Three Fates (4 page)

For some reason that made him smile. “Well, I was just getting started.”

The smile she sent him was lovely and sure. “Yes, I’d say you’re just getting started.”

 

 

 

 

 

S
HE wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d studied the picture of her on the back of her book, and on the program for the lecture—would it never end?—but there was a difference in flesh and blood.

She was smaller than he’d imagined, for one thing. Nearly delicate in her quiet gray suit that should, in his opinion, be a good inch shorter at the hem. From what he could see of her legs, they weren’t half bad.

In person she didn’t look nearly as competent and intimidating a woman as she did on the dust jacket. Though the little wire glasses she wore onstage added a sort of trendy intellectual tone.

She had a good voice. Maybe too good, he thought, as it was damn near putting him to sleep. Still, that was primarily the fault of the subject matter. He was interested in Greek myths—in one particular Greek myth. But Christ Jesus, it was tedious to have to sit through an hour’s lecture on the entire breed of them.

He straightened in his chair and did his best to concentrate. Not on the words so much. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Artemis turning some poor slob into a stag because he’d seen her naked. That only proved that women, goddesses or not, were peculiar creatures.

To his mind, Dr. Tia Marsh was damn peculiar. The woman came from money. Great gobs and hordes of money, yet instead of sitting back and enjoying it, she spent her time steeped in long-dead Greek gods. Writing about them, lecturing about them. Interminably.

She had generations of breeding behind her. Blood as blue as the Kerry lakes. But here she was, giving her endless talk in Finland, days after she’d given what he assumed was the same song and dance in Sweden, in Norway. Hyping her book all over Europe and Scandinavia.

Certainly it wasn’t for the money, he mused. Maybe she just liked to hear the sound of her own voice. Countless did.

She was, according to his information, twenty-nine, single, the only child of the New York Marshes and, most important, the great-great-granddaughter of Henry W. Wyley.

Wyley Antiques was, as it had been for nearly a hundred years, one of the most prestigious antique and auction houses in New York.

It was no coincidence that Wyley’s offshoot had developed such a keen interest in the Greek gods. It was his assignment to find out, by whatever means worked best, what she knew about the Three Fates.

If she’d been, well, softer, he supposed, he might have tried and enjoyed a seduction angle. It was fascinating what people would tell each other when sex was tangled into the mix. She was attractive enough, in a scholarly sort of way, but he wasn’t entirely sure what button to push, romantically speaking, with the intellectual type.

Frowning a bit, he turned the book over on his lap and gave the photo another look. In it she had her sunny blond hair tucked back in some sort of bun. She was smiling, rather dutifully, he thought now. As if someone had said, “Say cheese!” It wasn’t a smile that reached the eyes—very sober and serious blue eyes that suited the somewhat sober and serious curve of her lips.

Her face tapered down to a bit of a point. He might have called it elfin but for that primly styled hair and the somber stare.

He thought she looked like a woman in need of a good laugh . . . or a good lay. Both his mother and his sister would have belted him for that opinion. But a man’s thoughts were his own business.

Best, he decided, to approach the prim Dr. Marsh on very civilized, very businesslike terms.

When the applause, a great deal more enthusiastic than he’d expected, broke out, he nearly cheered himself. But even as he started to rise, hands shot up.

Annoyed, he checked his watch, then settled himself for the question-and-answer session. As she was working with an interpreter, he decided the session might take the rest of his life.

He noted she took the glasses off for this portion, blinked like an owl in sunlight, and seemed to take a very long breath. The way a diver might, he mused, before plunging off a high board into a dark pool.

When inspiration struck, he lifted his hand. It was always best, he thought, to knock politely on a door to see if it opened before you just kicked it in.

When she gestured to him, he got to his feet and sent her one of his best smiles. “Dr. Marsh, I’d like to thank you first for a fascinating talk.”

“Oh.”

