Goddess of Light (11 page)

“
Vernelle!
I am not going to have sex with him.”

“Pamela!”
V mirrored her friend's shocked tone. “Here's a news flash—if you want to have sex with him, you can! What I want is a full report tomorrow. Good-bye, Pammy.”

 

 

PAMELA was picking at the Band-Aid when Phoebus walked back around the corner. She felt her eyes widen, and a thrill that was liquid and hot ran the length of her body to settle deep inside her thighs. In his god costume he had been handsome and exotic in an unbelievable kind of way, like an actor to be “fallen in love with” during a movie. In normal clothes he was no less gorgeous, but now he was suddenly real and no longer something unattainable. He had become a living fantasy. He was wearing cream-colored linen Armani slacks that hugged his sleek waist and hips, and a silk knit pullover that was the same amazing blue as his eyes. Those eyes locked with hers as he approached her. He stopped beside her stool. For a moment he didn't say anything. Then he pulled nervously at his shirt and smoothed both palms down the front of his pants. His smile seemed uncertain, which totally baffled Pamela. How could someone who looked like a Greek god be worried at all about his appearance? The silence stretched between them. He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt.

He was definitely nervous, which was undeniably adorable.

“Do you like the new clothing?” he finally asked.

“You look like a walking Armani ad.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Good. Definitely good. What did you do with your outfit?”

The worry that had tightened his face relaxed. “I left it with the Armani servant. I will retrieve it later. As for now, shall we walk?”

He held out his arm for her to take, just like she was a princess. Or maybe, she thought, glancing up at his profile, a goddess. She placed her arm through his and slid off the stool. She could swear that she felt every nerve ending on her bare arm prickle where it touched his.

“The servant at the Armani shop told me that if we leave Caesars Palace, turn to the right and cross the street, we will come to a pool of magnificent dancing fountains.”

“The Bellagio fountains. I've heard about them, but I haven't seen them.”

“He said it is but a short distance.” He raised his eyebrows and looked expectantly at her.

What in the hell was she supposed to do? Of course she wanted to go with him, but would walking to the Bellagio fountains at—she glanced at her watch—at almost 11:00 P.M. be smart? Of course 11:00 P.M. Vegas time was like prime time anywhere else. The streets would be filled with people rushing from casino to casino. Wouldn't they? It should be okay.

On the other hand, she didn't want to make the mistake of being one of those women who acted too stupid to live. And she certainly didn't want to be hacked up into little pieces by a gorgeous but crazy serial killer and have a tragic
CSI
episode based on her last hours.

“Pamela,” he unlinked their arms to take her hands in his. “You have nothing to fear from me.” His eyes caught hers and held, and he read the indecision there. It pained him to think that she did not trust him. If only she knew who he was! He quickly cast aside the fleeting thought. If she truly knew who he was, she would also know his past and how he had seduced and discarded countless mortal women. If she knew the truth, she would surely turn from him. And he could not blame her for doing so. But she didn't know who he was; she thought he was a simple mortal healer. She had no reason to turn from him. His jaw tightened with resolve. This time he longed for it to be different. This time it would be different—he would make it so.

Apollo spoke before he could stop himself. “I would never harm you, nor would I allow anyone else to cause you pain. Σου δíνω τον óρκο μου.”

The foreign words seemed to linger in the air around them, and for a moment Pamela imaged them as tinged with a bright golden light. Then she blinked, and the image dissipated like smoke in shadow.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I said that I give you my oath. You should know that in my home-land, the giving of an oath is a sacred thing, broken only by one who has no honor.”

His words touched her, but more than that,
he
touched her. His physical allure was obvious, but she was drawn to more than just the beauty of his body. There was something about him that tugged at her insides, something she recognized. Her heart skittered around in her chest as she realized what it was: she saw herself in him. In his eyes she saw the echo of something she had carried around within her for years, the longing for more . . . and the inability to find it.

“Why aren't you involved with some nice woman, instead of here asking a virtual stranger to go out with you?”

His smile was like dawn breaking the gloom of night. “I am with a nice woman. I am with you.”

She sighed and slipped her arm back through his. “Then I suppose I have no choice but to go to the fountains with you.”

“You do,” he said, starting to walk, “but I do not think any other choice would be a wise one.”

“Just so that you know, I'm holding you to that oath of yours.”

He smiled down at her. “I would have it no other way, Pamela.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

WITH linked arms, they made their way through The Forum Shops towards the main entrance to Caesars Palace. As they walked, Pamela couldn't help but notice the looks Phoebus drew; it was totally, nauseatingly obvious. Women couldn't keep their eyes off him. But she also noticed something else: Phoebus paid no attention to other women. He didn't return their smiles. His eyes didn't stray to steal an “accidental” glance here and there.

What he did do was to walk slowly, matching his long strides to her much shorter ones. He was attentive to whatever she said. His responses were witty as well as interesting. And he window-shopped. Really. Without being coerced, tricked or bribed.

He actually seemed to enjoy it.

The thought was enough to sober her up. Or maybe she was completely drunk, had passed out and was still at The Lost Cellar, slumped on her stool in a damp, drooling puddle pathetically passed out.

No, she was alliterating fluently. She couldn't be hallucinating.

Was he gay? She glanced at him, caught his fabulous blue eyes, and gave him a sexy smile. He returned the smile with an inviting warmth that said that there was no way he wasn't heterosexual. No. He definitely wasn't gay . . . So what was wrong with him? There had to be something . . .

“Are you married?” she asked abruptly.

His golden brows drew together as he frowned. “No. I have never been married.”

