Conservator Maia Douglas is an expert on ancient Greece and its mythology. She would never tell anyone at the museum where she works, but she's always had a secret crush on the mythical Eryx, Greek god of love. There is nothing she loves more than to tend to her favorite statue of him, and her nighttime dreams are filled with luscious images of Eryx making love to her.
One day, the peace at Maia's beloved museum is shattered when a new director arrives. A man who looks exactly like her image of Eryx. As Maia watches, he manages to upset her ordered museum world, at the same time he inflames her with unwanted desire.
Maia does not know that her new boss is actually the god Eryx, disguised as a mortal so he may work in antiquities. Although he is the god of love, he has forsaken his sexual nature because of a curse that has killed any woman he's dared to love. Though he fights it, Eryx is drawn to Maia with a force he's never experienced in a thousand years. But can he convince her of his true identity? And can he protect her from a vengeful goddess who seeks her destruction?
And without knowing quite how it happened, she found herself being led across Yonge Street to the Mad Irishman Pub. As they crossed the busy road, Eric put his hand on the small of her back. For some reason, she felt safe with his hand there. Warm and safe.
Maybe it was because the cars were just peeling away from them. Even though they were jaywalking, all the cars came to a halt before Eric. It was like Moses crossing the Red Sea. Maia couldn’t count how many times she’d almost been hit in the past by unfeeling downtown Toronto drivers. Yet those same drivers couldn’t make enough space for Eric Lord.
It must be his shiny blond hair. His golden highlights were a blinding beacon.
Dye job, she decided.
They got to the pub, and he led her to a plush half-circular booth tucked in the back. As he let her pass him to get into the booth, he placed his hand on her back again. Once again, a blazing heat trailed from his fingers through her clothes and right into her pores.
What was it with this man? She’d known menopausal women who didn’t feel so hot to the touch all the time.
She sat down and blew up her messy bangs with a breath, feeling hot herself. She then watched the waitress drool all over Eric as she handed them menus. Maia made a face, but plastered on a happy grin when she saw him looking at her. They ordered. A Guinness for her and a cranberry juice for him.
“Aren’t you going to have a real drink?” she asked.
“I’m good,” he chuckled quietly. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
Oh God, she thought. Was he an alcoholic? Or a health nut? She wasn’t sure which scenario alarmed her more.
“So,” he continued. “Do you mind if I call you by your first name?”
“Don’t like being so formal with your peons?”
He stared back at her, obviously holding back a retort. His eyes flashed as if lit from behind. For the first time, she noticed all the golden specks surrounding his dark pupils. They made his eyes seem an even deeper green, like the forest after a storm. It was such an arresting effect. She had to look away for a moment.
“I hope, going forward, you’ll call me Eric,” he said in his deep voice. “Not asshole or moron.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Fine. Then you can call me Maia.”
“Thank you, Maia,” he replied, almost in a whisper.
Her vagina clenched. It actually seized. Feeling tremendous unease, Maia looked away again. He hadn’t said anything sexual or vulgar. He’d only said her name. Yet, for some reason, the way Eric Lord said it made her feel as if he was touching her, caressing her most intimate places. She adjusted the way she was sitting, and angled away from him a little.
God help her, her panties were wet.