Divine by Mistake Read Online Free

For pleasure, as shocking as that seems to be to some people. But I have always known the difference between fantasy and reality—even relished the difference.
    So, what in the hell was going on with me today? What was up with the strange feelings? And why did the woman on that pot look like me?! I pinched myself, and it hurt. So I wasn’t having one of my ultra-vivid weird dreams that seem real.
    I meandered back to the pottery area, and instantly my stomach tightened. It was utterly bizarre. I should buy the damn dragon print, get in my car, go home and drink a medicinal bottle of Merlot. All this ran through my mind as my legs carried me straight back to the pot.
    “Friggin thing still looks like me.”
    “It is rather odd, is it not, miss?” The skeletal guy from the entrance stood behind the pottery table. He reached out and let his hand slide slowly over the pot, pausing briefly on the priestess’s hair, then tracing the line of her arm with his finger.
    “So you noticed it, too.” My eyes narrowed and he pulled his bony hand away from my pot.
    “Yes, miss. I noticed your hair when you drove in. Quite a nice color to see today—too many young women seem to want to ruin their hair by dying it unnatural colors: burgundy, yellow, black. And cutting it short. So, yours stands out.” His tone was harmless enough, but his eyes had an intensity that suddenly made me feel uncomfortable. And even across the table I could smell his nasty breath.
    “Well, it’s been a surprise for me, actually, kind of a shock.” I watched him. His attention kept leaving me and refocusing on the pot with an almost sexual intensity. And he kept touching it. A lot.
    “Probably Fate telling you that you must buy it.” He turned that unnatural gaze back to me. “This urn must not go home with anyone else.”
    That made me laugh. “I hope Fate knows to keep the bidding within a teacher’s price range.”
    “She does.” With that cryptic remark he caressed the pot one last time and glided away.
    Damn, that guy was strange. More like a talkative Lurch than Children of the Corn’ s daddy, though.
    The auction was moving quickly and the bidding was beginning for the statuettes. Seems several people were interested in “the boys.” Can’t say that I blamed them. I stepped into the group around the mobile auctioneer’s platform as it was being wheeled into position behind the table. Bidding began at fifty dollars for Zeus, but five people quickly raised that fifty to one-fifty. Finally it sold to a solid-looking woman for one hundred seventy-five dollars. Not bad. The Syrian got more interest (must have been the muscles). Bidding quickly went from the opening bid of fifty dollars to three-fifty. I was beginning to worry about the price range.
    The Syrian went for four hundred fifty dollars. A bad sign. I had budgeted two hundred dollars for my auction outing today. I could scrape together another fifty, but above that was beyond my limited means.
    The skinny warrior went for four hundred dollars even.
    My stomach clenched again as I drifted with the crowd over to the pottery table and listened to the auctioneer talk about what excellent museum-quality reproductions of Greco-Roman and Celtic pottery were exemplified in the next six lots. Couldn’t he please just shut up? I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the disconcerting feeling that being so close to the pot gave me. The bidding on Lot #20 opened at seventy-five dollars.
    There were only three people who were seriously bidding on the pottery. I noticed that all three had the look of dealers. They had the little handheld notebooks, the glasses perched on their noses and the look of professional intensity casual auction-goers never wore. It was a whole different look than just falling in love with an estate piece and wanting to take it home. The dealer has a clinical attitude about his or her purchases, an “Oh, boy, I can’t wait to get this into my store and mark it up 150