Goddess of Light (9 page)

Artemis followed her brother's rapt gaze. The goddess's sharp eyes evaluated the mortal woman. She appeared completely unaware of what she had done. She was petite and dressed in a surprisingly pleasing fashion, despite her outrageously cropped hair. Her age was indeterminate. All Artemis could discern was that she was older than a youth and younger than a middle-aged matron. She seemed attractive, and the very nature of her spoken desire proved that she was not currently pledged to any man. Artemis felt a small sense of relief. At least the mortal hadn't asked for her to begin a war, or worse, to bring about world peace. All she desired was a god to romance her. She looked at her handsome brother, whose expression obviously showed that he was, indeed, interested in the woman. Artemis' relief expanded. This couldn't be that difficult.

“I believe I'm overreacting. The mortal simply wants to be seduced by a god.”

“She didn't say she wanted to be seduced. She asked for romance to return to her life,” Apollo corrected her. His lips were tilted up in a slight smile as his eyes remained on the mortal.

“In the form of a man who is godlike. You, my dear Brother,
are
a god. So, what are you waiting for?” She shook her head at Apollo. Had he suddenly become dense? “I certainly am not what she desires, but she has bound me to fulfill her wish. You are my brother. The god closest to me in all of Olympus. That makes you the perfect god to rid me of this ridiculous problem.”

“Yes, it certainly does.” His smile widened.

“Of course it does,” she agreed with him, noting his smug smile. Wasn't this really what he desired, too? Wasn't it just a few moments ago that he had been waxing poetic about Hades and his mortal lover? Now he had a chance to experience the love of a modern mortal—one who wasn't already enamored with another god. For an instant she wondered if this mistake might actually be more than a coincidence. She glanced surreptitiously around them. Could Zeus be plotting something? No, she rejected the thought. It had been her idea alone to bring her brother to the Kingdom of Las Vegas to cheer him up. Apparently, the impulse had been a good one. The old-fashioned seduction of a mortal woman ought to do wonders for his morose mood. Feeling rather pleased with herself, she rested a hand on his shoulder. “Go to her. Romance her. Take her to bed. Fulfill her every erotic desire. Just be quick about it. It would probably be best if Zeus doesn't hear about this. You and I can deal with Bacchus ourselves.” Then she added quickly, “You probably shouldn't reveal yourself to her. It wouldn't do to have a mortal woman telling others how she managed to bind the aid of a goddess and invoke golden Apollo to her bed.”

He frowned at his sister. “Of course I won't tell her.”

“Excellent,” she said, rubbing her hands together as if she had just completed a job well done.

“Where will you be?”

“Well, I certainly won't be with you!” She grinned and gave his shoulder a playful punch. “I'm going to have one more of those lovely martini drinks, and then I'm returning to Olympus. I'll meet you there tomorrow after the invocation has been fulfilled. You can give me a full report, and then we'll decide what to do about Bacchus.” She gave him a little push forward and watched him walk towards the mortal who had unwittingly bound the aid of a goddess. She patted her hair, which was, of course, already perfectly arranged. Apollo should be back to normal by morning.

 

 

“. . . IF you want to grant my wish, bring me a man who is really godlike for a change.”

As she finished speaking, the hair on Pamela's forearms tingled like a jolt of electricity had zapped its way through her body.
Wow!
She smiled an apology to the waiter, who quickly cleaned up the mess she'd made. She usually had a pretty good tolerance for wine, but her head was definitely feeling woozy. Good thing she wasn't driving.

“I'll bring you another glass, ma'am,” the waiter said. Then he glanced at the tissue wrapped around her finger. “And how about a Band-Aid, too?”

