Three Fates Page 5

  first breath, by three women.”

  “Not just the length of a life,” Tia put in, and had to bite back the urge to warn him of the perils of refined white sugar when he added a generous teaspoon to his coffee. “The tone of it. The good and the evil in you. The Fates distribute that good and that evil justly. It’s still up to a man what he does with what’s inside him.”

  “Not preordained then?”

  “Every act is an act of will, or lack of it.” She moved her shoulders. “And every act has consequences. Zeus, king of the gods, and quite the ladies’ man, wanted Thetis. The Moerae prophesied that her son would be more famous, perhaps more powerful in some way, than Zeus himself. And Zeus, recalling just how he’d dealt with his own father, feared siring this child. So he gave Thetis up, thinking of his own welfare.”

  “It’s a foolish man who gives up a woman because of what may happen down the road.”

  “It didn’t do him any good anyway, did it, since Thetis went on to mother Achilles. Perhaps if he’d followed his heart instead of his ambition, married her and loved the child, showed pride in his son’s accomplishments, Zeus would have had a different fate.”

  What the hell had happened to Zeus? Malachi wondered, but thought it wiser not to ask. “So, he chose his own destiny by looking into the dark inside himself and projecting that on a child yet unconceived.”

  Her face lit at his response. “You could say that. You could also say the past sends out ripples. If you follow mythology, you know every finger dipped into the pool sends those ripples out, and they touch on those who come after. Generation after generation.”

  She had lovely eyes, he mused, when you got close enough to really look into them. The irises were a clear and perfect blue. “It’s the same with people, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. That’s one of the core themes of the book. We can’t escape fate, but we can do a great deal to carve our own mark in it, to turn it to our advantage, or disadvantage.”

  “It seems mine’s turned to advantage by scheduling this particular trip at this particular time.”

  She knew the heat was rising to her cheeks again, and lifted her cup in hopes of hiding it. “You haven’t said what business you’re in.”

  “Shipping.” It was close to the truth. “It’s a family business, several generations now. A fateful choice.” He said it casually, but watched her like a hawk watches a rabbit. “When you consider my great-great-grandfather was one of the survivors of the Lusitania.”

  Her eyes widened as she lowered her cup. “Really? That’s so strange. Mine died on the Lusitania.”

  “Is that the truth?” His astonishment was exactly the right tone. “That’s a strong coincidence. I wonder if they knew each other, Tia.” He touched a hand to hers, and when she didn’t jolt, let it linger. “I’m becoming a champion believer in fate.”

  AS HE WALKED with her back to the hotel, Malachi debated how much more to say, and how to say it. In the end he decided to temper his impatience with discretion. If he brought up the statues too soon, she might see through the layers of coincidence to cold calculation.

  “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” She could barely get over that she’d ended up having plans tonight. “No, not really.”

  “Why don’t I pick you up about one. We’ll have lunch.” He smiled as he led her into the lobby. “See where it takes us.”

  She’d intended to pack, call home, work a bit on her new book and spend at least an hour doing her relaxation exercises.

  She couldn’t think why.

  “That would be nice.”

  Perfect, he thought. He’d give her a little romance, a little adventure. A drive to the sea. And drop in the first mention of the little silver statues. At the desk he asked for her key and his own.

  Before she could reach for her key, he had it in his hand and with the other pressed lightly to the small of her back, walked with her to the elevator.

  It wasn’t until the doors whisked shut and she was alone with him in the elevator that she tasted the first bubble of panic. What was she doing? What was he doing? He’d only pressed the button for her floor.

  She’d broken every rule in The Businesswoman’s Travel Handbook. Had obviously wasted $14.95 and all the hours she’d spent studying every page. He knew her room number and that she was traveling alone.

  He would force himself into her room, rape and murder her. Or, or with the imprint of the key he could be making even now, he’d sneak in later and rape and murder her.

  And all because she’d paid no attention to Chapter Two.

  She cleared her throat. “Are you on four as well?”

  “Hmm? No. I’m on six. I’ll walk you to your door, Tia, as my mother would expect. I need to find a present for her, some glass, I’m thinking. Maybe you’ll help me choose the right thing.”

  The mention of his mother, as he’d expected, relaxed her again. “You’ll have to tell me what she likes.”

  “She likes anything her children buy her,” he said as the elevator doors opened again.

  “Children?”

  “I’ve a brother and a sister. Gideon and Rebecca. She went biblical on the names, who knows why.” He stopped at her door, slid her key into the lock. After he’d turned the knob, eased it open a crack, he stepped back.

