A Maid for the Titan (TITANS, #2) Page 2

It glowed.

  He jumped back.

  The woman had to be a goddess, and until he knew more of her powers and why she’d turned him human, he should be careful of what he risked.

  But if she had designs on him, why did she flee?

  He stomped back into the halls he’d just vacated and stepped on something that crumbled under the sole of his foot. A loud voice made him spin around. A male was at the opening that gave him glimpses to the world, talking about the weather. Hyperion approached and looked closely at him. There was something covering the opening. Something clear, like water, that reflected his image back to him. He touched the surface, expecting it to ripple, but it was solid. Odd.

  He tried to pull it off the wall, so he could talk to the man behind it, and when it wouldn’t budge, he let his full strength flow through his arms and tore it in half. The male on the other side disappeared. Coward. Did he run to warn Zeus of Hyperion’s return?

  Something zapped Hyperion, like lightning but weaker. It made anger roil up his chest and pour out in a savage cry, as he pounded his fists into the thing that gave out sparks.

  “Hold it right there.”

  The words meant nothing to Hyperion, but he turned toward the new voice. Another male, this one inside the room. He wore very constricting clothing and held something with both hands.

  The man spoke again, and Hyperion made out some of the words. He was to follow without something and sleep something else off.

  Hyperion had a better idea.

  “Show me,” he said, and let his compulsion engulf the man, who dropped his arms and spread his mind open, for Hyperion to soak up every piece of information it ever held, including things Vangelis—that was the man’s name, and he was a security guard—didn’t remember learning.

  Vangelis wasn’t the most learned man in Greece, or even Crete, but he was fluent in modern Greek and something called English. He also knew what Hyperion had trashed was a television and how elevators worked, and that the current Greek prime minister was a sellout and a liar, and that this was the year 2018, counting from the birth of Jesus Christ, son of the one God, in whose name atrocities were performed on a daily basis.

  Gods in this era seemed more bloodthirsty than the Olympians, who were mostly interested in having a good time. Or rather, their followers thought them to be all for war and discrimination and hate.

  Vangelis believed his God was about love, and he felt accepted by Him, though he wouldn’t publicly admit his attraction to men while his mother was alive.

  Ancient gods didn’t care about things like sexuality either. Nor did they tell people how to live their lives, in the most part. They only punished direct insult, oath-breaking, and betrayal of familial bonds. Maybe that was why they were now forgotten. Nobody had feared them in a long time, and people had replaced doing the right thing with seeking profit.

  Hyperion could use that. “Vangelis, I’m going to need you to bring me a lot of coal,” he said in perfect Modern Greek. “Oh, and one last thing.” He pushed past Vangelis’ personal belief system and his knowledge of mythology, as people today thought of the stories pertaining the Olympians, and only skimmed through Titanomachy, the great Clash of Titans. He knew what version of it people were taught; he’d heard it from Zeus himself.

  Hyperion scrolled—and this was a fun new concept—through the hotel personnel images and found the woman who’d tickled his fancy, among other things.

  Olivia Johnson.

  Chapter Three

  “Here you are. Thought you were coming to the beach,” Christina chirped.

  Olivia raised her face from where it’d been pressed to the pillow and blinked bleary eyes at her roommate. “Hey. You’re back. I was gonna meet you.” She reached for her phone, but the nightstand was too far away and required her to move about five inches to the right, so she let her hand drop to the mattress. “What time is it?”

  Christina tossed her beach bag on one of the only two chairs in the room and kicked off her flip flops. “Three. We had sandwiches at the beach, and the guys wanna take us to a small taverna by the sea tonight. They said the tables are literally in the water. Well, not submerged or anything. Just make sure to wear sandals. And nothing you don’t want to get wet.” Her bubbly disposition, usually pleasant and so fitting her lovely, heart-shaped face and innocent, wide, blue eyes, today grated on Olivia’s nerves. As did the stupid cicada that had made its home on the windowsill but might as well be holding concert in Olivia’s head.

