Kiss of Fate

by Deborah Cooke

It was him.

  Eileen had sensed someone watching her, even as she realized it was oddly warm on Fleet Street. She was not in the mood to be harassed or victimized, given how this trip had gone so far. She’d turned to challenge the looker.

  But she’d seen the man from her dream.

  Live and in person.

  Eileen’s heart leapt when their gazes met. He was taller than she’d realized, long and lean. He exuded power, even standing in the shadows of an alley across the street. His hair was as dark as ebony, touched with silver at the temples. He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans, black Blundstone boots and a dark sweater. He might have been one with the shadows, if not for the vibrant green of his eyes.

  Or maybe it was the intensity of his expression. Either way, he seemed to be crackling, shooting sparks in the shadows, drawing her closer.

  Like a moth to the flame.

  He looked steadily back at her and waited. He might have been daring her to make the first move, testing whether she had the nerve to do anything about the crackle of attraction between them. Eileen’s mouth went dry and her skin felt flushed. She was aware that her hair had worked its way loose of its braid again, that she was irritated and probably looked it.

  His presence stole her annoyance away.

  Maybe that was because he looked a bit irritated himself, as if he’d thump anyone who gave him any attitude. Eileen liked that they had that mood in common. His gaze softened and he surveyed her as if she were gorgeous, as if he couldn’t get enough of looking at her, as if he wanted her right there and right then.

  It was a tempting possibility.

  Eileen basked in the heat of his gaze, tingles awakening across her skin. She felt as if a cord were pulled taut between them, knotting them together and drawing her ever closer.

  She felt sexy.

  She felt aroused.

  And the man from her dream hadn’t yet said a word.

  Maybe he wasn’t real, after all.

  Eileen would find out. She took a step toward him and he held his ground. If anything, his eyes got brighter, his expression more intense. She reminded herself that she was sensible, that the smart choice would be to run, but she couldn’t resist him.

  She took another step closer.

  She saw him straighten and catch a breath. Her mouth went dry and she shivered. She wanted to know how he got into her dream. She wanted to know why he was here, how he’d known where she was going, how he kissed, what his name was, where he lived. She wanted to hear his voice, his laughter, his whisper.

  But he pivoted suddenly and walked away.

  He moved so quickly that there was no doubt he intended to leave her behind. Eileen stared after him as he disappeared into the shadows.

  Then he was gone, and she was alone again.

  In dream dude’s absence, Eileen felt cold again and her irritation returned. She shivered and tugged her scarf tighter. She should have been glad that he was saving her from her own foolish impulse, but instead she felt bereft.

  As if she’d missed an opportunity.

  Great. Now she was losing her mind on top of everything else. What better culmination to the worst trip of her life? Things had gone from bad to worse from the moment she’d set foot in Heathrow.

  First, there’d been the Nigel disaster.

  Then she’d had zero luck finding more about the enigmatic story that was the official reason for her sabbatical.

  Then her sister had battled a household epidemic of chicken pox and forbidden Eileen to visit as planned.

  Meanwhile, it had rained and rained and rained. Eileen’s characteristic optimism had taken a hit, confronted by the relentless gray of an English winter. She had followed her instincts and struggled to track down that elusive memory that was driving her crazy and had come up with zilch.

  Through all of this, Eileen’s old roommate, Teresa MacCrae, had been almost rude in her insistence that she didn’t have time for a coffee together to catch up.

  Not in eight weeks. Eileen didn’t believe it.

  This afternoon, Teresa had abruptly changed her mind and invited Eileen to meet at her place of work in the dead of the night. It had felt more like a summons.

  As if Eileen might be useful.

  Eileen’s expectations were low and her bullshit tolerance had eroded to nothing. Curiosity had brought her this far, but Teresa might get more than she expected.

  If there was one thing that drove Eileen bananas, it was being considered to be useful. Eileen’s irritation grew as she checked the address Teresa had given her. The office in question was just across the street. She spared one last glance after the man in black, but he was gone.

  It figured. Eileen jammed the specially delivered security pass into the slot beside the door. She was halfway surprised when the door unlocked. She felt watchful eyes again and glanced over her shoulder.

  The street was empty. She was losing it. Eileen frowned and focused on the business at hand.

  What was the business at hand? The more she thought about Teresa’s call, the more convinced she was that this had to be an act of desperation. Archaeologists and antiquities dealers didn’t ask comparative mythologists for their input very often—when they did, it was because there were no other options remaining.

  A consultation to be done in the middle of a Friday night and a special security pass delivered by courier combined to tell Eileen that her instincts were right on the money.

  What did he have to do with it?

  It didn’t matter. He was gone.

  Eileen used her card again to enter the second set of locked doors at the Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation. A security guard wearing sunglasses watched her impassively from the big desk in the center of the foyer. Eileen had a feeling he would shoot to kill, just from his hard expression.

  She wondered whether he knew she was coming. Before she could decide on a persuasive explanation—“I have an appointment” seemed ridiculous, given the hour—there was a staccato tapping of heels on stone.

  Teresa.

