scab. As the fumes hit her eyes, Naomi flinched and squeezed them shut.
She smelled peppermint. Something thicker, almost denser in flavor. Lavender, of course. She’d been smelling lavender since she got off the damned front elevator.
The small, imperceptible ache at her nose eased into languid, fluid warmth.
Surprise tilted her head. With her eyes screwed shut, she lifted searching fingers to her nose and found it damp. Her fingertips immediately tingled. “What is this?”
Warm hands enfolded hers. “Don’t touch it,” Gemma warned. “It’s got a bit of numbing to it, which is why the vapors will knock your socks off at first. Give me a good solid ten count and you should be good to go.”
“Numbing? Will my face go dead?”
“Not unless you use the whole pot and then some. And for heaven’s sake, don’t ever drink it. My son did that once, on a dare.”
Naomi swallowed a laugh. “How’d he do?”
“It took months for him to smell peppermint again without turning green.” She heard the sound of glass and metal, punctuated by the click of Gemma’s shoes on the tile. “All right, take a look around.”
First one eye, cracked slightly in muted apprehension. When it didn’t sizzle out of her eye socket, Naomi opened the other and focused on Gemma’s round, smiling face hovering over hers.
She shifted. Wrinkled her nose, her forehead.
Not even a twinge.
Now if she could get more of that stuff for the back of her head, she’d be great.
“Well?”
Naomi grinned, oddly relieved. “Perfect.”
“Wonderful!” Gemma clapped her hands with infectiously cheerful exuberance. “Sit back, my dear, you’ll have Lacey today for your nail care. She’s amazing, a true gem.”
Already half out of the plush chair, Naomi let the woman guide her back into the depths of the smothering cushions, her heart sinking with her body. “Great, I can’t wait.”
Four hours later, her false enthusiasm flagged completely.
Her nails were trimmed, shaped, polished, and buffed to a sparkling shine. She’d drawn the line at pink polish. Her face had been scrubbed, peeled, abraded, slathered in some sort of vegetable concoction, scrubbed again.
Her body was shiny and pink from the rough, skin-shedding process the matron of torture had called a body scrub, and if she smelled honey ever again, she was going to throw up. Spending thirty minutes drenched in it was enough for a lifetime.
It was all she could do to smile through the anxiety battering at her exposed skin. If it seemed more like baring her teeth than happiness, no one told her.
Throughout the process, Naomi noted a small handful of residential guests and a steady flow of one-day visitors. There was a man who had introduced himself as Michael Rook, long sticklike legs slightly bandied beneath his robe. Greta Hollister, a sweetly shy blond who didn’t say much, and the redheaded British pop star the others called Jordana.
She didn’t factor in the steady stream of day guests whose faces and names started to run together after the first hour.
As she soaked her stripped, burning legs in a shallow, heated pool, Naomi watched them come and go. They trooped in as singles or pairs, some in groups of three. The men and women mingled, each wearing robes like hers. For more personal services or privacy, they were escorted into separate private rooms.
The cynical part of her brain speculated on what other kind of personal services Timeless offered on the side.
The staff worked like multiple limbs from the same brain. No guest was allowed to wander unnoticed, each person effortlessly passed from station to station, specialist to specialist. It was so graceful, so unassuming that Naomi recognized the slightly shell-shocked look most of the guests wore.
Maybe they called it relaxing. Naomi called it checking out.
It took effort not to sneer.
“So, you’re the heiress we’ve been hearing so much about.” Water splashed up around Naomi’s thighs as Jordana
She smelled peppermint. Something thicker, almost denser in flavor. Lavender, of course. She’d been smelling lavender since she got off the damned front elevator.
The small, imperceptible ache at her nose eased into languid, fluid warmth.
Surprise tilted her head. With her eyes screwed shut, she lifted searching fingers to her nose and found it damp. Her fingertips immediately tingled. “What is this?”
Warm hands enfolded hers. “Don’t touch it,” Gemma warned. “It’s got a bit of numbing to it, which is why the vapors will knock your socks off at first. Give me a good solid ten count and you should be good to go.”
“Numbing? Will my face go dead?”
“Not unless you use the whole pot and then some. And for heaven’s sake, don’t ever drink it. My son did that once, on a dare.”
Naomi swallowed a laugh. “How’d he do?”
“It took months for him to smell peppermint again without turning green.” She heard the sound of glass and metal, punctuated by the click of Gemma’s shoes on the tile. “All right, take a look around.”
First one eye, cracked slightly in muted apprehension. When it didn’t sizzle out of her eye socket, Naomi opened the other and focused on Gemma’s round, smiling face hovering over hers.
She shifted. Wrinkled her nose, her forehead.
Not even a twinge.
Now if she could get more of that stuff for the back of her head, she’d be great.
“Well?”
Naomi grinned, oddly relieved. “Perfect.”
“Wonderful!” Gemma clapped her hands with infectiously cheerful exuberance. “Sit back, my dear, you’ll have Lacey today for your nail care. She’s amazing, a true gem.”
Already half out of the plush chair, Naomi let the woman guide her back into the depths of the smothering cushions, her heart sinking with her body. “Great, I can’t wait.”
Four hours later, her false enthusiasm flagged completely.
Her nails were trimmed, shaped, polished, and buffed to a sparkling shine. She’d drawn the line at pink polish. Her face had been scrubbed, peeled, abraded, slathered in some sort of vegetable concoction, scrubbed again.
Her body was shiny and pink from the rough, skin-shedding process the matron of torture had called a body scrub, and if she smelled honey ever again, she was going to throw up. Spending thirty minutes drenched in it was enough for a lifetime.
It was all she could do to smile through the anxiety battering at her exposed skin. If it seemed more like baring her teeth than happiness, no one told her.
Throughout the process, Naomi noted a small handful of residential guests and a steady flow of one-day visitors. There was a man who had introduced himself as Michael Rook, long sticklike legs slightly bandied beneath his robe. Greta Hollister, a sweetly shy blond who didn’t say much, and the redheaded British pop star the others called Jordana.
She didn’t factor in the steady stream of day guests whose faces and names started to run together after the first hour.
As she soaked her stripped, burning legs in a shallow, heated pool, Naomi watched them come and go. They trooped in as singles or pairs, some in groups of three. The men and women mingled, each wearing robes like hers. For more personal services or privacy, they were escorted into separate private rooms.
The cynical part of her brain speculated on what other kind of personal services Timeless offered on the side.
The staff worked like multiple limbs from the same brain. No guest was allowed to wander unnoticed, each person effortlessly passed from station to station, specialist to specialist. It was so graceful, so unassuming that Naomi recognized the slightly shell-shocked look most of the guests wore.
Maybe they called it relaxing. Naomi called it checking out.
It took effort not to sneer.
“So, you’re the heiress we’ve been hearing so much about.” Water splashed up around Naomi’s thighs as Jordana
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