by Nora Roberts
or two, but—
“Somebody has to be. If you want something fried up on a Coleman stove, I’m your girl, otherwise, I’m sandwiches and stirring. I can stir. And chop,” she added. “I’m hell on chopping.”
“I don’t know how to cook for people.”
“What do you cook for?” Bran wondered. “Bears?”
“Myself. But—”
“I’m not bad at breakfast.” Bran rolled right over her objections. “But I doubt anyone’s up for a full fry every meal. Sidari’s not far, for going out to eat, but if we’re wanting more privacy to discuss our business, a home-cooked seems the thing.”
“Sasha’s definitely elected. Popular vote.”
“I abstain.” Honestly, she felt a tickle of panic in her throat at being voted in charge of anything. “Or abdicate.”
Miles flew by as they argued about it, and as Sasha began to see herself in a losing battle.
“We’re definitely stopping for lunch—tie broken—and if anyone’s hungry tonight, they can eat one of Riley’s famous sandwiches.”
“My specialty.”
“I’ll cook something tomorrow night after I’ve had time to think about it, but after that . . .”
She trailed off, struck by the sight of a hitchhiker, brim of his ball cap tipped down, his thumb cocked out.
“We still have to eat after that,” Riley said. “I get cranky when I’m hungry, and you don’t want me—”
“Stop!” She’d only glimpsed his face as they’d passed, but it was enough. “Stop the car!”
Riley reacted quickly, hit the brakes. “What’s the deal?” she demanded as she swerved to the side of the road.
“Back up. The hitchhiker. Turn around or back up. The hitchhiker.”
“Oh, yeah.” Riley tipped down her sunglasses, aimed a look as sarcastic as her tone. “We’ve got plenty of room for one more.”
Sasha pushed out of the jeep. “He is one more. Of us.”
“No shit?”
Bran boosted out of the jeep as Sasha took a step down the shoulder. “Just let’s hold here a minute then, darling. He’s coming to us. Let’s gauge our ground first.”
He jogged up the road and still seemed to saunter, a pack hitched to his back, hiking boots worn and dusty. He wore the black ball cap over shaggy, dark blond hair.
His eyes, though she couldn’t see them behind the dark glasses, she knew to be gray.
He sent them a quick, sunny smile. “Kalimera,” he began. “Efkharisto, ah—”
“Don’t strain yourself,” Bran advised. “English works.”
“Good thing. Thanks for stopping.”
“American, are you? I’m surrounded.”
“Yeah. Sawyer, Sawyer King.” He added a fresh smile and a nod when Riley walked up.
“Where are you heading, Sawyer King?” she asked.
“Oh, around for now. A ride however far you’re going would work, but you look pretty packed in.”
“That we are,” Bran agreed. “We’re going a bit past Sidari. Bran Killian.”
“Irish, huh?” Sawyer accepted the offered hand. “Y’all vacating?”
“Not exactly.” Riley turned, looked meaningfully at Sasha. “Well?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Sawyer hooked a thumb in his belt loop—an easy stance—but clearly went on alert. “Sure of what?”
A picture could be worth any number of words, Sasha decided. “Can you wait a minute?”
“Yeah.” He flashed a grin—quick lightning—but stayed on alert. “I’ve always got time.”
She went to the jeep, leaned in to pull out her tote from where it was wedged on the floor of the backseat. She dug out her portfolio, then the sketch of the six.
She took it back to him, offered it. “I drew that about three weeks ago, in North Carolina—where I live.”
He studied it, took his sunglasses off, studied it a bit more. Yes, gray eyes, like evening mist over a shadowy lake.
He said, “Huh.”
“I know how strange it sounds—is—but I’ve got other drawings in here. Of us, of you—of this,” she said, waving her arms.
“Who are you?”
“Sasha Riggs, and this is Riley Gwin.”
“Who are the other two in the drawing?”
“I don’t know.”