  “Got any aspirin? I’m still hungover from last night.” Raki was not to be messed with. And it was not to be drunk on an empty stomach when you didn’t know and trust the producer. All of which people had told her before she found herself with a group of locals, doing koupes, as they called the long shots of near-forty-percent alcohol.

  Christina winced. “That bad?” she whispered.

  “Worse.” Olivia focused her entire being on rolling over and sitting up. She reached behind her, pulled the pillow out of the way, then scooted back until she met the headboard and leaned against it. Like all staff rooms, theirs was on the ground floor, which was below street level on the front but opened up to a small yard in the back, and Olivia was grateful for the relative darkness. She opened her mouth for the two aspirin Christina popped out of the blister pack and onto her tongue, and accepted a glass of water with a heartfelt thank you.

  “Why didn’t you call? I’d have come back sooner.” Christina sat beside her on the bed and patted her shoulder.

  “Oh, I’m okay now. You should have seen me this morning. I hallucinated an enormous naked guy.”

  Christina opened her big blue eyes even wider than usual. “Seriously?”

  Olivia nodded. “The suite hadn’t checked out after all. The guy came out in a bath towel, and I thought he was—like—a giant.” She wouldn’t admit she also thought he was a statue, and especially not that she’d rubbed his penis like she expected a genie to come out and grant her three wishes.

  God. She hid her face in her palms. First penis she’d touched in her twenty-three years on this earth, and she’d molested a stranger.

  “I called security on him because he ran after me, but now I’m thinking maybe that was too hasty.” Because he’d have every right to report her. Though he didn’t seem to want to scold her when he chased her to the corridor. Rather to get her to come back inside and look under that towel. And when he called her, she’d been tempted to be impulsive and go to him and lose her stupid V-card.

  But no. No more impulsiveness. She’d had one thoughtless night in her entire life, and she might lose her job over it. She’d never lost control before. Never got drunk. Never got carried away. Never did anything on a whim, until she came on this trip. And yes, her time here might have been a little underwhelming so far, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be shipped back home and forced to face reality a couple months ahead of schedule.

  “I should check in.” She groaned as she made another try for her cell-phone, and Christina stretched out and got it for her.

  The light at the top blinked ominously. She unlocked the screen and grimaced. “Three missed calls from Manolis. This can’t be good.” The man was friendly and easy going, unless the staff disrespected him or the hotel—and touching a guest’s genitals might be seen as disrespectful.

  “Want me to call him back? I can say you’re violently sick or something,” Christina said. She could probably talk him down—everyone loved Christina—but Olivia had to deal with this maturely. And hopefully keep her job.

  She shook her head and immediately regretted it. The painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet. She could do this, though. She slid her finger across the screen, over the contact name, and brought the phone to her ear, ready for a lot of yelling in a combo of Greek and English.

  “Olivia. Finally. I was worried.”

  That didn’t sound too bad. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I hope you’re better now. When do you think you could
come by my office?”

  This was it. She was going to get fired. “Manoli, I’m so sorry about this morning. I—”

  “It’s nothing bad. Just come see me. Say, in an hour?”

  The interruption was welcome, since she wasn’t sure how she’d explain her behavior, but she’d be more relieved at his words if his voice didn’t sound... mechanical? Manolis was usually a hyper ball of energy. This was too subdued for him. “I’ll be there,” she said. “Is everything okay with you?” It was real concern. He might be demanding as hell, but he was a good guy.

  “Everything is fine. Awesome. See you in an hour,” he said in the same uninflected tone.

  Olivia had a long shower to clean the cobwebs from her brain. She pulled her shoulder-length hair up in a high ponytail and let it air dry, while she threw on a pair of cropped jeans and a dark-green elastic crop top that kept her breasts in place without the stifling constriction of a bra. She glanced at herself in the mirror and added an oversized lightweight scarf. The top might be fine for the beach, like Christina insisted when she convinced Olivia to buy it, but the hotel manager might not appreciate seeing the outline of her nipples.