  He heard and nearly chuckled at her quiet sigh of relief. And because he’d heard it, been amused by it, he took her hand. “I have to thank you, and the gods, for a memorable evening.”

  “I had a lovely time.”

  “Until tomorrow, then.” He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted her hand, brushed his lips over the knuckles. The little quiver of response did a great deal for his ego.

  Shy, delicate and sweet. And as far from his type as the moon from the sun. Still, there was no reason a man shouldn’t experiment with a new taste now and again.

  He might just have a sip of her tomorrow.

  “Good night, Tia.”

  “Good night.” A little flustered, she backed into the door, her gaze locked with his until she stepped over the threshold.

  Then she turned. And she screamed.

  He was in the room ahead of her like a bullet. Under other circumstances she’d have noted and admired the speed and grace with which he moved. But at the moment, all she saw was the wreck of her hotel room.

  Her clothes were strewn everywhere. Her suitcases had been slit to pieces, the bed overturned, and all the drawers dumped. Her jewelry case had its contents spilled out and its lining ripped free.

  The desk in the sitting area had been ransacked as well. And the laptop that had sat on it was gone.

  “Bloody hell,” Malachi stated. All he could think was the bitch had beaten him to it.

  Fury dark on his face, he whirled around. And one look at Tia had him biting back the rest of the oaths. She was white as a sheet, her eyes already going glassy with shock.

  She doesn’t deserve this, he thought. And he had no doubt it was his hunting her down that had brought this on her.

  “You need to sit down.”

  “What?”

  “Sit.” Brisk now, he took her by the arm and pulled her to a chair, dumped her in it. “We’ll call security. Can you tell if anything’s missing?”

  “My computer.” She tried to catch her breath, found it blocked. Fearing an asthma attack, she dug in her briefcase for her inhaler. “My laptop’s gone.”

  He frowned at her while she sucked on the inhaler. “What was on it?”

  She waved a hand as she drew in medication. “My work,” she managed between gulps. “New book. E-mail, accounts—banking.” She rooted through her bag again for pills. “I’ve got a disk copy of the book in here.” But it was a prescription bottle she pulled out.

  Malachi nipped it out of her hand. “What’s this?” He read the label, and his frown deepened. “We’ll just hold off on this for now. You’re not going to be hysterical.”

  “I’m not?”


  “You’re not.”

  She felt the telltale tickle at the back of her throat that presaged a panic attack. “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Stop that, you’ll hyperventilate or some such thing.” Straining for patience, he crouched in front of her. “Look at me now, breathe slowly. Just breathe slowly.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You’re not hurt, are you? Got a mess on your hands is all.”

  “Someone broke into my room.”

  “That’s right, but that’s done. You gobbling down tranquilizers isn’t going to change it. What about your passport, any valuables. Important papers.”

  Because he made her think instead of react, the constriction on her chest loosened. She shook her head. “I have my passport with me all the time. I don’t travel with anything really valuable. But my laptop—”

  “You’ll buy another, won’t you?”

  Put that way, she could only nod. “Yes.”

  He got up to close the door. “Do you want to call security?”

  “Yes, of course. The police.”

  “Take a minute to be sure. You’re in a foreign country. A police report’ll generate a lot of red tape, take a lot of time and trouble. And there’d be publicity, I’d imagine.”

  “But . . . someone broke into my room.”

  “Maybe you should go through your things.” He kept his voice calm and practical as he thought it the best way to handle her. It was the way his own mother handled temper fits, and what was hysteria but a kind of temper?

  “Make sure exactly what was taken.” He glanced around, then toed a little white machine with his foot. “What’s this?”

  “Air purifier.” When he picked it up, set it on the desk, she got shakily to her feet. “I can’t understand why anyone would do all this for a laptop computer.”

  “Maybe they were hoping for more.” He wandered to the door of the bathroom, glanced in.

  He’d already decided the Finns deserved some sort of grand prize for the luxury of their baths. Hers, being that her room was plusher, was more spacious than his, but his didn’t lack for details.

  The heated floor tiles, the jet tub, the glory of the six-headed shower and towels thick and big as blankets. On her long tiled counter he saw a half dozen pill bottles, most of which proved to be some sort of vitamin or herbal remedy. There was an electric toothbrush, a travel candle, a tube of antibacterial cream. Packets of something called N-ER-G and more packets of something called D-Stress. He counted eight bottles of mineral water.

  “You’re a bit of a case, aren’t you, darling?”

