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  The Retreat

  Tarot: 9 of cups

  By

  Jojo Brown

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Retreat: 9 of cups

  ISBN: 1-55410-796-2

  Copyright ã 2007 Jojo Brown

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books 2006

  Look for us online at

  www.extasybooks.com

  Nine of Cups

  An innkeeper sits before nine cups set out for guests. The Nine of cups is otherwise known as 'the wish card.' Whatever you have appetite for, you will find. All your wishes will come true.

  Negative:

  Be careful what you wish for!

  For everyone who ever had a wish…

  Chapter One

  Alexandria Hamilton’s little grey cubicle in the wall was stuffed full of envelopes. Well, that’s what she got for not checking her mail for the week she’d spent moping around, complaining to no one but herself.

  So what if she was thirty-two and still had no prospects in sight for a stable future? So what if the man, she thought she would have a chance with, had suddenly walked out on her? Who gave a damn if her tits hung lower than they had in her early twenties, as did her ass and slightly round stomach? Who cared if she hated her mind-numbingly boring job at the only accountant’s office in town? What did it matter if her hated apartment had leaky taps and rattling pipes that the superintendent refused to acknowledge, let alone fix? What difference did it make in the grand scheme of things, if she just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from all of the broken dreams and shattered hopes?

  Life still carried on, the world did not come to a shuddering halt, just because Lexie was having a bad few days — or should that be years?

  With the armload of envelopes clasped in both hands, she shuffled towards the elevator. The overly large purple slippers had been a gift, a birthday gift from — Stuart. God it hurt just to think about his name, or the way his wonderful blue eyes, the colour of a crisp winter sky, had shone, as she opened the package containing the ridiculously fluffy slippers.

  Her house-coated shoulder slid slightly along the smooth surface of the wall beside the elevator button. Her thumb slammed into the scarred circle, at least five times, before she remembered that she’d had to take the stairs on her way down for the mail. “Damn thing is always broken. Just like everything else in this hell-hole.”

  The purple fluffiness did nothing to protect her toes, as she kicked the super’s door on her way to the stairwell. “Fix something around here, asshole.”

  Her weird shuffle-limp had almost settled down to a plain old shuffle again by the time she reached the fourth floor. The juggling act to get the key into her door’s deadbolt with both hands full of mail would have been comical, if Lexie had been in the mood for a comedy. As the door swung open, the stack in her hand seemed to explode, as the envelopes and flyers tumbled. “Damn it.”

  The bright yellow card-sized envelope stuck in the purple fluffiness as she tried futilely to kick the mess through the door. “Oh great. What’s this? An invitation to some unnaturally happy couple’s wedding? Or a fancy new way to send bills so that they actually get noticed?”

  Snatching it out of its perch just above her big toe, she tossed the brilliantly yellow square onto the little table near the door. The rest simply got kicked under the same table.

  Cup of tea in hand, she peeled off the housecoat and plopped into her worn spot on the couch. Her nest of used tissues, crumpled magazines and dirty dishes closed in around her as she slouched into position. A pillar of tissue balls fell to the brown carpet, making room on the end table for the steaming cuppa.

  She pulled the neckband of her too-big, grey t-shirt over her nose and inhaled deeply. It still smells like him. I am never going to wash it. I might never even take it off. It’s a good thing I was wearing it when he packed or I’d have nothing of his left.

  The voice of her mother lambasted the side of her head, bypassing the need to use her ears. Mother more than likely did cartwheels on the other side of the grave, when she figured out she didn’t have to wait for her daughter to actually listen, anymore. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. Get up, get washed, get dressed and get on with the business of life. You’re thirty-two years old; it’s about time you grew up a bit.

  No.

  Well, at least go see what’s in the envelope.

  No.

  What’s it gonna do, break your leg to walk over there and get it? You always were a chicken.

  Her mother always did have a real finesse when it came to dealing with other people’s feelings. More to stop the screeching voice, than anything else, Lexie snatched the envelope up and tore it open.

  Bursting out, as if with a will of its own, the certificate of the same ‘too happy’ yellow landed in her lap.

  This certificate entitles the bearer to one week of fantasy fulfillment. Enter The Hermits Retreat and let all your dreams come true.

  Hermits Retreat? Yeah, she’d heard of it. It was the newest, most exclusive spa in town. A place where only the painfully wealthy could ever dream of going. Rumours had flown along the town’s grapevine of baths in mud from the great palaces of the sunken city of Atlantis; scar reduction with dust gathered in the deepest crevices of the moon and too many other outrageous things for her brain to focus on, in its addled state.

  “Fantasy fulfillment, now wouldn’t that be something. I wonder if they can actually give me someone else’s life?”

