Of course he'd like another one. And another after that. They say there are no stupid questions, but…

The night's festivities had started by the pool. Apollo had brought his latest 'squeeze' (funny how the boy's grasp of slang had somehow gotten stuck in the 1950s) along, the Hungarian high diver Vivian Vintrenko. She was a friend of his sister's—it seemed he only met women through his sister, which was hilarious considering Artemis' opinion of men who constantly ogled her friends—and she was the embodiment of the phrase 'legs that went on forever', if you got his drift. She was showing off her swan dive to great applause and admiration.

Hermes was showing the cute little pickpocket he'd picked up the day before some tricks with a set of interconnected rings. Trying to, at least. The four glasses of scotch he'd already downed in rapid succession were taking their toll, and the rings kept slipping out of his fingers.

Pan ran by at full tilt, utterly unconcerned with the wet tile, his glazed eyes firmly focused on the giggling blonde he was chasing.

Dionysius watched everything, sighed with a contented smile, leaned back in his wicker lounge chair, and lifted the curly-cue straw of his tropical cocktail to his lips.

"Where do you find all of these women, Uncle?" a laughing voice said suddenly above him. "Is there a 24-hour convenience store down the street that stocks them for you?"

He lowered his sunglasses and peered up at the blonde woman over the frames. "They just… flitter in. Like moths to a flame."

Psyche laughed, a throaty, full-bodied laugh. She was barefoot and wearing a short white cotton robe belted at the waist, her pale hair falling over her shoulders. "That sounds like a dangerous situation for them."

"Oh, they like the burn."

"Is that so?" She laughed again. "A quick warning, then: Artemis should be home in an hour, and it might be a good idea to make yourselves scarce. She's had a rough day of it, apparently, and she'll likely be looking for any excuse to start slapping."

He was suddenly the picture of innocence, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and red swim trunks notwithstanding. Even with his hair standing out at rakish angles, still damp from his quick swim earlier, he could have fooled anyone who didn't know that he was the God of Wine and Passion. "What reason would she have to be angry with us?" he asked sweetly, fluttering his dark eyelashes.

"Well, there's the fact that Apollo has his tongue down her best friend's throat," Psyche said with an arched eyebrow. "It's just a suggestion, Uncle."

She turned on her heel and walked to the far side of the pool, untying her belt as she went. His eyes followed her utterly unbidden, moving of their own accord, to watch as she slipped out of her robe, carefully straightened her black bikini, threw back her hair, and dove into the deep end of the pool.

"Stop that," he told himself with a shake of his head. "She's a niece."

"Ah," another part of himself countered coyly, "But only by marriage."

When she resurfaced, smoothing back her wet hair as the water rippled over her breasts, he realized he was licking his lips. His mind wandered to an iconic scene from an 80's teen movie and for a moment he stared as Psyche stepped out of the pool, dripping wet as she began to untie the top of her bikini—

"No, no, no," he said firmly, cutting the fantasy off before it got up any more steam, setting his drink down decisively and standing. "Enough of that. Not going to think about that. Off limits, entirely. Boys," he called to the others. "I suggest we take the party elsewhere."

There was a chorus of complaints and groans.

"What the hell, Unc!" Apollo shouted from the pool, his arm around Vivian Vintrenko's waist. "We were just getting started!"

"We can get started elsewhere," he said, pulling off his sunglasses and tossing them onto his chair. "At the risk of sounding like a certain notorious womanizer, I suggest we suit up, boys. Meet in the lobby in twenty: we're going club hopping."

"Have fun, Uncle," Psyche called, her arms folded on the edge of the pool, a sloppy smile on her damp face. He barely glanced over, throwing a careless wave over his shoulder as he led the retreat.

A moment later she climbed out of the pool, picked up her robe, and fished her mobile out of the pocket.

"All clear," she said with a great deal of satisfaction. "Dionysius practically ran out."

When Eros walked in ten minutes later, his towel over one shoulder, she was stretched out in Dionysius's abandoned lounge chair wearing his sunglasses.

"How'd you do it?" he asked, bending for a long, lingering kiss.

