They strolled hand in hand through The Forum towards the casino. Their arms brushed together intimately, and Pamela remembered how wonderful it had felt to be wrapped in his arms, pressed against his naked chest. She could smell his unique scent. It wasn't some trendy, oh-so-manly department store cologne smell. Phoebus' scent was clean and natural and male. It made her want to inhale him.
“Did you finish the sketch of the baths?” Apollo asked.
“Yes, I did,” she said, jerking her thoughts away from remembrances of his naked skin. “And I like it, too. I've never designed anything similar to it. It's exciting to do something totally new. Well, that is, it will be if I can talk Eddie into it.”
“I think you'll persuade him.”
“I really hope so, Iâ
OHMYGOD!
” Pamela stopped as if she'd run into an invisible wall. She was staring at a glittering display of purses that sat on a marble pillar inside a locked glass case in front of a sassy little accessory store. “I can not believe how perfect it is!”
Transfixed, Pamela dropped Phoebus' hand and approached the display case. Three jeweled purses were placed on small crystal boxes. One purse looked just like a child's piggy bank, another was a lovely dragonfly, and the thirdâthe third was the one she gravitated to. It was an exact replica of one of Dorothy's ruby slippers. It winked and glistened with red beads and semiprecious stones under the display spotlight, looking magical and familiar and very, very
Wizard of Oz.
“I have to have it.” Pamela crooked her finger at an attentive salesman within the store.
Apollo watched as Pamela, completely entranced by the purse that looked like a red slipper perched on one of the daggerlike heels she was so fond of, waited impatiently for the servant to unlock the case and carefully lift out the shoe purse. Pamela handled it reverently. She flipped over the gold-embossed tag that hung from the clasp. And her face paled.
“Let me be sure that I'm reading this correctly. Does it say four
thousand
dollars and not four
hundred
dollars?” she asked the clerk.
“Yes madam, you are correct. The purse is a Judith Leiber original.” His tone said that was explanation enough for the price.
“It's beautiful.” Reluctantly, Pamela returned the purse to the clerk, who placed it back in the case.
“May I show you anything else, madam?”
“No, thank you.”
The employee closed and locked the case. “Just call if I can be of further assistance.” He executed an abrupt about-face and returned to the posh interior of the boutique.
“Are you not going to purchase it?” Apollo asked, hating the forlorn look on Pamela's face.
“Are you kidding? It's four thousand dollars. I can't spend that kind of money on a purse.”
“But you said that it was perfect.”
“It is! Four thousand dollars worth of perfect.” She sighed and slid her arm through his, steering him away from the front of the store. “Let's go before I cry.”
“You don't have four thousand dollars?” Apollo asked as they walked.
“Yeah, I have four grand. But I don't have four
extra
grandâor at least not extra enough that I can justify spending it on an extravagance like a jeweled purse. Even if it is a ruby slipper jeweled purse. Oh, well,” she said wistfully. “Maybe someday.”
Apollo thought about the roll of currency he carried in his pocket. He couldn't remember exactly how much he'd brought with him. He'd just skimmed some off the top of the pile of bills Zeus had commanded Bacchus leave in a golden bowl near the portal. He did a quick mental calculation, and was pretty sure it wouldn't add up to four thousand dollars. Pamela seemed to consider it a great deal of money anyway, probably more than she would accept as a gift. He glanced down at his gold coin that nestled just above the valley of her breasts. She almost hadn't accepted that from him, and she had had no idea of even a fraction of its worth. No, Pamela definitely would not allow him to gift her with the purse.
The faux stone floor gave way to an opulent carpet as they left The Forum Shops and entered Caesars Palace.
“It's this way,” Apollo said, turning to their right and winding past several rows of busily blinking slot machines . . . and his steps slowed and then stopped.
“Did we take a wrong turn?” Pamela asked him.
He smiled. “No, but I just had a thought. Would you like to take a small chance?”
Her pretty face was a question mark.