  * * * *

  Just a little more than an hour later Rufus, the superintendent of the building, stood in his doorway and watched as she hurried, happily, out the door at the bottom of the stairwell, with her blue duffel bag in hand. He noticed that the bag matched her form-fitting jeans and t-shirt, perfectly. Her freshly washed and dried dark brown hair bounced on the back of her head, in a simple ponytail. Her brown eyes glistened with flecks of gold and red. They shone out from her freshly scrubbed, glowing face, clean of makeup and tear-tracks. The soft soles of her running shoes barely made a sound as she practically pranced through the foyer and out the front door. Just before the door closed behind her, she turned back to look at him. “See ya later, Doofus.”

  Rufus slammed his door as he heard the nickname he hated so much, but it was not thick enough to block out the sound of her girlish laughter. “She musta won the lottery or got the best fuck of her life. I ain’t never seen her look that happy or that sexy before. Wonder where she’s off to, she didn’t give no notice, so she best be coming back. Rent’s due next week.” His lazy old bulldog just lay on the kitchen rug and stared up at him as if to remind him that it wasn’t any of his business.

  Chapter Two

  It hadn’t been hard to find the spa; everyone in town knew where it was. Most of them, Lexie included watched with the interest and enthusiasm only found in small towns as the building went up.

  The building was even bigger when you were this
close to it. It had a very institutional look. The entry door was the only thing that broke the long, white stucco wall facing the road. Even that was white and all but disappeared into the façade. Every other time she had looked at it, on her daily drive, to and from work; she had wondered who would be foolish enough to build a building with no windows. As she stepped out of her car and started towards the doors though, it made perfect sense. She wouldn’t want to be on display to all passers-by while she was in the spa.

  The exterior belied the bright, airy interior of the reception area. The entire ceiling was glass. It was like standing in a courtyard. The blueness of the sky, with puffy, cotton ball clouds drifting overhead, was the most serene view imaginable. She couldn’t seem to drag her gaze down.

  Her neck creaked in contention when she snapped it down, startled by the soothing voice so near her ear. “Welcome to The Hermit’s Retreat.”

  He was ancient. The sparse amount of hair he had was snowy white against his pink scalp; it hung softly to his sloped shoulders. The gold-trimmed, royal blue toga draped around his slight frame almost appeared to be too heavy. Her mind raced as it tried to place his heritage; however, there was nothing within the deep wrinkles to give her a clue.

  He stood there, watching her intently through watery grey eyes, as she looked him over from head to toe, before she even realized how rude she must appear. She blinked a few times, as she tried to get herself under control. The certificate crumpled in her suddenly nervous fingers. He was not the firm, fit type she would have expected to act as a greeter in an elite spa, maybe she was in the wrong place. She had to say something — anything. “I have a certificate.” Idiot!

  “Yes.” He swept his arm to the side, indicating a group of low sofas, large fluffy pillows and floor mattresses that she hadn’t noticed until then.

  Where was the reception desk? The perky, overly attentive airheads that normally came bouncing at you when you walked into a health club or spa? Where were the posters and certificates announcing the miracles of their particular form of healthy living? Where were the shelves of ‘better-than-all-the-rest’ vitamins and supplements?

  Her mind spun with confusion and questions. The little old man in the too-big, too-heavy toga was the only person for her to ask, and he kept gesturing to the cluster of seats. Sitting was the furthest thing from her mind.

  She found herself sitting comfortably on a stark white sofa without even being aware she had moved. A cool steel clipboard with a pen and questionnaire clipped to it was in her hands. The black print stood out as if it floated above the surface of the golden yellow paper.

  She lifted her gaze to the old man, now standing directly in front of her. He answered her unspoken question. “You can go no farther in The Retreat, until this task has been completed. Be honest — be concise — be detailed. Above all else, be aware that what your heart has your hand write, your mind will have to accept. So, be careful what you wish for.”

  Speechless, she looked back to the top page. What is this — some sort of test? Snapping her head up, so fast her eyeballs rattled, to ask just that and discovered that she was entirely alone in the glass-topped room. A shiver ran up her spine. Fear? Anticipation? Excitement? Her Granny would’ve said someone had just walked over her grave, so take care. Lexie just shrugged it off and put pen to paper.

  The first set of questions was simple — name, address, age, occupation, marital status. The sort of questions you might answer in a doctor’s office questionnaire. After that though, they got a bit more personal and she was almost afraid to answer. Every few minutes she darted a quick glance around, to ensure that no one had snuck into the room to read over her shoulder.

  Her hand flew back and forth across the page, describing her idea of the ultimate, sensual hideaway. She put in minute details, such as mauve Egyptian-cotton sheets, claw-foot tub with gold faucets, warmed fluffy towels, lavender and vanilla scented candles, soaps and lotions. As she tapped the final period on the page, she pulled in a deep breath. The air had a definite scent of vanilla, or she had lost her mind.

