Goddess of Light (12 page)

“Exactly,” she smiled saucily. Well, there was something about him that went beyond height, that seemed to make him bigger than large. He
was
ginormous.

One of the multitudes of bellboys opened the glass doors for them, and they exited Caesars Palace. It was, of course, fully dark, but the night teemed with light and sound and excitement. Apollo and Pamela stood frozen, both awestruck by their surroundings. The entire front grounds of the Palace were filled with ostentatious, spurting fountains lit up like a beacon to the heavens. Stretch limos dropped well-dressed couples at the door, and uniformed valets scurried around like liveried mice.

“Γαριτο!” Apollo breathed the Greek curse. He was thoroughly shaken by his first sight of automobiles. Zeus had insisted that before any of the immortals passed through the portal that Bacchus must first explain to them the details of modern day transportation, as well as the mortals' use of currency, electricity, and an extraordinary communication system called the Internet, so Apollo was able to logically identify the madness before him, but seeing the monstrous vehicles that appeared living, yet were actually devoid of all life, as well as the garish way the warm spring night had been illuminated with harnessed electricity, was far more overwhelming than he could have imagined. He focused on the most familiar of the bizarre visions—the fountain—and reminded himself that he was an Olympian god, one of the original Twelve Immortals. He could flatten everything around him with a thought.

One of the shiny black things blared and skidded to a stop as another monstrosity cut in front of it. Apollo moved quickly, placing himself between Pamela and the metal creatures and neatly retucking her from his left to his right arm.

“I know exactly what you're thinking,” Pamela said softly.

Apollo's eyes jerked down to meet hers. Rationally he knew that she could not be reading his mind, but the thought of even the slightest possibility of her knowing what was going through his head was alarming.

“You don't have to tell me,” she said, eyes sparkling puckishly. “You were thinking that the fountain is ginormous.”

He hoped his relief wasn't too obvious. “Tragically, you are wrong,” he returned her teasing tone. “I was thinking that it is gihugic.”

“Well, that's only because you're confused about the correct usage of the word. Gihugic is not as big as ginormous; therefore, ginormous is the proper word to use when describing that”—she hesitated dramatically, casting her eyes the length of the Palace's front grounds—“that fountain.”

He nodded his head in gracious acceptance of defeat. “I concede to you. Yonder monstrosity is definitely ginormous.”

“So I wasn't really wrong,” Pamela said.

When it came to women, Apollo was no fool in any world. He smiled. “How could anyone so beautiful ever really be wrong?”

“May I call a cab for you and the lovely lady?” One of the bellboys asked.

Apollo's
“No!”
was spoken with more passion than he intended—and he was suddenly glad that night in this world was already so filled with lights and sounds that the bolt of lightning that flashed across the sky in response to the God of Light's shout went unnoticed. Even so, he made certain to tighten control of his voice. “No,” he said with considerably more calm. “The lady and I are walking.”

“The Bellagio fountains are not far from here. Right?” Pamela asked.

“Yes, madam,” the bellboy pointed. “Follow the sidewalk down to street level, turn right and cross the next street, and you'll be there. You can't miss it.”

“Thank you,” she squeezed Phoebus' arm. “Ready?”

Apollo was absolutely not ready. He would rather have faced the mighty serpent Python again, alone in the black caves of Parnassus, than to walk out into that alien night. But the petite woman on his arm strode ahead with the confidence of Hercules. Apollo gritted his teeth and plunged forward, all his senses on high alert.

“It's so warm here, really a nice change from Colorado. Even though it's May, we've had an unseasonably cold spring—it snowed again last week.” Pamela tilted her head back and flung wide the arm that was not holding his. Laughing, she breathed deeply, loving the warmth of the desert day that still lingered in the air. “I didn't realize how much I'd been craving spring until I got here.”

Apollo grunted a vaguely affirmative response. His gaze kept skipping from the enchanting woman at his side to the vehicles that sped past on the crowded street, to the huge glowing signs and towering buildings, many of which had colorful, moving images flashing over them. The thought came to him that he would have to make sure that Zeus ordered the nymphs to stay within the confines of Caesars Palace. Like beautiful little moths, they would be overcome with excitement at all the sparkling, flashing lights if they ventured outside. He hated to think about the scene that would be caused by the fun-loving semideities, drunk on light and sound.

“Careful!” Pamela's voice pulled him back to the modern world as her hand likewise tugged him to a halt. “Whew, that was close. I was so busy gawking that I almost didn't see the street, and this traffic is terrible. We better wait for the light.”

They were standing on the corner of a street that seethed with cars, and Apollo realized that if it hadn't been for Pamela, he would have stepped out into the flow of traffic. Of course he couldn't actually be harmed by the metal things, but he certainly didn't want to try to explain to Pamela why he hadn't been smashed to pieces by one of them. Daydreaming in the Kingdom of Las Vegas was not a wise thing for him to do.

“That must be where the fountain show is,” she said, pointing across the street to lights reflected off a body of water.

He squinted over the stream of vehicles and people. “I do not see any fountains.”

In front of them a red circle changed to a green circle, and the people around them moved forward. Apollo hesitated, but when Pamela stepped confidently into the street, he moved with her, keeping a close watch for any errant vehicles that might streak into their path.

“I don't think the fountains are active unless the show's going on. Here, I'll bet this will tell us about them.” She led him to a small signpost giving information on displays. Reading, she nodded, “Yeah, the fountain show begins every quarter hour.” She glanced at her watch. “It's eleven twenty-five, so we have five minutes.”

Recollecting himself, Apollo tuned out the wash of distractions around him and refocused his attention on the lovely woman he was supposed to be romancing. “Would you like to walk, or would you rather sit and wait for the fountains to begin?” He gestured to one of several marble benches that dotted the wide sidewalk that ran the length of the minilake.

