The Diamond Secret
Ruth Wind
Mills & Boon Silhouette
Nothing can bring out the evils of a man like the lust to possess a particular jewel. – Sylvie MontagueSome coincidences gemologist Sylvie Montague might buy. But she could not swallow the notion that, by a random baggage mix-up, she was holding the very jewel that Paul Maigny, her rogue of an ex, coveted most.Sylvie didn't want to believe that Paul would involve her in a jewel heist–especially when she'd been deputized by the Glasgow police to assess this very gem. But Paul wasn't talking. And between Scottish mobsters, fiery car chases and a seductive stranger with as many facets as the cursed diamond, Sylvie sensed that finding the legendary stone's rightful owner was a matter of life, death–and age-old justice.
The switch of bags was not an accident.
Since I was one of only a handful of people who would recognize what the bag contained, I was convinced this was true.
The suitcase was an exact replica, which isn’t so weird—how many black, wheeled carry-on models are there, after all?
Where could it have gotten mixed-up? At security, the van, the security checkpoint? But I hadn’t paid attention. I’d been running late.
Inside I found a white box. Jewelry, I thought, opening it—after all, jewels were my stock in trade. Judging by the rest of the suitcase’s contents, the jewelry would be something understated. Probably gold, expensive.
It was expensive, all right.
Pillowed in the cotton batting was a jewel. A diamond. Katerina’s Blood.
Not only was it huge, it was very rare and storied, this jewel.
It was even cursed.
Dear Reader,
A couple of years ago, I had a chance to tour Scotland. It wasn’t one of those places I’d ached to visit my whole life long, but the chance arrived and I leapt upon it—I’m a travel bug and love to go almost anywhere.
And wouldn’t you know it? I fell madly in love—with the landscape, the culture, the people. I hardly knew at the time that Sylvie Montague was going to arrive in my life with her red leather miniskirts and talent for finding trouble, but arrive she did, driving a hot Alfa Romeo along twisting roads through tiny villages, with a skill only her Formula One father could have taught her.
Along with Sylvie came her unrequited love, and a devastatingly sexy European who may or may not be a bad guy. Sylvie’s stuck with him, anyway, and how she gets herself out of trouble was a blast to write. I hope you’ll enjoy it, too.
I love to hear from readers. Write to me via e-mail at ruthwind@gmail.com. Or visit my Web site at www.barbarasamuel.com.
May the wind be ever at your back!
Ruth
The Diamond Secret
Ruth Wind
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
RUTH WIND
is the award-winning author of both contemporary and historical romance novels. She lives in the mountains of the Southwest with her two growing sons and many animals in a hundred-year-old house the town blacksmith built. The only hobby she has since she started writing is tending the ancient garden of irises, lilies and lavender beyond her office window, and she says she can think of no more satisfying way to spend a life than growing children, books and flowers. Ruth Wind also writes women’s fiction under the name Barbara Samuel. You can visit her Web site at www.barbarasamuel.com.
Thanks to Alan McPhaetor for the good company and good information
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Prologue
Few objects on earth can inflame the lusts of man as certain jewels will. They contain the one beauty that never fades or dies or changes—they embody power, sex, money. A single jewel, small enough to cradle in the palm of your hand, can be equal to the worth of a third world nation. They’re eternal, undying, mysterious, storied.
And nothing can bring out the evils of man like the lust to possess a particular jewel….
—Sylvie Montague, addressing Estate Jewelers International
Ayr, Scotland
There’s always a man, isn’t there, when things are about to hit the fan? In my case, there were three. One I’d loved a very long time. One had betrayed me. And one swept me into a drama I only half wished to escape.
The adventure began when I opened my suitcase in a hotel on the west coast of Scotland and learned that that somewhere over the Atlantic, someone had switched bags with me. Instead of two dozen pairs of (expensive!) thongs and a pair of red leather pants, I found a diamond.
A very large diamond.
Large and legendary, so infamous that I could not, for a long space of breaths, do anything but stare at the spectacular beauty of it, tucked in cotton batting by some unknown person.