“The way things are moving,” Bran said, “I don’t think it’ll be long before we find out. As I don’t think this strikes you as strange as it might, you’ll know what I mean by the Stars of Fortune.”
Sawyer swung his sunglasses by the earpiece. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“So we can discuss all this here, on the side of the road, and risk being mowed down by a passing car whose driver enjoys great rates of speed, as does our Riley, or we can go discuss it over a pint.”
“Wouldn’t say no to a beer.” Sawyer handed the sketch back to Sasha.
“I change my vote. We should go straight to the villa.”
Sawyer lifted his eyebrows. “You’ve got a villa?”
“Friend of a friend of an uncle.” Hands on hips, Riley studied the jeep, the luggage. “I’m good at making things fit, but this is it. Sasha’s going to have to sit on your lap, Sawyer.”
“He’ll have the back,” Bran corrected. “She can sit on mine, as she’s known me longer.”
“That can’t be legal. To drive like that.”
Riley snorted, headed to the driver’s door. “You kill me, Sash.”
“It’s only about twenty more kilometers.” Bran nudged her toward the jeep. “We’ll all be fine.” He got in, patted a hand on his legs. “Come on then.”
“Don’t be so delicate, Sasha. Jesus, you’ve already slept with the guy.”
“I did not. Well, technically, but—”
To solve it, Bran took her hand, pulled her in.
“This should be fun.” Sawyer swung long legs over the back, slid down.
“Yeah, we’re a merry band.” Riley bulleted back on the road, and had Sasha’s knuckles whitening on the dashboard she gripped like the last thread of life.
“Relax.” Amused, Bran wrapped his arms around her waist, eased her back. “It’s clear enough we’re not meant to die in a car crash in a borrowed jeep on the way to a borrowed villa.”
“Speaking of villas.” Riley flicked a glance in the rearview. “You cook, Sawyer?”
And Sasha, crushed on Bran’s lap, flying down the road like a reckless and carefree teenager, laughed until her sides ached.
By the time they bumped up the track toward the gate, it had been established that Sawyer could cook, which, according to Riley, made him cocaptain of the kitchen with Sasha.
“Three bedrooms are spoken for,” Riley continued. “But there are four more, so you’ve got next pick.”
“Just like that?”
“We’ll have that drink, and maybe Riley will create some of her world-renowned sandwiches. Then,” Bran added, “we can all decide.”
“He’s one of us,” Riley said simply as she took the turn that brought the villa into full view.
From the backseat, Sawyer let out a whistle. “Yobanny v rot.”
Riley angled back to study him. “How’d a nice Virginia boy—that’s a coastal Virginia accent you got there.”
“Good ear. Little place called Willow Cove, on the Chesapeake.”
“Yeah, so how’d a nice Virginia boy learn to swear in Russian?”
“Russian grandfather. You speak Russian?”
“I’m multilingual in obscenities. And yeah, the place earns a yobanny v rot.”
“What does it mean?” Sasha asked.
“Cleanest translation? Holy shit.” Riley pushed out of the jeep to greet the dog. “Hey, Apollo. We’re back.”
“Look at that.” With a young boy’s delight in his voice, Sawyer swung out and, without preamble or introductions, scrubbed his hands all over the dog. “You’re one big, handsome bastard. This your house? You’re a lucky dog.”
Apollo sat, offered a paw.
Watching them, Sasha forgot her situation until she turned her head, smiled at Bran. And found their faces intimately close.
“Oh, sorry. I need to get off—out.”
“I suppose you do. Though it’s cozy here.” He opened the door, then slid an arm under her legs. “Let me give you a hand,” he said, and swiveled her around. Just held there.
“Ah. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He let her go, took his time getting out behind her.
“Everybody grab something,” Riley ordered. “Let’s haul it in. Bran, maybe you can give the newest member of our club the tour while I make those sandwiches. If I don’t eat soon, I’m going to take a bite out of somebody.”
