The Sex On Beach Book Club (29 page)

His gaze intensified. “And trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then dance with me, Holly.” Using his hands on her waist, he guided her into a gentle sway that melded with the jazz music.

She stiffened, her heart rate kicking up. She'd rather get shot again then dance. “That's a sneaky trick.” She tried to keep her body from moving.

He took his hand off her waist to cup her face. “No trick, Hill
baby
. It's just you and me, and we're both safe to be ourselves and dance. Close your eyes.” He pulled her up against him, fitting her to him, and kept swaying in rhythm to the music floating down from his deck.

With her eyes closed, Holly thought of the man strong enough to face his ghosts. Strong enough to love her. Surely he was strong enough to keep her from falling. She relaxed, melting into the pattern of movements in the safety of his arms.

She did stumble once and snapped her eyes open to see his eyes watching her, full of love and a little smug. “Don't think you're going to make me do this in front of people. I'll shoot you first.”

He laughed. “There's my snarky PI with the chip on her shoulder. God, I've missed you.”

“Oh yeah? Then show me, Wes.” Her breath caught in her throat and she frowned. “Are you going by Wes? Or Nick?”

He pulled her flush against his body with one arm around her waist. He put his hand on her face, and his incredible green eyes bored into hers. “What name are you going to call me when I'm deep inside of you, Holly?”

She shivered with lust and love, but she didn't let his gaze go. “Wes.”

“Damn right, you are.” He took her mouth, plunging his tongue inside of her with a possessive growl. His hand went to cup her butt and pull her hips into his erection. Then he broke the kiss and swept her up into his arms. He looked down into her face. “How do you feel about sex on the beach?”

“The drink?”

His smile was wicked. “Hell, no.”

Turn the page for a first look
at Sylvia Day's
THE STRANGER I MARRIED.
Available now from Brava!

G
ray faced her. His eyes knowing. She had not gone undetected.

“I hope one day you do more than watch,” he said softly.

She covered the lower half of her face with a gloved hand, mortified and anguished. Yet he was unashamed. He stared at her intensely, his gaze taking in the outline of her hardened nipples.

“Damn you,” she whispered, hating him for coming home and turning her life upsidedown. She ached all over, her skin too hot and too tight, and she detested the feeling and the memories it brought with it.

“I am damned, Pel, if I must live with you and not have you.”

“We had a bargain.”

“This,” he gestured between them, “was not there then. What do you propose we do about it? Ignore it?”

“Spend it elsewhere. You are young and randy—”

“And married.”

“Not truly!” she cried, ready to tear out her hair in frustration.

Gray snorted. “As truly as marriage can be without sex. I intend to correct that lack.”

“Is that why you came back?”

“I came back because you wrote to me. Every Friday the post would come and there would be a letter, written with soft pink parchment and scented of flowers.”

“You sent them back, every one of them. Unopened.”

“The contents were not important, Pel. I knew what you did and where you went without your recounts. It was the thought that mattered. I had hoped you would desist, and leave me to my misery—”

“Instead you brought the misery to me,” she snapped, pacing the length of the small room to ease the feeling of confinement. “It was my obligation to write to you.”

“Yes!” he cried, triumphant. “Your obligation as
my wife
, which in turn forced me to remember that I had a like obligation to you. So I returned to quell the rumors, to support you, to correct the wrong I did you by leaving.”

“That does not require sex!”

“Lower your voice,” he warned, grabbing her arm and tugging her closer. He cupped her breast, his thumb and forefinger finding her erect nipple, and rolling it until she whimpered in helpless pleasure. “
This
requires sex. Look how aroused you are. Even in your fury and distress, I would wager you are wet between the thighs for me. Why should I take someone else, when it is you I want?”

“I have someone.”

“You persist in saying that, but he is not enough, obviously, or you would not want me.”

Guilt flooded her that her body should be so eager for him. She never entertained the idea of another man while attached to one. Months passed between her lovers, because she mourned the loss of each one, even though she was the party who said good-bye.

“You are wrong.” She yanked her arm from his grip, her breast burning where he had touched her. “I do not want you.”

