched. Water ran off her hair and fell in drops off her nose. Her toga and that prim white shirt she wore underneath it were soaked through.
His anger quickly took a backseat to lust as his gaze stuck on the full, rounded breasts that were outlined by the wet fabric. His mouth opened involuntarily. And he was hit with an image of Ms. Mouse with her thick hair flowing down her back, her toga without the tailored shirt wet and clinging to luscious curves.
The hand settled back on his crotch and squeezed.
He glowered down at Ariadne. She was using both hands to wipe water out of her eyes. He whirled around and caught the wrist of the woman on his other side, just as she pulled her hand out of his kilt. It was the redhead he’d traded away that morning.
“Oops,” she said, grinning, and picked up her knife and fork.
He turned back to Ariadne, dimly aware that everyone was gaping at her. Great. He’d probably be fired. Wouldn’t that just seal his future for him. He couldn’t even handle an assignment this simple. But one look at the dripping woman and he forgot his own problems. She looked mortified. He was such an ass.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am. Are you okay?” Not waiting for an answer, he handed her a linen napkin.
She snatched it from him and wiped her face. When she took it away, a smudge of pasty beige had transferred from her face to the napkin. Across her cheek was a patch of darker skin. Ms. Mouse had a tan…that she was covering up. Had someone told her a tan wasn’t sexy? Didn’t she ever watch television? Go to the movies? Maybe the tan stopped at her neck. That would explain the buttoned-up shirt.
She stood up and tossed the napkin on the table. She mumbled something and stumbled away, leaving her glasses next to her plate.
He grabbed them and went after her.
By the