Who Wants to Be a Sex Goddess? (18 page)

Of course, they might expect him and Ariadne to make their own heat. Which would have been more than possible a day ago. Right now the only heat he was planning to generate was Andy on the hot seat.

He was early. The door was locked. Maybe she'd bail. That would be the smart thing to do. She must have figured out by now that her reporter story had bombed. She couldn't be looking forward to spending several hours being debriefed.

But there she was, coming up the path, escorted by the high priestess herself and followed by Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum, who immediately took positions on either side of the door. Surely they weren't planning to stay and safeguard Ariadne's questionable virtue. The short one, Carmen, was smiling seraphically. Jane looked as if she'd just swallowed petroleum.

Dr. Bliss nodded to Carmen, and she unlocked the door, while Jane lifted her nose in the air and stared into the trees. Then the head goddess took Ariadne's hands in both of hers and smiled like the all-encompassing goddess that everyone thought she was.

You'd think it was a wedding ceremony, not a night of sex in a tacky fake temple. A spasm of pure panic rushed up his spine.
No sex. Don't even think it,
he warned himself. Tonight would be all business.

Carmen hugged Ariadne, Jane gave her a quick, begrudging peck on the cheek, and he and Ariadne were left alone.

They turned to face each other. Ariadne crossed her arms over her breasts.

She was definitely in a mood. Her face was a mask of boredom, but her eyes bored little holes into his chest where they were focused.

Finally she tipped her face up to look at him. “Why are we here?”

Good. She was already on the defensive. “Because Dr. Bliss ordered it. And I have a few questions that I want the answers to.” He was sure that for a split second, her eyes widened.

“I'm the one that's supposed to be acting out my whatever.”

“Why stop now?” He shoved her through the door.

“That's just so fucking romantic,” said Ariadne.

“It gets better.” He placed his hand on her chest and, resisting the automatic tingle in his fingers, pushed her onto a pile of giant, colorful pillows.

She sank into them, bounced a couple of times, then sat up. “Good God, it's a harem.”

 

The place looked like a high budget remake of
The Sheik,
thought Andy. Huge pillows rose in piles around the room. Plump futons rested against the walls. All were covered in red, purple, blue, and paisley prints. Silk wall hangings billowed each time a breeze came through the grilled windows. There were ornate tables holding fruit and bread and cheese, another with wine and bottled water. Dimly lit lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a warm golden light over everything.

There was a closed door that Andy assumed led to the bathroom. She crawled out of the pillows and went to take a look.

Well, shit. Not just a bathroom, but a blue and white tiled octagonal room, with a circular tub on a raised plinth. And those were definitely Jacuzzi jets that she saw. Plush towels rose out of a wicker basket. And a carved shelf held rows of what appeared to be bath oils.

She shoved that idea to the side. For some reason, Dillon had used her, then dumped her. With no excuse—not even a lame one. She wouldn't fall for that again. She turned to go and stepped on his foot.

“Sorry.”

He didn't look any happier than he had a few minutes ago. It was going to be a long night. She slipped past him into the main room and began looking around.

“What are you doing?” he asked, following her back into the harem room.

“Looking for the panic button.”

He picked up the little buzzer that lay in plain view and gave the cord a yank. It came free in his hand. “Here.” He held it toward her.

“Bastard. Why are you doing this?”

He walked over to the table, poured out one glass of wine. “Take this, it will relax you.”

“I don't need to relax.” But she took the wine. “You're not drinking?”

“Not yet.”

She shrugged, took her glass to the far side of the room, and perched on the edge of the window. “Okay, ask your questions. The girls are playing Scrabble tonight, and I don't want to miss a thrilling minute.”

His lip twitched. Settled back into his permanent scowl.

She took a sip. “You know, if you don't lighten up, you're going to have permanent wrinkles before you're a year older.” She thought she could hear his teeth grinding. Good. Now, if she could just remember the woman who played opposite Valentino, she'd be able to keep this up until he gave up and let her go.

Of course, she could just channel Laura Croft and walk over him to the door. But it wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

 

He was going to lose his temper, or fuck her brains out, and either one would be a disaster. God, he loved it when she was being sarcastic almost as much as he loved her being all over him. He counted to ten. “I don't know what kind of fool you think I am.”

A flicker of confusion.

“You're not a reporter.”

Definitely wariness. She was on her guard. Which was good. Always easier to break a person who was self-editing as they went. He bet he'd trip her up in two, maybe three, minutes.

“Who says?”

He smiled. This was going to be child's play.

“Let's just get on with this and you can get to your Scrabble game.”

He'd hurt her. He could see it in her eyes. He had his own moment of confusion. Playacting. That's what she was doing.

“Who sent you? What are you doing here?” He made his tone as bored as he could muster, which was hard because she had begun playing with the tassels on the sash that wrapped around her waist. Clearly a nervous reaction.

But his reaction was definitely not on the agenda. He was mesmerized by those fingers. Wanted them on his—He shifted on the table. “We don't have all night.”

“Yeah, actually, we do.”

“Ariadne….”

“Why are you being like this? What happened? Why are you angry at me?” Suddenly she was the one doing the questioning, and they were flying at him faster than he could take them in. She was going on the offensive. Fine. It would tire her out pretty quickly.

