Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess?. Gemma Bruce

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one.

      He shifted his hold on the unwieldy suitcase. It banged against his leg, and he sucked in his breath as pain shot up his thigh. Probably filled with books. He hefted it to his good side and started up the path.

      They were barely into the trees when he heard a loud “umph.” He turned just in time to see her pitch forward and hurtle toward him, head down and feet war dancing as she tried to regain her balance. Dillon’s mouth opened in surprise. Before he could react, the top of her head butted into his solar plexus. His breath went out in a whoosh, the suitcase fell to the ground, and for a moment he saw stars.

      She squawked and rebounded off him, while Dillon struggled to stay on his feet. The backpack dropped to the ground between them. He was almost positive he heard her say, “Shit.” But he must be mistaken. She didn’t look like the type of woman who said shit, even in private.

      She took a step, her foot got hung up in the backpack strap, and she pitched forward again. This time, she fell against him, and his arms automatically closed around her. Her face was mashed against his shoulder, her glasses twisted on her nose, her breasts pressed to his chest. He could tell they were full and ripe, even separated by his shirt and her stupid suit.

      And he was hit by a jolt of a totally inappropriate response that went straight to his groin. Christ. He was in sad shape if this poor woman could turn him on. Though she did smell wonderful: jasmine or honeysuckle or—

      He pushed her away and settled her onto her feet. She shoved her glasses back up her nose, then dropped to her knees. He leaned over to help her up, then realized she was looking for her backpack. She must be nearly blind. It was right next to her foot. He could have picked it up and handed it to her, but he was mesmerized by the way she moved. A sort of graceful hysteria. And the way her rear end wiggled beneath the suit. She found the backpack and stood up.

      He shook his head to clear it. “Are you okay?”

      “Sure,” she said breathlessly. “How much farther?”

      “A quarter of a mile.” This time he was sure she said, “Shit.” He picked up her suitcase and started out ahead of her. She stumbled and tripped her way behind him, past two groups of cabins, until they finally arrived at The Muses.

      “Number twenty-two,” he said, stopping in the clearing in front of her cabin. “Watch the steps,” he said over his shoulder and climbed up to the porch to open the door.

      She managed the steps, shuffled past him, and tripped over the threshold. Dillon shook his head and followed her inside.

      While he rattled off the list of amenities, Ms. Mouse stood in the center of the room, clutching her backpack and staring at the floor. When he took her suitcase into the bedroom, she followed him to the doorway. He dropped the suitcase on the luggage rack at the end of the bed and started to open it.

      “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

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