Denny Johnston was pissed off. A wrong-number phone call had dragged him from a rare and delicious dream in which he was a famous actor, surrounded by beautiful women. Just as the phone had rung, Denny had been handed a flute of champagne, and it had occurred to him that the bubbles in the glass matched the fizzing water of the hot spring he lolled in with three voluptuous beauties. They were predictably blonde, brunette and flame-haired, so he knew it was a dream, but it didn’t matter. It was the dream he waited for. It was his favourite, the one that visited him only infrequently, and he loved to hang on to it for as long as possible. The moment when he was ravished by the three gorgeous girls had never actually arrived, but even that didn’t matter; it was all about the anticipation, the longing for the moment when they slipped off their bikinis and urged him to take full advantage of their presence. Why he had been so focused at that moment on the bubbles he didn’t know, and he’d had no idea where the natural spa they were all enjoying was located — it seemed to be on a clifftop that looked out to a sparkling azure ocean, reminding him of the holiday brochures he glanced through in the travel agency he made regular deliveries to in his part-time courier job.