  As she slid her feet into her comfiest sandals, she checked the time on her phone. She had half an hour to go, but now that she was ready, she wanted to get this out of the way.

  She took the stairs up to the lobby, said hi to Kostas, who manned Reception most afternoons, and knocked on the door with the sign that read Management behind him.

  “Peraste,” said a deep male voice that couldn’t possibly belong to Manolis.

  Despite her rather good grasp on Ancient Greek, Olivia’s Modern-Greek repertoire consisted of a few scattered words, other than come in, housekeeping, should I come later, and let me call my manager. Oh, and aspro pato—bottoms up—after last night, but she doubted she’d ever say that again. The man at the other side of the door had bid her enter, but her knees trembled without warning, so to buy some time, she called back, “I’m sorry, my Greek isn’t that good. What was that?”

  “Come in,” the man said in accented English.

  His voice made her want to run to him, and at the same time, far, far away. She steeled herself and pushed the door open.

  And had to gather her jaw from the floor.

  The man leaning against Manolis’s desk was six-foot something of hotness, packed inside a tight pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched over corded muscle as far down as the open dark-blue blazer over it allowed her to see. His jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the five-o-clock shadow on his tan face made his amber eyes pop.

  Amber eyes, almost golden. She’d seen those eyes before. Had seen a whole lot of the man in front of her, too.

  Shit, he cleaned up nice. Which was irrelevant when he was here to have her fired.

  “Good to see you again,” the man said. His voice wrapped around her like a caress, and she adjusted the scarf, to keep him from seeing her nipples tighten.

  Manolis stood from behind the desk and approached her. She hadn’t realized he was here. “Olivia Johnson, meet the hotel’s new owner, Mr. Titanas,” he said.

  The man gave a small nod. “Call me Hyperion.”

  She hid her surprise. What sort of parents decided that the best name for a boy whose last name meant Titan was that of an actual Titan?

  The man smiled, and there was hunger and promise in his gaze. “Nice to have a name to go with the face, Olivia Johnson.” His narrowed eyes said there was more than her face in his mind.

  Did he expect her to do more of what she did this morning, when she thought he was statue?

  She thought he was a statue—now there was a sentence that wouldn’t land her in the loony bin.

  “I’ll leave you to it. I have a renovation to organize.” Manolis practically skipped out of the room before she could ask what it was.

  Maybe Hyperion expected an apology. She owed him one.

  But he didn’t seem offended, only curious.

  She should apologize anyway. “About this morning—”

  “I’m sorry I chased you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He didn’t look sorry. He looked... about to eat her up.

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I wasn’t... I had too much to drink last night, and for some reason”—her forced chuckle sounded like a hiccup—“I thought I was dusting a statue when I... You know. I wasn’t supposed to even be there. I’m usually off Mondays, but Katerina—”

  He waved off the rest of her sentence. “No need to explain. It was a misunderstanding. That is not why I asked to speak to you.”

  “No? Then wha—?”

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  She should be upset he’d interrupted her for the third time in a row, but her curiosity took over. “What kind?” If it had to do with sexual favors, she was out of here. Not that she’d mind sexing up this tall glass of—

  What was the matter with her? Her hormones were usually way tamer than this. Her cheeks burned. Damn. Would she ever outgrow blushing?

  A smirk played on his lips. “One I think will be mutually beneficial. How would you like to work for me?”

  Wasn’t she already? “You own the hotel. I work for the hotel. Ergo...” She trailed off.

  “Cleaning for me is not what I had in mind.”

  All lustful thoughts were squashed by the fury that spilled through her veins. “I can’t believe you just suggested that.”

  “What did I suggest?” He frowned, but the hint of a smile was still there.

  “You know what you suggested.”

