For The Love Of A God by Rosanna Leo (ebook reader for comics .txt) 📕

"I'm being stupid, I know. Maybe I am bad with change. It's just I've had a lot of it lately ... never mind."

Eric stared at her, tried to stare into her. What was this change she was talking about? And why did it pain her so? And why was it paining him as well? He'd have to discover what it was.

Maybe he could fix it.

No, he warned himself. You're not here to develop an interest in a crazy woman. You're here to perfect the museum.

She gave her eyes another swipe with her already-wet sleeve. “I'm sorry. According to every business magazine I've ever read, crying in front of the boss is a big no-no. It seems to be right up there with going postal on your colleagues. You just don't do it."

Eric smiled at her sad attempt at humor, feeling warmth spread right into his toes. Gods, what was it with this woman? She made him feel so strange.

"I should be more professional about this,” she continued. She took a deep breath, and he watched her chest rise and fall. “I can't think of a better place for Eryx than the Hermitage. I know they'll take care of him as well as I have."

Before her eyes betrayed her again, Maia fled down the aisle, her gypsy skirt billowing behind her, Holly Hobby bag pressed against her chest with shaky hands.

Eric stood there, stunned. Feeling quite hollow. It was a feeling he hadn't had in a long time.

He'd made Maia cry. It sickened him.

Dammit, why couldn't he be more like Dionysus and not give a shit? He was suddenly wondering if this new project was worth all this torment.

Unaccustomed to feeling sorry for himself, he straightened his Kenneth Cole tie and marched down the storage aisle. There was no time to worry about emotional mortals. He had work to do.

Maia Douglas would just have to dry her own damn tears.

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Chapter Five

Maia considered her day. It had sucked for a number of reasons.

Eric Lord wanted to deport her statue (and yes, she did think of Eryx as her statue, thank you very much). To make matters worse, Dino and Sheila had insisted on bombarding Maia with questions all day. What had the director wanted to talk to her about? Was he firing anyone else? What were his plans for the Greek gallery? Was Eric Lord's body as lickable up close as it was from a distance? (And yes, the last question was from Dino.)

It took all Maia's energy just to shrug off her friends’ curious demands. Especially after she'd decided the boss's body was indeed very lickable.

Lord was unlike any museum nerd she'd ever met. He was too golden, too sculpted. He looked like he could ornament an old Greek urn, rather than administering the museum housing the urn.

He'd driven her to distraction all day and she was exhausted. She'd been holed up in the quiet Greek gallery for most of the day, making it her impromptu lab, working on Poseidon's sculpture. Eric Lord had been there most of the time, too. Talking to other executive big shots, explaining his sacred vision to them. From Maia's perspective, all he really seemed to be doing was waving his hands around a lot and trying to look important.

But he'd also watched her work. At first, it wasn't in an obvious way, but she'd felt his eyes upon her for most of the time. Silently assessing her. No doubt evaluating her skills, and deciding if she belonged on the scrap heap with Etruscan Mark.

But then he'd grown more blatant, tried to rattle her concentration. Employing his own breath-stealing brand of handsome-man guerrilla tactics, he'd popped up every so often, peppering her with questions. Questioning her techniques.

"Aren't you going to use some sort of synthetic resin for your restoration of the sculpture?"

"No,” she'd shot back. “Or do you want Poseidon to look plastic instead of marble?"

Concentrated on her work, he'd ignored the dig. “What about Fomblin?” he asked, referring to a product used in many restorations.

Maia had turned back to Poseidon, her eyes narrowed, analytical. “Not on this baby. The patina is still good. I don't like chemicals. They're too harsh. I don't want any spotting."

Eric had drawn closer, his eyes on her, on her gentle hands, as she swabbed at the sculpture with a wad of cotton. “What are you using, then?"

"Distilled water. Sometimes, simple is best. No greasy oils, no chemicals costing you a mint.” Her eyes darted toward Eric and then back to the statue. “Just a little love."

He'd grinned at her. “Love?"

"Yeah,” she'd whispered. “And time. So many conservators try to rush the job for anxious administrators. This museum knows I take my time, using uncomplicated methods. No synthetics, no sandblasters for me. Just TLC.” She'd turned to him again. “Didn't you know that's why you pay me the big bucks, Mr. Lord?"

And then, to her horror, she'd snorted out a laugh.

But Eric's gaze had held no derision, as she'd expected. Rather, it held what seemed to be reluctant admiration. He'd pointed to Poseidon's cracked nuts. “What about those? I don't imagine H2O and some good lovin’ will help those."

"No. I will need to fill them in a bit, but my aim is always to be the least invasive possible.” She'd stared up at the sea god's patrician face with awe. “After all, a statue like this shouldn't look brand new. It should look like a piece of history, with all its bumps and bruises, its light and darkness. It should transport us back in time."

He'd stared at her with an intense look which made her want to scream, faint, and orgasm all at the same time. And then he'd interrogated her for another fifteen minutes. Finally, he relented. “I should let you get back to work. Thanks for explaining your methods."

And yet Maia couldn't help feeling it wasn't so much of an explanation as a defense. Eric Lord put her on guard. Made her