“And I used to admire your honesty,” he jeered softly.

Isabel stared at Gray, and saw his determination. The slow, dull ache in her chest was so familiar, a ghost of the hell Pelham had left her in.

“What happened to you?” she asked sadly, lamenting the loss of the comfort she once felt with him.

“The blinders were torn from me, Pel. And I saw what I was missing.”

Here's a peek at
WHO WANTS TO BE A SEX GODDESS?
by Gemma Bruce.
Available now from Brava!

A
ndy took her place at the back of the line of Novices and slowly made her way to the front. The name of Dr. Bliss rose from every conversation and floated around the room like an effervescence. Everyone seemed fascinated by the TV guru. She hadn't been at the Welcoming Ceremony, and Andy was curious to see her.

When she reached the head of the line, another purple-sashed priestess gave her a stick-on name tag and a light blue satin sash.

She followed the others into the auditorium and saw Evelyn, Loubelle, and Jeannie sitting near the stage with the other higher ranking goddesses. She found a seat in one of the rows of folding chairs at the back of the room, reserved for the Novices. Peeking over the top of her glasses, she began a systematic search of each row, looking for a tall, auburn-haired, middle-aged stuntwoman—just in case—and came up blank.

She did find Dillon Cross, standing in the line of men on risers at the back of the stage behind a long table that presumably would seat the staff of the retreat. The men were bare-chested and dressed in short white kilts. They were all handsome and fit, though some looked self-conscious and some looked ridiculous.

Unfortunately, Dillon looked good enough to make her forget her reason for being here. He was also perusing the rows of seats, a slight frown on his face, and she took the opportunity to get a good look.

He was tanned and buff, sleek more than built—like a panther, Jeannie had said. There
was
something predatory about him. A natural grace that was only slightly disturbed by the hitch in his walk. He had long legs and a developed chest that tapered to a narrow waist. A gold braided belt was fixed several inches below his navel.

Andy gave herself a buzz, just imagining what was under that little pleated skirt.

Suddenly he looked right at her. Something zinged in the air between them. He smiled, then shook his head and grinned. Andy shoved on her glasses, chastising herself for being caught ogling her attendant. The world became a blur again.

Conversation abruptly ceased as several priestesses, all dressed in flowing white robes and purple sashes, entered from a side door and took their places at the table on the stage.

Katherine Dane came next and stopped at the podium at the center of the long table. She was wearing an off-white silk pantsuit and no sash, just a purple jeweled pin fastened to her lapel. Two men followed her onto the stage.

The first man, a giant blond with powerful muscles swathed in undulating white pajamas, walked to the far end of the table and sat down. The second man was much shorter, slight, with dark shiny hair that receded from a high forehead. He was dressed incongruously in a pinstriped suit. The overhead lights picked out a sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he sat down.

Ms. Dane signaled for quiet. The rustle of conversation gradually subsided, and the house lights dimmed until only the stage was left in light. She nodded to the audience, welcomed them again, read off a few announcements, and reminded everyone to apprise themselves of the rules of the retreat.

“And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the founder and guiding spirit of Goddess International, Dr. Fiona Bliss.”

At last, Andy thought and removed her glasses to get a better look.

All eyes turned expectantly to the closed door. After a few seconds, the door opened, and Dr. Bliss entered, followed closely by two serious-looking young women in white robes crossed by gold and purple sashes.

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.

And now we present
MaryJanice Davidson's latest,
DOING IT RIGHT.
Coming next month from Brava!

T
ap-tap-tap.

“What the hell
is
that? Jared muttered, getting up and crossing the room. He had a flashback to one of his literature classes. “Who is that tapping, tapping at my chamber door?” he boomed, pulling back the curtain and expecting to see…he wasn't sure. A branch, rasping across the glass? A pigeon? Instead, he found himself gazing into a face ten inches from his own. “Aaiiggh!”

It was her. Crouched on the ledge, perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet, she had one small fist raised, doubtless ready to knock again. When she saw him, she gestured patiently to the lock. He dimly noticed she was dressed like a normal person instead of a burglar—navy leggings and a matching turtleneck—and wondered why she wasn't shivering with cold.

