Apollo cleared his throat and shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “The gods are . . . were certainly passionate, and passion can sometimes lead to impulsive, self-serving acts. Also, you must remember that in the Ancient World it was considered a privilege to be loved by a god, particularly the God of Light.”
“Oh, so what you mean is just because Apollo told the truth, that doesn't mean that he knew how to be faithful.”
Apollo frowned and wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn't. Pamela was right. He'd been truthful but never faithful. He had never before had any desire to be.
“So, is mythology one of your hobbies?”
“I think you would call it more of a passion than a hobby,” Apollo said with a slight smile. “I do know enough about it to assure you that the God of Light's lyre did not glow green when he played it, and his head was not that big.”
Pamela grinned. “I'm glad to hear it. I don't know how he could possibly have been a womanizer looking like that.”
“Did you know that some ancient texts report that Apollo found love?” He spoke quickly, before common sense caught up with his voice. “And that afterwards he was entirely faithful to his lover.”
“I had no idea. Who was she? Some fabulous goddess?”
“No, he found the mate of his soul within a mortal woman.”
“A mortal? Huh. I guess that's why they call it mythology. I can't imagine a real woman who would be stupid enough to take a chance on loving a god.”
Apollo felt his chest tighten. “But look at what she gained. She took the chance and won her soul mate.”
Pamela's smile was slow and sweet. “You really are a romantic.”
“Yes,” he said more fiercely than he'd intended and had to stop and take a breath to settle his raging emotions. “I haven't always been. Actually, I have been much like Apollo, content to find love where it seemed convenient or enjoyable and to think nothing more of it. But I feel myself changing.” He shrugged and purposefully lightened his tone. “Perhaps that's why I understand the tales told about the God of Light so well.”
Pamela silently studied her wineglass. She didn't know what to say to him. She was definitely attracted to him, and what he was saying touched her heart. He seemed so open and honest. But she was afraid. Thinking of having a weekend fling made her nervous and giddy. Thinking of beginning a relationship terrified her.
She glanced up at his handsome face. He was watching her intently. She took a deep breath, but instead of mouthing some offhanded quip about romantic reformed playboys, she heard the truth slipping out.
“I'm divorced. I had a bad marriage. No, scratch that. I had an awful marriage. I haven't really even dated since then. You're being honest with me, so I need to be honest with you. Just thinking about the possibility of a new relationship scares me. I don't think I'm ready for anything more than . . .” She hesitated, not wanting to sound like a slut or a dolt.
“You must heal.” Apollo spoke into her hesitation.
“Yes, exactly,” she said, grateful that he had put words to what she was bumbling around trying to say.
“And you shall heal, sweet Pamela,” he said.
“Thank you for understanding,” she said, resting her hand on his. “I know it sounds crazy. I've only known you for a couple of days, but there's something about you that makes me feel like you honestly do understand what I mean.”
“It's true, sweet Pamela. And you have no idea how rare it is to find that connection between two people.” He had literally lived eons without it.
Pamela stroked her thumb slowly over his hand and fell into the blue of his spectacular eyes. “Oh, I think I might have some idea.”
The knot that had been building within Apollo's chest suddenly loosened. It wasn't that she was unwilling to give herself to love, it was that she had been hurt. Terribly hurt. She needed to heal, and that was one thing that Apollo, God of Light, could do for her.
“I brought something for you tonight. I think now is the perfect time to gift you with it.” Apollo reached into his pocket and pulled out the delicate gold chain. He held it up so that the light glinted off a small coin, mounted in a thin circle of gold, which dangled from it. On the face of the coin was stamped the strong profile of a Greek god.
“Oh, it's beautiful,” Pamela breathed. The coin was gold but imperfectly formed, its shape more of a chipped-at circle than a regular coin, and she realized that its irregular shape marked it as being very old. “I can't accept it, though. It's way too expensive.”
“I can assure you that it cost me nothing. I have had it a very long time. Please, it would give me great pleasure if you would wear it. After all, we were just discussing the god who is depicted on the coin.”