"Womanly wiles and simple psychology," she grinned, pulling off the glasses and biting on an earpiece. "We've got the place to ourselves for the rest of the night."

"Goody goody," he murmured, slipping into the chair, sliding against her slick skin. "Best enjoy it while we can, hmm?"

The first club was a disappointment. The music wasn't loud enough, and it didn't have enough spirit—you couldn't feel it in your bones. The bartender didn't know how to make a good zombie, and two of the models they'd picked up left in a disgusted huff.

Dionysius wasn't in the mood to fix things with a wave of his hand, so they piled into the limo for the next stop.

The second club was a bit too much, even for Dionysius, which was saying something. Far too much humanity pressed together, too much sweat, too much desperation. Fifteen minutes later they were back in the limo, Pan complaining that Dionysius had ruined the entire night when he suggested leaving the Lito for club hopping.

The God of Wine simply nodded at the stoic driver. The limo leapt into traffic with an abrupt squeal of tires that threw Pan backwards into his father, who had just leaned in to kiss his pretty pickpocket and promptly bumped teeth with the unlucky girl. The limo's interior erupted with screams, followed be the sharp snap of a slap, and Pan kept his mouth shut for the duration of the evening.

Luckily, he didn't have anything else to complain about. The third club of the night was a perfect median of the previous two. The lighting was low and soothing, the music not quite deafening and of a suitably soulful quality, and the scarred mahogany bar was varnished with the patina of several years and thousands of interesting stories. The group dispersed to mingle with the other patrons, Apollo and Vivian immediately latching onto a like-minded quartet of athletically-built men and women who were, judging by the excited shouts, great fans of theirs.

Dionysius made his way to the bar, flashing thousand kilowatt smiles at everyone he passed. One recipient stumbled over her heels and nearly knocked over her boyfriend, who was quick to grab hold of her arm possessively and guide her straight out the door.

When Dionysius swung onto a stool, primly unbuttoning his suit jacket, the attentive bartender was at his elbow immediately.

"What can I get for you tonight?" the bald twenty-something asked, rolling a quarter across his bronzed fingers in a very Hermes-like way.

"What's your specialty?"

"Everyone says I make a mean mojito."

"I'll start with one of those, then," Dionysius said with an indulgent smile. "And a vodka martini, dirty."

"Shaken, not stirred?" the bartender asked with a smile.

"Why the hell not. I'm feeling like a licensed killer tonight," he replied with a wolfish, toothy smile.

"So what's your story?" the bartender said conversationally, pouring both drinks simultaneously with panache, tapping the last drops into their respective glasses before flipping the shakers through the air, catching them deftly, and tossing them under the bar into the basket of used glasses. He skewered a pair of olives out of the jar with a beribboned toothpick and dropped the affair into the martini before sliding the glasses forward.

"You've got style," Dionysius said approvingly, sipping at his mojito. "And everyone's right—mighty fine mojito you've made here. As for my story? Oh, it's nothing you haven't heard a thousand times before. Flash bastard with too much money and time, so I rid myself of both with the judicious application of booze and beautiful women."

The bartender chuckled. "I admit, I don't often serve flash bastards with too much time or money. Plenty of young executive types—you know, suits with briefcases and pinched faces—or bubbly co-eds that travel in pastel-colored packs. You're cut from a different cloth than most of my customers."

"What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Carlos. And yours, vice versa?"

He tipped back his glass, crunched on the shards of ice. "Dionysius."

Carlos whistled. "Helluva name. Thought that one went out of style a few hundred years ago."

"Yeah, well," he grinned, raising his martini in a salute. "My parents were real old school."

"Hey now," Carlos said, realization dawning across his darkly tanned face. "You're not the Dionysius, are you? The one who lives at the Lito? Zeus Olympian's brother?"

"On the nosy, got it in one," he affirmed, tapping the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck me. Never thought I'd see the day when a real celebrity would try one of my mojitos."

"You follow racing much? Cause that's my nephew Apollo over there," Dionysius said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the raucous laughter without bothering to turn. "Might give you an autograph if you say you like his hair."

"Fuck me sideways," was all Carlos could say to that second revelation.

"Think I'll have another of your famous mojitos, Carlos," Dionysius said, pushing his empty glasses forward. "And what's the house wine?"

