Accidentally Aphrodite (Accidentally Paranormal Novel Book 10) Read online

  No doubt a kind act of girl-power solidarity. But she hadn’t just cried about Igor. She’d cried because no matter what she did, Quinn Morris sucked ass at getting a relationship right.

  Regardless, she was a little afraid of Nina

  But it didn’t make any sense that they’d call her for anything unless they needed a creative swear word or the eating of someone’s face.

  Quinn latched onto Ingrid’s arm. “Nina? Why would you call her? How can she possibly help me with my huge lady lumps?”

  Ingrid looked as though she was weighing her options and then she said, “There’s some stuff you might need to know about Nina and my other bosses, Marty and Wanda. But not right now. Right now, I just need you to trust me, Quinn.”

  Trust. Sure. What else did she have but trust—and big boobs.

  Holding up her phone, Ingrid grimaced. “Ugh! I can’t get a damn signal. Stay right here and don’t move. I’m just going to go over there and call her.”

  “But—”

  “Not another word, Quinn. I know Nina scares you, but she’s not just my boss, she’s a good friend, and she will know what to do. She can help, and I promise to tell you why later.”

  Quinn couldn’t imagine Nina as helpful. Maybe she’d be helpful if World War III erupted, but in something as sensitive in nature as this?

  Fat chance.

  She watched as Ingrid walked away, stomping over the debris of the column, kicking up dust with her heavy black work boots in search of a cell signal.

  “Quinn Morris?” a deep, velvety voice asked.

  Whirling around so fast she almost lost her hat, Quinn found the face that went with the voice.

  Oh, and the body.

  Yes—dear future soul mate and Jesus forgive her—the body.

  She blinked in the glare of the bright sun. “Yes?”

  A man with wavy hair like rich dark chocolate and sprinkled with golden highlights approached her. He took the strides separating them with confidence, on thighs that bulged beneath his tailored white trousers. When he stood before her, the apple resting in the gap between their feet, he smiled at her.

  Winningly. Beamingly. His smile left deep grooves on either side of his mouth and flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth offset by a deep olive complexion. Yet, Quinn was able to note, even in her fear, his smile didn’t quite reach his liquid amber eyes.

  No. His eyes were cold and wary. And suspicious. Very suspicious.

  “Who are you?” And hey. How did he know her name?

  The upward tilt of his lips grew sly, and his burnt-orange knit shirt rippled against his broad chest when he said, “That’s my apple. Excuse me, if you would.”

  In a matter of seconds, Quinn not only realized once more the enormity of what had just occurred with the pillar, but that possibly the apple could be some sort of rare Greek artifact, and this beautiful man was some kind of Indiana Jones in search of his Temple of Doom.

  It wasn’t every day an apple plopped from marble as if it had fallen off a tree. Which had to mean it must have some kind of value, and she’d found it.

  The chiseled man eyed the apple. His expression flashed with apprehension so briefly, Quinn might not have caught it if she wasn’t looking, but he instantly relaxed his utterly gorgeous face and covered up any trace of his worry with an arrogant gaze down at her.

  Huh. Yeah. Something wasn’t kosher here. Without thought, she gave him a blank look to distract him before swooping downward, using a deft hand to sweep the fruit off the ground.

  “That’s my apple,” he repeated, low and easy.

  “I beg to differ.” She held it up, ignoring the fact that he could be dangerous, and waved the gleaming fruit at him. Just who the hell did he think he was? “I think it’s my apple.”

  He edged closer, his spicy cologne lodging in her nose, his stance not quite one of menace but most definitely one of impatience. The sheer size of him made her knees waver.

  “I assure you, it’s my apple,” he cooed in a silky-rich timbre.

  Quinn’s eyebrow cocked upward in haughty fashion. “By what authority?”

  “My ancestors’.”

  “And who are your ancestors?”

  “You’d never believe it.”

  “Try me. An apple—a shiny golden one I’ve never heard of in all my studies on Greek mythology—just fell out of a pillar in the Parthenon. A. Pillar. I’m game for just about anything.”

  His luscious lips thinned in obvious aggravation. “It’s none of your business.”

