Three Fates

by Nora Roberts

  office with what’s laid out in the show-rooms. A few goodies lying around, but nothing worth the time and trouble.”

  He was watching her as he spoke, and he saw her gaze toward the purse that sat on her desk.

  “They’d hardly break into Morningside looking for office equipment,” she began. And rose.

  In a casual move, he beat her to the purse by two strides. She froze. “I’m going to go over the system, chip by chip,” he promised, picking up the elegant and heavy snakeskin bag. “I’m sorry you have to go through this, Anita, but trust me, Morningside is as secure as possible. Now, why don’t you fix your face.” He handed her the purse, saw her fingers dig possessively into the supple leather. “And I’ll drive you home so you can get some sleep before you have to face all this.”

  “I couldn’t possibly sleep,” she began, then reconsidered. “No, you’re right. I should go home, clear my head.” She tucked the bag and its contents firmly under her arm. “And I’d feel safer with you taking me home.”

  HE WAS BANKING on catching a couple hours’ sleep himself and was surprised to see Rebecca in the living room when he came in.

  “I heard the elevator,” she said. “I was restless. You’ve been out?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged off his jacket. “She called, on cue. It went so much as expected, I could’ve written the script. She’s locked the Fate in her home safe by now.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “As death and taxes.” He filled her in, short and spare, as he walked into the kitchen, pulled out orange juice and drank straight from the carton.

  Rebecca was too fascinated to scold him for it. “You were so close to it. I don’t know if I could have stopped myself from just planting a fist in her face and walking away with it.”

  “It’s a thought. I’ve never hit a woman before, but she’d be a satisfying first. It’s nearly as satisfying knowing we’ve messed with her head.” He replaced the juice. “Or as satisfying as what’s coming next. We’ll go back over in a while. Me and my top tech,” he added with a wink, “to run a system check personally.”

  She took the carton back out of the fridge, shook it to show him it was empty, then tossed it in the trash. “And what’s my hourly wage?”

  “Contingent on performance. How’d you know that was empty?”

  “The juice? Because you’re a man and I was reared with two of your kind. And after I’ve completed my brilliance with the security system?”

  “I give Anita a report. Then I’ll remember about the other little task she asked me to do.”

  He yawned, rubbed his hands over his face. “But now I’m going to grab a shower, and some sleep.”

  “You’re working awfully hard for this,” Rebecca commented as he walked toward the bath. “Risking a great deal as well.”

  He stopped, turned. “When something matters, you work for it. And the risks don’t count.”

  Alone, Rebecca let out the breath she’d barely been aware she’d been holding. So much mattered, she realized. So much it was almost too much. And the fear of that had held her back.

  That was foolish, she thought. You could never have too much that mattered. And a woman who continued to step back from love was wasting valuable time.

  In the shower, Jack turned the water to near blistering, braced his hands on the tile and let the pumping spray beat on his head. The adrenaline that had kept him going for a straight twenty-four hours was used up.

  His brain felt dull. He couldn’t afford to go up against Anita again until he’d had a little time to recharge. Couldn’t afford it especially since he was taking Rebecca in with him. He closed his eyes and let his mind empty.

  Nearly asleep on his feet, he didn’t hear the bathroom door open, or close again with a quiet click. He didn’t hear the soft slither of her robe sliding to the floor.

  But an instant before she opened the glass panel, an instant before she stepped into the heat and steam with him, he smelled her.

  His head snapped up, his body jerked to alert. And her arms slid sinuously around him, her breasts pressed, firm and wet, into his back.

  “You looked so tired.” Rebecca trailed her tongue up the line of his spine. “I thought I’d offer to wash your back.”

  “We’re naked in the shower because I’m tired? What was that you said earlier about timing?”

  “I thought the timing perfect.” She slithered around him, slicking her hair back as the spray soaked it, then sliding her gaze down his body. Her lips quirked. “And from where I’m standing, you don’t look so very tired after all.”

  “I think I’m getting my second wind.”

  “Let’s not waste it.” She rose on her toes, then sank her teeth delicately into his bottom lip. “I want your hands all over me, Jack. And your mouth. I want mine all over you. I have from the first minute.”

  He fisted a hand in her streaming hair. “Why did we wait?”

  “Because I wanted you from the first minute.” She laid her palms on his chest, spread her fingers.

  “Your brothers mentioned you were perverse.”

  “And they should know. Do you want to discuss that now, or do you want to have me?”

  “Guess,” he said and, lowering his head, savaged her mouth with his.