She blinked, and he saw she’d been surprised by the Irish in his voice. Good, something else to use. Yanks, for reasons that eluded him, were so often charmed silly by an accent.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“I’ve always been interested in the Fates, and I wonder, in your opinion, if their power held individually or only because of their union.”

“The Moerae, or the Fates, were a triad,” she began, “each with a specific task. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who measures it, and Atropus, who cuts that thread and ends it. None could function alone. A thread might be spun, but endlessly and without purpose or its natural course. Or without the spinning, there’s nothing to measure, nothing to cut. Three parts,” she added, sliding her fingers into an interlocking steeple. “One purpose.” And closed them into a joined fist. “Alone they would be nothing but ordinary if interesting women. Together, the most powerful and honored of gods.”

Exactly so, he thought as he resumed his seat. Exactly.

 

 

SHE WAS SO tired. When the Q-and-A session was finished, Tia wondered how she didn’t simply stumble her way to the signing area. Despite the precautions of melatonin, diet, aromatherapy and cautious exercise, her internal time clock was running ragged.

But she was tired, she reminded herself, in Helsinki. And that counted for something. Everyone was so kind, so interested here. Just as they had been at every stop since she’d left New York.

How long ago was that? she wondered as she took her seat, picked up her pen, plastered on her author smile. Twenty-two days. It was important to remember the days, and that she was more than three-quarters of the way through this self-imposed torture.

How do you conquer phobia? Dr. Lowenstein had asked. By facing the phobia. You’ve got chronic shyness with whiffs of paranoia? Get out there and interact with the public. She wondered when a patient came to Lowenstein with a fear of heights if his solution was a fast leap off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Had he listened when she’d assured him she was positive she had social anxiety disorder? Perhaps agoraphobia combined with claustrophobia?

No, he had not. He’d insisted she was merely shy, and had suggested she leave the psychiatric evaluations and diagnoses to him.

As her stomach churned when the first members of the audience walked up for a word and a signature, she wished she could face Dr. Lowenstein right this minute. So she could punch him.

Still, it was better, she was forced to admit. She was better. She’d gotten through the lecture, and this time without a Xanax or a quick, guilty shot of whiskey.

The trouble was the lecturing wasn’t nearly as hard as this one-on-one business. With lecturing there was a nice cushion of distance and dispassion. She had
notes
when she lectured, a clear-cut plan that moved from Ananke to Zeus.

But when people came up to a signing table, they expected spontaneity and chat and, God, charm.

Her hand didn’t shake as she signed her name. Her voice didn’t quaver as she spoke. That was progress. At her first stop in London she’d been nearly catatonic by the end of the program. By the time she’d gotten back to her hotel, she’d been a quivering, quaking mess and had solved that little problem by taking a couple of pills and sliding into the safe cocoon of drug-induced sleep.

God, she’d wanted to go home. She’d wanted to run like a rabbit back to her bolt-hole in New York, lock herself in her lovely apartment. But she’d made commitments, given her word.

A Marsh never broke her word.

Now she could be glad, even proud, she’d held on, had white-knuckled her way through the first week, quivered through the second and gritted her way through the third. At this point she was nearly too exhausted from the rigors of travel to be nervous at the prospect of speaking to strangers.

Her face was numb from smiling by the time the end of the line tailed around. She lifted her gaze, met the grass-green eyes of the Irishman who’d asked her about the Fates.

“A fascinating lecture, Dr. Marsh,” he said in that lovely lilt.

“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She was already reaching for his book when she realized he’d held out a hand. She fumbled a bit, then switched her pen to her left and shook his.

Why was it people always wanted to shake hands? she wondered. Didn’t they
know
how many germs were transferred that way?

His hand was warm, firm, and lingered on hers just long enough to have embarrassed heat creeping up her neck.

“Speaking of fate,” he said and gave her an easy, dazzling smile. “I was pleased with mine when I saw you’d be here while I was in Helsinki on business. I’ve admired your work for some time.” He lied without a flicker.

