by Nora Roberts
bedroom door. “Tia, where the devil are you going?”
The door opened, and she hurried out. He caught the drift of the perfume she’d just sprayed on. She’d painted her lips as well, and slipped into a streamlined black blazer. A small and unwelcome curl of jealousy formed in his gut. “Who are you meeting for lunch?”
“Anita Gaye.” She opened her purse to check the contents. “I can call the pizza in from a phone booth on the way.”
“Cool. Thanks. Great jacket,” Cleo commented.
“Really? It’s new. I wasn’t sure if . . . well, it doesn’t matter. I should be back by four or four-thirty.”
“Just one bloody minute.” Malachi beat her to the door, slammed a hand on it. “If you think I’m having you walk out of here and have lunch with a woman we know hires killers, you’ve lost your fucking mind.”
“Don’t swear at me, and don’t tell me what you’ll have me do.” Nerves hopped in her stomach and urged her to shrink back, but she held her ground. “You’re not in charge of me, or of this . . . consortium,” she decided. “Now move aside. I’m going to be late.”
“Tia.” Since anger didn’t work, he switched smoothly to charm. “I’d be worried about you, is all. She’s a dangerous woman. We all know how dangerous now.”
“And I’m weak and foolish and out of my league.”
“Yes. No. Oh, Christ.” He held up a hand, though he was tempted to strangle her, or himself, with it. “Just tell me what you’re trying to do here.”
“Have lunch. She called and asked me. I agreed. I assume she thinks she can pump some information out of me regarding the Fates and Henry Wyley. And you. I’m perfectly aware of her agenda, as she’s never spoken above twenty words to me before in her life. However, she isn’t and won’t be aware of mine. I’m not the moron you think I am, Malachi.”
“I don’t think that of you. Tia—” He bit back an oath when he noted neither Cleo nor his brother had the courtesy to pretend they weren’t listening. “Let’s go up on the roof and talk about this.”
“No. Now, unless you plan to wrestle me to the ground and tie me in a closet, I’m going out to have lunch.”
“Atta girl, Tia,” Cleo said under her breath and earned an elbow in the ribs from Gideon.
“Mal,” Gideon said quietly, “ease back now.”
When he did, Tia wrenched open the door.
“Don’t forget the pizza,” Cleo called out just before Tia slammed it in Malachi’s face.
“If that woman hurts her—”
“What’s she going to do?” Cleo demanded. “Stab Tia with her salad fork? Cool your jets a minute and think. This is smart. Odds are Anita thinks Tia’s a dork, when she’s the one who’ll be out of her league. Smart money says Tia comes back with a lot of information, while Anita slinks off with nothing.”
“She’s bloody brilliant, Mal,” Gideon confirmed. “And we need her. You should relax.”
“Right.” But he knew he wouldn’t until Tia came back.
EVEN WITH HER active fantasy life, Tia had never imagined herself as a kind of spy. Sort of a double agent, she decided as she arrived exactly on time for lunch. And all she had to do was be herself to pull it off. Shy, jittery, anal and boring, she thought as she was shown to her table.
Some secret agent.
Naturally Anita was late because, in Tia’s experience, women who weren’t shy, jittery, anal and boring were most often late for appointments. Because they had a life, she supposed.
Well, she sure as hell had a life now and still managed to be prompt.
She ordered mineral water and tried not to look conspicuous and, well, jittery, as she sat alone in the quiet elegance of Café Pierre, for the next ten minutes.
Anita swept in—there was really no other word for that stylish and urbanely rushed entrance—wearing a gorgeous suit the color of ripe eggplant and a spectacular necklace fashioned from complicatedly braided gold and chunks of amethyst.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” She leaned down and air-kissed Tia’s cheek before sliding into her chair and setting her cell phone beside her plate.
“No, I—”
“Trapped with a client and couldn’t shake loose,” Anita interrupted. “Vodka martini,” she told the waiter. “Stoli, straight up, dry as dust, two olives.” Then she sat back, let out the long breath of a woman about to decompress. “I’m so glad we could do this. I so rarely have the chance to have a non-business lunch these days. You look well, Tia.”
“Thank you. You—”
“You’ve done something different, haven’t you?” Anita pursed her lips, tapped her crimson fingertips on the table as she tried to put a clearer picture of Tia in her mind. “You’ve changed your hair. Very flattering. Men make such a to-do about long hair on a woman. I can’t think why,” she added, tossing back her own luxurious locks. “Now, tell me all about your travels. It must have been fascinating lecturing all over Europe. Tiring though. You look just exhausted. But you’ll bounce back.”
You’re really a champion bitch, aren’t you? Tia thought and sipped her water as Anita’s martini was served. “It was a difficult and fascinating experience. You don’t see as much of the world as you might think. You’re in airports and hotels, and the lecture venues.”