“Really? It's Apollo?” Intrigued, Pamela leaned forward and cupped the piece of gold in her hands, studying the handsome profile.
“It's a better likeness than the fountain statue,” Apollo said, smiling wryly.
“You know,” she said, glancing from the coin to Phoebus, “it looks like you. I mean, not exactly like you. But the profile is similar.”
“That is indeed a compliment.” His smile widened. “At least it is a compliment as long as you don't say that I resemble yonder statue, too.” He pointed his chin at the big-headed fountain Apollo.
“No.” Pamela laughed. “You look nothing like that statue.”
He chuckled, appreciating the irony of the situation. “If you wear the coin you could think of Apollo as your own personal god,” he coaxed. “Apollo could be your talisman. Perhaps the God of Light will help you to solve the problems you're having with your client's unusual request.”
Pamela looked back and forth from the coin to Phoebus, ready to tell him no thank you. But she hesitated. What was so inherently wrong about accepting a gift from a handsome man? She liked him; he liked her. Okay, she didn't believe for an instant that it hadn't cost him anything, but he was a doctor. It wasn't like he couldn't afford it. And it was an interesting coincidence that they had just been talking about Apollo, the god who had supposedly fallen in love with a mortal woman. It was also silly and romantic and out of character for her to . . .
“Thank you, Phoebus. I accept it.”
Before she could change her mind, he stood and moved behind her so that he could fasten it around her long, slender neck. But first he held it in the palm of his hand and concentrated his vast, immortal powers on the little piece of gold.
“May it bring you everything Apollo represents: light and truth, music and poetry, and, most of all, healing.” Then placed the gold chain around her neck.
“That was a beautiful thing to say,” she looked up at him, touching the coin. She could almost swear that it felt warm against her body.
Apollo smiled and bent so that he could brush his lips against hers. He hadn't meant for the kiss to be anything more than a quick gesture of affection, but her mouth opened beneath his, and one of her hands slid up to press against his chest. Automatically, he deepened the kiss. Her mouth was sweet and slick. He wanted to taste more of her, all of her. He wanted . . .
“Ur, uh, excuse me.”
The waiter's voice broke through the red haze of lust that had enveloped Apollo. The god snarled dangerously at the hapless servant, who was quick to step back and apologize.
“Sorry, sir. It just gets kinda crowded in here, and I was trying to move around your table.”
“Find another pathway,” Apollo growled.
The servant nodded and hastily retreated. When Apollo turned back to Pamela, her face was blazing, and her hands were covering her cheeks.
“I can't believe it. I'm making out in public, and I'm a sober adult.”
“Then let us go somewhere more private,” he said, stroking the hand that covered one of her flaming cheeks.
Pamela opened her mouth, looked at him, sputtered something incomprehensible, closed her mouth, and looked at her watch.
“Oh, bloody buggering hell!” she gasped.
“What is it?”
“It's almost nine,” Pamela grabbed her little gold purse and leapt up from the table. “Oh, God . . . I've forgotten. Which way is it to the front of Caesars Palace?”
Apollo pointed in the correct direction, wondering what was wrong with her. She started to hurry off, then she stopped, drew a long breath, and came back to where he was still standing. She ran her hand through her short hair as she spoke.
“I'm sorry. It's just so unlike me to kiss you like that, right there in front of everyone.” She blushed again as she remembered how it had felt to meet his tongue and return his passion. “That freaked me out. Then I suddenly remembered that I managed to get tickets for us to a show that has been selling out, and that show starts in”âshe glanced at her watch againâ“fifteen minutes. So that's why I rushed off like an idiot. Accidentally without you.”
And without any sense,
she added silently to herself.
“A show?” he asked.
“Yes, it's called
Zumanity.
It's . . . it's supposed to be erotic but tasteful.” Her eyes skittered away from his. “It's by the same people who do Cirque du Soleil.”
When she finally met his eyes again, they were smiling.
