Three Fates (36 page)

And she’d paid them back, in her way, by seeing that their investment in her produced considerable dividends.

She hadn’t seen her parents, or her two brothers, in more than eighteen years. As far as the world she now lived in was concerned—as far as she herself was concerned—she had no family.

She doubted anyone from the old neighborhood would recognize little Nita in the woman she’d become. She rose and walked to the giltwood pier glass that reflected the spacious sitting area of her office. Once her hair had been a long fall of mink brown her mother had spent hours brushing and curling. Her nose had been prominent and her front teeth had overlapped. Her cheeks had been soft and round.

A few nips, a couple of tucks, some dental work and a good hairstylist had changed the outer package. Streamlined it. She’d always known how to enhance her better assets.

Inside, she was exactly as she’d always been. Hungry, and determined to feed her appetites.

Men, she knew, were always willing to set a full plate in front of a beautiful woman. As long as the man believed the woman would pay with sex, there was no end to the variety of meals.

Now, she was a very wealthy widow—who could buy her own.

Still, men were useful. Think of all the contacts her dear, departed husband had put at her disposal. The fact was, Paul was handier dead than he’d been alive. Widowhood made her even more respectable and available.

Considering, she went back to her desk and opened her husband’s burgundy leather address book. Paul had been very old-fashioned in some respects and had kept his address book meticulously up to date. In the last years, when his hand hadn’t been quite so steady, she’d written in the names herself.

The dutiful wife.

She paged through until she found the name she was looking for. Stefan Nikos. Sixtyish, she recalled. Vital, wealthy. Olive groves or vineyards, perhaps both. She couldn’t quite recall. Nor could she recall if he currently had a wife. What mattered was he had money, power and an interest in antiquities.

She unlocked a drawer, drew out a book of her own. In it, she’d noted down everyone who’d come to her husband’s funeral, what flowers they’d sent. Mr. and Mrs. Stefan Nikos hadn’t made the trip from Corfu, or Athens—they had homes in both places—but had sent an offering of five dozen white roses, a Mass card and, best of all, a personal note of condolence to the young widow.

She picked up the phone, nearly buzzed her assistant to make the call, then reevaluated. Best to make it herself—friend to friend—she decided, and was already practicing the words and tone as she dialed.

She wasn’t put through right away, but she held the line and her temper so that when Stefan picked up, her voice was as warm and welcoming as his.

“Anita. What a wonderful surprise. I must apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“Oh, no. You didn’t. I’m the one who’s surprised I’d be able to reach a busy man like you so easily. I hope you and your lovely wife are well.”

“We are, we are, of course. And you?”

“Fine. Busy, too. Work’s a godsend to me since Paul died.”

“We all miss him.”

“Yes, we do. But it’s wonderful for me to spend my days at Morningside. He’s here, you know, in every corner. It’s important for me to . . . well . . .” She let her voice thicken, just slightly. “It’s very important to keep his memory alive, and to know old friends remember him as I do. I know it’s been a very long time since I contacted you. I’m a bit ashamed of that.”

“Now, now. Time passes, doesn’t it, my dear?”

“Yes, but who knows better than I that one should never let people drift away? And here I am, Stefan, calling you after all this time for a favor. I nearly didn’t.”

“What can I do for you, Anita?”

She liked the fact that a hint of caution had come into his voice. He’d be a man accustomed to hangers-on, to old acquaintances hitting him up for favors. “Yours was the first name I thought of because of who you are, and your friendship with Paul.”

“You are having difficulties with Morningside?”

“Difficulties?” She paused, then let embarrassment, even a touch of horror, color her tone. “Oh no. No, Stefan, nothing like that. Oh, I hope you don’t think I’d call this way to ask for any sort of financial . . . I’m so flustered.”

She twirled, gleefully, in her desk chair. “It concerns a client, and some pieces I’m trying to track down at his behest. Honestly, your name popped into my mind, a kind of shot in the dark, as the pieces are Greek images.”

