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"Good," he said as if he hadn't just issued an invitation that she had ignored. "It pleases me that we have the appreciation of sunrise in common, but you said you overslept, so you missed the rising of the sun this morning. What else did your day hold?"
Pamela met his eyes. They were so warm and so incredibly blue. They made her think of the summer sky over the Mediterranean Sea...
Hell! She was doing it again - falling into his good looks like an f-ing teenager.
"Pamela?"
"Oh, sorry." She took a sip of her wine. "My mind was wandering. Sometimes I lack focus. Not with my job," she amended hastily. "There I'm totally single-minded. Like this afternoon. I started sketching my version of that horrible fountain. I thought I'd been there maybe twenty minutes or so, but when I finally checked my watch and took a breath, two hours had passed." Pamela paused and squinted her eyes. "I just did it again, didn't I?"
"It?"
"Lost focus, shifted subjects." Babbled, she thought.
"Definitely."
"Sorry again, Phoebus."
Apollo smiled. He enjoyed her bright thoughts and the way expressions danced across her face, especially when she spoke about her work. She wasn't a vixen trying to entrap the God of Light, nor was she a maiden, dazzled by his immortal powers. Pamela was real. Her responses to him were honest and true - and that was more of an aphrodisiac than he could ever have imagined.
"I don't mind. I like to hear your mind flitting about."
"Well, that's" - she paused, watched him carefully for signs that he was being sarcastic or making fun of her - "unusual of you. Most men find it distracting."
"Really?" He shook his head. "I think I have already said that quite often men are fools."
"And I have already agreed with you on that point."
They smiled at each other. On impulse, she raised her glass to him.
"To a man who is not a fool."
"That is a toast I am pleased to join you in." He laughed and touched his glass to hers. "Now tell me about this sketch you created. Are you an artist, too? Or is it like understanding architecture - you must have a working ability of it to properly do your job?"
His question pleased her - it showed that he'd actually listened to what she'd said yesterday - as did the attentive way he waited for her to answer.
"I love to sketch, and I'm even passable with watercolors, but I'm definitely not good enough to be considered an artist. But you're right. It is like the importance of understanding the rudiments of architecture in my job. It's also important that I am competent enough artistically that I can create mock-ups for carpenters or upholsters, or even sculptors so that they can get a tangible grasp of what my clients want."
Slowly, both of Apollo's brows raised, and his gaze turned to the monstrous fountain in the courtyard before them.
Pamela followed his gaze, breathed a long-suffering sigh, and nodded. "Yes, you guessed it. This particular client wants a reproduction of that in the courtyard of his vacation home."
"Are you quite certain you heard him correctly?" Apollo stared at the gushing monolith. His eyes kept being drawn back to the atrocious copy of himself.
"More than quite. Actually, what I was doing today was trying to come up with a more tasteful compromise, but he insists that I keep Bacchus as the center statue." She shuddered. "I'm going to have to figure out some way to change his mind. I did manage to get rid of the awful side statues, though."
Apollo looked quickly back at her.
"You mean the statues of Caesar and Artemis and..." His voice faltered on his own name.
"Apollo," Pamela offered. "That one with the big head and the harp is supposed to be the Sun God."
Apollo was careful to keep his expression neutral. "Actually, Apollo is more accurately called the God of Light, and the instrument he is holding is a lyre, not a harp."
"Huh," Pamela said, studying the statue. "I didn't know there was a difference. That's right, you're a musician, aren't you? All I know is that it glows neon green when the horrid thing comes alive."
"Yes." He tried not to cringe. "So I've heard."
Eyes still focused on the statue, Pamela said, "I didn't know Apollo was called the God of Light. I thought he was the Sun God."
"That is what the Romans insisted upon calling him, but to the Greeks he will forever be their God of Light, bringer of medicine, music, poetry, and truth."
"Truth?"
"Yes, truth was very important to Apollo. He was one of the few Olympians who found dissembling and subterfuge offensive."
"I had no idea. I thought all of the mythological gods were supposed to be impulsive and self-serving. I think I remember one of my English teachers describing them as playboys and womanizers."
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" - she glanced at her watch again - "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."