I picked it up knowing two things. One: it was no accident that I, jewel expert Sylvie Montague, should be holding in her hand 80-something karats of medieval diamond.
Two: it was undoubtedly stolen.
Standing in a hotel room that smelled of the sea, I held the jewel in my hand, breathless, and tried to think when the bags could have been switched. I’d carried mine on the plane from San Francisco and shoved it into the very last remaining space in the overhead compartment. I couldn’t think of anyone opening the bin before the end of the flight, when I’d opened it myself and pulled my suitcase out.
But somewhere, someone had switched it. In my grasp was a diamond I had certainly not packed. My hands shook as I held it up to the light. My heart pounded.
It was unmistakable.
Katerina’s Blood.
Oh my God.
Chapter 1
In the treatise on gems by Buddhabhatta (Finot, “Les Lapidaires Indiens,” Paris, 1896) we read: A diamond, a part of which is the color of blood or spotted with red, would quickly bring death to the wearer, even if he were the Master of Death.
—Folklore of Diamonds
Three hours earlier
The flight from San Francisco to Glasgow was a miserable one. Not that there’s any such thing as a good transcontinental flight. They’re always too long, too boring, too cramped and not even the luxury of my own back-of-the-seat movies does much to alleviate the agony of sitting still for that long.
The only decent thing about the whole flight was a guy across the aisle. Dark hair, cut close to his head, a little shadow of beard, a sharply cut mouth with full lips. I pegged him as Continental, and then spent some of the long, boring time trying to figure out why. The sweater, perhaps—a wool turtleneck. His clean, long hands. The shape of his mouth, which looked like it might shape words with long, rolling r’s. French, maybe.
At the end of a flight like that, all you want is to get off the freaking plane. It felt good to just walk down the concourse pulling my bag, stretching out the cramped muscles, shaking off the thickness of over-breathed air. I had checked no luggage, so made straight for the car rental counter, mentally crossing my fingers that my father had come through for me.
When I said my name, “Sylvie Montague,” the buzz-cut, redheaded youth behind the counter blinked.
“Aye,” he said, his eyes widening. “It’s all set up. I’ve got it right here.” With a gesture of reverence, he handed me the keys to an Alfa Romeo Spider.
Great car. Fast, elegant, very European. My father had come through for me. I grinned and slapped the keys in my pocket. “Thanks.”
“Are you related to him?” the youth asked. “To Gordon Montague, I mean.”
“Mmm. My father.”
“He’s the greatest racer ever.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell him.” When I turned around, I nearly slammed into a burly man right behind me. With a balding head of gingery hair and pale freckles across his forehead and nose, his ruddy cheeks made him look as if he were about to have a heart attack on the spot. I forgave him the glare he leveled on me.
“Sorry,” I said.
He grumbled something and shoved by me.
The car was in the parking lot, taut and silver, worthy of the admiring stroke I gave her sleek rear. I opened the driver door and was stripping off my coat when the beautiful—Frenchman?—from the plane walked by.
“Is she yours?” he asked, cocking a brow toward the car.
The accent was not French. It sounded eastern European, not quite Russian, not quite Polish. I couldn’t place it, but it was charming anyway.
I grinned. “For today.”
“Sometimes, that’s all we need, no?”
“Yes.” I nodded and made a show of unlocking the trunk. He walked down the length of her, admiring the curves swooping over the tires, the line of the hood. One hand was loosely tucked in the pocket of his corduroy slacks, and a leather jacket hung in the crook of his elbow. Every inch of him declared a casual Continentalness, that whiff of minor royalty. I liked his very thick, dark, glossy hair, a touch too long, extravagant with ringlets, and his beautiful white hands, long-fingered, artistic-looking.
I tucked my suitcase and coat into the trunk. Or boot, I suppose, since I was now in the UK again. I asked, “Is this your first trip to Scotland?”
“No. I have many friends here. You?”
“I’m here on business, and visiting family.”
“Ah.” He glanced toward the street, appeared to be thinking something over.
When he didn’t speak, I slammed the boot closed and smiled. “Enjoy your trip.”
His eyes were a strong blue when he looked back at me. “Are you in a hurry? Would you like to have a little supper with me?”