  Eileen would have recognized her college roommate anywhere. It wasn’t just the shoes, even though Teresa had always loved her stilettos. Teresa was so petite that Eileen felt she could pick her up in one hand—she apparently hadn’t gained an ounce in fifteen years. She was as tiny and elegant as ever.

  Teresa had kept her dark hair long, and it was still coiled up in a knot that looked casual. Eileen remembered, though, that Teresa would fuss over her hair for hours.

  Teresa had always been big on appearances. Eileen had been more interested in content. If nothing else, they’d never competed over dates—neither had had a clue what the other saw in any given man. Teresa dressed with sleek style, too, making Eileen feel sturdy and sensible. Eileen had curves, height, smarts, and acres of curly red hair.

  She was good with that—most of the time.

  The guy in the street had looked as if he were good with that, too. Too bad he was gone.

  As Teresa came closer, Eileen saw some evidence of time’s passage—there were little lines around Teresa’s lips. If she hadn’t held her mouth so tightly, even they would have disappeared.

  “This doesn’t go in the log,” Teresa told the guard, her tone sharp. He nodded once, and continued to stare straight ahead.

  The fact that this wasn’t officially happening only fed Eileen’s suspicions. Teresa claimed Eileen’s security pass with a quick grab and pushed it through a shredder on the desk.

  How often did they do stuff like this? Eileen was intrigued.

  She was also curious about Teresa’s attitude. It was true that they hadn’t really kept in touch, but they hadn’t parted badly. Why did Teresa resent meeting with her so much?

  Or was she just irritated in general?

  Eileen could relate to that.

  “Good to see you,” Teresa said, her tone insincere. She forced a thin smile and gave Eileen a hug that didn’t quite make contact. Her fingertips merely brushed Eileen’s shoulders, a
nd air kisses were dispatched in the general direction of her cheeks.

  Eileen remembered Teresa being more genuine and didn’t much like the change. She saw in Teresa’s body language that her friend was strung taut.

  Afraid, maybe, of saying too much.

  What was really going on?

  “I’m delighted that you could find the time to accommodate my request,” Teresa said, her tone polite. Eileen still found Teresa’s English accent completely charming—very “posh,” as Teresa would say.

  “Well, I was curious,” she said, aware that the guard might be listening.

  Teresa laughed lightly. “You know what they say about curiosity killing the cat.”

  Eileen didn’t laugh. “I didn’t think the stakes were that high. You said it was a bunch of old teeth.”

  Teresa didn’t answer, but her lips tightened even more.

  Eileen understood. They weren’t supposed to talk about it.

  Teresa led the way across the vast empty lobby, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor. Eileen knew she’d be flat on her back in three steps if she’d chosen the same shoes.

  She looked around, not hiding that she was impressed. “What exactly does the Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation do?” They made money at it, whatever it was. Eileen was sure the paintings they passed were a pair of Renoirs.

  “We verify and evaluate antiquities,” Teresa said, her tone officious. “When necessary, we establish provenance.”

  Establish or manufacture? Teresa’s choice of word caught Eileen’s attention. Any antiquity or artwork with a provenance—a documented historical record of its past and age—was more valuable than a similar work without one.

  Eileen wondered how much someone might pay to establish provenance for a work that didn’t have one already. She had a bad feeling about this place, but she still wanted to see these teeth.

  “And is that what we’re doing here?” Eileen kept her tone light.

  “We’re just covering all of the bases, as you Americans like to say,” Teresa said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Eileen didn’t smile. “I didn’t even realize that comparative mythology was a base, at least not for archeologists and antiquities dealers.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive, Eileen,” Teresa snapped. “We acknowledge all areas of specialty. We aren’t snobs at the Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation.”

  So they were desperate.

  Teresa led Eileen to an unassuming door at the back of one gallery, unlocked it with a key card, and ushered Eileen into a stairwell. It was wide and made of poured concrete, the doors of heavy steel. There were no windows, and three more security doors to be opened as they descended. It got colder with every step.

  They were going to the vault.

  Eileen was surprised that there would be so much security for a few bones, but then, this might be part of their marketing plan: to treat everything as if it were exceedingly valuable. Perceptions could affect pricing, maybe even help make an established provenance more palatable.

  The basement of the Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation had high ceilings and was numbingly cold. The lighting was muted and elegant. From the look of the decor, it could have been a library or gentleman’s club. Eileen could almost smell the port and cigars. There were rows of bookshelves jutting into the middle of the room in opposing pairs, and chairs upholstered in oxblood leather. Persian rugs were cast across the floor. Ahead, there was a massive oak table with carved legs, presumably for the display of individual artifacts. One wall had a decent reproduction of the Mona Lisa on it that Eileen assumed could be retracted to reveal a screen.

  A pair of rooms stood dark, one in each side back corner, probably for private consultations. The vault door was between them, looking for all the world as though it belonged in a bank.

  Or a movie.

  Teresa led Eileen to one of these private rooms. There was a desk in it, the walls lined with loaded bookcases, and a pair of those chairs. There was a antique lamp with a green shade on the desk but when Teresa turned it on, Eileen was surprised by the brightness of the light. It wasn’t antique at all, but modern with a halogen bulb.