“How about a live-in girlfriend or something?”

“No.”

“So you're totally uninvolved.”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

Well, at least
that
wasn't what was wrong with him. In theory anyway.

Without any prodding from her at all, he paused in front of a shop called Jay Strongwater, which specialized in gem-encrusted picture frames.

“This really is excellent workmanship,” he said thoughtfully. “The artisan has extraordinary talent.”

“They are gorgeous.” Pamela peered into the window and caught the reflection of a price tag on one of the very small frames. “Four hundred and fifty dollars! For a little picture frame! I don't think they're
that
gorgeous.”

Apollo turned to her and put a finger gently under her chin, lifting her face. “I think there are some pictures that would be worthy of such a frame.”

When he looked at her with that focused intensity (How could she have ever even considered that he might be gay?), she felt all jittery inside, like she was back in high school and he was her sweetheart. She certainly would have never admitted anything so sophomoric out loud, but that didn't make it any less true. They were standing so close that she could smell him—man mixed with the raw silk of his shirt, and something else . . . something as subtle as it was seductive. It reminded her of heat. Heat as in warm sun on a white beach where naked bodies basked in uninhibited . . .

She laughed a little too giddily, pulling her face from his grasp, and started walking again.

“Phoebus . . .” She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. “I think you're a romantic.”

His eyes glinted when he smiled at her. “Good.”

She gave him an appraising look. “A lot of men wouldn't like being called a romantic. It's not macho enough.”

“Quite often men are fools.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” she said firmly.

Apollo laughed, enjoying her honesty. “You should know that I am not like most men. You should also know that it is my intention to thoroughly romance you.”

“Oh . . .” She faltered, not sure how to respond to his announcement.

He laughed again, and nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he watched her. His words had flustered her, and he liked how her cheeks had instantly flushed a light rose. Her short hair made her neck look impossibly long. It invited the touch of his lips against the hollow of her delicate throat. The style of her dress was as foreign to him as was the clothing he now wore, but he liked the flattering, feminine lines of it and how it dipped down in a teardrop shape to reveal the tops of her softly rounded breasts. She was petite, but fully a woman. Her legs looked long and lean . . . How did she balance on those perilous shoes? They were little more than a swatch of fabric attached to spikes. Odd as they were, he did enjoy the way they caused her calves to stretch and flex, and her well-rounded buttocks to sway enticingly as she walked beside him.

She could feel him watching her, and it made her already jumpy insides turn into a pinball machine—
What's he looking at? God, he's handsome. He smells good enough to eat. Is he thinking I look fat? Please don't let him be a serial killer
—her thoughts pinged around and around. What was it about him that made her feel like each of her nerve endings had suddenly come screamingly alive? Maybe it wasn't him at all. Maybe it was just that she was so totally out of practice with men.

Don't be stupid,
she told herself. She'd never had a hard time dating before Duane. She was the same person, just older and smarter. At least in theory. She paused in front of a Fred Leighton jewelry store where beautiful chandelier diamond earrings were showcased hanging from beveled mirrors. Pamela caught the reflection of his gaze in the glass.

All she had to do was to quit analyzing the situation so damn much. She was making this harder than it should be. His steady gaze caught hers, and again she felt it, that wordless connection that sparked between them. She drew in a deep, relaxing breath.

“When you said that you gave me your oath that I would be safe with you, what language were you speaking?” she asked.

“Greek,” he said.

“Is that the only other language you speak?”

He shook his head and hesitated before answering. “I have a gift for languages. I speak several.”

“Really? I don't speak any other language. Well, I don't count my limited ability to order cheese dip, extra-hot salsa, and beer in Spanish. Actually, what I pretend to speak is probably more like Spanglish anyway.”

In response to his questioning look she grinned and explained. “Spanglish—a bad mixture of Spanish and English. I am decidedly
not
good with languages, and I do envy people who are multilingual.”

Her praise made Apollo uncomfortable. His “gift” with languages was nothing special—at least not for the God of Light. He was one of the Twelve Immortals; none of the languages of man were unknown to them.

“I am most fluent in Greek and Latin,” he amended.

“What was it you said to me before you went to Armani's? Was that Greek, too?”

He loved how her tawny eyes reflected the faceted light of the diamond jewelry. “Yes, it was Greek. I said, ‘Good-bye, sweet Pamela.' Did you know that in Greek your name means exactly that—all that is sweet?
Pan
is all, and
meli
is sweet, as in the honey, or the nectar of a flower.”

She turned from the mirrors and looked directly up at him. “I had no idea. I've always thought that it was a boring, ordinary name.”

“It is anything but that,
Pamela.
”

When he said her name, his accent made it sound mysterious and beautiful. Of course, he could probably make the word
excrement
sound like a seduction, but, she admitted to herself, she loved knowing that what she had thought of as mundane for her entire life had really been hiding so much more.

“What about your name? What does Phoebus mean?”

“It means
light,
” he said.

Pamela looked up at his bright hair and his eyes that were bluer than a summer sky. “Light,” she repeated. “It suits you.”

“Now I have a question for you,” he said, changing the subject smoothly. “What does the word
ginormous
mean?”

Her little burst of surprised laughter made her mouth look even more inviting.

“
Ginormous
is a word my friend, V, and I like to use, but I don't think you'd find it in any dictionaries. It's gigantic and enormous mixed together. Like
gihugic
is
gigantic
and
huge
.”

“The same as Spanish and English making Spanglish,” he said.

She nodded. “Yep.”

“So
ginormous
means bigger than large,” he said as they both remembered that ginormous was how she had described him.