Eve paused. Maybe she should deny it, say he wasn’t here? On the other hand, what reason did she have to suspect Amy Nethans of anything hinky? Why would some strange woman just show up at her door after some strange man just washed up on her beach unless there was an honest connection? His wife.
The word landed in the pit of Eve’s stomach like a big, barnacle-encrusted rock.
“He’s upstairs. Asleep. He seems to be in fine shape. Just a little, uh, worn-out.” Eve couldn’t meet Amy Nethans’ striking blue eyes. “And he’s suffering from a bit of amnesia.”
“Amnesia? So he doesn’t know who he is?”
Eve shook her head. “No idea.”
“And he doesn’t know who I am?”
Eve felt the blush stinging at her cheeks again. “Um, I don’t know.”
“Take me to him. Please.”
“Of course.” Eve gestured toward the staircase, around the corner from the entry hall. “Right this way.”
At the top of the stairs, Amy called his name. “Arthur.”
Arthur? It seemed weird and foreign to Eve, not the right name for him at all. She pictured some grizzle-bearded wizard from Harry Potter, though that was Albus and not Arthur. Still, Arthur? It simply didn’t fit.
“In here,” Eve said, pointing to the door of the honeymoon suite. “Why don’t you let me wake him for you?”
Amy’s eyes widened. “Wake him? You? But he’s not wearing a stitch!”
“Yeah. I noticed.” Over every inch of him. Over and over again. “But he’s all tucked in snug. He recognizes me now. I don’t want to startle him.”
“I’m his wife,” Amy said, with some fire in her voice. “Step aside.”
Eve sighed and moved out of the way.
Amy went in and shut the door. For a few minutes, Eve stood outside, trying to listen, wondering if Adam (Arthur?) would be shocked, would protest, would insist he belonged here, with Eve? But she didn’t hear a thing. After ten minutes, she felt defeated as well as out of place, and just plain nosy, and she decided to go get some clothes on and putter around the kitchen until the happily married couple would finally emerge.
Forty minutes later, Amy appeared in the door of the kitchen, holding Arthur’s hand and pulling him like a recalcitrant child along at her side. He wore a blue button-down shirt, tucked into khaki pants, with topsiders. Like a waiter at any of the seashore dives trying to pass themselves off as classy restaurants. Not what she pictured him in at all. The shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders. It barely fit.
“We would like to thank you for your hospitality.” Amy spoke for them both. “Say thank you, Arthur.”
His hair was parted in the middle, combed neatly to both sides and tucked behind his ears. Again, it didn’t fit. She wanted to run her fingers through to muss it up.
He cleared his throat, looked down. It was a bit of a surprise to see her big strong warrior, Mr Commanding, acting so sheepish and shy. It simply didn’t fit. One thing Eve, a bra designer, knew was the importance of fit.
“Adam,” Eve said loudly. She didn’t give a damn what Amy thought about the name. “Adam, look at me. Are you okay? Do you know where you are? Who you are?”
He met her gaze, the formerly brilliant eyes clouded over. “I’m Arthur. You brought me in from the beach. Thank you. I’m going home with my wife now.”
“Very well, Arthur,” Amy said. “We’ve taken enough of your time. I’ve left enough for a night’s stay on the bed upstairs. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Now we’ll be on our way.”
Eve rushed after them as they headed for the door. “But wait — breakfast!” She’d made eggs, reheated muffins. Mae’s famous Maine blueberry muffins, fresh from the freezer.
But by the time she got to the door, they were gone. Absolutely gone. As if they’d vanished on the wind. The only thing left on her porch was — feathers? Eve crouched and picked up one of the hundreds of little black feathers that dotted the pavement. Sharp, like an arrow. And black.
“Stymphalian birds,” she said aloud. “Stymphalian birds on attack.” And she had a feeling that something was wrong, very wrong, with this picture.
That feeling was intensified when another hulking blond man suddenly appeared at the end of her driveway and made his way briskly up her walk. She stood transfixed. As he got closer, she could make out the differences in appearance between this new one and her bedtime warrior. This one was fair, while her sandman was bronzed. His hair was a dazzling platinum, while her sandman’s was golden. Her sandman had the menacing scar across his eye. This one, no scar. Ice-blue eyes, she noticed, as he drew closer, close enough to look in his eyes. Eyes wide open. And challenging hers.
“Where are they? Where did she take him?”
Eve took a step back, his proximity overwhelming.
“I don’t know.”
“But you let him go?”
“Um,” she gestured down the length of her body. She’d put on a sundress, a little cool for the weather, but it was a pretty colour that matched her green eyes, and had a flattering drape. It tied at the neck, downplayed her weight gain, and emphasized her assets, her full breasts and shapely legs. “I’m five four. How was I supposed to stop him?”
He followed her hands with his gaze. One blond eyebrow shot up. “I’m sure you would have found a way.”
She found herself blushing again. “I—”
“We don’t have much time. Give me your hand.” She hesitated. “Give me your hand,” he repeated in a more commanding tone. She gave it to him. He held it in his large warm grasp.
Suddenly she felt a shock, then a tingling sensation running up her spine to the base of her brain. And then she knew. She knew. “Eros.”
“That’s right,” he smiled. “I’m usually more gentle, but we’re in a rush. You’ve no idea what they’re prepared to do to him.”
“They — Aphrodite? Amy, I mean. She was Aphrodite, right? Was she jealous because I — because we — Ares and I? She knew?” She assumed Aphrodite, because she’d read about Aphrodite’s affair with Ares in the Wikipedia entry.
“Not Aphrodite.” Eros shook his head. “I guess our connection wasn’t as strong as I’d thought. I usually have no trouble with women when it comes to connecting.”
“Connecting? You mean that Vulcan mind meld trick?”
“Yes. It usually works best when there’s some mutual attraction, but it’s already too late for you. You’re a goner.”
“What do you mean?”
“For Ares. You love him. I don’t know how it happened so fast, but you couldn’t make a full connection with me because you’re in love with him.”
She was about to protest. He put a finger to her lips. “Trust me. I know.”
“Of course. You’re the god of love.”
“And you prefer the god of war.”
She shrugged. “I’ve always had a thing for chaos.”
“Then you’re in for some conflict. War is order, not chaos. But the most enduring love stories are filled with conflict.”
“Enduring? Not exactly, considering he’s already off with — whoever she was. Not Aphrodite.”
“Tell me. What did she call herself? What did she look like?”
“She was tall, slender, but curved in all the right places. A beautiful face. Blue eyes. Long red hair like Ariel’s.”
“Ariel’s?”
“Disney’s the Little Mermaid? Never mind. Red, long hair. Slightly curled. She called herself Amy.”
“Amymone.” Eros nodded. “One of Poseidon’s consorts.”
“What do they want with Ares? You should have seen him, Eros. He seemed defeated and out of sorts.”
“She must have drugged him. It’s the only way he would have followed.”
“But he was lost. He didn’t know who he was.”
“He knew. He might have been a little out of it, at first. But he knew. Come. We have to go. We must rescue him before Poseidon carries out his revenge.”