Three Fates

by Nora Roberts

  She switched the computer off, stretched, then, looking pleased with herself, wandered out of the room, across the living space and down the hall. Jack shifted his attention to the next monitor, watched her roll the stiffness out of her shoulders, pull the band out of her hair and shake it out.

  When she started to unbutton her blouse he reminded himself he wasn’t a Peeping Tom. He ordered himself to switch off the cameras.

  And he tortured himself by watching her peel the blouse away.

  When she reached behind for the bra clasp, he ground his teeth and hit the kill switch.

  He got a beer instead of coffee and spent the next half hour filing away his work. And wondering how the hell he could be expected to concentrate.

  By the time he walked into his apartment again, he had a number of very interesting fantasies going. None of which involved finding her fully dressed but for her pretty, bare feet in his kitchen with fragrant steam puffing out of a pot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Why, I’m climbing the Matterhorn, what do you think I’m doing?”

  He stepped in, took another good sniff of the pot. Of her. “It looks suspiciously like cooking.”

  The shower and change, as well as the session on his computer, had revived her. But while fatigue wasn’t a factor any longer, temper was still in play.

  “As I had no idea how long you intended to keep me locked in here, I wasn’t about to sit around and starve to death. You’ve no fresh fruit or vegetables, by the way, so I’m making due with canned and jarred.”

  “I’ve been out of town. Write down whatever you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “I can do my own marketing.”

  “I don’t want you going out alone.”

  She slid a carving knife out of the wooden block, idly checked its tip with her thumb. Her mother’s daughter, Jack thought. Both knew how to make their point.

  “You’ve no say where I go, or when.”

  “You use that on me, you’re going to be really sorry after.”

  Her smile was every bit as thin and sharp as the blade. “You’d be sorrier, wouldn’t you?”

  “Can’t argue with that.” He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water. “Let me rephrase. I’d prefer you didn’t go out alone until you know the lay of the land.”

  “I’ll take your preferences into consideration. And one more thing. If you think that saying you love me is going to have me leaping joyfully into your bed—”

  “Don’t push that button, Rebecca.” His tone had gone hard, very hard and very cold. “You won’t like the result.”

  She angled her head. She found it interesting that drawing the knife had barely made him blink. But she’d ruffled him quite a bit by mentioning love, and sex.

  “I don’t like you winging something like that out at me, then closing the door in my face.”

  “I closed it in my face.”

  She considered that, accepted it. “I’m capable of doing that, if and when I want.” With her left hand, she picked up a spoon, stirred the pot. “I don’t know what I want just now. When I do, you’ll be the first to hear about it. Meanwhile, don’t shut me up in here like a parakeet in a cage again. If you try, I’ll break all your pretty knickknacks, rip your clothes to rags, stop up your toilet and various other unpleasant things. And I’ll find the way out as well.”

  “Okay, fair enough. When do we eat?”

  She huffed out a breath, slid the knife back into its slot. “An hour or so. Enough time for you to go out again and fetch back some French or Italian bread to go with this meal. And something sweet for after it.”

  She tossed her hair back. “I was pissed off, but not enough to bake.”

  Twenty

  IT was, Tia told herself, a foolish child who was nervous about walking into her parents’ home. But her palms were damp, and her stomach churned as she stepped into the dining room of the Marsh town house.

  It was eight forty-five. Her father sat down to his breakfast every morning, seven days a week, at precisely eight-thirty. He would now be on his second cup of coffee and have moved from the front page of The New York Times to the financial section. He’d have finished his fruit and would have moved on to the next course. Which, Tia noticed, was an egg-white omelette today.

  Her mother would take her herbal tea, her freshly squeezed juice and her first of the daily dose of eight glasses of bottled water—using them to wash down her morning complement of vitamins and medication—in bed. With it, she’d have a single slice of whole wheat toast, dry, and a cup of seasonal fruit.

  At nine-twenty, Alma would come downstairs, regale Stewart with whatever physical complaints she might have that morning, ramble off her appointment and task schedule while he checked his briefcase.

  They would kiss good-bye, and he would walk out the door at nine-thirty.

  It was, Tia believed, as reliable and exacting a schedule as a Swiss train.

  There had been a time when she’d been part of that schedule. Or, she thought, had been worked into it. Was it their fault or hers that she’d been so unable to do anything, anything at all, to interfere with its precision?

  Their fault or hers that even now the idea of doing so made her queasy?

  Stewart glanced up as Tia entered, and his creased brow lifted in mild surprise. “Tia. Did we have an appointment?”