“You want the purse, but you don't want to spend four thousand of your dollars. But what if you won the money? Would you purchase the purse then?”
“I suppose . . .”
Apollo tilted his head at the nearest row of slot machines. “I feel that luck is with us tonight.”
Pamela chewed on the side of her lip. “I'm not really a very good gambler. I like knowing that I'm getting something back when I let my money loose.”
“Then allow me to provide the money.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his roll of currency and flipped it open, shuffling quickly through the dozen or so bills, most of which had 50 or 100 printed on them.
“Good lord, Phoebus, do you not believe in credit cards?”
He tried to keep the confusion out of his voice. Bacchus had mentioned something about other ways modern mortals paid for their purchases, but Apollo couldn't remember exactly what he had said.
“I like this currency,” he paused, trying to decide what else he could say. “It's not very colorful, but it's interesting looking.” He handed her a hundred dollar bill. “Take this one and feed it into one of the machines, and let us see what happens.”
Pamela screwed up her face and looked at him like he was crazy. “I can't just blow a hundred dollars like that, even if it is yours. And really, I never gamble. I don't think I have the right attitude to be lucky at it.”
“I think you are lucky. You're lucky for me.”
That drew a reluctant smile from her. “I can't throw one hundred dollars away.”
“Then use this one.” He shuffled the money until he found a fifty dollar bill. “Remember, you might win enough money to buy your slipper purse.” At the mention of the much-coveted purse, Apollo saw a light come into her eyes and he knew he'd won.
“Okay, here's the deal.” She didn't take the fifty dollar bill. Instead, she rifled through the wad of money until she found a twenty. “I'll play this, and only this. If I win, you get half. If I lose, I owe you ten dollars.”
“I'll take your deal,” Apollo said. “Which machine shall we try?”
Pamela studied the rows of blinking, bonging, blaring machines, feeling a little intimidated by their slick foreign appearance. It was after eight o'clock on Sunday night, but still at least half of the machines were occupied by gamblers who were pressing buttons and pulling metal arms with a single-minded intensity.
“You're the one feeling lucky. You pick,” she said.
Apollo rubbed his chin, pretending to carefully consider the rows of machines. “I like the way this one looks.” He took her hand and pulled her to a machine not far from where they were standing. There were only two other people in that row, and they sat several seats down from the one he stopped in front of.
“Wheel of Fortune. Are you sure you want this one? I think it might be a bad omen that I never liked the show. I'm not a particularly good speller.” She shrugged. “Hated it.”
“You're nervous.” Apollo didn't understand all of her words, but he certainly recognized the tone of her voice and her body language.
“Yep,” she said, feeling foolish. “You're right. I am. I told you I've never gambled before.”
“Don't think of it as gambling. Think of it as purse shopping.”
Pamela visibly perked up. “Purse shopping is definitely something I can do.” She sat on the little padded seat and searched the front of the gaudy machine. “I guess the money goes in here,” she said, sliding the twenty into a little slot. The money disappeared, and the machine clicked and clanged, digitally displaying a credit of twenty dollars. She looked up at Phoebus. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Pamela grasped the red ball at the end of the silver arm, and pulled. Her attention was totally focused on the three-panel window, and she didn't notice the small, commanding gesture Apollo made with his hand.
“Bar . . .” Pamela said as the first scroll clunked to a stop inside the window.
“Bar . . .”
she said when the next one halted, excitement growing in her voice, until
“BAR!”
she shouted as the third black picture stopped. The machine exploded in lights and sirens and began vomiting money from its mechanical mouth as Pamela shrieked and leaped up to throw her arms around Apollo, who hugged her back, laughing joyously.
Sometimes it was really good to be a god.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE strap of the ruby slipper purse was made of a filigree gold chain that reminded Pamela of something a 1920s flapper would have worn as a long, sultry necklace. She slid it over her shoulder and had the insanely childish urge to skip like Dorothy down the Yellow Brick Road. She couldn't believe it was hers! V was going to shit monkeys when she saw it.