  Quinn bristled. Hold on. Maybe this was an enormous archeological find and he was some bad guy who wanted to sell it to the highest bidder. What if this was a part of Greek history and he was going to cheat the people of this fine country out of something rightfully theirs and sell it for some ridiculous amount of money?

  Briefly she thought of all the movies she’d seen and the idea that maybe she was going too far with the fantastical.

  But how far was fantastical? Didn’t an apple just fall out of some inanimate marble? Didn’t she have boobs reminiscent of basketballs?

  Planting her free hand on her hip, she used her best I’m-in-charge-of-this-rodeo voice and said, “I guess it’s my business if you hope to prove this is really your apple. If you don’t want to share and give me a good reason for claiming ownership, I’m sure the Greek authorities would be pleased to hear all about this apple falling from a pillar, which is insane to begin with. But I bet they’d really like to hear all about how it’s yours.”

  This time he didn’t just edge closer, he loomed over her, his height, in her estimation, a good ten inches taller than her five feet four. “Give me the apple, Quinn,” he demanded, his smooth jaw clenching.

  When he spoke her name, it slid off his tongue like a dollop of warm caramel. And again, the romantic in her wanted to savor this moment and take the time to create a story for the piece of fruit and its connection to this walking, talking sex god. However, the big, albeit hot, goon obviously wasn’t going to let her.

  No. He glowered at her. Glowered so hard, were she a tea rose in an English garden, she’d have withered under his glare.

  Quinn smiled, suddenly filled with adrenalin and totally fearless. Maybe it was the way Igor had so callously treated her, or maybe it was just more than past time, but suddenly she was a take-no-shit kind of girl.

  Holding the apple closer, Quinn glared back at him in defiance and brought the gleaming fruit to her mouth, taking a long lick, ignoring the bitter taste of the skin on her tongue.

  Hot Stuff planted his hands on his lean hips with a sigh of exasperation and rolled his beautiful eyes. “Now why would you do that, Quinn?”

  “Five-second rule. Whoever licks it owns it.”

  He waved an admonishing finger, shooting her a teasing, almost playful glance. “No. I think you’re confused. The five-second rule is only in play when you drop food on the ground. It means it’s safe to eat as long as it wasn’t on the ground longer than five seconds. And you forgot to kiss it up to God, thus blessing the five-second rule. That’s the five-second rule.”

  Confusion furrowed her brow for a moment. Was that the rule? She’d never been very good at those sorts of playground games. While everyone else was jumping double Dutch or playing hopscotch, she’d been too busy making up stories about Jane and Dick running off together into the sunset with Spot as their trusty sidekick.

  “I don’t care what the rule is. I licked it. That means it’s mine.”

  “This conversation’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think? Please hand over the apple.”

  “No. Not until you identify yourself and give me a good reason to hand it over. Otherwise, it goes to the authorities. And where did you come from, anyway? I didn’t see you get off the tour bus. In fact, I didn’t see you anywhere here in the Parthenon.”

  His lean cheeks puffed out in a huff of frustration. “On the count of three or I’ll take it from you, Quinn.”

  Was he threatening b
odily harm? Right here in the Parthenon? She began to back away. “If you touch me, I’ll scream. A lot. Loudly. With vigor!”

  His hand snaked out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, capturing her in a tight grip. The contrast of their skin—hers pale and translucent, his deep and dark—fascinated rather than frightened her.

  “First, I don’t want to hurt you. Not at all. But I’ll be long gone by the time someone arrives to help you either way.”

  She frowned up at him. “Hey. No fair. You said I had until the count of three.”

  His grip loosened a little, his handsome face growing deceptively serene. And then he smiled gorgeously, as if in apology for breaking the rules of their game. “My bad. Onetwothree! Hand over the apple, Quinn!” he roared.

  With all the strength she had in her, she jerked her wrist, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Not gonna happen.”

  He sighed, visibly relaxing. Yet, there was a vein in his sun-browned temple that throbbed, giving away his impatience. “Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. Will you make me pry it from your pretty hands?”