  She was breathless, laughing when he let her breathe again. “Why don’t you give me another little hint?”

  “Sure.” He pressed her back against the tile wall, took her mouth again while steam billowed and water pulsed, almost brutally hot over them.

  Then it was just as she’d demanded. Hands and mouths frantic and fast. Flesh sliding wetly against flesh as each of them tried to reach more, take more.

  There was a volcano of need in him, bubbling, boiling just under the surface. Recklessly she wrapped herself around him. Clung to him, shuddered and let herself burn.

  “This is what I want, Jack.” With her bones already melting, she bowed back as his teeth nipped down to close over her breast.

  It was everything. Beyond all. Having her reach for him, seeing her surrender. Feeling her body quake with passion was everything and more.

  And he could take her now, give to her now. When he ravished her mouth, she met the assault with equal urgency. Desperate for the heat, he plunged his fingers into her, and her hips pumped to match the frantic rhythm.

  She came with a fast and frenzied violence that left them both weak.

  He felt the long, lean muscles of her legs tremble and tense as he gripped her thighs and hauled her higher. The pure ivory skin flushed with rose and sheened with water against the slick white tiles. And water darkened her hair so it lay like fired gold ropes over her shoulders.

  She looked, he thought, like a mermaid rising up out of a white sea.

  “You’re beautiful.” He cupped her hips, lifted them. “So beautiful. Belong to me.”

  She sighed once long and deep. “I already do.”

  He slid inside her, filled her. And, with the savage edge dulled, loved her slowly. Long, deep thrusts that thrilled. As she crested, she said his name, lifted her mouth to his. Offered.

  Then she wrapped herself around him, cradled his head on her shoulder, and rode the thunder of her own heart as he emptied himself into her.

  Twenty-four

  THEY tumbled into bed, still damp, still breathless.

  “I have to dry my hair. In a minute. You catch a chill going to bed with wet hair.” But she yawned and snuggled against him.

  Not only sated, not only satisfied, she realized. But saturated.

  “You’ve a wonderful build, Jack. Next time, I’d like to feel it on top of me. But you get some sleep first.”

  He tangled his fingers in her wet hair. “Why now?”

  She lifted her head. “You’re tired. And even such a fierce lover needs a bit of rest.”

  “Why now?” he repeated so she couldn’t pretend to misunderstand.

  “All right then.” She got up, fetched a towel from the bathroom a
nd, sitting beside him, began to dry her hair.

  “In the shower you looked like a mermaid. You still do.”

  “You don’t look like a man who’d think or say such poetic and romantic things.” She reached out, traced a fingertip over the scar, over the tough lines of his face. “But you do. I never thought I had a weakness for the poetic and romantic. But I do.”

  She eased back, continued to dry her hair. “I had a dream,” she said. “I was in a boat. Not a grand ship like the Lusitania, nor one of our tour boats. But a white boat, sleek and simple. It slid without a sound over blue water. It was lovely. Peaceful and warm. And inside my head I knew I could pilot that boat anywhere I wanted.”

  She shook back her damp hair and used the towel to blot water drops from his chest and shoulders.

  “I had the freedom for that, and the skill. I could see little storms here and there, blurred on the horizon. There were eddies and currents in the water. But they didn’t worry me. If a sail’s nothing but smooth, I thought in my dream, it gets tedious. And in my dream, there were three women who appeared in the bow of my boat. This, I decided, is interesting.”

  She got up again, went to his dresser, opened the top drawer and took out a white T-shirt. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I know where you keep your things,” she said as she pulled the shirt over her head. “As I’ve had no respect for your privacy. Now, where was I?”

  “You were in your boat, with the Fates.”

  “Ah yes.” She grinned, pleased he’d understood. “The first, who held a spindle, spoke. ‘I spin the thread, but you make it what you will.’ The second held a silver tape for measuring, and said, ‘I mark the length, but you use the time.’ And the third, with her silver scissors, told me this. ‘I cut the thread, for nothing should last forever. Don’t waste what you’re given.’ ”

  She sat again, curled up her legs. “And in the way of dream creatures, they faded away and left me alone in that pretty white boat. So I said to myself, well now, Rebecca Sullivan, here’s your life spread all around you like blue water with its storms and its peaceful times, its eddies and its currents. And where do you want to go with it, what do you want in the time you’ll have? Do you know what the answer was?”

  “What?”

  She laughed, leaned over, kissed him lightly. “Jack. That was the answer, and I don’t mind saying I wasn’t entirely pleased with it. Do you know when I had that dream?”