  “No. I’m sorry to interrupt your morning.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” But even as he said it, he glanced at his watch. “Would you like some breakfast? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Nothing.” She stopped herself from linking her restless fingers together and sat across from him. “I wanted to speak to you before you went in to work.”

  “All right.” He spread a thin layer of butter on lightly toasted whole wheat bread, then blinked. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Yes.” Feeling foolish, she lifted a hand to it. “A few days ago.”

  “It’s very flattering. Very chic.”

  “Do you think?” She felt her color rise. Foolish again, she decided, to be so flustered by a compliment from her own father. But they came so few and far between. “When Mother saw it, I don’t think she was pleased. I imagined she’d have told you.”

  “She may have.” He smiled a little as he continued to eat. “I don’t always listen, particularly when she’s in a mood. She has been.”

  “It’s my fault, and one of the reasons I wanted to see you this morning. Mother dropped by my apartment on her way to a doctor’s appointment. It was . . . an awkward moment. I was with someone.” She drew a long breath. “I was with a man.”

  “I see.” Stewart hesitated, frowned, stirred his coffee. “Do I see, Tia?”

  “I’m involved with someone. He’s staying with me at my apartment while he’s in New York. I’m working on a project with him, and some other people just now. And I’m . . . I’m having an affair with him.” She finished on a rush and fell into miserable silence.

  Stewart contemplated his coffee another moment. It was a toss-up which of them was more uncomfortable. “Tia, your personal . . . relationships aren’t my business, or your mother’s. Naturally, I assume anyone you’re involved with is suitable and appropriate.”

  “I’m not sure you’d find him so either, but I do. Surprisingly,” she rushed on, “he thinks I’m interesting and attractive, which makes me feel interesting and attractive. And I like it. In any case, Mother was—and I imagine is—very upset. I’m not sure I can smooth things over with her, but I’ll certainly try. I’m going to apologize in advance if I’m unsuccessful. I can’t and won’t order my life to suit her needs. Or yours. So I’m sorry.”

  “Well.” Stewart set down his fork, drew air through his nose. “Well,” he repeated. “I never expected to hear that from you. You’re saying that though your mother and I may disapprove, may even be angry, you’ll do as you please.”

  She knew the pain in her stomach was tension, but couldn’t help wondering if she
had a tumor. “In a nutshell, I suppose that’s it.”

  “Good. It’s about goddamn time.”

  She forgot all about the possibility of stomach cancer. “Excuse me?”

  “I love your mother, Tia. Don’t ask me why, as I haven’t a clue. She’s a pain in the ass, but I love her.”

  “Yes, I know. I mean, I know you love her—not that she’s . . . I always knew you loved each other,” she finished.

  “You say that as if you weren’t part of the equation.”

  She started to make an excuse, then simply let the truth spill out. “I don’t feel I am.”

  “Then we’re all at fault. She’s never been able to cut the cord with you. Perhaps I cut it too easily, or too quickly. And you tolerated both actions.”

  “I guess I did. But you’ve always been a good father to me.”

  “No, I haven’t.” He set his coffee down, studied her astonished face. “And I can’t say I gave the matter much thought or attention since you were, oh, twelve or so. But I have since the day you came to ask for Henry Wyley’s journal, and I brought it down to you. And you were sitting, waiting for me, and you looked so unhappy.”

  “I was unhappy.”

  “And surprised now that I noticed.” He lifted a hand, then picked up his cup again. “It surprised me as well, and made me wonder how often I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I made you unhappy,” Tia stated, “by not being what you wanted.”

  “Yes, and my way of dealing with that was to leave you to your mother, as it seemed you had a great deal more in common with her than with me. Strange, I’ve always considered myself a very fair man. But that was remarkably unfair to all involved. The best thing for you and your mother, in my opinion, is your cutting the cord yourself. You’ve let her push you around your entire life. Whenever I tried to interfere—and I can’t claim I tried particularly hard—one or both of you circumvented that effort.”

  “You gave up on me.”

  “You seemed content enough the way things were. Children leave home, Tia. If one’s committed to a marriage, then one lives with another person most of one’s life. I’ve structured mine in a way that satisfies and pleases me. You come from two very self-absorbed people. And what are your phobias and nervous disorders but another sort of self-absorption?”

  She stared at him, then let out a half laugh. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t want to stay that way. I’m almost thirty, how much can I change?”

  “Whether or not you change, you’re still almost thirty. What difference does your age make?”

