Who Wants to be a Sex Goddess?
January 2007
Kensington Brava
ISBN 0-7582-1622-X
$14.00

| Reviews | Excerpt |

Sex guru Dr. Fiona Bliss runs a for-women-only spa where ladies unleash their inner goddess, basking like Aphrodite in flowing robes while buff men cater to their every need. But stuntwoman Andy McAllister doesn't have time for a massage. Not when her eccentric Aunt Matilda has disappeared into Blissland.

Disguising herself as a rich, mousy client, Andy runs straight into P.I. Dillon Roth, who's undercover himself, investigating the untimely death of a spa guest. Fall in love with the guy? She could do that in a heartbeat.

Get ready for world-class backstabbing, radical romance, and hilarious bitchery. And when the investigation heats up, Andy and Dillon are ready for sheet-scorching fun...

Reviews

"WHO WANTS TO BE A SEX GODDESS? is an amusing charmer in which the suspense comes late as the lead couple meets and hides their undercover activities by under cover activities. The lead couple is a delightful pairing as both deny their feelings while distrusting the other with their not so hidden agenda as they trip over one another while making inquiries. Fans who appreciate lighthearted but hot satirical romantic mysteries will want to read Gemma Bruce's lampooning of the sub-genre."

--Harriet Klausner

Excerpt

Chapter 1

"You want me to what?"  Ariadne McAllister paced in front of the sofa where her mother, Galena McAllister, her younger sister, Liz, short for Lysandra, her brother, Lucian, and their housekeeper, Betty, sat shoulder to shoulder, looking like four evil genies.

"It's the only way to find out what happened to her," insisted Galena.  "She went to this Terra Bliss place and disappeared."

"You don't know that she's disappeared."

"Then why hasn't she come back?"  Galena rolled the section of newspaper she was holding into a tube and began tapping it on the bentwood coffee table in front of her.

Liz looked up from the couch.  Dark curls spilled Medusa-like over her forehead, a perfect curtain for the penetrating look she fixed on her sister.  "I'd go, but I start filming in three days."

"And I can't go," said Lucian.  "I'm damn good, but not the goddess type."

Andy stopped pacing and looked down at the people she loved most in the world.  "And I am?  Look at me."

They all dutifully looked at her.  Scuffed desert boots, severely distressed jeans, out at both knees and one pocket, and a spaghetti-strapped T-shirt that was still encrusted with fake blood.  Both elbows were scraped and she was bruised in places no one outside the business even knew about.

"If you took a bath and brushed your hair, you would be," said her mother.

Andy sighed.  "You said emergency.  I left straight from the set as soon as we wrapped and drove two hundred miles to get here.  I didn't have time to primp.  But if I leave in the next ten minutes, I can get home, pack, bathe . . ."  She emphasized the last word.  "And still make my flight to Acapulco."

"But Andy."

"I've been on location—in the desert—in the summer—for the last six weeks.  I've nearly drowned in a flash flood, fell off a cliff, crawled until sand is permanently embedded in my knees, and wrestled a sidewinder—for seven takes.  I deserve a vacation."

"So does the snake," said Lucian.

"He only worked one hour.  He belongs to a better union."

"You can go on vacation later," said her mother.

No I can't, thought Andy.  Banshee, the Sequel began filming at the end of the month.  She really needed two weeks of pampering herself.  Basking in sunlight that didn't give you skin poisoning.  Floating on waves that weren't made by a machine.  And indulging in several days of hot sex with one of the film's co-stars, Jason Hill—before Jason's eye and dick roved to someone who would be more beneficial to his career.

Andy sighed and picked up the Terra Bliss brochure from the coffee table.  She knew it was useless to argue with her family once they got "the look."  And they all had it.  It had been perfected over three generations of Hollywood stunt people and brooked no argument.  And when you threw Betty into the mix . . . She might as well start driving to Lake Tahoe.

She began to read the brochure, unconsciously pulling out the elastic band that held her hair in a long, thick braid.  Unlocking Your Inner Goddess.  Three week sensual training workshops in the glorious Lake Tahoe mountains.  She opened the tri-fold to the course list: Focusing Your Eternal Feminine; Getting What You Deserve; Retraining the Man in Your Life; Sexual Secrets for Lasting Relationships, and special workshop, The Eternal Orgasm.

"You've got to be kidding."

"Got to the Eternal Orgasm part, didn't you?" asked Lucian.

Andy tossed the brochure back onto the table.  "Good old Aunt Mac.  She's probably locked in an eternal orgasm and can't get out."

Lucien snorted.  "But what a way to go."

"This is not a joking matter," said Galena.  She whacked the newspaper against her palm for dramatic effect.

"Oh, mom," said Andy, sneaking a peak at her watch.   She could still make the flight if she gave up the bath.  "Maybe she decided to stay for the second session.  Sometimes, hang-gliding, car chases, and bull riding just aren't enough.  We'll probably find her staggering down the highway—"

"With a smile on her face," added Lucien.

Sister and brother grinned at each other.

"How can you two be so awful," snapped Liz.  "We called the retreat and they said she'd left.  Aunt Miranda's life may be in danger.  Show her the article, Mom."

Galena stopped whacking the newspaper and began to unroll it.  She spread it out on the coffee table.  "There," she said, pointing to the center of the page.

Andy leaned over to get a better look at the crumpled article.  "Heiress Leaves Fortune to Sex Group."  Imogene Southwaite, widow of . . .  Andy scanned through the family particulars . . . fell to her death Tuesday night.  It is said that the Chicago heiress left her considerable fortune to Goddess International, an organization that professes a system of turning women's inner sensuality to outward power.

Owner of the company and television sex guru, Dr. Fiona Bliss, was unavailable for comment.

"Coincidence," said Andy.

"There's no such thing," said Galena.  "Miranda has probably been murdered in her sleep."

"Mac isn't an heiress," said Andy, her vacation panning to a long shot in her mind.

"She's not poor," said Betty.  "But if your vacation and some hit-and-run pretty boy actor are more important than your aunt's life . . ."  She heaved herself off the couch and dragged herself away.

Andy winced.  Even Betty knew about her serially disastrous love life.  "Come back and sit down," said Andy.

Betty lurched around, scowled at Andy, but made her way back to the couch.  She'd come to live with them ten years ago after an aerial accident had left her partially paralyzed.  She was slow, but she was still lethal.

Andy's vacation faded to black.  "What do you want me to do?"

"There's another workshop starting Saturday," said Galena.  ‘I've reserved  you a place."

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