by Julie Kenner
“Protectors are just . . . different.” Zoë shrugged. “And back then . . . well, I guess the whole god and goddess thing sounded like a really great cover story.”
“Well, sure. Because if you’re living back thousands of years ago and can see through walls or fly off mountains or talk to animals, you’d need a good cover story.”
“Exactly,” said Zoë. Elmer groaned. Apparently she hadn’t noticed the tinge of sarcasm in Deena’s voice.
“I guess it does make sense,” Deena agreed. Elmer rolled over to get a better look at her. He peered at her face and, sure enough, the gal seemed to be buying it. Maybe that hadn’t been sarcasm after all. Hale was never going to believe this.
Zoë twisted on the couch, then slid her hand under her rump.
“What?” Deena asked.
“It’s like I’m sitting on a big lump.” She reached between the cushions and pulled out a necklace. “There it is. I thought I’d lost it.”
For just a minute it dangled from her fingers, the deep green of the gemstone reflecting onto the far wall of the room.
Elmer let out a little squeal, then scrambled across the sofa, trying to get a better look.
Could it be? Surely not.
But it certainly looked to be. . . .
The stone! The gemstone from Aphrodite’s girdle. He didn’t know how it had ended up in Zoë’s apartment, but there it was. And hey, who was he to question a legend?
Telling Deena the whole story pushed all of Zoë’s problems front and center. Now she sighed, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake by going out with Taylor. She should have picked someone who didn’t make her insides all whooshy, someone not quite so rugged or intense. Someone whose eyes didn’t look like they could see through her as easily as she could see through his clothing.
She wanted to walk on the wild side with Taylor, but she was too scared, too nervous, whatever, to invite him to come along for the ride.
Pathetic.
“It’s actually not all that bad-looking,” Deena said.
Zoë looked up. “Taylor?”
“You do have it bad. I was talking about the rock.” Deena pointed to the necklace that still dangled from Zoë’s fingers. “Are you gonna wear it tonight?”
She closed her fingers around it, surprised how warm the stone felt. “A green stone with a red dress? No, thanks. I’d end up feeling like a Christmas ornament.”
“Mind if I borrow it?” Deena leaned forward, ready to take the necklace, when Elmer came running across the cushions, took a flying leap, and soared through the air—right smack into it.
Ferret, chain, and ugly gemstone tumbled to the carpet.
Deena and Zoë looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Guess we know what kind of toys ferrets like,” Deena said. She reached down to pick the chain back up but stopped as Elmer did a frantic little ferret dance, his fur all spiky as he bounced around on the floor. After a few seconds of that, he finally sprawled out, his eyes shifting from Zoë to Deena as though he were watching a tennis match.
“I have no idea what’s getting him so excited.”
Deena shrugged, then picked up the necklace. Elmer hopped back up, running in circles around the coffee-table leg. “I think you need to cut back on his caffeine.”
“No kidding,” said Zoë, wondering what the devil was wrong with him. Maybe it was the chain. Squirrels liked shiny things. Maybe ferrets did, too. She’d have to ask Hale. “Anyway, why do you want to wear it? I thought you hated the thing.”
“I don’t hate it. I said it’s ugly. And it is. But in a cool sort of way. Hoop’s taking me out tonight, and it’ll go great with this green sweater I got the other day.”
Zoë frowned. “Out? I thought you were coming to the Andersons’, too. I have to do this alone?”
“No, no. We’re doing both. The Andersons’ first, and then Hoop’s taking me to the Hollywood Bowl.”
What was wrong with that picture? Zoë crossed her arms over her chest. “Your Hoop? Mr. I-think-Vixens-In-Space-is-great-cinema? He’s going to the Bowl?”
Deena nodded, looking smug. “Bugs Bunny on Broadway. They show the cartoons and the orchestra plays the music live. That, Hoop can handle.”
“Then by all means, you must have an ugly necklace for the evening,” she said. Elmer’s fur spiked up again.