  He straightened and pushed a hand in his jeans’ pocket, opening the jacket more and allowing her a glimpse of skin between his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. “What I want from you is to help me adjust. I’ve been away for a long time, and I need someone to”—he scrunched his face—“teach me the ropes?”

  “Show me.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Show you what?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes, but she was glad for the change of subject. Not only had she accosted the guy, she’d also implied he tried to buy her or rent her or whatever. “The expression is show me the ropes.”

  His lips split in a gorgeous smile. “And that was the second reason I chose you. You can help me practice my English.”

  But what was the first? “I’m not sure I’m what you need. I’ve only been in Crete for a month, and I’ve barely done any sightseeing.”

  “Perfect. We can do that together, and in the meantime, you can tell me about this world of yours.”

  Yeah, they had to work on his English, because what he just said didn’t make much sense. “You said you’ve been away?”

  “A forced exile, you might say.” His face darkened. Had he been in jail?

  “For how long?” she asked.

  “As long as it takes.”

  Huh? Ah. “No, I mean, how long were you away?”

  “Too long.” So he wasn’t going to talk about it.

  “And what exactly would my job description be?”

  Hyperion took a step toward her, and she bit her lip to keep from licking it at the whiff of his scent, earthy and spicy and entirely male. “You’ll be my personal assistant. You’ll assist me in fulfilling my needs.”

  She wrote off the double entendre as a language-barrier thing. How bad could being the guy’s assistant be? “I’m only in the country till September. I won’t do anything illegal for you, I’ll need a day off a week, and you have to double my salary. Plus cover lodging.” She really only wanted enough to get by. And maybe get a more PA-appropriate wardrobe.

  “I’ll triple it and throw in a clothing stipend.” Did he read her mind, or was that a jibe for what she wore? She couldn’t think about that when his eyes shone gold again and he was within licking distance.

  She tried not to melt against him and used her most professional tone to say, “You’re making it hard for me to say no.”

  Chapter Four />
  The world was young, and humans weren’t created yet, when those later named Olympians, led by Zeus, went to war with the Titans who ruled until then. The Olympians won, and Zeus sent those Titans who opposed him to Tartarus. For eternity.

  Or so the story people knew went.

  Hyperion had heard Zeus reiterate it while Hyperion and most of the other male Titans acted as lawn ornaments, outside the golden palace atop Olympus.

  And it was all a lie.

  Hyperion knew that, because he’d seen the world born, had fathered Sun and Moon and Dawn—Helios, Selene, and Eos back then—and had watched Prometheus and Thetis create man at Zeus’ command, to be used as cannon fodder for when the King of the Gods—pfft—went after his own father, Kronos.

  Hyperion had warned his brother history was about to repeat itself, but like most Titans refused to support his claim to the throne, and instead sought shelter among the humans.

  Unfortunately, Zeus was an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and all male Titans were sentenced to be cast in living stone for eternity. Including poor Prometheus, by the way, in case anyone needed more proof of Zeus’ loyal nature. Female Titans were stripped of their immortality and allowed to finish their lives as humans. Probably what passed for mercy, in Zeus’ twisted mind.

  But now Zeus and the rest of his ilk had faded into nothingness, and Hyperion was still here. And he was top of the fucking food chain, baby. Fucking—such a mouth-filling word, though Hyperion had different tastes than the images the word summoned in Vangelis’s head.

  Hyperion should look for those of his brothers he could tolerate, but there was time for that. First, he needed to fit in this era. And that had nothing to do with pursuing the female who brought him back to life this morning; it was a matter of staying out of the public eye.

  He scanned what he’d absorbed of Vangelis’ thoughts for today’s fashion icons and selected the mental image of the sought-after GQ model. He should start by taming his hair and beard, and then get himself appropriate clothing. Shouldn’t be too hard. Hyperion wasn’t named the god of Watchfulness, Wisdom, and the Light for nothing.