I had to shake my head. “Sorry. I have to be somewhere in an hour.”
“Ah,” he said, and cocked an eyebrow, obviously assuming I was going to meet my lover. I didn’t dissuade him, only smiled slightly. His shrug said there was never any harm in trying. “Perhaps we’ll meet again another day.”
I lifted a shoulder.
Several other passengers were picking out their cars from the lot, and I saw the red-faced pit bull from the rental car line. He climbed into a Nissan and slammed the door. He made me think of a cartoon, squished into the little car, and if his expression was anything to go by, he was Not Pleased.
A sudden thought made me wonder if he was paparazzi. They only bugged me now and then, but with my father racing this week and my own visibility on the jewel case—which they were calling the Kingpin’s Crown Jewels—I’d probably have to put up with them.
“Au revoir,” said the Continental.
I’d been distracted by the other man. “Au revoir,” I said and fit my key into the door lock. He slung a slim leather bag over his shoulder and headed for a different section of cars.
Too bad, I thought. I have no illusions about the permanence of holiday love affairs—or, well, love affairs in general—but there was no harm in a little flirtation. He looked as if he’d be one of those very dramatic and passionate sorts, the kind who likes to tuck a woman into his arm and kiss her wildly. It gets old to be smothered like that after a while, but it’s nice for the short term. And really, it had been a while.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if the red-cheeked man had gone, and he was pulling into traffic. Not a danger, then. I dashed after the Continental.
“Um…” We hadn’t exchanged names. “Wait!”
He paused. I held up a finger and tugged my card out of my wallet, scribbled a number on the back and gave it to him. “I’ll be in Ayr for a few days, if you’re in the neighborhood.”
“But I am going to Ayr!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“You are?” I echoed. It’s not a particularly large town, a holiday hamlet favored by Glaswegians in the summertime. But it was not yet quite April, and the weather was too cold and unstable for seaside retreats. “I didn’t think anyone visited Ayr until June.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps not. I have a good friend there.” He looked at the card, raised dark eyes to mine. “Sylvie. That’s French, no?”
“My grandmother’s name.” A Parisian swept off her feet by a Scottish soldier in WWII. “She lives in Ayr. That’s who I’m going to see this afternoon.” I looked at my watch and realized I needed to get moving. Backing away, a palm over the face of the watch as if to hide the time from myself, I said, “I need to be there by tea.”
“Will you be free later, then?” His smile showed slightly uneven, but very white teeth. “Shall we have supper?”
I thought about the requirements of the evening. No doubt a cousin or two would be at my grandmother’s house, and there would be catching up to do. Then I could plead exhaustion—it wouldn’t be far from the truth—and get to the hotel by seven. “At the Drover pub, at eight?”
He tucked my card into his front pocket. His blue eyes glittered. “I will look forward to it.”
I realized as I got in the car that I still had not asked his name.
It seemed a portent, somehow.
Chapter 2
The 4 C’s of diamond grading are Cut, Color, Clarity and Carat Weight, but remember there is a full 13-point grading scale, and the best consumer will understand each point.
—www.costellos.com.au
I headed for Ayr on the A-77, just ahead of the worst of rush hour. It’s called the killer road for a reason. Narrow, unpredictable, given to odd lane shifts and sudden roundabouts—exactly the reason I love it. I learned to drive at my father’s knee, one of the only things he has ever been good for. Like him, I love fast, sharp and quick. Rush hour is just too congested to be much fun.
Probably just as well I had to limit my speed. My reflexes were probably not their best after such a long flight. Rolling down the windows to let the cool wind blow the jet lag out of my brain, I turned the radio to a Glasgow station pouring out a Scottish version of heavy metal. The voices between songs were so thickly accented I could only understand about every third word, but it didn’t matter.
Home.
After a fashion. My mother’s home, anyway, a place I spent a lot of time as a girl, splitting time between my father and mother. I was there to work at the request of the Glasgow police department, to evaluate and catalogue a cache of jewels recently seized when a high-profile drug runner known as The Swede was murdered two weeks ago.