“I see. Is your client interested in something in my collection?”

“That would depend.” She tried a quiet laugh. “You don’t happen to own the Three Fates, do you?”

“The Fates?”

“Three small silver statues. Individual, that apparently link together by their bases to make a set.”

“Yes, I have heard of them, but only as a kind of story. Statues forged on Olympus that will, if complete, grant the owner anything from eternal life to untold fortunes, even the fabled three wishes, one for each Fate.”

“Legends increase the value of a piece.”

“Indeed they do, but it was my impression that these pieces were lost, if they ever existed in the first place.”

“I believe they existed,” she said, running a fingertip over the statue of Clotho, which sat now on her desk. “Paul often spoke of them. More to the point, my client believes it. To be frank, Stefan, he’s piqued my interest enough that I’ve made some inquiries, started considerable legwork. One source, which appears to be valid, insists that one of the statues, the third one, is in Athens.”

“If this is so, it’s not come to my ear.”

“I’m tugging on any line at this point. I hate to disappoint a client. I was hoping you could make some discreet inquiries. If I can possibly get away in the next few weeks, I’d love to take a trip to Greece myself. Combine business and pleasure.”

“Of course you must come, and stay with us.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

“The guest house here in Athens or our villa on Corfu are at your disposal. Meanwhile, I’ll be happy to make those discreet inquiries.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. My client is somewhat eccentric, and very much obsessed just now with these pieces. If I could locate even one, it would mean a great deal. I know Paul would be so proud to know that Morningside had a part in finding the Fates.”

Pleased with herself, Anita made a second, personal call. She glanced at her watch, flipped through her day-book and calculated when she could most conveniently squeeze in the meeting she intended to set up.

“Burdett Securities.”

“Anita Gaye for Jack Burdett.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Gaye, Mr. Burdett is unavailable. May I take a message?”

Unavailable? Stupid twit, don’t you
know
who I am? Anita set her teeth. “It’s very important I speak with Mr. Burdett as soon as possible.”

Instantly, she thought. She had a second-tier plan to put into motion.

“I’ll see he gets your message, Ms. Gaye. If you’d give me a number where he can reach you, I’ll—”

“He has my numbers. All of them.”

She slammed down the phone. Unavailable, her ass. He’d best make himself available, and soon.

She wasn’t about to let Cleo Toliver and the second Fate slip through her fingers. Jack Burdett was just the man to run them down for her.

 

 

HE WAS ON the phone himself. In fact, Jack had spent most of the trans-Atlantic flight on the phone, or on his laptop. For herself, Rebecca watched two movies. Actually, one and a half, as she’d fallen asleep during the second. And had yet to forgive herself for wasting a single minute of the flight in sleep.

She’d never flown first-class before, and had decided it was a method of travel she could easily grow accustomed to.

She wanted to use the phone herself, to call her mother, to call her brothers. But she didn’t think the current budget would swing for that sort of expense. And she could hardly ask Jack to pay for it.

At the rate they were going she was a little concerned he’d think she was only interested in his money. That was hardly the case, though she didn’t consider his money a strike against him.

She’d liked watching him with his great-grandparents. He’d been so sweet and so gentle with them. Not sappily so, she thought now. So many, to her mind, treated the elderly as if they were children, or inconveniences, or simply oddities.

There’d been none of that with Jack. It said something about a man, in her opinion, when he had an easy and natural way with his family.

Of course he was a bit too bossy for her usual taste, but she had to be honest enough to admit that men who fell in line whenever she snapped her fingers annoyed the very hell out of her.

He was a pleasure to look at as well, and that was no more strike against him than his wallet. And he was smart—more, he was canny. Since she was trusting him with a great deal, it helped knowing she’d put her faith in a canny sort of man.

She shifted, started to speak to him, and saw he was making yet another call. Although a bit annoyed, Rebecca promised she wouldn’t point out he’d barely said two words to her in more than five hours.

“Message from Anita Gaye,” Jack said suddenly.