When they carted luggage in, and Sawyer’s head turned side to side and up, Bran gave Sasha’s ponytail a tug. “We’ll haul this up, Sawyer and I. Why don’t you see about those pints?”
“Okay.”
So she wouldn’t unpack first—she’d have a sandwich, help Riley and Bran explain things to Sawyer. And hopefully have Sawyer explain things to them.
And she wanted a couple minutes to really look at the place, so crossed the entrance with its warm golden tiles into the airy living area. The wide windows could be shuttered against the beat of the sun, but she loved the light pouring in.
Twin sofas in bold peacock blue formed a conversation area centered by a large leather ottoman of chocolate brown. Cream-colored built-ins flanked a fireplace of glossy tiles in that same blue and held a colorful collection of glassware and pottery.
A vivid pattern of exotic birds that seemed poised to take flight covered deeply cushioned chairs. A tall chest boasted doors carved in a similar pattern and looked old and exquisite.
But the pull of the room lay outside the glass, in the sweep of flowers and trees that led to the cliff edge and out to the rich blue sea.
“Hey.”
She turned to Riley. “It’s just beautiful.”
“Yeah. Bask later. Food now.”
“You’re in charge of sandwiches.”
“It’s a big kitchen. Plus I just got a text letting me know we can hit any of the wine up here. If we go through it, there’s a wine cellar—but anything we take from there, we replace. I’m going for wine instead of the brew. How about you?”
“I usually don’t this early in the day.”
Obviously amused, Riley cocked a hip. “Are you usually in a villa in Greece about to talk about god-stars this early in the day?”
“No.” Good point. “I’ll have the wine.”
Sasha followed, past an archway that opened into a room with a piano and another smaller fireplace, another room filled with books, a formal dining room, a masculine den or study, and on to the kitchen.
Riley had thrown open the triple doors of glass to the shaded terrace beyond so the scent of lemons and roses danced in on the breeze.
“This is the most incredible place. I can’t believe anyone would just let us stay here.”
“Pays to have contacts. The guy has vineyards.” Riley tapped a bottle of white she’d taken from the wine cooler. “I figured it’s only polite we start with one of his. Why don’t you deal with that?”
“Okay.” She ran a hand over one of the counters, the granite swirled with gold and cream and brown. “A kitchen this big should be intimidating, but it’s homey. Everything’s really up-to-date, but you contrast that with the dishes in the breakfront there, the butcher block table and island, the cottagey-style chairs, and it’s relaxed.”
“I’ll be more relaxed with food and wine.”
Sasha hunted up a corkscrew while Riley poked through an enormous refrigerator. “Big pantry over there—you could live in it. And a vegetable garden outside we’re to harvest from. We’ll work out some sort of divvying for the yard work. And the chickens. The coop’s out behind the garden.”
Riley sliced from a big round of brown bread. “That’s a commercial stove,” she added, “which means I’m not going near it.”
Though she couldn’t wait to try it out, Sasha decided to keep that to herself before Riley decided she was full captain of the kitchen again.
“The men wanted beer. Is there beer?”
Riley jerked a thumb at the refrigerator, and switched from slicing bread to slicing tomatoes.
“We should eat outside. I’ll set that up.”
She found bamboo place mats, opted for the colorful plates, cherry-red napkins, and entertained herself setting a festive table under the wooden slats of a pergola. She transferred the bowl of fruit from the butcher block to the outside table, turned back when she heard male voices.
“Let’s test it out then.”
She came back in as Bran poured a small amount of the wine into a glass. After a sip, he nodded.
“I’ll go with it.”
“Make it unanimous. You scored a hell of a place here.”
“My thoughts exactly. Sasha says we eat outside, and I’m all for it.” Riley set the last of four enormous sandwiches on a platter, dumped half the contents of a bag of chips into a bowl. “Let’s eat.”
Sasha eyed the size of the sandwiches, and when they sat down, cut one in half, put the second half back on the platter.
Bran took a hefty bite of his own. “You’re definitely the queen of sandwiches.”