“Thank you, that would be nice,” she said, ignoring how flushed she felt. He'd already turned away when she thought that she should probably have told him she'd just cork the bottle and take it to her room. That would be the sensible thing to do. She fiddled with the tissue. She didn't feel like being sensible. Actually, besides being a little flushed and tipsy, she felt invigorated. It had been empowering to admit her desire aloud. Okay, the wine may have had something to do with it, but she liked to think that there was more to it. She had finally acknowledged something that had been unconsciously eating away at her for months, maybe even years—that Duane had somehow invisibly branded her as Nonromance Material. And now that she had given voice to her fear, it didn't seem so monstrous. It was like taking a midnight trip to check the closet for the boogie man—the walk was scary, but after the door was open, the return wasn't so bad. So she'd just start her return. As V would say, she needed to get out there more. Make herself available. Stop thinking of men only as business acquaintances. Well, she couldn't do that by corking the bottle and scuttling back to her room.

“I hope it does not pain you too badly.”

Pamela looked up from her finger . . . and up and up . . . into eyes so blue that they couldn't possibly be real. And just how tall was he? Her brother was six two, and this guy had to be at least a couple of inches taller than that. Then her gaze widened to include his face, and all thoughts of blue eyes and her brother disappeared. What a scrumptious man! The lines of his face were firm, his chin square and strong. His hair was the gold of summer sun, thick and curly.

He was, quite simply, perfect. He looked like he had stepped from the pages of a magazine ad—and not one of those oh-so-chic, androgynous ads that made women look like men and men look like little boys. This man was old Hollywood handsome, like Cary Grant or Clark Gable. Only he was blond and . . . her thoughts fragmented as she realized what else she was seeing, and she was mortified to hear a small giggle escape from her lips. He was blond and gorgeous and wearing something that looked like an ancient gladiator costume and left very little of his amazing body to the imagination! Pamela felt her face warm again, this time out of shock and secondhand embarrassment.

“What?” she asked, staring stupidly, having completely forgotten what he had said.

“Your finger,” he pointed at the tissue-wrapped appendage. “I saw you cut it. I said I hope it doesn't cause you too much pain.”

His smile made her stomach tighten with a ridiculous little nervous quiver. Dimples! The guy had dimples, which lent his masculine beauty an unexpectedly sweet boyishness. Boyish and breathtaking and very, very tall—a totally lethal combination.

“Oh, uh, yes . . .” She shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs from it. Oh, bloody buggering hell, she'd definitely had too much wine. “No . . . I mean, no, it's nothing. Just a silly mistake.”

“Do you know that in the Ancient World people did not believe in mistakes? They thought every action carried with it a purpose, an omen, a meaning, and that the future could be foretold through things as simple as leaves of tea or smoke rising from a ceremonial fire.”

Pamela could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her mind flitted from thought to thought like bubbles in a windstorm. Could a man who looked like that actually carry on an interesting conversation? Just exactly why
did
he look like that—not as in incredibly handsome, but as in bizarrely costumed? And that accent! It made his deep voice seductive . . . intriguing . . . It wrapped around her and slid down her spine like hot oil.

Pull yourself together!
The rational part of her brain berated.
Sober up, girl! Weird outfit or not, this man is prime flirting material.
She needed to stop staring like a slack-jawed tourist and speak intelligibly.

“No, I didn't know that,” she said in her best let's-pretend-I'm-sober voice. “It's been too long since my last college humanities class, and I'm ashamed to admit that the only part of history I really paid attention to was my art history class that focused on the elements of ancient architectural design.” The words
ancient architectural design
slurred together alarmingly. Oh, God! She was babbling. She sounded like an inebriated egghead.

“Ancient architecture interests you?”

He seemed surprised, and even through her wine fog Pamela had to stifle her instant irritation. Just because she was pretty didn't mean that she was incapable of intelligence, and she truly hated the patronizing attitude that said the opposite . . . Wait . . . She studied his handsome face. Wasn't that just what she had thought about him? She was chagrined to remember that she had instantly been surprised to hear such a gorgeous man have something intelligent and interesting to say. When had she become a walking double standard? Actually, now that she was able to form a few coherent thoughts, she realized that he looked pleased, not patronizing. Maybe he hadn't meant to insult her. Maybe she had become too damn sensitive. Couldn't he simply be doing his part in carrying on a polite conversation? He did look genuinely interested in her answer. Maybe her knee-jerk annoyed reaction said more about her than about him, or even men in general. And she was still babbling—only this time (thankfully) it was internal babble. She cleared her throat and smiled.