Deena grinned. “Thanks.”
Ding-dong.
Yikes. She caught Deena’s eye. “I don’t think that’s the Avon lady.”
“You’ll do fine. Remember, deep breaths.”
Zoë nodded and stood up. Right. Deep breaths. She could do that. No problem.
In front of her, Elmer was hopping back and forth, tail spiky, once again doing the funky ferret. It was probably all the rage in dance halls on Olympus.
She ignored him. If he’d figured out that she was going on a date with a man she really liked, she didn’t want to know. If he just wanted to play, he could wait for Hale. Right now she had an agenda.
Right now she had to go let Mr. Midnight into her apartment—and her life.
Taylor paced in front of the closed door, swinging the bundle of roses he’d bought from the old man hawking flowers at an intersection. He licked the fingers on his free hand, then tried to control his cowlick, which always seemed to go the wrong direction.
He doubted he’d improved the hair situation, but with any luck, he still looked like a fine, upstanding citizen—the kind of guy any all-American girl would be nuts about. And from what he could tell, Zoë Smith was about as all-American as they came.
He cleared his throat and started to tighten the Windsor knot at his throat, then stopped himself. He’d done both—the throat clearing and the knot tightening—about a dozen times during the drive to her apartment. If he pulled the damn noose any tighter, he’d pass out and Zoë would spend most of their not-a-real-date reviving him with mouth-to-mouth.
Not a bad idea . . .
With a grunt of frustration, he shoved his free hand deep into his pocket. As appealing as mouth-to-mouth might be—and it was very appealing—passing out was not a good way to start a date. And even though a prone position would be great sometime before the end of the evening, he sincerely doubted that emergency first aid was going to get Zoë into his bed.
Absently he leaned against the door, trying to pull himself together. Suave, cool, and collected—that was the ticket. After all, she’d made it absolutely clear that she didn’t want the same things from the evening that he did. And since he was determined to work in some very datelike activities, that meant he needed to downshift to suave, pronto.
Shaking his head, he scowled at the door frame and finger-combed his hair. What was he doing here? A job? A seduction? Both?
He was still scowling and leaning against the door when it opened. Losing his balance, he tumbled over the threshold and landed in a heap on her hard tile floor, his dozen roses flying free to scatter all over the hall.
So much for a suave, sophisticated entrance.
Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes crinkling behind her glasses and her body shaking with silent laughter. “Please,” she finally said, amusement lacing her voice as she looked down at him. “Make yourself at home.”
He scrambled for a clever retort—or even a ridiculous one—but his wit abandoned him. Instead he just sat up, leaning against the wall so he could take in every inch of the woman in the doorway. Had he thought she was beautiful before? He’d been a fool. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was spectacular—the kind of woman that inspired poetry and love songs.
Too bad he was no poet. And his singing voice sucked.
Her smile faded as his silence continued. She leaned forward, squinting down at him. “Taylor? Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He forced the word out, needing to move, to get past this stew of awe and first-not-really-a-date jitters. He reached out, pricking his finger on a thorn as his hand curled around a rose. He held it up. “My lady.”
She took it, but didn’t sniff it. Instead she let it hang at her side as she kept her fingers closed around the stem. Okay. Maybe his all-American Zoë wasn’t the flower type.
With a grunt he climbed to his feet, then brushed dust off his rump. “Do me a favor,” he said.
She tilted her head. “What?”
“Pretend I’ve just made an entrance worthy of James Bond—not Jerry Lewis.”
Her mouth quirked. “Well, of course.” Her blue eye twinkled behind those librarian glasses. “I just assumed you were trying to give any thugs who might be watching a false sense of security.”
“Pretty clever of me, don’t you think?”
“Brilliant,” she said, then batted her eyelashes and pressed a limp hand to her forehead, Southern-belle style. “And I feel so much safer knowing you’re here to protect me from the big, bad thuggies.”
