Three Fates

gotten past his security. Admittedly he didn’t keep anything confidential on that unit, and the blocks were moderate. But they were there, and it had taken a hacker with considerable skill to cut past them so quickly.
    “Just as I thought,” he said to her image. “We’re made for each other.”
    He got another cup of coffee and went back to work while she raided his hard drive.
    Twenty minutes later, he’d done all he felt he needed to do for the moment. And so, he noted as he looked toward the monitors again, had she.
    She switched the computer off, stretched, then, looking pleased with herself, wandered out of the room, across the living space and down the hall. Jack shifted his attention to the next monitor, watched her roll the stiffness out of her shoulders, pull the band out of her hair and shake it out.
    When she started to unbutton her blouse he reminded himself he wasn’t a Peeping Tom. He ordered himself to switch off the cameras.
    And he tortured himself by watching her peel the blouse away.
    When she reached behind for the bra clasp, he ground his teeth and hit the kill switch.
    He got a beer instead of coffee and spent the next half hour filing away his work. And wondering how the hell he could be expected to concentrate.
    By the time he walked into his apartment again, he had a number of very interesting fantasies going. None of which involved finding her fully dressed but for her pretty, bare feet in his kitchen with fragrant steam puffing out of a pot.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Why, I’m climbing the Matterhorn, what do you think I’m doing?”
    He stepped in, took another good sniff of the pot. Of her. “It looks suspiciously like cooking.”
    The shower and change, as well as the session on his computer, had revived her. But while fatigue wasn’t a factor any longer, temper was still in play.
    “As I had no idea how long you intended to keep me locked in here, I wasn’t about to sit around and starve to death. You’ve no fresh fruit or vegetables, by the way, so I’m making due with canned and jarred.”
    “I’ve been out of town. Write down whatever you want, and I’ll get it for you.”
    “I can do my own marketing.”
    “I don’t want you going out alone.”
    She slid a carving knife out of the wooden block, idly checked its tip with her thumb. Her mother’s daughter, Jack thought. Both knew how to make their point.
    “You’ve no say where I go, or when.”
    “You use that on me, you’re going to be really sorry after.”
    Her smile was every bit as thin and sharp as the blade. “You’d be sorrier, wouldn’t you?”
    “Can’t argue with that.” He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water. “Let me rephrase. I’d prefer you didn’t go out alone until you know the lay of the land.”
    “I’ll take your preferences into consideration. And one more thing. If you think that saying you love me is going to have me leaping joyfully into your bed—”
    “Don’t push that button, Rebecca.” His tone had gone hard, very hard and very cold. “You won’t like the result.”
    She angled her head. She found it interesting that drawing the knife had barely made him blink. But she’d ruffled him quite a bit by mentioning love, and sex.
    “I don’t like you winging something like that out at me, then closing the door in my face.”
    “I closed it in my face.”
    She considered that, accepted it. “I’m capable of doing that, if and when I want.” With her left hand, she picked up a spoon, stirred the pot. “I don’t know what I want just now. When I do, you’ll be the first to hear about it. Meanwhile, don’t shut me up in here like a parakeet in a cage again. If you try, I’ll break all your pretty knickknacks, rip your clothes to rags, stop up your toilet and various other unpleasant things. And I’ll find the way out as well.”
    “Okay, fair enough. When do we eat?”
    She huffed out a breath, slid the knife back into its slot. “An hour or so. Enough time for you to go out again and fetch back some French or Italian bread to go with this meal. And something sweet for after it.”
    She tossed her hair back. “I was pissed off, but not enough to bake.”

Twenty
     
     
     
     
    I T was, Tia told herself, a foolish child who was nervous about walking into her parents’ home. But her palms were damp, and her stomach churned as she stepped into the dining room of the Marsh town house.
    It was eight forty-five. Her father sat down to his