He just couldn't make love ever again. Couldn't allow himself to seek a deeper, spiritual connection which came from being with a woman who actually meant something to him.
Not after what happened before. Not after Chloe, and the others. He refused to let Nemesis torture another poor creature because of him.
Besides, it was too painful. When his heart broke, it took forever to heal. Literally. It was his curse.
For the god of love, it was sheer hell not to be able to love. And so, just to be safe, he'd stayed away from women altogether as much as possible. Tried so hard not to get distracted by a lovely pair of legs or ample breasts. As long as he could keep Dionysus's liquor out of his gullet, it was easier. But under the influence ... he was as base and selfish as any other god in the pantheon.
Instead, he'd channeled his considerable energies into his work, trying to make a difference in the lives of mortals. He was done with his capricious ways. Done with screwing with them, and screwing them, just because he could.
So why had he noticed the conservator's fleshy bottom?
He considered what he knew of her. Maia Douglas. Expert in Greek antiquities and mythology. Daughter of a renowned archaeologist. And from what he'd seen tonight, she was as loony as those old guys who talked to themselves on the subway.
She talked to statues. Talked to his statue. What was that all about?
"Of course,” he whispered to himself, “in fairness, I was watching her.” It was no wonder she felt paranoid. The fervent gaze of a god could be a distracting thing.
He just didn't understand why he was so distracted by Maia Douglas. All he'd wanted tonight was to sit quietly in his museum and absorb the atmosphere. His statue had provided the perfect vantage point. But rather than contemplate how he would improve the gallery, he'd ended up playing with the mortal Ms. Douglas. When he'd seen her cup Poseidon's nuts, he hadn't been able to resist making a comment.
The look on her face had been so prudish, so amusing. In another lifetime, she would have been just the sort of woman he would have enjoyed corrupting.
Except he wasn't attracted to her. Gods, no. With those scruffy jeans and her bird's-nest hair? No, thank you. He knew exactly what sort of woman Maia Douglas was. She was a scholar. Head in a book. Probably never even known the touch of a man.
And yet, just wondering about her sexuality had his stomach in tight knots.
No, he told himself. Don't.
He decided on the spot he didn't like Maia Douglas. Couldn't like her. For her good, as well as his own. Besides, she looked a little too full of herself. And if there was one thing Eryx still enjoyed about being a god, it was taking mortals down a peg or two. Ms. Douglas undoubtedly deserved to plummet down a few pegs.
He'd be sure to pay some particular attention to her work as soon as he started. Maybe ruffle her feathers a little.
Besides, he was in his new museum and could do what he wanted.
Night had fallen. The museum cleaners were having their supper break in the basement. The gallery was a shadowy empty hub. It was the perfect time for Eryx to transition.
Not a soul would witness the astonishing sight of a fine white mist enveloping the statue of the god of love. No one would see as the mist began to travel, taking the shape of a tall man standing next to the marble artwork. The white fog began to mutate, turning into muscled, tanned flesh. A handsome face took shape. Eyes the color of a verdant forest appeared. The head was crowned with curls the color of golden barley. And full, manly lips spread into a smile of eager anticipation.
Security cameras would not capture the image of a naked man in the Gallery of Greece. They would not register the sight of him snapping his fingers, magically clothing his hard body in a designer suit.
And no one would notice as the man slipped out of the museum. On the front steps of the building, Eryx scanned the length of Yonge Street and took a deep breath. His nostrils were filled with the fragrance of sauteed onions and street meat. His eyes took in the weaving mass of color which was the shoppers rushing to and fro. He took a step and joined the crowd in the summer night.
It was time to put his alter ego Eric Lord to work.
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Chapter Three
Maia arrived at the museum on Sunday morning, way before opening, and was astounded at the number of staff in the cavernous foyer. She could hear angry whispers as people huddled in small groups. A couple of women from Etruscans and Romans were crying quietly. Others just looked spooked.
Before she ever got past the foyer, she spied her friends Sheila and Dino. They were colleagues in the conservation office and had worked with Maia for years. In all probability, they were her only real friends. She hurried over to their little huddle.
Sheila Flynn's blue eyes were ablaze with excitement. “He's here!"
"Who's here?” Maia lazily slurped some extra-strong coffee from her eco-friendly travel mug, hoping it would wake her up.
"Maia, honey,” Dino Di Iorio said, his tweezed brows arched. “You look like shit. And I just know it's not because you got fucked last night."
She turned to him, eyes wider than they had been all morning. “Do you have to be so vulgar all the time?” She frowned and sipped more coffee. “Besides, how do you know I wasn't ... screwed last night? Maybe I was. And maybe it was fantastic."
In a sense, it was. But it had all been in her head, as it had been for weeks.
"Ah, honey,” Dino commiserated. “Did you have another sexy dream last night? About your statue?"
"He's not a statue