"A French Roussanne, last year's vintage."

"A glass of that too, if you please."

"Serious about your alcohol, yeah?"

"It's possibly the only thing I'm ever serious about," Dionysius said with a crooked grin.

There was a squeak a few feet away as someone pulled out a stool, the legs skidding across the lacquered hardwood floor. Dionysius glanced over from the corner of his eye before doing an almost comical double take.

It was a girl. No, not a girl. A young woman, he corrected himself. And she was utterly and undeniably gorgeous, with loose raven black hair that draped over her bare shoulders. She sat with her arms resting against the bar, her green leather clutch purse lying to the side. She was staring down at her hands as she fussed with her nails.

Nails that were painted dark blue, he noticed. She wore a thick ring on her right thumb that was fashioned like an elaborate knot. There was a diamond-studded hairpin at her right temple. She was wearing a very little black dress that had ribbon straps and black pearl buttons. Her skin was so pale she seemed to be made of porcelain.

Dionysius realized he was staring but didn't bother to stop.

"What can I get you, gorgeous?" Carlos asked with a smile.

She looked up, and her eyes were of a pale green hue that Dionysius hadn't seen since Ireland, 1124. It was also quite apparent that she'd been crying in the immediate past. Somehow the redness and puffy skin made her even more breathtaking, imbuing her ethereal beauty with an earthiness.

"Strongest drink you have," she said in a husky but composed voice that had the lilt of an Irish accent to it. "And a shot of whiskey."

"Numbing some pain?" Dionysius asked casually as she threw back the shot with practiced ease.

"Best way to use booze, don't you think?" she replied.

"Don't know about that," he said. "I'm fond of using booze when I'm happy, too."

"Can't really remember what that feels like. Drinking because I'm happy, I mean." She took a long pull from her bourbon and scotch. "It's been a while."

Dionysius loosened his purple silk tie. "Sorry to hear that. Boyfriend been treating you rough?"

She scoffed, crunching on an ice cube. "As if I could ever call him that. Ex now, if he's anything. The bastard left me here, without a way to get home, and then called to break up with me over the phone. What sort of chickenshit asshole does that?"

"A brainless one, obviously." He motioned for Carlos to refill his wine glass.

"Anyway, I was too good for him. See that now. Bastard couldn't do anything without my help, and now that he's this hot shot with money he thinks he doesn't need me any more. His loss, right?" She bit through another ice cube with a sharp snap.

"Absolutely."

"I'll have what he's having," she told Carlos, pointing at Dionysius's wine glass.

"…This is going to sound like a pick-up line, but believe me, it's not—I have far better ones in my arsenal. Do I know you from somewhere?" Dionysius asked, eyes narrowed and head cocked at an angle. "You look incredibly familiar."

She looked at him for a minute, trying to size him up and failing. "I'm a singer, but I doubt you've heard of me."

"Nightclubs," he said with a satisfied smirk, snapping his fingers. "Cabarets and little places like this. You do a lot of bluesy standards; Billie Holliday, Etta James, Sinatra. Your name's Ariadne, am I right?"

She smiled. "I'm surprised. You don't seem like the sort of guy who'd come to my performances."

"And what sort of guy comes to your performances?"

"Desperate, needy twentysomethings with hero complexes," Ariadne replied with a heavy dash of bitterness. "Goes to show you should always listen to your father. Daddy said he was bad news, but his little girl thought she knew better."

"That is just it," Dionysius said firmly, banging a fist on the bar. "I'm putting my foot down. I refuse to let this infantile pipsqueak ruin your night, sugar. I'm going to cheer you up or my name isn't Dionysius."

"…Your name is Dionysius?"

"…Yes."

"That's quite a name, Steve."

"You're a fan of Humphrey Bogart, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. Who isn't?"

"I can just tell you're a girl after my own heart. Carlos! We need a dish of salt, a pair of limes, two shots of tequila, and some Mariachi music, stat!"

"I don't think we have any Mariachi CDs, D."

Dionysius waved his hand with a smile. "Humor me and check the collection, willya?"

