Three Fates

it.”
    “You’re very careful with everything, Tia.” He walked to the door, opened it for her. “And that’s why, I think, you disappoint yourself.”

    “WHERE DID YOU go?” Malachi danced his fingers over the back of Tia’s hand and watched her attention shift back to him.
    “Nowhere important. Sorry. I’m not very good company tonight.”
    “That’s for me to decide.” What she’d been, all evening, was broody. So far she’d barely touched her polenta, though he was sure it had been prepared following her specific instructions. It was clear to him that her mind kept drifting, and when it did, a sadness came over her face that made his heart ache.
    “Tell me what’s troubling you, darling.”
    “It’s nothing.” It warmed her when he called her darling. “Really. Just a family . . .” She couldn’t call it an argument. No voices had been raised, no angry words tossed. “Disagreement. I managed to upset my mother and irritate my father, all in the space of a couple of hours.”
    “How did you do that?”
    She poked at her polenta. She hadn’t told him of the journal yet. As it was, by the time she’d gotten back to her apartment, she’d been too tired, too depressed, to open it. She’d wrapped it carefully in an unbleached cloth and had tucked it in her desk drawer. In any case, she thought, it wasn’t the journal that had caused the problem. It was, as usual, herself.
    “My mother wasn’t feeling well, and I spoke out of turn.”
    “I’m forever speaking out of turn to mine,” Malachi said easily. “She just gives me a cuff, or that terrifying look mothers develop while you’re still in the womb, I imagine, and goes about her business.”
    “It doesn’t work that way with mine. She’s worried about me.”
    Worried I’m endangering my health, worried I’m letting myself care about a man I know little to nothing about. “I had a lot of health problems as a child.”
    “You seem pretty healthy to me now.” He kissed her fingers, hoping to tease her out of her mood. “I certainly feel . . . healthy when I get close to you.”
    “Are you married?”
    The absolute shock on his face gave her the answer, and made her furious with herself for asking the question.
    “What? Married? No, Tia.”
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I mentioned to my mother that I was seeing someone, and before I knew it you were married and after my money, and I’m having some wild, illicit affair that will leave me penniless and heartbroken, and probably suicidal.”
    He let out a breath. “I’m not married, and I’m not interested in your money. As to the affair, I’ve been giving that considerable thought, but I’ll have to rearrange my plans for the rest of this evening if getting you into bed could result in leaving you broke, heartbroken and suicidal.”
    “Jesus.” She wrung her hands. “Why don’t we skip all of that and you can just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.”
    “Why don’t we skip dinner instead and go back to your flat so I can get my hands on you. I give you my word that when we’re done, you won’t be after jumping out the window.”
    She had to clear her throat. She had an urge, an outrageous one, to lean over and slide her tongue over the long, strong line of his cheekbone. “Maybe I should get that in writing.”
    “Happy to.”
    “Why, it’s Tia Marsh, isn’t it? Stewart Marsh’s daughter.”
    It was a voice Malachi would never forget. His fingers tightened convulsively on Tia’s as he shifted, looked up and met Anita Gaye’s glittering smile.

Seven
     
     
     
     
    M ALACHI’S grip on her hand was enough to make Tia jolt. But she got over that quickly enough, as the fact that she couldn’t put a name to the face of the woman smiling sharply enough to drill holes in her brought on a quick spurt of social panic.
    “Yes. Hello.” Tia struggled furiously for the connection. “How are you?”
    “I’m wonderful, thanks. You won’t remember me. I’m Anita Gaye, one of your father’s competitors.”
    “Of course.” Conflicting emotions trickled through the wash of relief. Malachi’s grip on her fingers had eased slightly, but still held firm. Anita’s eyes glittered like suns, and her companion looked politely bored.
    Tia began to wonder if the strangling tension she felt came from a source other than her own social clumsiness. “It’s nice to see you. This is Malachi Sullivan. Ms. Gaye,” she began, shifting to