“Just doin’ my job, little lady.” It was a lousy John Wayne impersonation, but her smile grew broader, so he figured it had done the job.
He glanced around the entrance hall, bending down to check under a little table littered with her mail. “Seen any thugs around these parts?”
“Not a one,” she said, closing the door. She leaned against the wall and smiled at him. She was sweet and innocent and perfectly polite—and all he could think about was tasting that mouth and getting her naked. So much for chivalry.
She licked her lips, and their eyes met. He took a step closer, wondering if that was a spark of interest he saw in her eyes. Hoping it was.
Her cheeks flushed and she looked away, clearing her throat. “Uh, no thugs at all.” She grinned. “Unless you count Deena.”
He blinked. “Deena?”
“My beauty consultant,” she said. “It’s a girl thing.”
“Ah,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her. Unlike the other times he’d seen Zoë, this time she was wearing makeup, and the deep red tint of her lips just about did him in. Every fiber of his body wanted to close his mouth over hers and kiss her—hard—until those glossy red lips were smeared under the onslaught. Until she melted in his arms and begged for more.
With a low groan, he forced his gaze away from her face. The red dress was like nothing he’d ever seen before, but on her it looked stunning. He didn’t really care for the odd gold mesh belt—it looked like a reject from an Austin Powers movie—but on Zoë it looked perfect. “Well, pay whatever she’s charging. You look fantastic.”
“Thank you.” She held up the roses. “And thank you for the flowers.”
“I thought you didn’t like them.”
She frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“You haven’t even smelled that one.”
“Oh,” she said, glancing down at the single rose in her hand. “Right. I can’t . . . I’m not . . . I’m—”
“Allergies,” said Deena, stepping into the hallway.
Zoë exhaled, her shoulders dropping as if in relief. “Exactly!” she said. “I’m allergic. Talk about your rotten luck,” she said, with more enthusiasm than he would’ve expected from one who was highly allergic. She pressed the rose into Deena’s hands, scooting another one away with the toe of her shoe.
Deena stuck her nose down against the flower, then looked back up at Taylor. “They’re lovely. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, feeling a tad bewildered. “Good to see you again.”
“Oh, she’s just leaving,” Zoë said. She tilted her head toward the door. “Aren’t you?”
Deena tossed a knowing grin Taylor’s way.
“Practically out the door,” she said, and then she was, the door clicking shut firmly behind her.
“Well,” said Zoë. “I guess we’re alone.”
“Guess so.”
Something clickity-clacked on the floor behind him, and he turned around. An oversize rat grinned at him, and he forced himself not to think it was bizarre. He turned back to Zoë, aiming his thumb behind him. “Who’s the rodent?”
“Elmer.” She glared at the little guy. “He’s a ferret, and he’s just leaving, too.”
The ferret stood up on his hind legs, whiskers twitching. If Taylor didn’t know better, he’d say that was an insolent look on Elmer’s furry little face.
Zoë turned toward the ferret, almost prodding him with her eyes. “I said, he’s just leaving, too.”
The rodent squeaked, his fur bristled, and then he turned around and clickety-clacked back toward the rest of the apartment.
Taylor crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Well, well. If it isn’t Zoë Dolittle. How long have you been talking to animals?”
“Oh, I can’t—” She stopped, then scowled. “I mean, that’s very clever.”
“Right,” he said, wondering what she wasn’t saying. “That’s me. Mr. Clever.”
“No, you’re Mr. Midnight,” she said; then her eyes went wide and she slapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that,” she said.
“Mr. Midnight?” He grinned, taking a step closer. “I kind of like the sound of that.”
“It didn’t mean anything. I’m just a little”—she waved her hand in a circle—“I don’t know. Nervous, maybe.”
As if to prove her point, she leaned back against the wall again and ran her tongue over her lips. It was definitely a nervous habit, but as habits went, this one was damned erotic.
He took a step toward her. “So tell me, sweetheart, just what do you have to be nervous about?”