Four hours later and Dionysius seemed to have misplaced his tie. Oh, no, there it was. He blew it out of his eyes, raised his glass dramatically, narrowly avoided poking out his eye with the streamer-wrapped straw, and shouted, "BULLSHIT!"

The bar erupted in peals of laughter as Ariadne made a face and was forced to take a drink.

"Okay okay okay okay," he slurred. "Hush now, hush, children. I…." he dragged the word out, glancing from face to attentive face, before finally locking eyes with Ariadne and saying, "…have never worn a dress."

The place fell silent, everyone looking from Dionysius's perfectly composed, serious, studious, serene, impossibly sober face to Ariadne's narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.

"Bullshit," she said finally with a smile.

"Whoops-a-daisy!" He laughed, catching the straw with his lips and taking a long pull as everyone clapped and whooped.

"I hope there're pictures," Ariadne said archly. Apollo nodded enthusiastically until Dionysius shoved him aside playfully.

"People, I hate to have to say this," Carlos shouted apologetically over the din. "But I'm gonna have to kick you all out. It's four AM, and that's closing time. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"Hey now," Pan said above the chorus of disappointed groans. "You stole that from a song, you did!"

"Thanks for the fun, Carlos," Dionysius said, leaning over the bar to slap the man's shoulder. "Will definitely be coming back sometime very soonishly. I'm tellin' everyone I know that Carlos makes the best mojitos. And this is for everything."

Carlos gaped at the wad of cash Dionysius had just slapped into his hand. "Fuck me, uh, thanks, D!"

"After-party at the Lito, and everyone's invited!" Hermes announced with a wide sweep of his arms that ended around the waists of his pickpocket and one of Apollo's new lady friends.

While everyone crawled into the limo, laughing the carefree, brash laughter of the blissfully boozed, Dionysius pulled the tie off his head and shoved it into his pocket, stepping aside.

"Go on ahead without me," he told Apollo with a dismissive wave.

Ariadne stood on the edge of the curb in her strappy heels and tiny dress, arm raised for a taxi. She looked over her arm with a smile as Dionysius joined her.

"Not riding back with everyone, Steve?"

"Nah. No room," he said, pulling a long face. "So how'd I do?"

She lowered her arm and turned to face him. "How'd you do what?"

"With the cheering up. Your night end on a higher note than it began with?"

"Well," she said slowly. "Technically, it's not over just yet."

His smile was slow and just a bit devilish. "You've a point there…"

"You really don't strike me as the kind of bloke who'd do yoga," she said after a moment's pause.

"Good for the back," he replied.

"Bet you're all kinds of flexible."

His smile only widened.

In the taxi he asked her what she wanted out of life. Seemed like the thing to do after such a kiss.

"What does anyone want out of life?" she said, toying with the button at his collar. "I want to make real money doing what I love. Which happens to be singing. I want to see the world, I want to find the perfect wine, and I want you to kiss me like that again."

"I always believe in giving a woman what she wants," Dionysius said, slipping his arm around the curve of her waist, pulling her closer.

"I don't know how you can kiss like that after all those drinks you had, Steve," Ariadne said when she caught her breath. "Don't know how you can even form sentences after that many drinks. But I'm not going to question small miracles."

"You're not doing so bad yourself," he observed. "Considering all of those shots."

"It's my Irish constitution," Ariadne laughed.

The taxi slowed, pulling up into the impressive horseshoe drive.

"You live here?" she gasped as he helped her out of the car. She stared from the elaborate blue mosaic tile under her heels up to the white marble columns framing the golden double doors. "I mean, I figured you didn't live in a fifteenth-floor walk-up, not in that suit, but this is a bit much."

"It's the family place," Dionysius said by way of explanation. "And my family likes to make a statement. You could say we invented the statement."

Ariadne looked at him with an arched eyebrow. "You're no wallflower yourself."

"Oh no," he agreed amiably. "All flash and little substance, that's me."

"I wouldn't go that far," she said, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw. "May have met you only a few hours ago, but you're plenty substantial to me."

"Milady, would you join me for a late night cuppa?" he asked, offering her his arm.

"That would be delightful," she replied with a dazzling smile.