“Walk, definitely,” she said, and they began strolling slowly along the bank.

After a small stretch of companionable silence, Pamela said, “This place is such an odd mixture of tacky and refined, don't you think?”

Apollo wanted to tell her she had no idea how odd Las Vegas seemed to him, but he was heartened by the fact that Pamela obviously found their surroundings at least a little unusual, too.

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

“I mean, look at that,” she pointed towards the opposite side of the street. “Over there it's nothing but one big cheesy ‘come spend your money here!' trap after another. But over here it's different.” She stopped and leaned against the white marble railing that had been fashioned to look like an old Italian balustrade. It ran the length of the water, separating the sidewalk from the pool. “On this side the street was built to make us believe that we are strolling down a European walkway. The lights aren't neon advertisements, they're lovely old-fashioned street-lamps separated by sweet little trees. And this”—she looked out across the water at the shops and restaurants of the Bellagio—“reminds me of a chic Tuscan village. I know it's all subterfuge, but the imagery works. As a designer I have to applaud a successful masquerade.”

Something in her tone called his gaze back to her face. He was surprised to find that she looked sad, and it was that unexpected melancholy that had been mirrored in her voice. Until then she had seemed happy, even giddy, enjoying the evening and their shared conversation. What had happened?

“Is a masquerade such a bad thing?”

“It's not really bad,” she said, still looking out across the water. “It's just that I sometimes wonder if anything is really as it seems.”

He knew she was speaking of much more than architecture and streetlights. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that she needn't be so sad. But how could he?
He
wasn't what he seemed. Or was he? At that moment he felt very much like a man who wanted nothing more than to make a beautiful woman smile.

“Sometimes things are
more
than they seem,
better
than they at first appear.”

She turned to look at him and was caught in the impossible blue of his eyes.

“I wish that were true, but in my experience things aren't usually better than they pretend to be—it's usually the other way around.”

“Perhaps,” he said, trailing his fingers lightly across her cheek and down the smooth side of her long neck, “that is because you have not yet had the right kind of experiences.”

Pamela's stomach tensed. Apollo bent to brush his lips against hers in a brief, soft suggestion of a kiss. And as their mouths touched, the fountains came alive.

CHAPTER NINE

VIOLINS filled the air around them, and music enticed the water skyward, calling hidden lights to spotlight the liquid dance. Then the tenor began to sing. Pamela shivered as her body responded to the magnificence of his voice. It was so unexpected—so amazing. The arcs of water moved in perfect time to the rise and fall of the orchestra as if they had been choreographed by the hand of a master magician.

It was unbelievable and wonderful, like their kiss had been the cue that started it all.

At the sound of the first note, they had turned to face the fountains, and now Pamela stood very still, sheltered within Phoebus' arms while her emotions soared with the song.

“It's Italian, isn't it?” She leaned back against him, tilting her head up so that he could hear her question, without taking her eyes from the water.

“Yes,” Apollo said. His eyes, too, were riveted on the incredible show before them. “He is singing of
la rondine
, the swallow,” he murmured, using his voice as a backdrop to the beautiful music rather than a distraction. “He tells the story of the life of a little swallow who migrates far, far away to find love in a distant land. But of course he does not truly sing of a bird—he sings of his lover, who he is afraid has flown from him and is lost forever.”

“I wish I could understand Italian,” Pamela whispered.

Apollo tightened his arms around her. “Do you really need to? Listen to the music with your heart, and you will understand the soul of the song.”

Pamela listened with her heart. At the crescendo she felt her eyes fill with tears. She did understand—she understood the pain of lost love, of regrets, and the fear of forever being alone. When the song ended and the water went still and black, she stayed with her back pressed against Phoebus. She could feel the beat of his heart. The warmth of his body enveloped her.

“I did not expect to find such beauty here,” he said softy, not wanting to break the spell the magical waters had cast.

“Neither did I.” She drew a deep breath. “There's a lot about tonight that I didn't expect.”

Apollo turned Pamela so that she was facing him. He kept her within a loose circle of his arms. He was reluctant to let her go, but he didn't want to frighten her or entrap her. The night had been filled with firsts for him. And now, for the first time in all the eons he had been in existence, he wanted a woman to come to him willingly, not as a be-dazzled maiden overcome by the presence of Apollo, God of Light, and not as a seductive goddess, looking for a temporary partner with whom to dally. He wanted her to choose him, as a mortal woman would choose a man.

“I was not speaking only of the dancing waters,” he said.

“Neither was I.”

When he bent to kiss her, he couldn't stop himself from cupping the back of her head with his hand and letting his fingers splay through the short, tousled hair that he had so longed to touch since he had first glimpsed her. She didn't pull away from him, but she also didn't sink into the kiss. Her lips were warm and yielding under his, but they didn't open immediately in invitation. Instead it was as if they were posing a question for him to answer before he would be allowed to continue.
Think!
he ordered himself.
What is it women want?

He realized shamefully that in spite of all of his experience, he wasn't sure how to answer that question. He concentrated, reading her body and through it trying to understand what she desired of him. Moving slowly, he forced himself to ignore the heady lust that touching her evoked. Instead of behaving like a boorish, arrogant god, Apollo held himself tightly in control. He tenderly kissed her full bottom lip, and then he took it gently between his teeth and pulled at it teasingly, but only for a moment. He moved from her lips to plant a quick kiss on the tip of her nose, and was rewarded with her smile, which he promptly kissed at the corners. His fingers played in her short locks as he nuzzled her ear, and then whispered into it.

“I like your hair very much. It reminds me of the proud, free race of Amazons.” His lips traveled down. “And it leaves your neck so enticingly bare.”