Fallen Idols Read Online Free

already been made, and he was financially responsible for them.
    He started digging through his files, scrounging for a replacement, which wasn't going to be easy—most of those he'd rejected had already made other plans. And then, while he was sitting in front of his computer, another e-mail from Diane, as if conjured by a genie, popped up on his computer screen. It was one last, eleventh-hour, impassioned plea that he reconsider her application. She wasn't an archaeologist, true, but she was an ardent student of cultures, ancient, modern, everything, she loved off-the-beaten-path experiences, she'd traveled all over, under every kind of adverse condition, she'd take on whatever lousy job no one else wanted to do. She'd scour the pots and pans every night if that was what was needed, she'd clean the latrines. Whatever it look. She really, really,
really
wanted him to let her be part of this.
    Who could resist such an entreaty? Especially when you're holding the bag for more than three thousand dollars and you need a body to fill the space—a female body, for room-sharing in some of the locations.
    He ran it by Jocelyn, who agreed that given the time constraints, this woman was the easiest answer to their problem. He had e-mailed back to Diane, advising her of her acceptance, along with instructions; three days later she met him at the airport with Jocelyn and the others, and off they all went.
    She had worked out fine. No shirking—she pitched in as hard as anyone. She was always a lady, even when she was doing a scummy detail, but she'd never been a prima donna, or caused any trouble. And she had an adventurous spirit. He could understood that, because his was, too. It was why he'd become who he was.
    Diane looked at him, her eyes steady, unblinking. “It's wonderful here, but you're the real attraction.”
    She raised her arms above her head and loosened the tie that held her ponytail in place. Unlike most of the other women, who'd given up caring about how they looked, her armpits were cleanly shaven. Dropping her arms, she shook her hair loose.
    “Was there a game?” she asked, turning away from him and staring down to the court. “You looked like you were here, but not
here
.”
    He had lectured extensively on the ball games. The students knew about the games and his passion for them. Nodding in response to her question, he managed to work up some saliva.
    “Yes.”
    “Was there a winner?”
    “Yes,” he answered again.
    “You?”
    He smiled in spite of himself.
    “To the victors go the spoils,” she declared. In one quick, clean motion, her dress was over her head, off. A second movement, as fast and economical as the first, and her bra was no longer on her body. It was dangling in her hand with the dress.
    Her breasts were firm, the dark pink nipples puckering, rising. And while he stood there, rooted in his tracks, her cotton underpants were down her legs and off. Dress, bra, underwear—a heap at her feet.
    “The spectators who lost their bets gave up their clothing to the victor, did they not?” She knew they did—he had lectured on what was known of the betting aspects of the ball game a few days earlier.
    “Yes. That's true.”
    “And their jewels. The losers gave their jewels to the victors, didn't they, Walt?”
    She took his hand and brought it to her vagina. She was sticky.
    “Would you like my jewels, Walt? They're yours, if yon want them.”
    He showered her smell off and put his clothes back on. He was having a hard time standing: his legs were rubber.
    Aside from the moral implications, having sex with her out there in the open had not been a smart move. What if someone else had also been restless and come upon them? Not that anyone would come out here at this late hour, but still … He felt he had dodged a bullet.
    Time to move on. In a few hours the group would be tip and on their way. A day later, they'd be back in the States. After the hurried good-byes and the I'll-e-mail-yous at