The look she gave him just about ripped him in half. “Isn’t it obvious? You.”
“Me?” He tapped himself on the chest. “George Bailey Taylor me?”
She nodded. “George Bailey Taylor you.”
He sucked in air, afraid this was some cruel joke fate was playing to teach him not to lust after beautiful women. “I’m probably going to regret asking, but why?”
She tilted her head until her glasses slid down her nose, then peered at him over the rim, her odd-colored gaze giving him the once-over. His body warmed as her eyes roamed over him—all over him—and he watched, knowing she was thoroughly checking him out.
One corner of her mouth curled up into a sensuous little smile that had his body tightening, and he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit smug.
“Because I need a date after all, Mr. Taylor.” She exhaled—it was more of a sigh really—then lifted her head back up to look him in the eye. Her cheeks flushed, and, with a businesslike shove, she pushed her glasses back into place. “A real date. So tell me. Are you still game?”
Twelve
Zoë pushed her glasses up her nose one more time for good measure. Oh, mother of Zeus. She’d actually sneaked a peek at his underwear. Talk about lacking self-control. If there was a hell, a Hades, a whatever, Zoë was certain she was zipping that way faster than a speeding bullet.
Trying to ignore the wave of mortification that swept over her, she flashed him a weak smile, positive her cheeks were flaming red.
At least she’d managed to get a grip on herself before she’d peeked through that last little bit of material. She sighed, savoring the memory. Plain white cotton briefs. Simple. Sensible. And oh, so sexy.
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Oh, me, oh, my.
Heck, she’d even throw in an ooh-la-la.
“Uh . . . Zoë?”
With a jerk she yanked her head up, suddenly realizing where her gaze was still aimed.
Oops.
Her cheeks burned hotter, and she pushed back from the wall, standing up straight and trying to pull herself together. “Right. Yes. Well . . .”
His gaze locked onto her, his brown eyes warm and inviting. When he took a step forward, she inhaled, her body humming with anticipation.
Nervous didn’t even begin to describe the way she felt. Terrified was more like it. Still, it was just a date. She repeated the phrase like a mantra. This is just a date. Just a guy and a girl going out.
“What happened to Mr. Wonder
ful?”
She frowned. “Who?”
“You’re taken. Remember?”
“Oh. Right. Well. Taken is such a vague term, really. Don’t you think?”
“Vague? As in, Mr. Wonderful won’t care? Or as in, there is no Mr. Wonderful?”
“He, uh, died.” She met Taylor’s eyes, saw pure passion burning there, then looked away again. Oh, my. “Very suddenly. Very tragic.”
Taylor stepped closer, the heat from his body warming her to her toes, pooling in secret, intimate places. Teasing and taunting her.
She drew an unsteady breath. This dating thing was moving along a bit more quickly than she’d expected. “We’ll miss him, of course, but life must go on.”
“Of course,” Taylor murmured. “So tell me, Zoë . . .”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated.
“Why did you tell me about Mr. Wonderful in the first place?”
“Oh, that.” She licked her lips. “Well, he hadn’t keeled over yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “Want to try again?”
She inhaled, then glanced down, breaking eye contact. “Maybe gorgeous men make me nervous.”
He chuckled. “Oh.”
She cleared her throat. “So this is okay with you?”
With a devious grin, he leaned forward, his face only inches from hers. She held her breath as he turned his head.
“This?” he asked, his mouth so close to her ear that his breath teased her.
She swallowed, searching for her voice. “A real date, I mean.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned back to look at her, then reached out and touched her skin, his finger trailing down her cheek. “That’s perfectly okay.”
Oh, Apollo’s apples, his touch. A firestorm of shocks ricocheted through her. Her chest constricted, her body warmed, and she felt faint. And then her body finally remembered that little detail about breathing . . . and she exhaled in a whoosh. Mildly mortified, she opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again when she realized her mouth wasn’t too keen on sounding out vowels or consonants.