  She glanced around, expecting to discover candles or incense, where she knew damn well there were none. You have one hell of an imagination, girl.

  The rest of the questions were an odd assortment of the weird and the normal. What is your deepest desire — biggest regret — favourite way to relax — most sinful food — favourite drink — flower — smell — colour. The list of questions seemed to go on forever. By the time she finally came to the last question, she had a stack of about twenty pages on the sofa beside her. When she took a break to roll some of the tension out of her shoulders and flex her cramped fingers, she felt rather startled and at the same time oddly calm. “This little trick could come in handy for writers and test-takers. A never-ending supply of paper right at the tip of your pen. And, all you have to do is face your fantasies.”

  Her soft lilting laugh tinkled in the still air around her as she returned to the task of the final question. Describe your ultimate fantasy and lover.

  Her mind took flight. She’d already become slightly adventurous in the previous answers and really let her imagination loose on this one. After all, she reasoned, there is no one I might meet here who will ever acknowledge me in the real world, so what the hell. Go for the gusto. Boy did she.

  By the time she was done, she had her ultimate lover and their sexual fantasy so fully fleshed out that her panties were damp. She closed her soft lips around the end of the pen, actually sucked on it and twirled her tongue around the hard cylinder as she reread what she had just written.

  “If even half of that were possible — I’d be a very happy lady.

  With slightly trembling fingers, she gathered the stack of papers together. Sexual tension coursed through her veins in place of blood. The slightest movement and her suddenly tight jeans pressed and rubbed deliciously on her engorged clit. Try as she might, she couldn’t get her mind off the man she’d just invented. I can’t wait to be alone in my room. Glad I thought to pack my vibe.

  “Your bag has been taken to your room.”

  Mister Blue Toga was back and now he had company. The tall blond man at his side wore a white toga. Lexie instantly thought of a frat house toga party. The younger man’s eyes were the same soft grey as his older comrade, minus the wateriness of years.

  “If you will follow me, I will lead you to your quarters. Leave the papers, they will be seen to.”

  Without waiting for even a fraction of a second for any kind of response from her, he turned and walked briskly to a door on the other side of the room. Clearly expecting that she should have kept up with him, he stood impatiently to the side, allowing her to pass through first.

  After the bright airiness, the long dim hall came as a bit of a shock. The walls were covered in some sort of heavy material — damask perhaps. She stroked her fingers over the golden richness as she walked. “Where is this material from? It’s amazing. It feels like satin and velvet at the same time.”

  Her escort stopped in his tracks at the sound of her breathless wonder. He looked at her as though she had just asked where plain white paint came from. Clearly, he was accustomed to such extravagance. “The wall coverings were made specifically for the purpose that they serve — as was everything else here at The Retreat.”

  Thinking it best to keep any further comments to herself, she fell into step behind his flowing toga. Even when her wandering gaze fell on a beautiful gold swan and saw it turn its ruby eyes to her, she kept her mouth tightly shut. If they didn’t reach her room soon, she was certain she’d explode. Her lips were going numb from the force she was using to keep them shut.

  “Shit.” So much for shut lips. The sound exploded from her as she ploughed right into the man’s solid back. Grabbing handfuls of his fine toga, she barely kept herself from falling. His arms were around her in a flash. Strong muscles contracted and forced the air from her lungs, in his race to keep her on her feet. His chest, bared by the slipping of his on
e piece of clothing, was warm beneath her fingers. His hands flattened on her back, relaxed the crushing grip on her and slowly lowered.

  He held her tenderly, his fingers tracing her curves as if to memorize them. One hand, flat between her shoulder blades, pressed her breasts to his chest. The soft moan from his throat drew her gaze to his face. The tip of his tongue traced over his parched lips, briefly — invitingly.

  She rose onto the balls of her feet — her breasts crushed between them as she brushed her lips across his. His touch had ignited the smouldering embers of her desire. He may have only intended to save her from a fall, but her body wanted — no needed — release, now. She knew the crotch of her panties, as well as her jeans were soaked, as clearly, as she knew that the hardness jabbing against her stomach was not a flashlight in his pocket.

  “Take me.”

  With the reflexes of a cat, he reacted instantly. His fingers dug into her shoulders, as he put her away from him. “This is your room. An assistant will be with you shortly.”

  “Why?” The word was out, before her brain even had an opportunity to form the question. She couldn’t think clearly, when tearing his toga all the way off was all she seemed to be able to focus on.

  “Why what?” His eyes drilled into her, so cold, so distant, so unlike the man who had just moaned against her.

  Quick girl, think on the fly. Do you be honest and ask why he won’t finish what they had started — right here and now? Or do you hold on to the last shred of decency you have by taking your cue from him and be as cool and businesslike as he is? “Why do I need an assistant? Why can’t you just assist me? After all you are already here.”