Three Fates

himself what she had on her mind was sex. Though he had no doubt she’d enjoy sex, nearly as much as she’d enjoy using it, he imagined there was more here.
    The woman was a ruthless operator. It wasn’t something he held against her. But neither did he intend to become another trophy on her very crowded shelf, or another tool in her formidable arsenal.
    He let her guide the conversation. He was in no hurry for her to get to whatever point she had. She was an attractive companion, and an interesting one who was knowledgeable about art, literature, music. Though he didn’t share a great many of her tastes, he appreciated them.
    In any case, he liked the house. He’d liked it more when Paul Morningside had been alive, but a house was a house. And this one was a jewel.
    A jewel that maintained its dignity and its style decade after decade. And could, he assumed, continue to maintain that dignity regardless of its mistress. The Adam fireplaces would always be stunning frames for simmering fires. The Water-ford chandeliers would continue to drip sparkling light on gleaming wood, glinting glass and hand-painted china no matter who warmed themselves by the flame or turned the switch for the lamp.
    The Venetian side chairs would be just as lovely no matter who sat in them.
    It was one of the aspects he most appreciated about the continuity of the old and the rare.
    Not that he could fault Anita’s taste. The rooms were still elegantly furnished with the art, the antiques, the flowers placed just so.
    No one would ever call it homey, he supposed, but as livable galleries went, it was one of the finest in the city.
    As he’d designed and installed the security, he knew every inch of it. As a collector, he approved of how that space was used to display the beautiful and the precious, and rarely refused an invitation.
    Still, by the time they’d reached the dessert and coffee stage, his mind was beginning to drift toward home. He wanted to plop down in his underwear and catch a little ESPN.
    “I had an inquiry from a client a few weeks ago that might interest you.”
    “Yeah?”
    She knew she was losing him. It was frustrating, infuriating and strangely arousing to have to work so hard to keep a man’s attention. “It was about the Three Fates. Do you know the story?”
    He stirred his coffee, slow, circular motions. “The Three Fates?”
    “I thought you might have heard of them, since your collection runs to that type of art. Legendary, so to speak. Three small silver statues, depicting the Three Fates of Greek mythology.” When he only watched her politely, Anita told him the story, carefully picking her way through fact and fantasy in the hope of whetting his appetite.
    Jack ate his lemon torte, made appropriate noises, asked the occasional question. But his mind had jumped very far ahead.
    She wanted him to help her find the Fates, he mused. He knew of them, of course. Tales of them had been among his bedtime stories as a child.
    If Anita was interested enough to hunt them down, it meant she believed all three were still accessible.
    He finished off his coffee. She was going to be very disappointed.
    “Naturally,” she continued, “I explained to my client that if they ever existed, one was lost with Henry Wyley, which negates the possibility of a complete set. The other two seem to be lost in the maze of history, so even the satisfaction of locating two-thirds of the set would take considerable effort. It’s a pity when you think what a find they would be. Not just in financial worth, but artistically, historically.”
    “Yeah, it’s a shame all right. No line on the other two?”
    “Oh, hints now and then.” She moved her bare shoulders, swirled her after-dinner brandy. “As I said, they’re legendary, at least among high-end dealers and serious collectors, so rumors about their whereabouts pop up occasionally. The way you travel, and the contacts you’ve made around the world, I thought you might have heard about them.”
    “Maybe I haven’t asked the right people the right questions.”
    She leaned forward. Some men might have thought the candlelight flickering in her eyes made them dreamy, romantic. To Jack they were avaricious.
    “Maybe you haven’t,” she agreed. “If you do, I’d love to hear the answers.”
    “You’ll be the first,” he assured her.
     
     
    WHEN HE GOT back to his loft, he stripped off his shirt, turned on the TV and caught the last ten minutes of the Braves