"I'm an impulsive person," she said after he'd given her the tour of the apartment and she'd made several appraising comments regarding his three favorite collections: art, ties, and wine. They were now stretched out on the couch in front of the fireplace, his back against the over-stuffed arm of the sofa and hers against the crook of his arm, the room illuminated solely by the flickering light of the flames and the candles on the side tables.

"That so?" he murmured, brushing a long strand of raven hair behind the curve of her ear.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled slowly. "Thought you might have noticed that. Or is it always this easy for you to pick up women?"

"Well," he said awkwardly, a sudden flash of panic crossing his face.

She laughed softly. "I won't hold it against you, Steve. Anyway, I'm always leaping without looking. It's a habit of mine that I can't break, and sometimes it doesn't end well. I just hope this time I don't hit the ground too hard."

"No broken bones," he promised.

"You're all kinds of nice, d'you know that?" She pressed her body closer, fitting more snugly into the space between them. "Nice to look at, nice to touch. And you've been nice all night, with your funny stories and free booze and sweet smiles. Nicer than any other bloke I've met, especially these past few months."

"Couldn't leave such a lovely vision in distress," he whispered against her hair.

"That makes you more of a hero than any of the other men in my life." She pushed herself up to meet his eyes properly.

"I'm not a hero," he said firmly, sincerely, but with a smile. "I'm a selfish, pleasure-loving bastard. Bad news and a bad boy."

"Maybe I'm a bad girl," she said. "And maybe I like bad boys. The so-called good ones have always fucked me over, and not in the good way." She kissed him, and there was nothing chaste or hesitant about it. In the flickering semi-darkness of the room, the temperature began to rise noticeably.

His lips were tingling when she pulled away for breath, and in the heartbeat of the pause and separation he felt an ache building within him that he had felt very rarely in the past millennia.

Just how many women had he been with? Not even his immortal mind could recall all of the names and faces. Did that make him a cad, a rogue, a womanizer? Mortals would think so, surely, but he was merely following his inherent nature. Being true to himself—and he'd never treated the women in his life poorly or cruelly. They had come, and they had gone, and there had been little animosity or sadness in the partings because they were mortal and he a god and such relationships had to be fleeting.

Something about this woman though, this nightclub singer with a wounded heart and a careless laugh and a way with words who could handle her liquor. She made him feel a welter of emotions he hadn't experienced in over four hundred years, and he was suddenly and overwhelmingly thankful to the sorry bastard who had unknowingly thrown her into his path.

"Sugar, you're sort of incredible," he whispered against her mouth before bridging the tiny distance, his fingers brushing down the length of her arm.

They made it to the bedroom somehow, though his pants didn't, carelessly left back in the hall. With the curtains closed everything was pitch black, but being immortal had its infinite perks, and he couldn't stop smiling at how she looked against the white sheets, all breathlessness and wild hair.

And then she somehow took control, one smooth white leg swinging over his, and he found himself staring up at her with that silly smile still on his face. She had the last of his shirt's buttons undone in a heartbeat, and then reached back to unfasten the catch of her black bra.

"You had better fucking call me tomorrow, Steve," she said, shifting her hips oh-so-slightly.

"I can guarantee that," he gasped devoutly.

Ariadne wasn't a choir girl by any stretch of the imagination. She'd made several disreputable beds and slept in them; but she'd never thought of herself as easy. She supposed that an outsider (or her father) would have looked down upon this debauched evening of booze and sex with an almost complete stranger—that most people would be very disapproving and shake their heads at her and label this a desperate rebound after a bad relationship.

But she didn't care. Truly, honestly: she didn't give a shit. Because she hadn't felt this happy, this good, in a long time, and because Dionysius had said wonderful things without a trace of disingenuousness or arrogance, and because the whole evening had just felt right for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on.

This was no rebound, no desperate one-night stand, and somehow she knew that he knew it, too.

And when he kissed the curve of her shoulder; when she drew lines down his back with her blue nails and he only smiled against her skin; when they found that perfect rhythm and the room melted away in an incredible rush of color and heartbeats and breath—she knew she was right where she belonged.

She just never would have imagined it'd be in the bed of a rich bloke named Dionysius.