“An erotic circus of the sun? Fascinating.” He took her hand and linked it through his arm. “We had better hurry.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
APOLLO couldn't believe that the
Zumanity
players were mortal. The women moved with the grace and seduction of nymphs. The men were all beautiful of body and face. And the music! The music was ethereal. It was the perfect backdrop to the parade of sensuality performed on and above the stage. He and Pamela had been quietly ushered to their intimate seating on the balcony in a lushly upholstered couch that was fashioned like a chaise lounge. The performance had already begun. In the middle of the round stage there was an enormous glass, made to look like a wine goblet filled with water. Within the glass were two nubile young women, who wore very little except nude-colored loincloths. In time to the pulsing tempo of the seductive music the girls swam a dance of innocent seduction, personifying the awakening of uniquely feminine passion and desire. Though the golden god was much more interested in the woman who sat close to his side, his body stirred in appreciation. He glanced sideways at Pamela, gauging her reaction. She was watching with eyes that were large and round. When the scene was over, she applauded enthusiastically. Then she looked away from the stage and caught Apollo watching her. Her already flushed cheeks blushed even pinker.
“Did you find the young women pleasing?” he whispered as the stage temporarily darkened.
“I did. I mean, I'm definitely not a lesbian, but they were so beautiful.” Her voice was breathy, and her laugh was a sensual purr. She'd have to remember to tell V that she finally understood her attraction to women.
Apollo leaned into her, drawn by her earthy response to the show. “There is nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty of the female body. You would have to be made of stone not to be moved by them.”
She had been about to whisper back that it was definite that she wasn't made of stone when the spotlights illuminated the stage again and the appreciative audience fell silent. This time an exquisitely muscled man with black velvet skin appeared on the stage through a trapdoor in the floor. He, too, had almost nothing on. He moved in time with the music as he was joined by a woman who was as blond as he was dark. She was covered in sheer layers of a filmy dress, and as the two met in the center of the stage and began an erotic version of the lover's scene from the ballet
Romeo and Juliet
, he slowly unwound piece after piece of her covering, until they both wore only the briefest of G-strings.
They moved with a fluid, sensual grace and a passion for each other that Pamela could not believe was feigned. The scene ended, and this time Pamela readily met Phoebus' gaze.
“They must really be in love. No one can act that well. I swear I could feel the sexual tension between them up here.”
“Now who's the romantic?” he said, putting his arm around her and pulling her close to him.
For the rest of the performance, that's where she stayed, tucked against Phoebus' body. About midway through the show, her hand found his thigh. It rested there, against the soft fabric of his slacks, through which she could feel the heat and hardness of his leg. His fingers traced a lazy pattern over the bare skin of her arm, caressing the smooth indention inside her elbow and causing gooseflesh to rise up and down her body.
Zumanity
was, indeed, an adventure in eroticism. It titillated and teased, seduced and sensitized. When Phoebus' hand traced its way up her arm to slowly caress her neck, she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud.
A tall, stunning redhead, who reminded Pamela very much of Nicole Kidman, left the stage after performing an incredibly sexy version of autoerotic masturbation, and before the audience's applause had died, the lights flashed on a thick length of red silk that dropped from the darkened ceiling of the theater as if an inattentive giantess had haphazardly thrown her scarf from a bedroom window. It unrolled to expose a woman whose waist-length hair shined golden in the spotlight. Her arms remained cunningly twisted in the scarf so that only the tips of her bare, gracefully pointed toes touched the stage. Beneath her, the end of the scarf pooled like wine on the slick onyx stage. Her beauty was blinding, and as the audience caught sight of her, the theater let out a collective murmur of awe. At first it seemed that she was nude except for body glitter, but as the lights flashed and changed, Pamela could tell she was really wearing a sheer body leotard, nude-colored and covered with brilliant, diamondlike sparkles. The music began, and the scarf was pulled up, and along with it up went the glistening golden woman. She spun and twisted in a sensual dance, all the while dangling over the stage. It was breathtaking.