“Thank you.” Oh God, conversation. First rule, have them do the talking. “You’re from Ireland?”

“I am, yes. County Cork. But traveling just now, as you are.”

“Yes, as I am.”

“Traveling’s an exciting part of life, isn’t it?”

Exciting? she thought. “Yes, very.” It was her turn to lie.

“I seem to be holding you up.” He handed her the book. “I’m Malachi, Malachi Sullivan.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” She signed his book in a careful and lovely hand, struggling to calculate how best to end the conversation and, at last, the event. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Sullivan.” She got to her feet. “I hope your business in Finland is successful.”

“So do I, Dr. Marsh.”

 

 

NO, SHE WASN’T what he’d expected, and that had Malachi reevaluating his approach. He might have taken her for aloof, cool and a bit of a snob. But he’d seen the flush warm her cheeks and the occasional glint of panic in her eyes. What she was, he decided as he loitered on the corner, watching the hotel entrance, was shy.

What a woman floating in money, status and privilege had to be shy about, he couldn’t say. But it took all kinds to make the world, he supposed.

The question could be asked, he admitted, why a perfectly sane man with a reasonably content life, a reasonably decent income should travel to Helsinki on the chance that a woman he’d never met might lead him to a treasure that may or may not exist?

The question, he thought, had too many layers for a single easy answer. But if he had to choose one, it would be family honor.

No, that wasn’t quite enough. The second part was that he’d held Fate in his hand, and wouldn’t rest until he had a hold on it again.

Tia Marsh was connected to his past and, to his way of thinking, to his future. He checked his watch. He hoped, in very short order, they’d take the first step ahead.

It pleased him when his guess proved out. She’d come straight back to the hotel from the university, he noted as he watched her climb out of the cab. And she’d come alone.

He sauntered down the sidewalk, gauging his timing. He glanced toward her just as she turned. Once again they were face-to-face.

“Dr. Marsh.” The tone of his voice, the spread of his smile were calculated for surprise and flattery. “You’re staying here as well, then?”

“Ah yes. Mr. Sullivan.” She remembered his name. In fact, she’d been thinking how attractive he was while she’d rubbed antibacterial lotion on her hands in the taxi.

“It’s a lovely hotel. Fine service.” He turned as if to walk to the door and open it for her, then stopped. “Dr. Marsh, I hope you won’t think this out of line, but I wonder if I might buy you a drink.”

“I . . .” Part of her brain fizzled. She’d actually woven a complex little fantasy on the taxi ride as well. One where she’d been witty and sophisticated during their conversation, and they’d ended up finishing the evening with a mad, reckless affair. “I don’t really drink,” she managed.

“Don’t you?” Amusement touched his face. “Well, that knocks down the first approach a man might use to spend some time with an interesting and attractive woman. Would you fancy a walk?”

“Excuse me?” She couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t be hitting on her. She wasn’t the type men hit on, particularly wildly attractive strangers with fabulous accents.

“One of the charms of Helsinki in the summer is the sun.” Taking advantage of her confusion, he took her arm, gently, and steered her away from the hotel entrance. “Here it is, half past nine already, and bright as day. It’s a shame to waste such a light, isn’t it? Have you been down to the harbor?”

“No, I . . .” Baffled by the turn of events, she looked back at the hotel. Solitude. Safety. “I really should—”

“Have you an early flight in the morning?” He knew she didn’t, but wondered if she’d have the guile to lie.

“No. No, actually, I’m here until Wednesday.”

“Well then. Let me take that case for you.” He slid her briefcase off her shoulder and onto his own. Though the weight surprised him, it was a smooth move. “It must be a challenge giving talks and seminars and such in a country where you don’t have the primary language.”

“I had an interpreter.”

“Yes, she was very good. Still, it’s a bit of work, isn’t it? Do you wonder at such interest here in the Greeks?”

“There are correlations between the Greek gods and myths and the Norse. Deities with human failings and virtues, the adventures, the sex, the betrayals.”