  She ran a hand over her face. “Traveling’s stressful, it’s hard on the system. I have allergies.”

  “Do you now? Why don’t I help you set this place back to rights, then you can take one of your pills and get some sleep.”

  “I couldn’t possibly sleep. I need to call hotel security.”

  “All right.” It was no skin off his nose, really, and would put more of a hitch in her stride than his. Obliging, he went to the phone and called the front desk to relay the situation.

  He even stayed with her when management and security came. He patted her hand while she spoke to them, cooperatively gave his own version of the evening and his name and address, his passport number.

  He had, essentially, nothing to hide.

  It was nearly two A.M. before he made it back to his own room. He had a long, neat whiskey. Brooded over another.

  When Tia woke the next morning, muzzy-brained, he was gone. All that was left to assure her he’d existed in the first place was a note slipped under her door.

  Tia, I hope you’re feeling steadier this morning. I’m sorry but I’ve had to change my plans and will have already left Helsinki when you read this. The best of luck with the rest of your traveling. I’ll be in touch when I can. Malachi.

  She sighed, sat on the edge of the bed and decided she’d never see him again.

  Three

  MALACHI called for a meeting the minute he arrived back in Cobh. Due to the import, schedules were hastily rearranged and concerned parties made themselves available.

  He stood at the head of the table as he relayed to his partners the events that took place during his stay in Finland.

  When the tale was told, he sat, picked up his cup of tea.

  “Well, you dimwit, why didn’t you stay and give her another push?”

  Since this came from the youngest partner, who also happened to be his sister, Malachi didn’t take particular offense. The meeting table, in the Sullivan tradition, was the kitchen table. Before he answered, he got to his feet again, took the biscuit tin off the counter and helped himself.

  “First, because pushing would’ve done more harm than good. The woman has more brains than a cabbage, Becca. If I’d nudged her about the statues right after she’d had her room tossed, she might very well have thought I’d had something to do with the matter. Which,” he added with a scowl, “I suppose I did, indirectly.”

  “We can’t blame ourselves for that. We aren’t hooligans, after all, or thieves.” Gideon was the middle child, nearly dead center at not quite two years younger than Malachi, not quite two older than Rebecca. This accident of birth had, more often than not, put him in the position of playing peacemaker between them.

  He was his brother’s match in height and build, but had inherited his mother’s coloring. The lean, hollow-cheeked features of the Sullivans were stamped on his face, but his were set off with jet-black hair and Viking blue eyes.

  He was, in his way, the most fastidious of the lot. He preferred having everything lined up in tidy columns, and because of it—though Malachi had more of a talent with figures—did duty as family bookkeeper.

  “The trip wasn’t wasted,” he went on. “Neither the time nor the expense of it. You made contact with her, and now we’ve reason to believe we’re not alone in our belief that she might be a likely contact to the Fates.”

  “We don’t know if she is or isn’t,” Rebecca disagreed. “Because it’s plain as rain it was Malachi who led them to her. Better if you’d gone hunting for the one who’d broken into her room instead of running back home.”

  “And how, Mata Hari, would you suggest I do that?” Malachi queried.

  “Look for clues,” she said with a sweep of arms. “Interrogate hotel staff. Do something.”

  “If only I’d remembered to pack my magnifying glass and deerstalker hat.”

  Exasperated, she sighed. She could see the sense of what he’d done, but when it came to a choice between sense and action, Rebecca would always toss sense. “All I see is we’re out the price of the travel, and no better off than we were before you had your little fling with the Yank.”

  “We didn’t have a fling,” Malachi said with the edge of temper in his voice.

  “Well, whose fault is that?” she shot back. “Seems to me you’d’ve gotten more out of her if you’d softened her up in bed.”

  “Rebecca.” The quiet censure came from the balance of power. Eileen Sullivan might have birthed three strong-willed children, but she had been, and always would be, the power.

  “Ma, the man’s thirty-one years old,” Rebecca stated sweetly. “Surely you’re aware he’s had sex before.”

  Eileen was a pretty, tidy woman who took great pride in her family and her home. And when necessary, ruled both with an iron fist.

  “This is not a discussion about your brother’s private behavior, but a discussion of business. We agreed Mal would go and see what he would see. And so he has.”

  Rebecca subsided, though it wasn’t easy. She adored her brothers, but there were times she could have bashed their heads together just to shake up their brains a bit.

  She had the long, lean Sullivan build as well, and could be mistaken for willowy if attention wasn’t paid to the strong shoulders and tough muscles under the skin she liked to pamper.