Goddess of Light (10 page)

He pulled his eyes from her mouth and refocused quickly on what she was saying.

“A god, huh? Well, you certainly look the part. I mean, besides the outfit, you are definitely ginormous enough to be a god. I say well done you!”

Ginormous?
At least she appeared to be using the word in a flattering sense, whatever it meant. He brushed her odd compliment aside, not wanting to pursue the direction their conversation had taken. The waiter reappeared and filled his glass. When he left, Apollo raised it to her.

“I drink to you, Pamela, and to coincidence and fate.”

“Would that mean that you believe in coincidence or fate?”

“I think I'm beginning to believe in both,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“SO tell me how it is that you have become the most beautiful architect I have ever cast my eyes upon,” Apollo said.

Pamela made a little hiccuping laugh. “You shouldn't have already described my competition as a bunch of old men if you wanted me to be complimented by that. Actually, I'm not an architect, but understanding architecture is an important part of my job. I'm an interior designer.”

“An interior designer.” Apollo repeated the strange title, searching for its meaning. What was it she designed the interiors of? He had no idea. And then Apollo, God of Light, master of music, healing, truth, and lover of innumerable mortals as well as goddesses, found himself doing something for the first time in his existence. He struggled to think of something to say to keep himself from sounding like an ignorant fool.

He blurted the first question that came into his mind. “Architecture is important to an interior designer?”

“Of course.” The tiny frown lines were back between her brows. “It only makes sense that in order to properly decorate a space the designer must first understand the building's architecture. I mean, please. Me not understanding the structure of a building would be like a chef not understanding in what order to mix the ingredients to make a soufflé. Besides that, there are lots of times that I work directly with builders and am involved in the design of a project from the time the foundation of the home is laid all the way through to when my clients move in and host their fabulously successful housewarming party.”

Apollo's mind swiftly sifted through the strange wording of her answer, focusing on familiar ideas. It seemed Pamela's job involved decorating mortals' homes. Perhaps she was like Zeus' sister, Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth. Ancient mortals invoked Hestia's aid when erecting a new home and in many villages women tended ever-burning flames dedicated to her as a symbol of their desire for safety and harmony within their households.

“You make home a pleasant place in which to live,” he said thoughtfully. “That must be a rewarding job.”

Pamela grinned. “Well, I try. I especially enjoy owning my business. I like to call the shots.” Her smile faltered as her expression grew more serious. “I've decided that it's better to be in control of my life than to constantly try to live up to someone else's expectations.”

Apollo nodded thoughtfully, thinking of how lately he had begun to feel stifled by the role he had played for eons. It seemed he was eternally viewed as the great God of Light, and never seen as himself. He met Pamela's eyes and surprised himself by speaking his thoughts aloud.

“I envy your independence. I know what it is to be restricted and controlled by what others expect of you.”

“It's suffocating,” Pamela said softly.

“Exactly,” Apollo said.

They studied one another as they sipped their wine, pleasantly surprised at finding common ground so easily.

Pamela's smile returned. “Well, even though I own my business, some jobs allow me more independence than others. For instance, the job that brought me to Vegas is feeling like one of the others.”

“You do not live here, in The Forum?”

“You mean Las Vegas?” She automatically corrected him. “No way. This is my first time in Vegas. I'm from Colorado.” Her wry look took in the fountain and the area surrounding it. She shook her head. “Manitou Springs is about as different from Las Vegas as you can get. How about you? I don't recognize your accent, but it's obviously not from around here.”

Wishing he'd given himself more time to fabricate answers to simple questions like who he was and where he was from, he took another drink of wine while his mind searched around for a response Pamela would find reasonable.

“I can not really say I am from only one place. I consider both Italy and Greece my home.”

At least that accounted for his unusual name and the accent, she thought.

“It seems we have more than our love of independence in common. I am new to Las Vegas, too,” he said. It was a stretch of the literal truth, but not by much. His two previous visits had been brief and confined to Caesars Palace. He had basically followed his sister's lead and tried to appear as if he was enjoying himself.

“So you don't usually pretend to be a god?”

Apollo's smile was slow and enigmatic. “I can assure you that I have never pretended to be a god.”

“Really? Then how did all of this”—she gestured at his costume—“happen?”

Apollo's smile widened as he decided to tell the truth. “I blame it entirely on my sister. I believe she thought I had become too serious, so as a favor to her I came to Las Vegas. Hence, what you see before you.”

Pamela's laughter delighted Apollo. It didn't have the perfectly musical sound of an amused goddess; instead it was filled with earthy joy and brought to mind images of hot firelit nights and slippery entwined limbs.

“Now that makes total sense. I have a brother myself. He's a big, tough fireman, and he never lets me forget the time I talked him into dressing up as a Star-Belly Sneetch and reading Seuss to some local preschool kids. How was I supposed to know the media would get wind of it and snap a picture of him climbing out of the fire truck in costume?” Remembering, Pamela laughed so hard that she snorted. “His buddies had the picture blown up, laminated and posted at all the fire stations. Sometimes I still call him Fireman Sneetch, but usually only when I am well out of reach.” She giggled at her own rhyming minitribute to Seuss.

Apollo had no idea what she was talking about, but her laughter was incredibly infectious, and when she snorted he had a sudden, irrational desire to lean across the table and kiss her squarely on her adorable nose.

“So I understand perfectly the trials a sister can impose upon her brother.” She wiped at her eyes and caught her breath. She really should slow down on the wine. “What do you do when your sister isn't torturing you?”

Apollo considered and discarded several answers before he replied. “I do many things, but I like to think of myself predominately as a healer and a musician.”