“I can not believe the jackpot was exactly eight thousand dollars,” she gushed, doing a little twirl as she watched the purse wink and glitter in her reflection in the store windows they passed.
“I told you I was feeling lucky tonight,” Apollo said, delighted at the uninhibited exuberance of Pamela's reaction to winning the money.
“I would never have let myself buy something so outrageously expensive.” She squeezed his hand and lowered her voice. “Not even a pair of fabulous, beginning-of-season designer shoesânot for four thousand dollars.”
“But you love the purse.” Apollo smiled down at her, thoroughly pleased that he had been able to orchestrate such joy for her. And, oddly enough, he didn't even care that he couldn't tell her that he had commanded the machine to spurt out the money she required. That he got the credit wasn't the point. The point was that Pamela was so incredibly happy. It made his heart feel light and carefree.
“I love the purse. I adore the purse. I'm totally enamored with the purse!” She laughed. “I don't care how shallow and materialistic it sounds. I'm only going to carry it on special occasions. When I get back to my shop, I'm going to mount it under glass in the front picture window, the one with our logo painted in red script on it: Ruby Slipper Design Studio . . . We Make Sure That There's No Place Like Home.”
They retraced their way back through Caesars Palace as Apollo listened to Pamela's excited chatter. He believed her design studio's motto. Without Pamela, there was no home. He knew it was trueâhe'd already proven it. The Kingdom of Vegas was a foreign, strange place, but when he had passed through the portal that night and made his way to The Lost Cellar and Pamela, he felt as if he was coming home. However improbable, Apollo, God of Light, one of the original Twelve Olympians, was falling in love with Pamela Gray, a very modern mortal woman.
“Hey! What are you going to do with your four thousand dollars?”
Apollo raised her hand to his lips. “I have no idea. Perhaps you would help me decide. I believe I distinctly remember you saying that you've never purchased a four thousand dollar pair of designer shoes . . .” His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted down her body to the dangerous-looking black stiletto sandals she was wearing. “And I find that I have grown very fond of your daggerlike shoes.”
“You definitely know the way to a girl's heart.” She grinned.
“By all the gods, I hope so,” Apollo said earnestly.
He turned down a small side hallway and after just a few feet stopped in front of a plain-looking white door.
“This can't be it,” Pamela said, looking around. “This isn't marked at all. It's not even near the other restaurants.” She gave the door, and then Phoebus, a suspicious glance. “I think you've gotten turned around somewhere.”
His smile was surreptitious. “I told you it was exclusive.”
“But . . .” she began.
Apollo turned her to face him. He'd have to do this quickly. He didn't like using his powers to fog her mind, but he needed to get her through the portal and then instantly transport her to his templeâwithout her being aware of what was happening.
“I promise tonight's dinner will be like none other you have ever eaten.” He didn't bother to search the area around them; the little service hallway had been charmed by the power of Olympus. There would be no mortal intruders to stumble upon him using his immortal magic on Pamela. “But before we go in, I must do something I have been waiting to do since my sister so abruptly interrupted us earlier today.”
Apollo drew her into his arms. As his hands skimmed down the soft curve of her body and his lips met hers, he concentrated on sending a mist of his golden power into her mind. He commanded the light-filled mist to gently blanket her thoughts so that, for just the space of a few breaths, her precious mortal soul would be dizzy and disoriented.
“Oh,” she breathed, swaying slightly.
In one swift movement, Apollo picked Pamela up, cradling her in his arms as he opened the door and stepped through the portal. He only had a brief glimpse of the Great Hall of Olympus, but it was enough for him to see that Artemis had done as she had promised. The room was empty. There was not a single immortal to witness the God of Light reentering Olympus carrying a modern mortal carefully in his arms. Apollo silently commanded that the two of them be transported to his temple, and they disappeared in a shower of displaced sunlight.