The jewels stunned everyone, and various theories were batted around before they decided to call me. The investigator in charge had followed a case last summer when the Egyptian police called me in to help recover the Nile Sapphire, a very old and fabled jewel. The inspector also read that my mother was Scottish and trusted me a little more because of it. He called to see if I’d consult, had offered airfare and a hotel room in Glasgow for the duration.
It was a no-brainer. I was coming up on the one-year anniversary of my divorce, and didn’t want to spend the week moping back at home in San Francisco. It had also been a while since I’d seen my mother’s family, and although I do travel a bit for the job, most of it is pretty dull stuff—assessing estates and that sort of thing. Mostly, of course, I’m crouched over dusty brooches in mildewy rooms, giving myself a crick in the neck as I peer through a loupe and take notes on clarity and color.
Another reason driving was so thrilling. There was nothing like getting on a tight, challenging road in a good machine after a long day of estate assessment.
Or a nine-hour flight.
I turned up the radio, tucked a flying lock of hair behind my ear and passed a vivid blue Fiat driven by a man in shirtsleeves and dark sunglasses. I saw him take note of my blond hair and sexy blouse, and, with a slight grin, I gunned it.
It would be a pleasure to comb through the jewels of a drug lord, who’d had, by all accounts, very good taste. The inspector had mentioned several sapphires in particular; thought they might be connected to a group that had gone missing more than six years ago. I was excited to take a look at them.
The blue Fiat zoomed by me, and I glanced over curiously. The man driving was not thrilled to have been passed up by a girl. I saw it the minute he glanced over at me, a little rumbling of competition. A growl of his engine.
I smiled. The Spider was a dream car, more than enough for an itty-bitty challenge like this. The traffic was heavy and I wouldn’t be an idiot and risk other people’s lives, but I’d play for a minute with Tom Fiat.
Pressing down with my foot on the accelerator, I coaxed the Spider next to the Fiat, and edged ahead, just enough to let him know I was doing it on purpose. He gunned it, and tugged ahead, but the Spider wasn’t even panting yet, and I caught him easily, rumbling along beside him.
We sailed around a tight curve, bound on either side by rolling fields, coming up behind a semi that was lumbering along on the right.
Signs warned that the road would narrow to two lanes in 1000 meters, 500.
I knew I could take him. Through my body, I could feel the smooth connection between the machine and myself, as if the engine were part of my fingers, my arms. I rode the curve, hugging the road, and passed the truck. Wind whipped my hair around my neck. I downshifted, whirled around the turn. On the right, cars going the opposite direction roared by, mere inches away across the dividing line.
I grinned to myself. Exhilarating!
Tom Fiat had steam coming out of his ears as he whizzed around the lorry to catch up with me. Everyone in Scotland drives as if they’re muttering “bastard” under their breath, anyway, and there’s a reckless fatalism that can give even me a few moments of pause.
Still. It was a point of pride just now. I held to the lead.
Ahead loomed the narrowing lanes. Tom was about to kill someone. I let up on the gas, hugged the road to the left to let him pass and waved as he went by. His face was a dull red of fury, and I laughed to myself. No one ever expects a woman to drive the way I do.
But most women don’t learn to drive from a world-class Formula One driver. My father, the legendary American Gordon Montague, is one of the most revered drivers on the planet at the moment, and I’ve no doubt the legend will live long after he kills himself in some spectacular wreck at Monaco or Barcelona. He’d like that, dying dramatically in some glamorous spot, mourned publicly by whatever young wife he happened to have picked up at the moment.
Dear old dad.
I was glad of the car, and wished, briefly, that he was with me. It’s been a while since we’d had any time together. I was tempted to ask him to meet me in Glasgow after the Malaysian Grand Prix in Kuala Lampur, but I had a feeling he’d say no. Scotland makes him feel guilty.
As well it should.
Scotland is my mother’s place, and I admired it now through her eyes—a countryside as calming as the wind blowing in my window. It was lambing season, and little balls frolicked in the fields among the more sedate sheep and the odd shaggy red cow. Trees bent halfway sideways belied the bucolic scene, showing what the winds are like around here, but on this bright day, I could even see the island of Arran in the distance, an uneven line of pale blue mountains on the horizon.