Busy with her own, Riley nodded. “It’s a gift. So, Sawyer King, we’ll start with the lightning round for the fabulous prize of a stay in a fabulous villa by the sea. What’s your version of the Stars of Fortune?”
He held up a finger until he swallowed, then picked up his wine. “The way I heard it, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away—”
“Points for the Star Wars reference.”
“A favorite. Three goddesses of the moon, to celebrate the rise of their new queen, created three stars, one of fire, one of ice, one of water.”
He told it well, seemed to have no problem being the focus of attention.
“Okay, that jibes.” Riley crunched into a chip. “For the second part of the round—”
“A two-parter.”
“Yeah. How do you know about them?”
“My Russian grandfather.”
“Is that so?” Bran poured more wine all around.
“Yeah, that’s so. It was one of his favorite stories, which is what I thought it was when I was a kid. Just a story. But he got sick a while back—we didn’t think he was going to make it, and neither did he. That’s when he sat me down, told me it was truth, and more than truth, a kind of destiny. Mine.”
“And you believed him?” Sasha asked.
“He’d never lied to me in my life,” Sawyer said simply. “Dedulya told me the story, and the responsibility, had been passed down in the family for generations. Over . . . time, many had searched, but no luck. But, well, into each generation a seeker is born.”
“Oh.” Riley pointed at him. “Serious bonus points for the paraphrase of Buffy.”
“I like to rack them up. He said I was it, and I’d know I was on the right path when I met five other seekers.” He plucked a couple of grapes from the bowl. “Looks like three out of five so far. Dedulya—and it shouldn’t sound any more weird than the rest of this—he’s sort of psychic.”
“And was that passed down, too?” Bran wondered.
“Not to me.”
“Why here?” Sasha asked. “Why Corfu?”
Since they were there, Sawyer dumped more chips on his plate. “I’ve been at this awhile, hitting dead ends, but gathering some information. Separating the obvious bullshit from what might not be is the key. I was on Sardinia—hell of a place—and traced a lead. This story about Poseidon—not Neptune, so Greek not Roman, and I’m in Italy. Anyway, Poseidon and Korkyra.”
Pleased, Riley, took a handful of grapes for herself. “The beautiful nymph he loved, and who he brought to an unnamed island. He named it Korkyra, for her.”
“Right, and that became Kerkyra.
Corfu. The story talked about a Fire Star, gone cold, hidden between land and sea, and waiting to flame again. So, I followed the lead.”
“Same lead I picked up.” Riley popped a grape in her mouth.
“You?” Sawyer gestured to Bran.
“Mine spoke of the land of Phaiax.”
“Poseidon’s and Korkyra’s son, so the island inhabitants were once Phaeacians, and Corfu the island thereof.”
“You know a lot about it,” Sawyer commented.
“She has a doctorate,” Bran told him.
“No shit? Well, Dr. Gwin, did I pass the audition?”
“You’ve got my vote.”
“Sasha dreamed of you, with us,” Bran pointed out. “So there’s no question, really.”
“I have one. I just wonder,” Sasha began, “what you do? How you support yourself while you search?”
“I’m a traveler, and I fix things.” He held up his hands, wiggled his fingers. “When you’re handy, you can always pick up work.”
“And one more? You spoke of your grandfather in the present tense, so he recovered.”
Now Sawyer grinned. “Yeah. He’s tough.”
“I’m glad.”
“What about you guys?”
“Seer, magician, digger,” Riley said, pointing to each in turn.
Sawyer studied Sasha. “I figured that, with the dreams and the drawing.”
“I’m an artist.” If she could have, Sasha would have shrugged the term seer off like an itchy sweater. “The other is just what it is.”
“Okay. So what’s a digger?”
“Archaeologist, mythology a specialty.”
“Huh. Indiana Jones. Fits. And magician.” The grin came back. “Like: Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat?”
“Oh, if that’s Rocky and Bullwinkle, this could be love.”