  “When?”

  “The night I met you.” She took the hand he’d lifted for hers and rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. “Hardly surprising it gave me a bad moment or two. I’m a cautious woman, Jack. I don’t grab for something just because it looks appealing. I’ve been with three men in my life. The first time, it was hot blood and a raging need to find out what it was all about. The second was a boy I had deep affection for, one I hoped I might spend my life with. But as it happened, he was just one of those eddies in the sea. You’re the third. I don’t give myself lightly.”

  He sat up, cupped her face in his hands. “Rebecca—”

  “Don’t tell me you love me.” Her voice shook a bit. “Not yet. My heart went for you so fast, I swear it left me breathless. I needed to let my head catch up. Lie down, won’t you. Let me snuggle up.”

  He drew her down with him, settled her head on his shoulder.

  “I won’t mind traveling,” she said, and the hand he’d lifted to stroke her hair froze.

  “Good.”

  She smiled, pleased that he’d tensed. Some things, some right things, might come easy, but they should never come without impact. “I’ve always wanted to. And I’ll expect to know a great deal more about this business of yours. I’m not a sit-at-home-and-iron-your-shirts sort.”

  “I send mine out anyway.”

  “That’s fine, then. I can’t leave Ireland altogether. My mother . . . I miss Ma.” Her voice went thick, and she pressed her face against his neck. “Something fierce. Especially now, when I’m in love and can’t tell her about it. Ah well, soon enough.” She sniffled, brushed a tear away. “Anyway, you can expect me to get my hands into your company.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want you in my life, Rebecca. I want in yours.”

  “I have to ask you a question. Why didn’t your marriage work?”

  “A lot of reasons.”

  “That’s an evasion, Jack.”

  “Bottom line? We wanted different things.” Different directions, he thought, different goals.

  “What did you want that she didn’t?”

  He was silent for so long, her nerves began to stretch.

  “Kids.”

  With those words she all but melted into a puddle of love and relief. “Oh? How many do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. A couple anyway.”

  “Only two?” She made a snorting sound. “Piker. We can do better than that. Four should suit me.” She tucked the sheet under her chin, shifted, sighed. “You can tell me you love me now.”

  “I love you, Rebecca.”

  “I love you, Jack. Go to sleep awhile. I already set your alarm clock for nine-thirty.”

  She slid into sleep, and into dreams, into the white boat gliding over a blue sea. And this time Jack stood at the wheel beside her.

  TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE Jack’s alarm rang, Gideon brewed the first pot of coffee of the day. He rooted through Tia’s cupboards and found the poppy seed bagels. He was beginning to appreciate the Americans’ fondness for bagels. While the others slept, he tucked a bagel into his jacket pocket, poured an oversized mug of black coffee and headed to the door.

  He’d have his breakfast, and a morning smoke, up on the roof.

  He opened the door and stared at the attractive black woman who had her finger poised to ring the buzzer.

  She jumped; he tensed. And when she let out a quick, nervous giggle, he shifted gears smoothly.

  “Gave us both a jolt, didn’t it?” He offered her a broad smile. “Something I can help you with?”

  “I’m Carrie Wilson, a friend of Tia’s.” She shifted her gears as skillfully as he, and studied him carefully now. “You must be Malachi.”

  “Actually, I’m Gideon. Tia’s mentioned you. Are you coming in?”

  Her measuring gaze narrowed. “Gideon who?”

  “Sullivan.” He stepped back in invitation just as Malachi came out of the bedroom. “That would be Mal. We’re just starting to stir. We had a late night.”

  Still on the edge of the threshold, Carrie goggled at both men. “Good God, she’s got two of you? I don’t know whether to be impressed or . . . I’ll stick with impressed.”

  “Actually, one of them’s mine.” Cleo, wearing nothing but a man’s T-shirt, strolled out of the spare room. “Great shoes,” she said after giving Carrie the once-over. “Who are you?”

  “Rewind.” Jaw set, Carrie marched in, shut the door. “Who are you? And where’s Tia?”

  “She’s sleeping yet.” Malachi aimed a smile that was every bit as potent as Gideon’s—and, in Carrie’s opinion, just as suspicious. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the name.”

  “I’m Carrie Wilson. And I want to see Tia right this minute.” She set her briefcase down, pushed up the sleeves of her Donna Karan jacket. “Or I start kicking some ass.”

  “Start with one of them,” Cleo requested. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “Why don’t you pour some for everyone?” Malachi said. “Tia’s just sleeping in a bit. We were up late.”