  Instead of heeding his words, which was certainly the smartest alternative to him roughing her up, she reacted by tightening her grip and shaking her head. “Nope.”

  By God and Greece, or whatever entity, she was going to get this apple to the proper authorities.

  But he tightened his grip, steely and unmoving. “You’re making an enormous mistake, and you’ve been warned. Now, for the very last time, please hand over the apple.”

  Maybe it was his tone, all silky-sexy but so demanding, or maybe it was that she felt as if she were in some strange tug-of-war on behalf of Greece and all its lush history, but the hell she was giving him the apple.

  The. Hell.

  May the power of Indiana Jones compel her.

  “And I said no!” With that, Quinn yanked with such force, her hand snapped back then forward, nicking the apple on her two front teeth.

  Simultaneously, the tall, sexy man bellowed the word “Nooo!” so loudly her ears literally hurt before letting her wrist go and stumbling backward.

  As the juice of the apple hit her tongue, Quinn gagged. For a piece of fruit that looked as if it should have its own display case in Tiffany’s, it was unbearably bitter, the juice running down the back of her throat like a trail of battery acid.

  She ran her teeth over her tongue in a scraping motion. “Gak,” she spat, letting the remainder of the apple fall to the ground, where it trembled eerily then came to rest at her right heel.

  His sigh of aggravation made the ground beneath her feet rumble and a warm wind stir to a frenzy. It whipped around her head, leaving behind the minty scent of his breath in her nostrils.

  Which, if she wasn’t in some horrible nightmare, was impossible, wasn’t it?

  “You’ve done it now, Quinn.” His tone rang with warning as he took another step back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  She opened her mouth and made a clucking noise from the back of her throat to rid herself of the taste then wiped her knuckles over her tongue in repulsion, reaching into her bag for her bottle of water. “Tahth’s disgussing,” she said around her fingers.

  His nod was sharp and all-knowing. “I’d bet it is, knowing my mother. But give this a second or two and you’ll see what you’ve done.”

  Quinn pulled her fingers from her lips. His mother? “Your mother? And what exactly did I do but graze an apple, that tastes like a Jersey landfill, with my teeth?”

  He glanced at his shiny gold watch with one raven eyebrow raised. “You’ll see in five, four, three, two, one.”

  What was it with him and the counting?

  But then Quinn’s body jolted forward, making her drop the water bottle as the earth began to crack beneath her and the skies darkened to a deep purple. She broadened her stance, leaning back against the stranger who’d swiftly moved to stand behind her, tucking her into the shelter of his rock-hard chest.

  And for about a half second, his chest was a very nice place to end up sheltered—except for the fact that he was a traitorous, likely black-market dealer of stolen and exotic goods.

  But she forgot all about that when images flashed in front of her eyes in a tornado-like funnel of Greek gods and goddesses sitting on thrones, shooting arrows and, oh my…Doing things she assumed only happened in the movies they ran on Cinemax in the wee hours of the morning.

  And then there was silence—deafening and frighteningly still.

  Dazed, Quinn’s hand went to her head to push back the wild tangle of her tattered braid from her eyes just as her chest heaved and her legs buckled, making her fall forward.

  Vibrations of warmth skirted her spine, slipping along every available surface of her skin.

  Fear turned to panic when she began to experience a simmering heat on her flesh worse than the hottest fever she’d ever had. It came in waves, rushing and relenting, bending and twisting until it finally subsided, leaving behind a residual warmth she had no words for.

  As Quinn fought to gather her senses, the man let her go and paced before her in short jaunts, the heels of his loafers scraping against the loose stones.

  He stopped to stand in front of her. His glare was angry, his sharply angled face tight. “Did I or did I not say the apple was mine?”

  Once more, her mouth fell open. Words eluded her. Fully formed thoughts, too.

  “And now look. Do you see what’s happened here, Quinn?” He grated out the question between clenched teeth.

  “Wha…”

  He shook a long finger at her. “Oh, I’ll tell you what. You’ve gone and done it now. Really done the hell out of it. I bet you’re wondering what exactly you’ve done the hell out of, aren’t you?”

