by Nora Roberts
Dark blond hair fell as it chose around a strong, roughly hewn face that was more compelling than handsome. There was a faint scar running along the side of his mouth, a kind of crescent rumor said he’d gotten from flying glass during a bar fight in Cairo. The mouth itself had a sensual, almost hedonistic curve that told her he’d be demanding in bed once she got him there.
He had a tough build to go with that tough face. Broad shoulders and long arms. She knew he boxed as a hobby, and thought he would strip down to his trunks very nicely.
His family had had money once—a few generations back, on his mother’s side. Lost, Anita knew, in the stock market crash of ’29. Jack hadn’t been raised in luxury, and had built his own tidy fortune with his electronics and security firm.
A self-made man, she thought, sipping her wine. Who at the age of thirty-four earned a sturdy seven figures a year. Enough to indulge his other hobby. Collecting.
He’d been married once, and divorced. He owned, among other things, a rehabbed warehouse in SoHo, and lived alone in one of the lofts when he was in the city. He traveled extensively, for both business and pleasure.
He collected, most particularly, antique art pieces with a clearly documented history.
With the first Fate tucked in her safe, Anita hoped Jack Burdett could offer her a path to the others.
“So, tell me all about Madrid.” Her voice purred out just over the quiet strains of Mozart. She’d had her staff set up the table for two on the little garden terrace off the third-floor drawing room of her town house. “I’ve never been, and always wanted to go.”
“It was hot.” He sampled another bite of the Chateaubriand. It was perfect, of course, as was the wine, the level of the music, the light scent of verbena and roses. And the face and form of the woman across from him.
Jack never trusted perfection.
“I didn’t have much time for recreation. The client kept me busy. A few more that paranoid and I can retire.”
“Who was it?” When he only smiled and continued to eat, she pouted. “You’re so frustratingly discreet, Jack. I’m hardly going to race off to Spain and try to get through your security and rob the man.”
“My clients pay me for discretion. They get what they pay for,” he added. “You should know.”
“It’s just that I find your work so fascinating. All those complicated alarm systems, infrared this and motion-detecting that. Come to think of it, with your expertise, you’d make a hell of a burglar, wouldn’t you?”
“Crime pays, but not nearly well enough.” She wanted something from him, he decided. The intimate meal at home was the first tip-off. Anita liked to go out, where she could see and be seen.
If he’d let ego rule him, he might have convinced himself what she had on her mind was sex. Though he had no doubt she’d enjoy sex, nearly as much as she’d enjoy using it, he imagined there was more here.
The woman was a ruthless operator. It wasn’t something he held against her. But neither did he intend to become another trophy on her very crowded shelf, or another tool in her formidable arsenal.
He let her guide the conversation. He was in no hurry for her to get to whatever point she had. She was an attractive companion, and an interesting one who was knowledgeable about art, literature, music. Though he didn’t share a great many of her tastes, he appreciated them.
In any case, he liked the house. He’d liked it more when Paul Morningside had been alive, but a house was a house. And this one was a jewel.
A jewel that maintained its dignity and its style decade after decade. And could, he assumed, continue to maintain that dignity regardless of its mistress. The Adam fireplaces would always be stunning frames for simmering fires. The Water-ford chandeliers would continue to drip sparkling light on gleaming wood, glinting glass and hand-painted china no matter who warmed themselves by the flame or turned the switch for the lamp.
The Venetian side chairs would be just as lovely no matter who sat in them.
It was one of the aspects he most appreciated about the continuity of the old and the rare.
Not that he could fault Anita’s taste. The rooms were still elegantly furnished with the art, the antiques, the flowers placed just so.
No one would ever call it homey, he supposed, but as livable galleries went, it was one of the finest in the city.
As he’d designed and installed the security, he knew every inch of it. As a collector, he approved of how that space was used to display the beautiful and the precious, and rarely refused an invitation.
Still, by the time they’d reached the dessert and coffee stage, his mind was beginning to drift toward home. He wanted to plop down in his underwear and catch a little ESPN.
“I had an inquiry from a client a few weeks ago that might interest you.”
“Yeah?”
She knew she was losing him. It was frustrating, infuriating and strangely arousing to have to work so hard to keep a man’s attention. “It was about the Three Fates. Do you know the story?”
He stirred his coffee, slow, circular motions. “The Three Fates?”
“I thought you might have heard of them, since your collection runs to that type of art. Legendary, so to speak. Three small silver statues, depicting the Three Fates of Greek mythology.” When he only watched her politely, Anita told him the story, carefully picking her way through fact and fantasy in the hope of whetting his appetite.
Jack ate his lemon torte, made appropriate noises, asked the occasional question. But his mind had jumped very far ahead.
She wanted him to help her find the Fates, he mused. He knew of them, of course. Tales of them had been among his bedtime stories as a child.
If Anita was interested enough to hunt them down, it meant she believed all three were still accessible.
He finished off his coffee. She was going to be very disappointed.