  Nearly speechless, she sat back. “You’ve never talked to me like this before.”

  “You never came to me before.” He moved one shoulder, elegantly. “It’s not my habit to go out of my way, or vary my routine. Speaking of which . . .” He checked his watch.

  “I need a favor,” Tia said quickly.

  “This is quite the red-letter day in the Marsh household.”

  “It concerns the Three Fates.”

  The vague impatience that had crossed Stewart’s face faded. “You’ve developed a significant interest in them recently.”

  “Yes, I have. And I’d like that interest to stay between you and me. Anita Gaye also has a significant interest. She may ask you about them again, try to pick your brain for any detail you might have through Henry Wyley’s connection to them. If and when she does, I wonder if you could remember—vaguely, casually—some mention of the third Fate being seen or reputed to having been seen in Athens.”

  “Athens?” Stewart sat back. “What game are you playing, Tia?”

  “An important one.”

  “Anita isn’t a woman who would scruple to break rules if doing so was profitable.”

  “I’m more aware of that than I can tell you.”

  “Tia, are you in trouble?”

  For the first time since she’d entered the house, she smiled. “That’s something you’ve never asked me. Not once in my life. If I am in trouble, I’m determined to handle it, even enjoy it. Can you find a way to mention Athens to her?”

  “Easily.”

  “And not, under any circumstances, to mention Wyley’s journal or my relationship with the man Mother met at my apartment?”

  “Why would I? Tia, do you have a line on one of the Fates?”

  She wanted to tell him, wanted the thrill of seeing pride and surprise in his eyes. But she shook her head. “It’s very complicated, but I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can.” She got to her feet. “One last question. As a dealer, what would you pay for them?”

  “It would depend. Speculatively, up to ten million. If I had an interested client, I’d advise him to go upwards of twenty. Perhaps a bit more. Contingent on testing and verification, of course.”

  “Of course.” She walked over, kissed his cheek. “I’ll go upstairs and try to make things up with Mother.”

  WHILE TIA WAS stroking Alma’s ruffled feathers, Jack dropped in on the Detectives Bureau. He’d have preferred leaving Rebecca in his apartment, but since locking her in was the only way to be sure she stayed there, he’d brought her along. He didn’t care to risk coming home to a trashed apartment, and had no doubt she’d make good on that threat.

  Bringing her had the added benefit of watching her absorb and file every detail of the cop shop. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as they climbed the stairs to the detectives’ bull pen. Just as he had the satisfaction of seeing cops give her the same once-over.

  He saw Bob at his desk, phone cradled on his shoulder. And watched his friend’s gaze shift over, scan Rebecca, then sweep up. There was a question in them when they met Jack’s, and the warmth of humor and appreciation.

  “Hang here just a minute,” Jack told Rebecca, then strolled to Bob’s desk. He sat on the corner, exchanged a few nods of greeting with other cops while Bob finished his call.

  “Hubba hubba,” Bob said. “Where’d you get the sexy little redhead?”

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Smart enough to know when I stop looking at sexy little redheads, it’s time to shovel the dirt over my cold, dead body. What do you want?”

  “More information about the cold, dead body we discussed yesterday.”

  “I gave you what I had.”

  “I need a photo.”

  “Why don’t you just ask for my badge?”

  “Thanks, I can get my own. I might be able to shake something loose on it for you, but I need to ID him first.”

  “Let’s try this. You tell me what you know, then maybe I can find a picture of the stiff.”

  “Want to meet the redhead?”

  Bob laid his fingers on his own wrist, nodded. “Yeah, I’ve still got a pulse. What do you think?”

  With a grin Jack motioned Rebecca over. “Detective Bob Robbins, Rebecca Sullivan, the woman I’m going to marry.”

  Bob’s jaw dropped, then he was on his feet. “Well damn, Jack. Damn. Nice job. Hey, good to meet you.”

  Rebecca smiled as Bob pumped her hand. “Jack has delusions of grandeur. At the moment, we’re in the way of being business associates.”

  “She’s a tough sell, but I’m working on it. Irish, why don’t you tell our speechless friend here what you found out about the warehouse in New Jersey.”

  “Of course. Doing a bit of digging last night, it came to light that that particular property, which most recently was the scene of a murder, was sold the day before that unfortunate event by Morningside Antiquities.”

  “And that should interest me because?”

  “Let me show the picture to a couple people,” Jack continued. “If my hunch plays, I’ll have an interesting answer to that question.”

  “You got a lead on an open homicide, Jack, you don’t dick