Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess?

by Gemma Bruce

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Rub Me Down, Love Me Up 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. . . Praise for Gemma Bruce "Sexy comedy with romance that sizzles the pages!" – Romantic Times on WHO LOVES YA, BABY? 4 star review "Smart dialogue and sassy heroines make this provocative collection shine." – Romantic Times on WHO'S BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED? 4 star review

Release date: October 9, 2013

Publisher: Brava

Print pages: 351

Sample

“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 costars, 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 trifold to the course list: Focusing Your Eternal Feminine; Getting What You Deserve; Retraining the Man in Your Life; Sexual Secrets for Lasting Relationships; and a 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.”

Lucian 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 peek 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 Lucian.

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.”

 

Dillon Cross unpacked the duffel bag the human resources department of Goddess International had issued him on his arrival at Terra Bliss. Three pairs of powder blue silk gym shorts with matching T-shirts. Two pairs of sweats in the same color, and a shear white, pleated—skirt.

Great. Grayson Talbot was going to pay for giving him this assignment. He didn’t do skirts. And this one was ridiculously short. Some kind of Greek slave wear, he supposed.

He shucked off his jeans and wrapped the skirt around his waist. Then he looked in the mirror attached to the back of his dorm room door. The skirt barely covered his crotch, and it left the jagged scar from his latest knee surgery exposed. He pulled it down, until it hung low on his hips. That was a little better. He turned around and looked over his shoulder at his reflection. Now the scar on his back was showing. Shit.

He thought he’d blown his “audition” when he had to strip down to his underwear. But to his surprise, he passed with flying colors. Evidently, some women thought scars were a turn-on. Some women—but not the ones he knew. Those women could turn from randy she-devil to Mother Teresa at the first touch of rough skin. It brought out their nurturing instincts. He hated nurturing types. Which explained his lack of a sex life. At least, partially explained it.

He was jarred from that train of thought by a knock on the door. It opened, and Rusty Slayton’s curly head appeared in the opening. This was Rusty’s second summer at Terra Bliss, and he’d offered to show Dillon the ropes.

“Shorts and tees for afternoon. The kilt is for dinner.” His gaze fell on Dillon’s thigh. “Jesus.”

Dillon stepped behind the bed and gritted his teeth. The look of horror he could take; it was the following sympathy that made him see red. It was his own fault for pulling this dickhead assignment. But hell, it was the only kind of assignment he was good for.

“Better shake it,” said Rusty, regrouping and giving himself a quick once-over in the mirror. “The bus will be here in ten minutes, and all the slaves—attendants, I mean—have to be lined up for the welcoming address. Wear your tightest jockstrap. Some of these ‘ladies’ think a sensuality workshop is one long sex orgy.”

Slaves? Dillon shuddered. He owed Grayson a lot. The man had saved Dillon’s carcass on their last assignment and had convinced the agency to keep him on, even though he was no longer of use in a war zone—or anyplace else for all Dillon knew.

He looked down at his powder blue outfit. Before the accident, he’d been a damn good covert operator. Now he was nothing more than a covert boy toy.

 

Andy stared out the window at the blur of scenery as the bus climbed up the mountain road to Terra Bliss. She should never have let her family talk her into this, especially after they insisted on the disguise. But here she was, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her feet stuffed into “sensible” shoes. And after a five-hour car ride and another two hours on the chartered bus, her conservative, gray linen suit looked as if she’d slept in it.

She’d balked at the idea of bleaching away her tan. She’d earned every UV ray–induced inch of it. And she’d absolutely refused to wear the prosthetic buck teeth. But when she’d tried to nix the glasses, there was a general outcry.

“Come on, Andy,” Lucian had pleaded, the devil in his eyes. “You’ll never pass as a plain Jane if anybody gets a good look at your face.”

She’d put them on and swayed. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Sure you can,” said Lucian. “They’re just props. You’ll get used to them after a minute. It’ll add to your credibility.”

Except they were Coke-bottle thick, and hours later, the scenery was still a blur. She knew they had driven through the town of South Lake Tahoe and circled the lake to climb higher into the mountains. But the woman sitting next to her was a blob of green and navy blue. Probably just as well she couldn’t see, thought Andy. She had a sneaky suspicion that the woman was wearing a golf outfit.

The bus slowed down, and the driver announced that they were entering the Terra Bliss grounds and would have no further cell phone or Internet service. Andy heard the scurry of last minute calls starting up around her. She didn’t bother. Everyone who mattered knew where she was, and the others would be too busy partying to care.