“Naturally,” she continued, “I explained to my client that if they ever existed, one was lost with Henry Wyley, which negates the possibility of a complete set. The other two seem to be lost in the maze of history, so even the satisfaction of locating two-thirds of the set would take considerable effort. It’s a pity when you think what a find they would be. Not just in financial worth, but artistically, historically.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame all right. No line on the other two?”
“Oh, hints now and then.” She moved her bare shoulders, swirled her after-dinner brandy. “As I said, they’re legendary, at least among high-end dealers and serious collectors, so rumors about their whereabouts pop up occasionally. The way you travel, and the contacts you’ve made around the world, I thought you might have heard about them.”
“Maybe I haven’t asked the right people the right questions.”
She leaned forward. Some men might have thought the candlelight flickering in her eyes made them dreamy, romantic. To Jack they were avaricious.
“Maybe you haven’t,” she agreed. “If you do, I’d love to hear the answers.”
“You’ll be the first,” he assured her.
WHEN HE GOT back to his loft, he stripped off his shirt, turned on the TV and caught the last ten minutes of the Braves crushing the Mets. It was a keen disappointment, as he’d had twenty on the Mets, which just went to show you what happens when you bet on sentiment.
He muted the screen, then picked up the phone and made a call. He asked the right person the right questions, and had no intention of sharing the answers.
Nine
HENRY W. Wyley, Tia discovered, had been a man of diverse interests with a great lust for life. He had, she supposed, due to his working-class background, put a great deal of stock in status and appearances.
He hadn’t been a man to pinch pennies, and though by his own admission had enjoyed the attributes of young, comely females, had remained faithful to his wife throughout their more than three decades of marriage.
That, too, she imagined, stemmed from his working-class roots and mores.
As a
writer, however, he could have used a good editor.
He would ramble on about some dinner party, describing the food—of which he seemed inordinately fond—in such detail she could almost begin to taste the lobster bisque or rare roast beef. He talked of other guests until she could begin to imagine the music, the fashions, the conversations. And just when she’d lose herself in the moment, he’d shift into business mode and list, painstakingly, his current investments and interest rates, along with his own pedantic views on the politics that drove them.
He was a man, Tia learned, who loved his money and loved spending it, who doted on his children and grandchildren and considered good food one of life’s greatest pleasures.
His pride in Wyley Antiques was paramount, and his ambition to make it the most prestigious dealer a steady drive. Out of that ambition had come his interest, and his desire, for the Three Fates.
Here, he had done his research. He’d tracked Clotho to Washington, D.C., in the fall of 1914. A large section of the journal was devoted to his delighted boasting of wheeling and dealing, and his ultimate purchase of the silver Fate for four hundred twenty-five dollars.
Highway robbery, he’d called it, and Tia could only agree.
He had, by his own account, all but stolen the statue that would be, in less than a year, stolen from him in turn.
But old Henry, unaware of his own fate, kept his ear to the ground. He seemed to delight in the hunt every bit as much as he did in the anticipation of a seven-course meal.
In the spring of that next year, he had linked Lachesis to a wealthy barrister named Simon White-Smythe, Mansfield Court, London.
He booked passage for himself and his wife, Edith, on the doomed ship, believing he would finagle the second Fate for himself, for Wyley’s, then follow his next lead, toward Atropus, to Bath.
Uniting the Three Fates was his great ambition. For the sake of art, yes, but more for the sheen it would layer over Wyleys and his family. And, Tia thought, even more than that, for the sheer fun of it all.
As she read, Tia made her own notes. She’d check his facts, use his detailing to find more.
She had an ambition and an anticipation of her own now. Though they had sprung out of injured pride and anger, they were no less formidable than her ancestor’s.
She would track down the Fates, and would—in a manner she’d yet to completely pin down—reclaim Henry’s property.
She would find them with meticulous research, consistent logic, careful cross-referencing, just as he had done. When she had them, she would astonish her father, one-up the oh-so-clever Anita Gaye and skewer the detestable Malachi Sullivan.
When her phone rang, she was sitting at the desk in her office, her glasses perched on her nose as she sipped a protein supplement. As usual when she was working, she told herself to let the machine pick up. And as usual, she worried it might be some sort of emergency only she could handle.
She fretted over that for two rings, then gave in.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Marsh?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to speak to you about your work. Specific areas of your work.”
She frowned at the phone, at the unrecognizable male voice. “My work? Who is this?”
“I think we have a mutual interest. So . . . what are you wearing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I bet you’ve got on silk panties. Red silk—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She slammed down the phone. Embarrassed, shaken, she hugged herself and rocked. “Pervert. That’s it. I’m getting an unlisted number.”
She picked up the journal again. Set it down. You’d think being listed as T. J. Marsh would be enough to protect a woman from rude, disgusting calls by sick people.
She brooded over it and pulled out the white pages to look up the phone company’s business office when her doorbell chimed.
Her first reaction was annoyance at the interruption, and on its heels rushed a paralyzing fear. It was the man on the phone. He would break into her apartment, attack her. Rape her. Then slit her throat from ear to ear with the large, jagged-edge knife he carried.
