Three Fates

edge, Slick.” She could hear the temper—the cold fire of it—licking at the edges of his voice. She didn’t mind it. “I didn’t know you from Jack the Ripper when we drove out of Prague. I’d have to be pretty stupid to toss all my cards on the table until I had a handle on you.”
    “Got one now?” he said softly.
    “Enough of one to know you’re supremely pissed, but you’ll choke it back. First, because your mother raised you not to hit girls. Second, because you need me if you want to hold that thing in three dimensions instead of in a picture.”
    “Where is it?”
    She shook her head. “Get me to New York.”
    “How much money do you have?”
    “I’m not paying—”
    He simply grabbed her purse. She dug her fingers into it like talons and yanked back.
    “All right, all right. I’ve got about a thousand.”
    “Koruna?”
    “Dollars, once they’re exchanged.”
    “You’ve got a thousand fucking dollars in here, and you haven’t parted with a single flipping cent since we started?”
    “Twenty-five pounds,” she corrected. “Earrings.”
    He shoved out of the phone booth. “You’ve just upped your investment, Cleo. You’re paying to get us to New York.”
     
     
    WHEN ANITA GAYE wined and dined a client, she did so superbly. In general, she considered such matters a business investment. When the client was an attractive, desirable man she’d yet to lure into bed, she considered it a challenge.
    Jack Burdett intrigued her on a number of levels. He wasn’t as polished, as smooth, nor was his pedigree as sterling as the men she normally chose for her escorts.
    But he was, precisely, the type she often preferred as a lover.
    Dark blond hair fell as it chose around a strong, roughly hewn face that was more compelling than handsome. There was a faint scar running along the side of his mouth, a kind of crescent rumor said he’d gotten from flying glass during a bar fight in Cairo. The mouth itself had a sensual, almost hedonistic curve that told her he’d be demanding in bed once she got him there.
    He had a tough build to go with that tough face. Broad shoulders and long arms. She knew he boxed as a hobby, and thought he would strip down to his trunks very nicely.
    His family had had money once—a few generations back, on his mother’s side. Lost, Anita knew, in the stock market crash of ’29. Jack hadn’t been raised in luxury, and had built his own tidy fortune with his electronics and security firm.
    A self-made man, she thought, sipping her wine. Who at the age of thirty-four earned a sturdy seven figures a year. Enough to indulge his other hobby. Collecting.
    He’d been married once, and divorced. He owned, among other things, a rehabbed warehouse in SoHo, and lived alone in one of the lofts when he was in the city. He traveled extensively, for both business and pleasure.
    He collected, most particularly, antique art pieces with a clearly documented history.
    With the first Fate tucked in her safe, Anita hoped Jack Burdett could offer her a path to the others.
    “So, tell me all about Madrid.” Her voice purred out just over the quiet strains of Mozart. She’d had her staff set up the table for two on the little garden terrace off the third-floor drawing room of her town house. “I’ve never been, and always wanted to go.”
    “It was hot.” He sampled another bite of the Chateaubriand. It was perfect, of course, as was the wine, the level of the music, the light scent of verbena and roses. And the face and form of the woman across from him.
    Jack never trusted perfection.
    “I didn’t have much time for recreation. The client kept me busy. A few more that paranoid and I can retire.”
    “Who was it?” When he only smiled and continued to eat, she pouted. “You’re so frustratingly discreet, Jack. I’m hardly going to race off to Spain and try to get through your security and rob the man.”
    “My clients pay me for discretion. They get what they pay for,” he added. “You should know.”
    “It’s just that I find your work so fascinating. All those complicated alarm systems, infrared this and motion-detecting that. Come to think of it, with your expertise, you’d make a hell of a burglar, wouldn’t you?”
    “Crime pays, but not nearly well enough.” She wanted something from him, he decided. The intimate meal at home was the first tip-off. Anita liked to go out, where she could see and be seen.
    If he’d let ego rule him, he might have convinced