“But still, there are benefits. Did you meet that gorgeous Irishman you were dining with while you were traveling?”
“Actually, I did. He attended one of my lectures in Europe, then looked me up when he had business here in New York. He was awfully handsome, wasn’t he?”
“Extremely. And he was interested in mythology?”
“Hmm.” Tia picked up her menu, scanned her choices.
“Yes, very much. Particularly in the groupings. The Sirens, the Muses, the Fates. Do you suppose I could get this grilled chicken salad without the pine nuts?”
“I’m sure. Are you still in touch with him?”
“With who?” Tia tipped down her menu, tipped down her reading glasses. Smiled vaguely. “Oh, with Malachi. No, he had to go back to Ireland. I thought he might call, but I suppose . . . It is three thousand miles, after all. Men don’t generally call me after a date when they live in Brooklyn.”
“Men are such pigs. The Amazons had the right idea. Use them for sex and propagation, then kill them.” She laughed, then turned to the waiter when he stepped up to the table. “I’ll have the Caesar salad, a mineral water and another martini.”
“Um . . . do you use free-range chicken?” Tia began, and deliberately turned the ordering of a simple salad into a major event. She caught Anita’s smirk out of the corner of her eye and considered it a job well done.
“It’s interesting, you talking about the Fates,” Anita said.
“Was I?” Tia slipped off her glasses, put them carefully in their case. “I thought it was Amazons—though, of course, they weren’t gods, or Greek. Still, they were a fascinating female culture, and I’ve always—”
“The Fates.” Anita managed to polish off her first martini through clenched teeth.
“Oh yes. Female power again. Women, sisters, who determine the length and quality of life for gods and for men.”
“With your interest, and your family background, you’d have heard of the statues.”
“I’ve heard of a lot of statues. Oh!” Tia exclaimed innocently and swore she could hear Anita’s teeth grinding. “The Three Fates. Yes, of course. In fact, one of my ancestors was reputed to have owned one—I think it was Clotho, the first Fate. But he died on the Lusitania and by all accounts had it with him. It’s very sad if it’s true. Lachesis and Atropus have nothing to measure and cut without Clotho to spin the thread. Then again, I know more about the myths than antiques. Do you think the statues exist? The other two, I mean.”
“I suppose I’m romantic enough to hope they do. I thought someone with your knowledge, and your connections, might have some ideas.”
“Gosh.” Tia bit her lip. “I hardl
y ever paid any attention to that sort of thing. Which is what I told Malachi when we talked about it.”
“He talked to you about the statues, then?”
“He was interested.” Gingerly, Tia picked through the basket of warm bread and rolls. “He collects mythological art. Something he started doing on one of his business trips to Greece some years ago. He’s in shipping.”
“Is that so? A handsome, wealthy Irishman, with an interest in your field. And you haven’t called him? ”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” As if flustered, Tia stared down at the tablecloth and fiddled with the collar of her jacket. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable calling a man. I never know what to say anyway. Besides, I think he was disappointed I couldn’t give him any help with the Fates. The statues, that is. I was very helpful with the myths, if I do say so myself. And with one of them at the bottom of the Atlantic, they’d never be complete, would they?”
“No.”
“I suppose if they were—complete, that is—they’d be quite valuable.”
“Quite.”
“If Henry Wyley hadn’t taken that trip, at that time, on that ship, who knows? But then again, that’s fate. Maybe you could find one of them, if they still exist or ever did. You must have all kinds of sources.”
“I do, and I happen to have an interested client. I always hate to disappoint a client, so I’m doing what I can to verify their existence, and to track them down.”
Anita nibbled delicately on a roll as she watched Tia. “I hope you won’t mention that to—was it Malachi?—if he calls you again. I wouldn’t like him to scoop me on this.”
“I won’t, but I don’t think it’ll be an issue.” Tia put a lot of wind into her sigh. “I did tell him I’d heard, oh, some time ago, that someone in Athens claimed to have Atropus. That’s the third Fate.”
With her heart pounding at her own improvisation, Tia carefully studied her salad for flaws.
“In Athens?”
“Yes, I think someone spoke about it last fall. Or maybe it was last spring. I can’t quite remember. I was doing some research on the Muses. Those are the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. They each have their own specialty, such as Clio, who—”
“What about the Fates?” Anita demanded.
“What about the what? Oh.” Tia laughed a little and sipped her water. “Sorry, I suppose I tend to run off on tangents. It’s so irritating to people.”
“Not at all.” Anita imagined herself just leaning over and choking the boring twit to death over her salad. “But you were saying?”
“Yes, it must have been in the spring of last year.” Face intent, she dribbled a stingy amount of dressing on her salad. “I really wasn’t looking for information on the Fates, certainly not on the art pieces. I only paid attention to be polite. This source I contacted . . . what was his name? Well, it doesn’t matter as he wasn’t nearly as much help as I’d hoped. With the Muses, that is. But during the conversation he mentioned that he’d heard this person in Athens had Atropus. The statue, not the mythological figure.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the name of the person in Athens?”