I’d opted to stay in a hotel rather than with a relative, even though there are several I could choose from in my mother’s hometown. Which is actually the trouble. If I picked one, I’d hurt someone else’s feelings. A hotel room is easier.
The job in Glasgow would start in a couple of days. My plan was to knock around Ayr and the seaside of my childhood, visit my aunts and cousins, make a stop to put flowers on my mother’s grave, then head back to Glasgow for the assessment, maybe catch some shows or something.
Since I didn’t know that giant diamond was stashed away in my bag, I stopped first at my grandmother’s house. She lived on a well-kept street of what we’d call fourplexes. Row houses, they call them, and there are thousands and thousands of them all throughout the U.K., built right after the war.
That would be the war, World War II.
My grandmother lived on the end of her building. Her windows were polished, as were all the windows on the street, and red tulips had pushed their way up into the spring air. She’d no doubt been waiting for me—sitting with her next-door neighbor, Anna, and a blue budgie who sang to her from his perch—because she flung open the door. “Ma cher!” the elder Sylvie cried. “I am so happy to see you!”
I dashed up the narrow sidewalk to hug her. Tiny as a sparrow, her white hair now cut neatly around her sharply angled face, she was still a beauty at seventy-eight. She had nary a wrinkle. “Come in, ma poulette!” she cried. “Have you had your tea?”
“No, of course not! Not if I had a chance to have your coffee and some cake.”
Over my shoulder, my grandmother glared. I turned to see a battered Mini crawling down the street. “Go on with you!” she cried, sounding more Scottish than French. “Nosy rats. They’ve been nosing around all day.”
Paparazzi again. I was tempted to flip them off, but it would only give them what they were after—something to print in their trashy little journals. My hugging an old woman wouldn’t do much for their circulation.
In the vestibule, she took my coat and led me into the tiny sitting room, where her best friend Anna waited. Slim and thoughtful, Anna had always been one of my favorites. She told wonderful stories of her girlhood and the Scotland that existed before the war, and she did not suffer fools lightly.
“Hello, Sylvie,” she said. “We’ve just seen your father on television.”
“Really.” I settled in the place they made for me before the fire, feeling as pampered as a beloved princess. “Tell me all about it.”
In the street outside the window, the beat-up Mini rolled by again. Something about the man behind the wheel was seedier or grimmer or something than the average—even average tabloid—photographer. I narrowed my eyes and stood up to watch him go by. He was very interested in my car.
“What is it, dear?” Grandmother asked.
I shook my head, unwilling to worry them. “Just that photographer again.”
But I wondered.
Chapter 3
KATERINA’S BLOOD, diamond with ruby inclusion; 83 karats; first recorded ownership: 1253, Romania. Supposedly cursed by a priest, to bring death to anyone who wishes to use it for greed.
—Legends and Lore of Famous Stones
I spent a solid 90 minutes with the two older women, feeling the tensions of work, life, everything just drain away. The coffee was bland, the cakes a little dry, but it was the company I wanted. After a while, however, the warmth and comfort of the sitting room made me feel sleepier and sleepier. I kissed them both and headed off.
I’d reserved a room in a hotel close to the top of the town. It turned out to be an agreeable old house, with heavy paneling on the walls and pressed curtains at the windows of the foyer. The smell of meat and onions hung in the air from the restaurant/pub on the ground floor as I checked in. I’d have a nice shower then find something sustaining, which is never hard to find in Scotland. Honestly, with all the bakeries with their fluffy white breads and delicate cakes, with the brideys and bacon rolls, you’d think the whole country would be rolling around like little butterballs, but they’re not. It’s a sturdy population, plain-faced and direct, with dogs and people taking their exercise outside all the time.
In my plain, pleasing room, I tipped the busboy, a youth of maybe seventeen with a shaved head and a thick earring in his left lobe, and threw my suitcase on the bed. I kicked off my shoes, and started unbuttoning my blouse as I headed for the bathroom to start the shower. Another reason to have a room in a hotel. Showers have never particularly caught on in homes in Britain. It’s better than it was when I was a child, but still a long way from the copious amounts of high pressure water you get in America.
