Page 73 of Knot Your Karma
“Mrs. Patterson has a chronometer?” Professional instincts override everything else, including embarrassment about claiming bites and mystical energy readings. “She never mentioned maritime pieces. I thought she only collected Depression glassware and ceramic cats.”
“She didn’t know it was significant. Found it in her attic after her mother passed, thought it might be worth a few dollars for funeral expenses.” Fate’s expression grows serious. “I explained the historical value and suggested proper appraisal before any decisions about selling.”
The protective instinct flaring in my chest has nothing to do with omega biology and everything to do withprofessional responsibility. “Good. Those pieces deserve proper recognition, not desperate quick sales. Mrs. Patterson’s chronometer probably has more history than half of Sterling’s pretentious collection.”
“Exactly what I thought. The universe brings the right people together at the right time.” Fate’s voice carries conviction that makes me want to believe in cosmic timing. “Speaking of which, someone’s been calling about maritime compass collections.”
My blood turns to ice.
“What kind of someone?” I ask.
“Older gentleman, very polite, very cultured. Said he was researching Mitchell family maritime pieces for a private collection.” Fate’s intuitive nature clearly picked up on something concerning because her expression matches the pack’s sudden alertness. “Left a number, said it was important he speak with you directly about authentication services.”
Sterling. Has to be Sterling, and the fact that he’s calling my shop directly instead of going through Sage means he’s either getting impatient or planning something requiring more direct contact.
“When?” Declan asks.
“This morning, about an hour ago. Said he’d call back this afternoon.” Fate glances between all of us, mystical intuition clearly reading the tension and pack protective responses. “Should I be concerned about mysterious gentleman callers asking about family maritime pieces?”
“Probably,” Reed admits. “It’s the kind of complicated that makes international incidents look like minor scheduling conflicts.”
“Family drama always is.” Fate speaks with the wisdom of someone who’s dealt with Santos dynamics her entire life. “But whatever’s happening, the energy feels significant. Like things are moving toward resolution rather than escalation.”
Before anyone can respond to that mystical observation, the shop phone rings.
The old-fashioned ring echoes through maritime displays like a death knell. My heart starts hammering so hard that Declan’s head snaps toward me like he’s got omega distress radar, and suddenly I’m surrounded by protective pack scent and three bodies moving closer like they’re preparing for battle.
“That’s probably him.” My whisper barely escapes.
“Answer it.” Declan moves close enough that his scent grounds me. “We need intel on his position.”
I pick up on the fourth ring. “What Goes Around, Karma speaking.”
“Miss Rose.” The voice carries cultured authority—decades of getting exactly what he wants through charm and subtle intimidation. “Sterling Ashworth. I believe we need to have a conversation.”
“Mr. Ashworth.” My voice steadies more than expected. “What can I do for you?”
“You can meet me in Boston tomorrow evening. I have a proposition regarding the Mitchell family compass that will interest you greatly.”
“Boston?” My free hand finds Declan’s automatically. “That’s quite a trip for a conversation.”
“Some conversations require... privacy, Miss Rose. Away from prying eyes and federal databases.” His pause feels loaded. “I’m hosting a private viewing at my Beacon Hill residence tomorrow evening—very exclusive, very discreet. The sort of intimate gathering where we can discuss mutual interests without interruption.”
The way he says interruption crawls across my skin with implications I don’t want to examine. This isn’t just about selling the compass—this is Sterling orchestrating whatever game he’s been planning since the auction.
“What kind of proposition?”
“The kind that benefits everyone involved, provided all parties are willing to be... flexible about certain arrangements.” Another loaded pause. “I’ll expect you and your associates tomorrow at eight PM. My assistant will text you the address.”
“Mr. Ashworth?—”
“Oh, and Miss Rose? Do bring your maritime expertise. I have several pieces I’d like your professional opinion on. Consultation work, you understand. I’m sure a woman of your particular knowledge will find them fascinating.”
The line goes dead, leaving me holding a phone that suddenly feels like a weapon pointed at my chest.
“Well?” Reed asks.
“Boston. Tomorrow night. Private viewing at his Beacon Hill residence.” I set the phone down with barely shaking hands. “He wants professional consultation on several pieces, which sounds suspiciously like he’s planning to test my expertise or put me in a position where I have to prove credentials under pressure.”