He was a singing doctor? Was that anything like a singing cowboy? The giggles bubbled up through her chest again. She drowned them in a gulp of wine, which did absolutely nothing to help her teetering sobriety.

“What kind of doctor are you?” she finally asked when she was sure she could speak without dissolving into giggles.

“I believe I am an excellent one,” he said, surprised at her question.

Laughter spilling over, she shook her head. “I think we have a translation glitch, and this”—she flicked a fingernail against her almost empty wineglass—“is definitely not helping.”

“Perhaps, you would like to walk with me?” He pounced on the opportunity to guide the conversation away from questions about himself. “Taking in the night air would be an excellent way for you to clear your head.”

She pointed to the perpetually daylight sky of The Forum. “But it's not night out there.”

He leaned forward. “In a land such as this, can we not imagine it night?”

In a caress so soft that she felt the heat from his body more than the pressure of his touch, he stroked one finger down the back of her hand. It was only a brief meeting of skin, but the small, intimate gesture seemed to pull her forward. The world around them fell away, and Pamela submerged herself in his eyes. He was just so damn outrageously gorgeous. She was flooded with a sensation that it took her several heartbeats to identify. Desire. How long had it been since she had felt the hot pull of lust for a man? Years—it had been years. And she was only thirty. It was like she'd let herself become dried up and old and passionless. Well, no more. She loosed her breath in a rush.

“Okay. I'll take a walk with you,” she proclaimed. “Are you staying at Caesars Palace? I can wait here while you change your clothes.”

“No. I—I am . . .” He mentally flailed around. Thank the nine Titans that he managed a credible excuse. “I am staying with my sister.”

“Oh.” She frowned at his costume. “Well, I suppose you don't really need to change.”

This was something he understood perfectly. Her words said one thing, but her body language said another. Mortal women and goddesses had this form of communication very much in common.

He glanced around The Forum. Modern mortals dressed so oddly. How had he not noticed earlier how out of place he was? Poorly carved statues were the only things in this world attired like him. He suddenly realized with a start of shock that he must look like a buffoon to her. A buffoon was unlikely to romance anyone, and he must romance her to grant her desire and to break the bond her invocation had forged. In the back of his mind a thought whispered that there was much more to this than the completion of an invocation—that he wanted her to take him seriously for an entirely different reason. The thought was strangely intriguing.

What was he going to do about it?

Then his eyes widened. The answer to his dilemma surrounded him.

“I will simply purchase the correct clothing,” he said.

Pamela's lips quirked up in a surprised smile. “Just like that?”

“Of course! Are we not surrounded by shops?”

She raised her brows and nodded. “We are, indeed.”

He stood, and then he realized he needed to do something he had never before had to do. Until that moment the God of Light had never had to ask a woman—mortal or immortal—to wait for him. Gently, he touched the back of her hand again. “I will not be long. Will you wait?”

Pamela took her time considering. A naughty smile played at the corner of her well-shaped mouth. She ran one finger around the rim of her crystal wineglass while her eyes met his.

“I suppose I could wait. For a little while.”

He smiled, took a couple of steps, stopped, frowned and returned to the table.

“Which shop would you suggest?” he asked in a low voice.

“Well,” she said, dropping her voice to match his. “It's lucky for you that I am a shopping expert. I have instant recall when it comes to couture.” She squinted her eyes, considering. “I remember an Armani's just around the corner there.” She pointed to her right.

“Then I go to Armani.” He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “Αντíο, γλυκιá Pamela,” he spoke the ancient language against her skin. Then he turned and strode away around the corner.

As soon as he was gone, she bolted for the ladies' room and quick-dialed V.

“Please tell me that you're calling because you just won the million dollar jackpot,” V said instead of hello.

“Oh my God! I think I have, but I'm not talking about money.”

“Get out of town! You actually sound giddy. Wait, let me sit down. If you tell me you're speaking to a man, I may faint.”

“I'm not speaking, I'm
flirting
. . .” Pamela breathed the word like a prayer, and then she dissolved into giggles that ended in a snort.

“You're drunk,” V said.

“I am not. I'm tipsy.”

“Oh, good God.”

“That's exactly what he looks like. V, you wouldn't believe it! I was wiping up the spilled wine, well, then I cut my finger. Which hurt like hell, by the way. And I even said it. Admitted it out loud.
I want romance in my life.
” She enunciated the words slowly and distinctly before gushing on. “And then there he was. He's dressed in some kind of Greek god costume, but that's because of his sister. You know, like Richard and the Star-Belly Sneetch. Anyway, we've been talking, and as soon as he buys new clothes we're—are you ready?—going for a
walk
.”

“Uh, Pammy,” V said. “Where are you right now?”

“In the ladies' room.”

“And where is he?”

“Buying new clothes.”

“Okay. Listen to me. Sober up. He might be a freak,” V said.

“He's not a freak. He's a singing doctor.”

“Has lack of sex completely deteriorated your brain? You're talking like a crazy woman.” V wanted to reach through the phone and shake her.

“It's not as weird as it sounds,” Pamela said, chewing at her bottom lip. “V, I like him. He makes me
feel
again. And . . . and I have some kind of connection with him. I know it sounds crazy, but there's a spark between us. It's like we understand each other.”

Vernelle opened and closed her mouth. She stifled the litany of warnings that were running through her head. “Pammy, I think that's wonderful.”

“So I'm not being stupid?”

“No, doll. You're being young and single. There's not a damn thing wrong with that,” V assured her. “Go for a walk with the tripod. Flirt your cute little butt off. But no more wine tonight, okay?”

“I've already cut myself off.”

“Good. And use a condom.”