“Oh my, I’m not good with names.” With an apologetic glance at Anita, Tia forked up salad. “In fact, I don’t think it came up at all, as it was just something mentioned in passing. And it was so long ago. I remember it was Athens only because I’ve always wanted to go there. Plus, it seemed logical that one of the statues would be there. In Greece. Have you ever been?”
“No.” Anita shrugged. “Not yet.”
“Neither have I. I don’t think the food would agree with me.”
“Did you mention this to Malachi?”
“About Athens? No, I don’t think I did. It didn’t occur to me. Oh my! Do you suppose I should have? Maybe, if I’d thought of it, he’d have called me again. He really was terribly handsome.”
Idiot, Anita thought. Imbecile. “Anything’s possible.”
TIA FELT GIDDY. The way she imagined a woman might feel after committing adultery in a sleazy motel with a younger, unemployed artist while her stuffy, dependable husband presided over a board meeting.
But no, she decided as she quick-footed it into her apartment building, that sort of giddiness would come before the actual adultery, on the way to the sleazy, rent-by-the-hour motel. After, you’d feel guilty and ashamed and in need of a long shower.
Or so she imagined.
Still, she’d lied, deceived—and figuratively screwed someone—and she didn’t feel guilty in the least. She felt powerful.
And she liked it.
Anita detested her. Did people think she couldn’t tell when they found her boring and annoying and basically stupid? Well, it didn’t matter, she assured herself as she rode, on a cloud of triumph, to her floor. It didn’t matter in the least what a woman like Anita thought of her. Because she, Tia Marsh, had won the round.
She sailed into the apartment, prepared to crow, and found only Cleo, sprawled on the sofa watching MTV.
“Hey. How’d it go?”
“It went well. Where is everyone?”
“They went to call their mother. Irish guys have a real thing for their mothers, don’t they? Then they’re going to pick up some stuff—ice cream. They just took off a couple minutes ago.”
Cleo glanced at the television screen before switching it off.
“So, what went down with Anita?” Cleo questioned.
“She thinks I’m a brainless neurotic who’s grateful for any scrap of attention a real person tosses my way.”
Cleo rolled off the couch—a fluid grace Tia admired hopelessly. “I don’t. Not that it matters, but I think you’re a smart, classy ass-kicker who just hasn’t tried out her boots yet. Want a drink?”
The description had Tia gaping so that she didn’t register being invited to drink in her own apartment. “Maybe. I don’t really drink.”
“I do, and this seems like the time for it. We’ll chug down a glass of wine and you can fill me in.”
Cleo opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, poured two glasses. And listened. Somewhere during that first glass, Tia realized the only person who listened to her with the same focused interest was Carrie. Maybe, she thought, that’s why they were friends.
“You sent her to Athens?” Cleo let out a hoot of laughter. “That’s fucking brilliant.”
“It just seemed . . . I guess it was.”
“Damn right.” Cleo shot up a hand, so fast and close, Tia’s head jerked back as if to avoid a slap. “High five!”
“Oh. Well.” With a giggle, Tia slapped palms.
“You’re going to have to go through all this again with the boys,” Cleo continued. “So since we’ve got this girl moment before they get back, give me the dish on Malachi.”
“The dish?”
“Yeah. I know you’re pissed at him, and personally if I were you I’d want to boil his balls for breakfast, but he’s really gorgeous. How are you going to play him?”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t know how, so I’m not. This is business.”
“He’s got a good case of the guilts over you. You could use that.” Cleo dipped a finger into her wine, licked it off. “But it’s not just guilt. He’s got the hots for you, too. Guilty hots, that gives you some major power.”
“He’s not attracted to me that way. It’s just pretense so I’ll help.”
“You’re wrong. Listen, Tia, there’s one thing I know. Men. I know how they look at a woman, how they move around a woman, and what’s going on in their sex-obsessed brains when they do. That guy wants to slurp you up like soda pop, and since he’s guilty for fucking with you, that makes him edgy, frustrated and stupid. You could have him sitting up and begging like a Labrador, you play your cards right.”
“I don’t have any cards,” Tia began. “And I don’t want to humiliate him.” Then she thought of how she’d felt when she’d realized he’d lied to her. Used her. She took another sip of her wine. “Well, maybe I do. A little. But I don�
��t think it’s relevant. Men don’t have the same urges about me as they do for women like you.”
She stopped, appalled, and set down her glass. She should not drink. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I meant that as a compliment.”
“Relax. I got it. You got more going on than you think. Brains, goofiness, repression.”
“None of those sound very sexy.”
“They’re working just fine on big brother. Then you’ve got that