“Yes, it does, but I'm interested in all kinds of architecture. It's an important part of my business.”

“You are an architect?” he asked.

This time the shock in his voice was so apparent that Pamela frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not tell me that you are one of those men who believe women should be relegated to certain roles. Please. It's the 2000s, not the '50s.”

The annoyance in her voice and the cold, intelligent snap in her clear eyes suddenly reminded him very distinctly of his sister, and Apollo felt surprise begin to build within him. He had known countless mortal women, many of whom he had thought beautiful and tempting, but not one of them had ever reminded him of his willful, independent, outspoken twin. They had all been too busy worshiping him to remember to be very interesting. He had just begun speaking to her, yet this modern mortal was already proving a delightful change. He laughed, and shook his head. “I did not mean to insult you—it is just that you are so young. All of the architects I've known have been old, wizened men with gray thickening their beards.” He leaned forward and pretended to study her cheeks. “I see no gray, hence my surprise.”

“Ma'am should I bring another glass?” The waiter asked. He handed her a Band-Aid before he placed a new glass on the table and carefully filled it.

“I would be honored if you allowed me to join you.”

He inclined his head to her in the kind of chivalrous half bow that she imagined men used to execute to their “ladies” on a regular basis. That small, old-world affectation did something to the pit of her stomach. That and the fact that he was undeniably gorgeous was beginning to outweigh the weirdness of his costume. And anyway, why shouldn't she have a drink with him? He was probably paid to dress like that and to entertain vacationers at Caesars Palace. She'd just think of it as helping him out with his job, which was actually exceedingly considerate of her. Who said alcohol inhibits rational thought? Her thinking was perfectly clear. She nodded at the waiter.

“Yes, please bring us another glass.”

The waiter hurried away. Pamela tore open the Band-Aid, but before she could wrap it around her finger, the tall man leaned forward and took it from her.

“Here,” he said, “let me help you.”

Apollo placed the small bandage securely around her slim finger, and as he did, he sent a tiny sliver of his healing power through his hands and into her.

Pamela blinked in surprise at his gentle touch.

“Thank you. It feels better already.” She grinned at him. Holding out her hand with the newly bandaged finger she said, “I'm Pamela Gray.”

His hesitation was so brief that it was only much later that she thought about it at all.

“Phoebus,” he said with a smooth smile. “Phoebus Delos.” He took her hand and automatically shifted his grip so that he could raise it to his lips. Their eyes met as his mouth touched her skin. Hers were wide with surprise; his were impossibly blue.

Pamela felt the warmth of his lips tickle through her body. Her mouth went dry.

“So you're still in character?” she asked, pulling her hand from his and running it through her hair as if she didn't know what to do with it.

“Character?” He looked puzzled.

She wiggled her bandaged finger up and down at his outfit, cocked her head and let her eyes travel his body in blatant appraisal. The short tunic was made of the finest linen she had ever seen—and she had definitely seen her share of expensive fabrics. It was trimmed in heavy metallic embroidery and ended in pleats that left much of his incredibly well-shaped legs bare. Over the tunic, which tied above his left shoulder, was an ornately decorated breastplate that looked like it was made of hammered gold.

“It really is a great costume,” she said, tapping her chin with her finger. “Let's see, the dancers were supposed to be nymphs, so my guess is that you're supposed to be a god.” Pamela smiled impishly as she realized the irony of the situation. Hadn't she just asked for a god? And then, poof! Like magic, this guy showed up at her table looking like a living, breathing example of the real thing. It made her want to laugh. Only in Vegas . . .

“Your guess would be correct,” he leaned back. He liked to watch her talk. She had obviously partaken of quite a bit of wine, but instead of thinking that she was silly, Apollo was intrigued by her. The flush became her honest, animated face. Her intelligent eyes sparkled an unusual hazel brown that reminded him of rich, sweet honeycomb. And her lips . . . there was a whole other world waiting to be explored there. He could already imagine her lips against his. She would taste of wine and woman . . .