He groped for the latch, dry-mouthed with fear for her. They were three stories up! If she should lose her balance…if a gust of wind should come up…the latch finally yielded to his fumbling fingers and he wrenched the window open, grabbing for her. She leaned back, out of the reach of his arms and his heart stopped—actually stopped, ka-THUD!—in his chest. He backpedaled away from the window. “Okay, okay, sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Now would you please get your ass in here?”

She raised her eyebrows at him and complied, swinging one leg over the ledge and stepping down into the room as lightly as a ballerina. He collapsed on the cot, clutching his chest. “Could you please not ever
ever
do that again?” he gasped. “Christ! My heart! What's going on? How'd you get up there?”

“Quoth the raven, nevermore,” she said and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the pot set up next to the window. At his surprised gape, she smiled a little and tapped her ear. “Thin glass. I heard you through the window. ‘While I pondered, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping, rapping at my chamber door.' I think that's how it goes. Poe was high most of the time, so it's hard to tell. Also, the man you saw me bludgeon into unconsciousness dropped a dime on you today.”

“He what?”

“Dropped a dime. Rolled you over. Put you out. Phoned you in. Wants to clock you. Wants to drop you. Made arrangements to have you killed, pronto. Sugar?”

“No thanks,” he said numbly.

“I mean,” she said patiently, “is there sugar?”

He pointed to the last locker on the left and thought to warn her too late. When she opened it (first wrapping her sleeve around her hand, he noticed, as she had with the coffee pot handle), several hundred tea bags, salt packets and sugar cubes tumbled out, free of their overstuffed, poorly stacked boxes. She quickly stepped back; avoiding the rain of sweetener, then bent, picked a cube off the floor, blew on it and dropped it into her cup. She shoved the locker door with her knee until it grudgingly shut, trapping a dozen or so tea bags and sugar packets in the bottom with a grinding sound that set his teeth on edge.

She went to the door, thumbed the lock with her sleeve, then came back and sat down at the rickety table opposite the cot. She took a tentative sip of her coffee and then another, not so tentative. He was impressed—the hospital coffee tasted like primeval mud, as it boiled and re-boiled all day and night. “So that's the scoop,” she said casually.

“You're here to kill me?” he asked, trying to keep up with the twists and turns of the last forty seconds.

“You're the hitman? Hitperson?”
Who knocked for entry?
he added silently.

“Me? Do wet work?” She threw her head back and pealed laughter at the ceiling. She had, he noticed admiringly, a great laugh. Her hair was plaited in a long blond braid, halfway down her back. He wondered what it would look like unbound and spread across his pillow.

“Oh, that's very funny, Dr. Dean.”

“Thanks, I've got a million of 'em.” Pause. “How did you know my name?”

She smiled. It was a nice smile, warm, with no condescension. “It wasn't hard to find out.”

“What's
your
name?” he asked boldly. He should have been nervous about the locked door, about the threat to his life. He wasn't. Instead, he was delighted at the chance to talk to her, after a day of thinking about her and wondering how she was…who she was.

“Kara.”

“That's gorgeous,” he informed her, “and I, of course, am not surprised. You're so pretty! And so deadly,” he added with relish. “You're like one of those flowers that people can't resist picking and then—bam! Big-time rash.”

“Thanks,” she said, “I think.” She blushed, which gave her high color and made her eyes bluer. He stared, besotted. He didn't think women blushed anymore. He didn't think women who beat up thugs blushed at all. He was very much afraid his mouth was hanging open and unable to do a thing about it. “Dr. Dean—”

“Umm?”

“—I'm not sure you understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“Long, tall, and ugly is out to get me,” he said, sitting down opposite her. He shoved a pile of charts aside; several clattered to the floor and she watched them fall, bemused. “But since you're not the hitman, I'm not too worried.”

“Actually, I'm your self-appointed bodyguard.”

“Oh, well, then I'm not worried at all,” he said with feigned carelessness, while his brain chewed that one…
bodyguard?
…over.