The bus passed through what appeared to be a stone arch. The deep forest gave way to a wash of lighter green. Andy slid her glasses down to the tip of her nose and looked over the tortoiseshell frames—an extensive, perfectly manicured lawn that stretched for acres and was surrounded by a high stone wall.

To the far left was a large, Greek-styled building with entrance columns and an ornamental frieze that ran between two stories of rectangular windows. To the far right sat a swimming pool and two buildings that looked like a gym and a dormitory. In between, the lawn was sprinkled with copses of trees, white marble fountains, and smaller structures that suggested ancient shrines and made Andy think of vestal virgins dancing in the moonlight.

Taking this goddess theme a bit far, she thought. Then wondered hopefully if there would be any Greek gods in attendance.

All around her, chatter rose in excited trills. The woman next to her began talking in a thick Texas accent.

“Isn’t it just like a real paradise?”

“Um,” said Andy. It was about all she could manage, except, Are you nuts? It looks like a sound stage from the last “Xena” season.

The bus stopped and the doors whooshed open. The driver instructed them to step down and form a line to the right, where they would be greeted by the retreat’s director, Katherine Dane. The forty women filed down the aisle. Andy stayed close on the heels of the wavering blue-green mass in front of her. Until it stopped suddenly and Andy plowed into it.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. She was going to have to find a way to ditch the glasses.

“That’s all right, hon. There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is my third summer here and I love it to death. You’ll see. You won’t even recognize yourself when the session is over.”

Not to worry, thought Andy. She was never wearing these clothes or glasses again.

“I’m Jeannie Jenkins.”

“Ariadne McAllister.”

“Nice to meet you. Now hurry up and let’s see how yummy the slaves are this session.”

Slaves? Andy followed Jeannie down the steps.

They formed a line along the side of the bus. Katherine Dane began her speech. Andy missed most of it. She was trying to see across the drive where a line of blue wavered in the sunlight. More people, she guessed. The slaves? Intrigued, she dipped her head and looked over the top of her glasses; she could see only halfway across the driveway. She pushed the glasses up and peered through the slit at the bottom. It gave her a crick in the neck.

Next to her, Jeannie wriggled her fingers at someone across the way. “I just love it here. Even the security guards are hunky.” She pointed across the drive. “Yum, I think that’s my slave. The tall one with black hair. He’s a knockout. Yessiree bobtail. Sleek and trim, like a panther. Ooo-eee. Do you like yours?”

Andy crammed the glasses back up her nose so quickly that it made her queasy. “Uh.”

“He’s cute, too. Shorter and hunkier. I remember him from last session. Demetri. Definitely a keeper. You just keep him guessing and you’ll drive him crazy.”

The line started to move. Andy took a deep breath and stepped forward. She was about to flirt her way through a missing person investigation. Gloria Steinem would be appalled.

 

Dillon stood in line waiting to meet his goddess and schlep her luggage to her cabin. All the participants were assigned an attendant and a private cabin set back in the woods—for reflection and study—and, Dillon would lay odds, for clandestine meetings with the retreat’s cadre of studs.

He was in the middle of a line of men all wearing the skimpy shorts and shirts.

Behind them stood a row of security guards, dressed in navy blue jumpsuits, all buff, good-looking, and trained to kill. Dillon had already run into two of them when he was jogging near the wall that enclosed the compound.

The wall was twelve feet tall and reminded Dillon of a prison camp. When he’d asked about it, Rusty said, “The wall? Keeps out grizzlies and the local Evangelists.”

But once Dillon had seen the guards marching the perimeter, he knew they were doing more than bear patrol. Definitely serious stuff going on here.

Money? The whole setup was ludicrous. He was sure he’d seen something comparable to this on a late night Star Trek rerun. The togas, the fake Greek architecture, the orgies. And yet, the sex doctor was making a fortune. Maybe she did need armed guards. Because the security guards were definitely carrying.

The line moved forward, and he realized a woman across the way was waving at him. She was tall and skinny, with big red hair, and wearing green knit pants and a blue halter top. She had to be sixty if she was a day. She pointed to him and then to herself, and Dillon got a sudden sinking feeling. He quickly looked to the head of the line. She was his and she looked like she was ready for fun. He didn’t have time for fun. He was on assignment, such as it was. He glanced back at her, but his eyes snagged on the woman in front of her. Tall and stoop-shouldered, in a god-awful gray suit that made her look like a scared mouse on stilts.