  Out of nowhere, Ingrid flew into her line of vision, skidding to a halt in front of her, eyes bulging when she scanned Quinn’s face. Her mouth formed an O then her jaw fell before snapping shut. “What in the ever-lovin’ fuck?”

  Quinn’s gaze flew to the stranger’s before latching onto Ingrid’s, wide with surprise, in a plea for help.

  “Oh. My. Hell!” Ingrid shouted, pulling at her backpack to dig out a compact with the name Bobbie-Sue on it and flipping it open. “Look!”

  Quinn blinked at her reflection under the hot sun. Her hands flew to her eyes. Wow. If in the choosing, she would have had any say in her eye color upon her birth, this amazing shade of bright, swirly purple would have been high on her list.

  Much higher than her own dull, mousy brown. And they weren’t just purple—they were purple with a capital P. As though someone had popped contacts from some Halloween costume store directly into her sockets.

  “What did you do since I left you, Quinn?” Ingrid fairly seethed.

  “I…” What had she done?

  The man sauntered up to Ingrid, his bronzed arms crossed over his chest. “Here’s what she’s done. She’s—”

  But Ingrid halted his explanation by backing up, pushing Quinn behind her and reaching into her pocket for her cell. “Who the hell are you?” she spat, yanking her phone out and flipping open the keyboard. She began to type without letting the man out of her sight. Her fingers flew as she eyeballed him with a fierce stare.

  “I’m Khristos with a K, for future reference—a descendant of Aphrodite and the man who’s apple your friend Quinn here stole.” He bowed regally at the waist before rising and glaring his obvious displeasure at Quinn.

  Ingrid’s stare whipped over her shoulder. “You stole his apple? Wait. It was his apple that fell out of the pillar? An apple did all this?” She swished her finger around the vicinity of Quinn’s breasts.

  Khristos nodded curtly, clearly attempting to keep his anger in check. “It was definitely the apple that did,” he swept his hand up and down, “this.”

  When Quinn finally found her voice, it was raspy and thick. “What is this?” She plucked at her shirt in disbelief. “Is the apple really why my…my—”

  “Her cans are the size of life rafts? Are you ser
ious?”

  Khristos chuckled—fondly, if she was hearing right. “The gods, in all their antiquated, outdated beliefs, think only women with,” he cleared his throat, “um, fuller figures appeal to men. I’ve tried and tried to convince them to jump into the year 2015 with me, but old habits die hard. We’re still working on diversity and all sorts of sensitivity training when it comes to body shaming. That’s a real bone of contention with me. My motto is, all women should be loved, no matter their size or shape.”

  The gods?

  Ingrid nodded her head with a rapid motion as though she was giving a big “hell yeah” to diversity and healthy body image. Then she shook it off and glared at Khristos. “Okay, buddy, what the hell is happening here? And I warn you—I know people who’ll beat the information out of you if you’re not willing to give it up.”

  He shook his dark head of thick, shiny hair. “You’ll never believe it.”

  Ingrid snorted a scathing grunt. “Hah! I’ve only heard that a million times in the past couple of years. Try me, pal.”

  “You’ve never heard anything like this,” he assured her in silken tones.

  “Don’t tell me what I have and haven’t heard, Chiseled Man. In fact, I’d lay bets you’d never believe what I’ve heard. So get on with it, and while you’re at it, step off!” She waved a hand between them, shooing Khristos away.

  Ingrid flicked her stare back to Quinn and gripped her arm before she returned her gaze to Khristos. “Okay, so let’s get it on here. Out with the explanation. What does this apple have to do with my friend and her sparkly bits, glowing like a diamond in a display case?”

  “Well, had your friend left the apple be as I’d asked, those charming traits would have disappeared. They’re simply a product of touching the apple and they fade rather quickly, given a day or so.”

  Quinn breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, so no big Shawna Sutter boobs forever? Phew. Because hell on fire, big, big boobies were more work than she was cut out for.

  “But alas…” he said with a forlorn, almost comical sigh.

  Her antennae went up. Oh, sure. Of course there was an “alas”…an “aside”…a “by the way, your stupid, stubborn friend is a halfwit who just wouldn’t listen”.