Goddess of Light gs-3 Read online

  "Ah, but tonight we have a special show for you! Nymphs, I command you dance for the Las Vegas revelers, two by two!"

  Well, that made more sense. The actresses were meant to be portraying nymphs. As the similarly attired young women stepped from the crowd and began to dance around the fountain, Pamela had to acknowledge that they were very attractive. She watched the show as she sipped more wine, thinking that she had never seen so many expensive hair extensions. The "nymphs" twirled and laughed and leapt in a graceful circle, flinging their thick manes as if they had been born with them.

  The awful statues of Apollo and Artemis came alive, one right after another. It seemed the evening show focused on the dancing nymphs, who were admittedly more entertaining than the animated statues who spoke in bad rhymes. Pamela even realized that her foot was tapping in time to the pulsing rhythm of their dance. It really wasn't a bad show, she thought as she refilled her glass again.

  "Seekers of the ancient ways, think upon

  the coming again of the immortals

  and of your distant ancestors

  who once honored the old gods

  and gave blessing to field and forest, wind and

  water, earth and air.

  This night we invoke past times—past days. "

  When the dancing girls began to sing, she was pleasantly surprised. Their lyrics were far better than the nonsense that the mechanized statues spouted. And their voices! They were incredible. Entranced, Pamela listened as the song brought alive a time long dead when people actually believed gods and goddesses walked amongst them and granted their wishes. Despite her cynical opinion of her surroundings, she felt herself caught up in the performance, so much so that she wanted to slide off her stool and join them in their hypnotic dance.

  That, she thought with a tipsy giggle which quickly turned into a snort, was utterly ridiculous. Especially in her three-and-a-half-inch Jimmy Choo slides. But for some reason her unusual desire to frolic with the pretend nymphs didn't shock her. She eyed the half-empty carafe; it must be the wine.

  She blinked as the tempo of the dance increased, and the glitter that surrounded the nymphets seemed to blur her vision, so much so that when she reached for her glass of wine, she misjudged the distance and bobbled it. In slow motion, she watched as the crystal stem fell over, shattering on the marble tabletop and spraying red droplets in a crimson arc over the floor around her. Guiltily she snatched up her linen napkin and tried to soak up the quickly spreading stain. Thank God the glass had fallen away from her; she would have hated for her chic dress to have been covered in Chianti. Jeesh, what a mess she'd made. She was just thinking that she'd have to leave the waiter an extra big tip when she wiped at the table a little too enthusiastically and a sliver of glass sliced across the pad of her index finger.

  "Ouch!" She shook her hand as if the sharp pain burned. "Oh, bloody buggering hell." She couldn't believe the amount of blood that was running from one little cut. It even made her stomach feel a little queasy as it mixed with the pooling Chianti.

  She pressed the already soaked napkin to her finger, but even the sting of the fresh cut didn't distract her from the conclusion of the nymphs' fabulous show. They were so graceful, and their silky voices seemed to call alive poignant emotions that she usually repressed… desire stirred within her… desire for something she couldn't—or wouldn't—quite name…

  "Immortal aid is bound

  with a spoken desire, and by a heart's sound.

  Cast doubt aside; give voice to your soul,

  for tonight the truth of love is our goal.

  May heartfelt wishes come to thee

  as it is spoken—so shall it be!"

  Heartfelt wishes. Well, she wished that she hadn't spilled her wine or cut her finger. But the instant her mind formulated the thought she felt the wrongness of it. Wishing something so trivial after the beautiful dance seemed almost blasphemous. As she unclasped her purse and dug for a tissue to wrap around her finger, she was suddenly filled with sadness that her heart's desire had been nothing more than to undo an insignificant accident. Surely she had more heart than that left in her. Surely Duane hadn't destroyed it all.

  Cast doubt aside; give voice to your soul.

  The echo of the words beat through her body in time with the pulse she could feel in her finger. Duane couldn't have ruined romance for her; she wouldn't let him.

  May heartfelt wishes come to thee

  as it is spoken—so shall it be!

  Impulsively, she raised her chin and stared at the group of nymphs who were smiling and sinking into graceful prima ballerina curtsies as the crowd broke out in applause. Then Pamela blurted the thought that had been haunting her mind since her conversation with V.

  "My heartfelt wish is that my stupid ex-husband hasn't sucked all the romance out of me, but the truth is that I'm afraid he has. So if you want to help me out…" She paused, trying to remember the goddess's name (asking the female deity to bring romance back into her life seemed to make the most sense) and then feeling a little foolish, even though the crowd's cheers drowned out her words, she continued, "Uh, Artemis, you could bring romance into my life." Then, remembering the disgusting, gold-chained gigolo, she added, "Oh, and Artemis, I'm tired of men who think they're gods. If you want to grant my wish, bring me a man who is really godlike for a change."

  Chapter 6

  " How could this have happened?" Artemis exclaimed after pulling her still-staring brother into a relatively quiet corner. "The mortal completed the invocation!"

  Apollo nodded his head numbly. "She even used your name."

  Artemis wanted to strangle him. "You think I don't know that! I feel it." She narrowed her eyes and glared around them. "Where is that rotund fool Bacchus? This was his doing. His stupidity caused this; he should be involved in cleaning up the mess."

  "Cleaning it up?" Apollo pulled his gaze away from the mortal woman who had just unknowingly bound an ancient goddess to fulfill her heart's desire. "Don't you mean granting it?"

  The goddess opened her mouth for a hot retort—and then closed it just as quickly. Her brother was right. There was no getting around it. The bond had been forged and then neatly soldered into place. She could feel the weight of it like an iron shackle.

  "All right. It has happened. There is nothing to do but fulfill the mortal's whim and be done with it."

  Apollo said nothing, but his eyes moved from his sister's angry face back to the mortal woman. He couldn't stop staring at her. She had wrapped a flimsy piece of something around her wounded finger, and she was still trying—unsuccessfully—to wipe up the spilled wine. She'll probably cut herself again, he thought, and he had a sudden urge to rush over to the table and caution her. He actually breathed a sigh of relief when a servant arrived with a cloth and made short work of the mess. Apollo watched as the woman smiled sheepishly. He couldn't be certain, but he thought that her cheeks were flushed. They were nice cheeks, he decided. High and well-formed. They complemented her heart-shaped face. He felt himself smile. That hair! He should have loathed the fact that a woman would cut her hair so short, but on her he found the shorn locks strangely attractive. It gave her a fey look and made her appear delightfully rumpled and mussed, as if she had just tumbled from her lover's bed.

  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. Artem
is' 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 that wasn't all there was 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 annoyance 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.