He bet that she wouldn’t be making demands on her slave. She kept looking at the sky, then down to the ground, as though she were expecting rain.

Only on his parade, thought Dillon humorlessly. Then he got a flash of genius. He leaned over the shoulder of the serf in front of him, a stocky weight lifter, named Demetri.

“You want to trade?”

“Huh?” Demetri looked over his shoulder and gave Dillon an incredulous look. “You putting me on? You want the beanpole in the wrinkled suit?”

“Yeah. I do.” The line advanced another spot. “You better decide before it’s too late. Do you want the tall redhead behind her?”

“Like shit, yeah. We’re gonna be stuck with them for three weeks. The redhead was here for the first session. Richer than God and ready to rock ’n’ roll. Thanks, man. I owe you.” He dropped behind Dillon, and Dillon stepped forward just as he reached the head of the line.

Katherine Dane, the business manager, motioned him forward. She was a slim brunette with a smile that could freeze your balls. She lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Dillon, but said, “Ariadne, I’d like you to meet Dillon Cross, your attendant for this session. He’ll see to your luggage and get you settled in the Muses group—cabin twenty-two. Dillon, say hello to Ariadne McAllister.”

Ariadne? If Ms. Mouse’s mother could have seen into the future, she would have chosen a better name. The woman was the least likely candidate for goddess that he had ever seen.

Dillon cleared his throat. “Which suitcases are yours, Ms. McAllister?” He shot her a smile that was as fake as it was brief. He couldn’t bring himself to call her Ariadne.

“I only have one. It has wheels. I can manage.”

“It’s my job. Uh, my pleasure.” Hell, he should have practiced the script he’d been given. “And anyway, the wheels won’t help. Your cabin is uphill through the woods.”

She sighed and pointed to a frayed brown suitcase. He picked it up; a cloud of dust rose around it. God. It must have been in the attic for years. Pitiful.

She was clutching a black backpack to her chest. He reached for it, but she wrenched it away and took a reflexive step back. Good. She was afraid of men. That was even better. He’d be able to devote his time to collecting evidence, without having to worry about her getting in his way.

“If you’ll follow me, your cottage is this way.” He turned and began walking across the grass to the path that led into the trees.

 

Andy clutched her backpack closer, tucked her chin to her chest so she could see where she was going, and shuffled after him. After a few minutes of panavision green, she ventured a quick glance at her attendant—and stumbled when she got an eyeful of the silk shorts shifting over his glutes. Yowser. She checked out the torso and, yeah, it was just as good. Broad shoulders, muscular arms flexing as he carried her heavy suitcase. She mentally stripped him down to a swimsuit and stretched him out on the hot sands of Acapulco Beach. And tripped again.

He turned around and frowned at her. She ducked her head. They started moving again, and Andy peered out cautiously from above her glasses. No wonder she’d tripped. It wasn’t just the body. They were beginning a steep ascent. Ahead of them she could see a stand of trees that rose steadily upward.

And dead ahead, a tiny opening that marked the beginning of a narrow, graveled path.

Andy gritted her teeth. What happened to elevator to the fourth floor? She didn’t need exercise. She needed a drink with an umbrella in it. She ducked her chin and plowed ahead.

 

Dillon stopped at the entrance to the woods and turned around to wait for his goddess-in-training. She was struggling along, her head drooped so low that he could see the part that ran down the center of her hair. It was nice hair, thick and deep auburn with red highlights that caught the afternoon sun. But he hadn’t seen a bun like that since his first grade teacher. And that suit and those glasses. Christ. If ever a woman needed a makeover, it was this 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.

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 rose up on each side of her. She stood up and lifted it off the bed. A flowing length of sheer material. She held it up in front of her and turned to the full-length mirror.

A toga. Not a toga but a…chiton. That’s what wardrobe called the ankle-length garment she’d worn while filming Return of the Barbarians. One flimsy square of fabric, pinned at the shoulders with gold clips and gathered at the waist with a golden cord. It wouldn’t hide a birthmark, much less a bronzed, muscular stuntwoman’s body. Hell. She knew what she looked like in a chiton. She’d trashed fifteen of them in Barbarians, when she’d had to save the hero by leaping from her horse into his runaway chariot. She’d wrestled the rolling-eyed team to a stop with one hand while fighting off the hordes with a scimitar. All the while, the hero’s stunt double had lain at her feet with an arrow in his shoulder.

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. . .