“Look, I know you're not a reporter. It's a lousy cover anyway. So just tell me who sent you and why.”

She just looked at him. Either she was honestly out of the loop or her little game was going to piss him off really soon.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The disguise. The second-story work. The questions about Imogene Southwaite and Miranda Houston.”

Hmm. She'd flinched at that last one. Where did the Houston woman fit into this? Please, not
another
agent. They'd be falling over each other like the Keystone Kops before this was over.

Nothing but a frown. Okay, maybe it would take more than three minutes.

“I'm on to you. I know about your last hike up the mountain. The phone call.” He stood up, paced the length of the room, and came to a stop in front of her. “Which side are you on?”

A blank look.

He returned to pacing. “Regardless, I gotta tell you, I really hate being used like that. You're attractive. Beautiful, even. But using sex is really a low blow. Even if we're on the same side.” He stopped in front of her again. “But are we?”

Her face went through a sudden transformation he couldn't begin to read. Then her mouth quivered. Damn it, if she tried the innocent crying bit, he'd throttle her. Her lips curved up and she started to shake. Laughter. God damn it. She was laughing.

“Now I get it,” she said. “God, how dense am I? I get it.” She held out her empty wineglass. He took it and refilled it.

“You think I'm—You're?—The knee, the scars.” She slapped her thigh and started laughing.

He didn't see what was so goddamn funny.

“You know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I really need to get a life.”

Now what was she talking about? She was going to drive him crazy.

“But seriously,” she said, chuckling. “Who are you? The police? Is it about Ms. Southwaite's death?” Her face changed, suddenly serious. “But if you're—that means Aunt Mac—” She sprang up. “We've got to do something.”

Dillon tossed back the wine in his glass and poured another. “Why don't we start again? Why are
you
here? Certainly not to learn to be a goddess.” As far as he was concerned she already was one. Even if a corrupt one.

She came toward him. He readied himself for whatever she was going to pull. She poured herself a glass of wine, and he realized he was drinking the one he'd meant for her. She stopped in front of him and gave him an appraising once-over.

“Are
you the police?”

“Why would you think that?”

She sighed. “Because I really don't like to think of you making a living by servicing desperate housewives.”

“I don't.”

“Good. So what do you do? I mean, normally…for a living?”

She was very clever or she was an amateur. He went back on the offensive. “Look. I think we've established you're not some innocent bystander. Which means you're either working for Goddess International or for some other organization. Which is it?”

She shook her head at him, an ironic smile playing at her mouth. If he weren't in the middle of an interrogation, he'd kiss that smile away. Push her down in the pillows and make love to her until they were both senseless—and blow this assignment for his trouble. “I'm waiting.”

She studied his face. Looking for what?

Finally, she said, “You're one of the good guys, right?”

Okay, give a little, get a little. He'd take the chance. One way or the other, he'd learn something from her response. “I like to think so.”

She let out a huge sigh. “Thank God. I was afraid for a minute you might have been sent to spy on me.”

She was going to drive him mad. If her words didn't, the way she was chewing on her lip would. “Are you?”

“One of the good guys? Of course.”

“Then tell me who sent you.”

“My mother.”

He ground his teeth. Prayed for patience. “Let me put it this way, who do you work for?”

“Well I'm a member of SAG, but I'm a freelancer.”

SAG?
He'd never heard of it. Of course, agencies came and went so fast it was hard to keep track of them all. His eyes narrowed. “Are you a fed?”

“Only in the movies.” She walked away from him, turned back.

“The movies?” Now what was she talking about.

“I thought you had it figured out.”

He hesitated. He thought he had, too. Now it fell into place. SAG. Screen Actors' Guild. She was an actress. Or was this just another cover?

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A fed.” Something flickered across her face. Disappointment? “Were you using me to get information, you know, when we—”

He shook his head. “Were you?”

“Of course not.”

He shouldn't feel so relieved. He should be concentrating. “Okay. Let's just say I'm willing to believe that you're an actress.”

“I'm not an actress. Exactly.”

“Okay. You want to be an actress.”

“Not me. I'd be bored stiff if all I did was say lines thirty seconds at a time and look pretty.”

Maybe she was just insane.

She pursed her lips at him. “I'm a stuntwoman.”

“A stunt—?”

“Woman,” she finished.

Now, there was a cover. No wonder she could climb into second-story windows and scale walls, and—better not to think of what else she was able to do. “But you're not here to become a sex goddess.”

“Well, it wouldn't hurt.”

Okay. She was a stuntwoman, who wanted to be a sex goddess. He really wanted to believe that.

“But I came to look for Aunt Mac. Miranda Houston. She left in the middle of the last session and no one has heard from her. And then Liz, that's my sister, saw an article in the paper about Imogene Southwaite falling to her death, and they, Liz, Betty, Lucian, and my mother, being who they are, decided that Mac was in mortal danger and they packed me off to find out what happened to her.”

“So thinking there was foul play, these people sent you into a possibly dangerous situation, with only a bun and fake glasses for protection?”

“They knew I could take care of myself.”

“Your mother must be frantic.”