  Teresa left her there and went to the vault. Eileen sat down in one of the massive chairs and ran her hands over the leather on the arms. Maybe it was fake, as well. She looked at the books and tried to pull down an edition of Herodotus.

  After all, she felt like a stranger in a strange land, too.

  Eileen frowned when she couldn’t pull the book free, then looked more closely. She shouldn’t have been surprised that old books had been glued together and sawed down so that rows of their spines could be glued to the bookshelves. They weren’t books at all, not anymore. The “library” was an illusion.

  Eileen heard Teresa returning and braced herself for more sleight of hand. Teresa was carrying a wooden box, which was bound with leather straps that became handles at the top.

  “I should tell you a bit about these teeth before you see them,” Teresa said, launching into lecture mode. “They were part of a treasure hoard discovered in the excavations for a new tube station on the extension of the Jubilee line. . . .”

  “Which station?”

  Teresa inhaled sharply in response to Eileen’s interruption. “North Greenwich. The new station opened in 1999. There was another North Greenwich station, but it was closed in 1926.” She took a breath and focused on the box, which she had put on the desk. “The site evidently had been a natural cave. . . .”

  “By the river?” Eileen had gone to the Greenwich observatory just a few days before.

  “It was farther to the south, toward Blackheath.” Eileen’s tone sharpened. “The details aren’t that important. This stash was found, the government claimed it under the law as part of the country’s heritage, but select parts of it are being made available for sale.”

  “Why?”

  “There are redundancies compared to existing collections, as well as pieces that are less relevant to British history.”

  Eileen arched a brow at the official explanation. She wasn’t much for fancy double-talk. “That’s never stopped anyone from keeping valuables before.”

  Teresa frowned with impatience. “This isn’t the Sutton Hoo, Eileen. It’s not a burial site; it’s not a sunken ship; it’s not got any cultural or anthropological information to share with us.” She flung out a hand. “It’s a pile of shiny things from all over the place and all different times, jumbled up together like a magpie’s hoard. Most of them just happen to be silver.”

  Eileen smiled that she had gotten to the root of the issue. The loot wasn’t valuable. “A collection, then.”

  “I suppose. It’s not a coherent one; that’s for sure. And a lot of the pieces are unexceptional.” Teresa widened her eyes. “There are buckets of silver pennies, for example, thousands of them from short periods of time. Ingots and blanks and bits of buckles and earrings.” Teresa shook her head. “There’s a limit to how much of this flotsam and jetsam the museums want.”

  Eileen was more intrigued than she had been. People who collected what was declared to be valuable by society were less interesting to her than those who followed their own obsessions. There was always a story to their rationale, and stories fascinated Eileen.

  “So, this was an avid collector of shiny things,” Eileen mused. “I wonder why he picked what he did.”

  Teresa shrugged. “Who cares?” She ran a hand across the box and frowned as she hesitated.

  “Not just shiny things. He had bones, too,” Eileen prompted. “If you expect me to help you, Teresa, you’ve got to give me some information to work with.” She paused to study her roommate’s discomfiture. “You’ve got to trust me or I might as well leave.”

  Teresa looked stubborn. Resigned, Eileen reached for her satchel and made to stand up.

  But Teresa caught her hand. “Wait. Stay.” She exhaled. “I just really hate that I’m grasping at straws here.”

  Eileen sat back down and wa
ited.

  Chapter 2

  Teresa sat down suddenly and looked Eileen in the eye for the first time. “Okay. These teeth are weird. They’re like dog teeth, but far too large. I’ve done DNA tests and carbon dating and nothing makes sense. No species we know matches the DNA.”

  Eileen leaned across the table, relieved to see her friend reappearing again. This was like old times—or would have been if they’d been drinking cheap draft beer together. “Lots of species are extinct.”

  Teresa shook her head. “But the carbon dating is only about four thousand years. We should at least know of the species. No one can even guess—the size of these things alone stops every biologist cold. Dinosaurs were long gone four thousand years ago and so the carbon dating stops every palaeontologist.”

  “So, this is about your own curiosity?”

  “Not quite.” Teresa bit her lip and marred her red lipstick, a telling sign of her consternation.

  “Come on. Tell me.”

  Teresa paused, then seemed to make a decision. Her next words came in a rush and she held Eileen’s gaze as she spoke. “There’s this guy, this antiquities dealer in town. His name is Rafferty Powell. He’s a walking reference of the past and we deal with him a lot. He can’t always give citations, but when he says something is so, it either shakes out to be the truth or it’s so plausible that it might as well be. He turned up for his appointment today to see what was being auctioned from the find, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head when he saw these teeth.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know.” Teresa sat back and drummed her fingers on the wooden chest. “This guy has such a poker face. I’ve never seen him surprised.”

  “Could he be putting you on?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he knows what they are, and I know he wants them. I just don’t know why.” Teresa slid her hands across the top of the box.

  “And you’re thinking that if you know what he knows, you’ll be able to sell them for even more.”

  Teresa met Eileen’s gaze and her tone turned frosty. “We are commissioned by our clients to obtain the best possible price for their artifacts.”