“Don’t be stupid, don’t be stupid.” She rubbed a hand over her mouth as she got to her feet. “Obscene phone callers are idiots, nuisances who hide behind technology. It’s just your mother, or Mrs. Lockley from downstairs. It’s nothing.”
But she inched her way out of the office, staring at the front door as she crossed the room. With her heart hammering, she eased up on her toes and looked through the peep.
The sight of the big, tough-faced man in a black leather jacket had her gasping, spinning around with her hand to her throat, which she imagined was about to be cut. She looked around wildly and grabbed the closest weapon. Armed with a bronze figure of Circe, she squeezed her eyes tight.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Dr. Marsh? Dr. Tia Marsh?”
“I’m calling the police.”
“I am the police. Detective Burdett, ma’am, NYPD. I’m holding my shield up to the judas hole.”
She’d read a book once in which the homicidal maniac had shot one of his victims through the peephole. A bullet in the eye and straight into the brain. Shaking now, she jerked toward the peep and away again, trying to get a look without risking a violent death.
It looked like proper identification.
“What’s this about, Detective Burdett?”
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions, Dr. Marsh. If I could come in? You can leave the door open if you’d be more comfortable.”
She bit her lip. If you couldn’t trust the police, she told herself, where were you? She set the bronze aside and unlocked the door. “Is there a problem, Detective?”
He smiled now, a friendly, reassuring gesture. “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.” He stepped inside, pleased that she felt safe enough to shut the door behind him.
“Has there been some trouble in the building?”
“No, ma’am. Could we sit down?”
“Yes, of course.” She gestured to a chair, then perched on the edge of another when he sat.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“I guess you get your taste for antiques and such from your father.”
The blood drained out of her face. “Is something wrong with my father?”
“No. But this has something to do with your father’s line of work, and yours. What do you know about a set of silver statues known as the Three Fates?”
He saw her pupils dilate. That quick jolt of shock. And knew his instincts here were on target. “What is this about?” she demanded. “Is this about Malachi Sullivan?”
“Does he have something to do with the Fates?”
“I hope you’ve arrested him,” she said bitterly. “I hope you have him in jail this minute. And if he gave you my name thinking I’d help him wheedle out, you’re wasting your time.”
“Dr. Marsh—”
He saw the instant she made him, heard the quick gasp an instant before she tried to leap up. He was faster, and pinned her back in the chair.
“Take it easy now.”
“You’re the one who called on the phone. You’re not a cop at all. He sent you, didn’t he?”
Jack had expected tears, screams, and was impressed when she stared holes through him instead.
“I don’t know your Malachi Sullivan, Tia. My name’s Jack Burdett, Burdett Securities.”
“You’re just another liar, and a pervert on top of it.” Fury was shrinking back, and she could feel her throat closing. “I need my inhaler.”
“You need to stay calm,” he corrected when she started to wheeze. “I’ve done business with your father. You can check with him.”
“My father doesn’t do business with perverts.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about that. Your phone’s tapped; when I realized it, I said the first thing that came to mind.”
“My phon
e is not tapped.”
“Honey, I make my living knowing this stuff. Now, I want you to relax. I’m going to give you my phone; it’s secure. I want you to call the Sixty-first Precinct and ask for Detective Robbins, Bob Robbins. You ask him if he knows me, if he’ll vouch for me. If he doesn’t, you tell him to send a radio car to this address. Okay with that?”
She pressed her lips together. He had hands like rock, she thought, and a cold expression on his face that warned her she wasn’t going to get away. “Give me the phone.”
He eased back, reached one hand into his jacket and took out both a small phone and a business card.
“That’s my company. I’d let you call your father for another reference, but I don’t know if his phones are secure.”
She kept her attention on Jack as she contacted information. “I want the number for the Sixty-first Precinct in Manhattan. I want you to connect me.”
Jack nodded. “Ask for the Detectives Division, Bob Robbins.”
She did, and worked on her breathing. “Detective Robbins? Yes, this is Tia Marsh.” She spoke clearly, gave her address down to the apartment number.
Good, Jack thought. She wasn’t an idiot.
“There’s a man in my apartment. He gained entrance by impersonating a police officer. He says his name is Jack Burdett and that you’ll reassure me as to his character.” She lifted her brows. “About six-two, two hundred thirty. Dark blond hair, gray eyes. Yes, a small scar, right side of the mouth. I see. Yes, I see. I couldn’t agree more, thank you.”
She tilted her ear away from the phone for a moment. “Detective Robbins confirms that he knows you, that you’re not a psychopath, and assures me he’ll be happy to kick your butt for impersonating an officer, as well as issue a warrant for your arrest should I want to pursue that option. He also says you owe him twenty dollars. He’d like to speak with you.”
“Thanks.” Jack took the phone, and a step back. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll fill you in first chance I get. What fake ID? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Later.” He broke the connection, pocketing the phone. “Okay?” he asked Tia.