“What? She called you? What did she want?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Are you ringing her back?”

“Eventually.”

“Why don’t you do it now so we know—”

“Let her stew awhile, that’s one. Second, I don’t want her to know I’m on a plane, and we’re about to start the final approach with all the accompanying announcements. If she’s calling, she wants something. We’ll just let her want it for a while longer.”

 

 

NEW YORK WAS a thrill, and though Rebecca didn’t want to behave like a slack-jawed tourist, she intended to enjoy every minute of it. There were important things to do, and vital business to attend to, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hug the excitement of being there, of finally being
somewhere,
tight against her.

It was everything she imagined. The sleek towers of buildings, the acres of shops, the fast and crowded streets. To see them for the first time while being whisked along in a limousine—a genuine limousine as big as a boat, with seats of buttery leather
and
a uniformed driver complete with cap—was the most delicious of adventures.

She could barely wait to call her mother and tell her about it. And oh, how her fingers itched to flip and fiddle with all the little switches. She sent Jack a sidelong look. He was sitting, legs stretched out, dark glasses in place with his hands folded restfully over his stomach.

She started to reach up to the panel, snatched her hand back. Perhaps he was sleeping and wouldn’t see, but the driver might.

“Go ahead and play with them,” Jack murmured.

She flushed, shrugged. “I was just wondering what everything did.” She reached up, idly she thought, and toyed with the various light schemes. Then the radio, the television, the sunroof. “It wouldn’t be so hard to put all this in an ordinary car,” she concluded. “Certainly you could have it in a caravan, and people would feel very plush while they traveled.”

She eyed the phone, thought of her family again. “I need to get in touch with my brothers. I don’t like not being able to just ring them and tell them I’m here.”

“We’ll go by and see them in person. Shortly.”

The limo glided, quiet as a ghost, to the curb, and Rebecca had her first look at Jack’s building. It didn’t seem like much, she mused as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She’d expected a man with all his wherewithal to live in some glossy place with fancy touches and one of those soldierly doormen.

Still it seemed a sturdy sort of place to her, and pitted with character. She was neither surprised nor disappointed when he used both keycard and code to gain entrance into the narrow lobby. And yet another card, another code to access the elevator.

“I would have thought you lived alone,” she began as the elevator started up.

“I do.”

“No, I mean to say not in a flat with neighbors.”

“I do,” he said again. “I have the only apartment in the building.”

“It seems awfully big not to make use of the other space.”

“I make use of it.”

The elevator stopped. He disengaged locks and alarms, then opened the door into his living space.

“Well.” She stepped inside, onto a floor with wide, dark planks, scanned the biscuit-colored walls, the bold art, the wide windows. “You’ve made use of this space right enough.”

There were gorgeous old rugs. She didn’t know enough about such things to recognize Chinese Deco, but she liked the blend of colors and the way they accented the deep hues and deep cushions of the sofas, the chairs, even the heavy polished wood.

She wandered through, noting first it was tidy, then that it was tasteful. And last that it was stylish. She liked the wavy glass blocks that separated the kitchen from the living space, and the framed arches that led to what she supposed were hallways and bedrooms.

“It seems a lot of room for a single man.”

“I don’t like to be crowded.”

She nodded, turned back. Yes, she thought, it suited him. A clever and unusual space for a clever and unusual man. “You can be sure I won’t crowd you, Jack. Is there a place I can put my things, maybe have a wash and change before we go see my brothers?”

“Two bedrooms down the hall. Mine’s on the right, spare’s on the left.” He waited a beat, watching her. “Take your pick.”

“My choice, is it?” She let out a careful breath as she lifted her duffel. “I’ll take the spare for the moment. And I have something to say to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I want to sleep with you, and I don’t generally have that kind of want for a man on such short acquaintance. But I’m thinking it might be better if we’re a bit careful with each other for a while yet. Until we’re both perfectly sure that the sex isn’t some sort of payment, on either side.”