Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess?. Gemma Bruce
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess? - Gemma Bruce страница 5
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 got any closer.
JoJo gave him an approving smile. “Hey. You shouldn’t have let Demetri talk you out of your original goddess. He plays fast and loose, and he’ll take advantage of you if you let him. I put him with the plain Jane on purpose so he wouldn’t cause any trouble. He’s already on probation.”
Dillon shrugged. He didn’t think he should volunteer that he’d been the one to suggest the switch. But now he was glad that he’d done it. For Ms. Mouse’s sake as well as his own.
“Don’t worry. She doesn’t look like the demanding type. It’ll give you time to get into the swing of things, and my guess is you’ll get snatched up by one of the other women before long. Just don’t let it take away from your appointed goddess. We’re paid to work; any perks are on your own time, unless it’s with your own trainee.” He turned to the rest of the newbies. “And I don’t need to remind you gentlemen that there will be no stepping out of line unless asked.”
They all nodded.
“And for you new guys. Don’t be surprised if some of the ladies refer to you as slaves. It’s just a little in-joke. You will at all times refer to yourselves as attendants.”
More nods.
This is sick, thought Dillon. Probably broke a slew of state and federal trafficking laws. But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was uncovering a murder conspiracy.
Andy heard the knock on the door and looked at her watch. Ten to five. She groaned. Please don’t let it be Body Beautiful. He was just too tempting. And if he kept escorting her everywhere, she would have a hard time keeping a blank look on her face and her hands off his butt.
Three women stood on the other side of the screen door: the tall, skinny redhead, Jeannie, who’d sat next to her on the bus, a round, shorter woman with pink cheeks and a blue perm, and a distinguished seventy-something with aquiline features and a swept-up French twist. They were dressed in long chitons and smelled of afternoon cocktails. They probably carried Gilbey’s in their suitcases, not rappelling rope.
Andy opened the door and got a brief look at their smiles, before their faces went blank and their mouths dropped open.
Okay. So she’d put on a long-sleeved white shirt under her toga. Muscular biceps and visible nipples were not exactly the look she was going for, so she’d resorted to camouflage. Her hair was pulled back even tighter than before, and an extra layer of pale makeup covered her face and lips.
Andy slipped her glasses on and stepped onto the porch.
“Dear,” the distinguished-looking woman said in a New England accent. “I’m Evelyn Monroe; this is Loubelle Smothers.” She gestured to the plump lady. “And I believe you’ve met Jeannie Jenkins. We thought you might like to walk with us to the orientation.”
“Sure, thanks,” said Andy, flattered that they had thought of her.
Evelyn tucked Andy’s arm in hers, and they all started down the hill. “You’re going to love the program. And you’ll feel more comfortable once you meet everybody.”
“They’re all just as sweet as they can be,” seconded Loubelle in a soft southern accent.
“Especially the slaves.” Jeannie laughed. “I tell ya, honey, not even Texas grows ’em like this. My Demetri is good enough to eat.”
Andy tripped over the hem of her toga. “Slaves?”
Evelyn grasped her elbow. “It’s what everybody calls the attendants,” she said. “But not in front of the staff.”
The path became steeper, and their talk turned to silence, then to huffing, as they maneuvered their way down through the woods. They crossed the expanse of grass to the main building and joined other groups of chiffon-clad women climbing the entrance steps.
It looked like a cattle call for a Ben Hur remake. Every age, shape, and size, all swathed in flowing white.
The lobby buzzed with conversation. A woman with a clipboard and a purple sash stretched diagonally across her toga, à la Miss America, was directing women to different lines.
“What