As I shed my blouse, jet lag started kicking in again, thick along the back of my neck, weighting my eyelids, making my shoulders ache. I glanced at the clock: 6:17. To get on schedule, I would have to stay up until at least 9:30.
At the moment, it seemed impossible.
Steam curled out of the bathroom. I stripped as I went, leaving a trail from bed to bathroom. Sheer white blouse, bra, red leather skirt—I have a penchant for leather—panties. My skin felt sweaty and sticky, and the water was heaven. The toiletries were high-end, smelling of lavender. For one second, as the spray massaged my back, I thought with some pleasure of the possibility of my Continental, with his long, clean hands. Hands on my tired neck would be very nice indeed. He’d seemed charming enough, and it wouldn’t be so bad to have a holiday affair, especially given the anniversary of my divorce.
But I didn’t want to mix family into it. I’d chosen the Drover pub because no one I knew was likely to be there. It’s not always possible, but I keep family and love life, as well as business and love life, strictly separated.
Business is obvious. It’s too hard to work with someone you’ve slept with and dumped or been dumped by.
And the trouble with families is that they always hope you’re going to settle down. That’s not on my agenda. Tried marriage for three years, and really, not married is better. Men are too unreliable. I should have learned that from my father’s example, but it took a bad marriage—with a man so much like my father they might have been clones; that is, handsome, charming, and completely incapable of fidelity—to drive the truth all the way home.
So I stood alone under the hot shower, washing the breath of hundreds of other people from my long hair, scrubbing the layers of grime from my face.
Feeling better, I wrapped one towel around my head and another around my body. Stepping over the clothes on the floor, I unzipped my black carry-on to get out some lotion and deodorant, mentally trying to choose between jeans and a skirt to wear downstairs.
It took ten full seconds to sink in: this was not my bag.
It was an exact replica, which isn’t so weird—how many black, wheeled carry-on models are there, after all?—but in the netted pocket where I keep my underwear, there were boxer shorts. Instead of my prized red leather pants, there was a stack of neatly folded T-shirts.
“Damn!”
I put my hand on the straps, lifted the edge of a blue shirt as if it were a false front, a little practical joke, and just below it, I’d find my own things. How could this have happened? I’d had it with me all the way from California!
But obviously, that wasn’t true, or I wouldn’t be looking at some man’s things instead of my own.
Think. Where could it have been mixed up? It could have happened when I pulled the bag out of the overhead bin. Not likely. I wedged it next to the right-hand wall, and took it down from the same spot.
Where else then? At security. I suppose I could have grabbed the wrong bag off the belt.
Except my shoes were in the bin right next to it.
Which left the van I used to get to the airport. I thought back to the other passengers, wondering which one might be opening my bag with the same sinking feeling I had right now.
There were three men. One was too fat to wear these clothes, one was a college boy and one was a pin-striped, red-tie business man who’d smelled of my father’s Armani cologne. He might wear silk boxers, but I didn’t see him in a turquoise linen shirt. I fingered it with admiration. Silk and linen, gorgeously cut. I’d like to see the man who’d wear this.
Probably not the van, then. Maybe it was the security check point. But I hadn’t paid any attention to who was around me there. I’d been running late.
“Damn!” I said again.
I didn’t want to wear my dirty plane-ride clothes. I wanted something that smelled clean. I wanted my nightgown to sleep in. My other shoes.
But there wasn’t anything I could do, except track down the owner of the case and try to work out an exchange. In the meantime, I’d have to go shopping in the morning.
I found a tag in a small pocket on the outside of the bag. Same place mine was, of course. The handwriting was hard to read, spidery and European. I couldn’t make out the name, which was smeared, but there was a telephone number, in Paris.
Paris. Dialing the numbers gave me a jolt of body memory, one of those electric moments that are stored God knows where, in cells all over your arms or back or collarbone or ankles. This particular memory, dialing Paris numbers, had been imprinted during my seventeenth year, when I’d dialed the number of a man, a Parisian who’d stolen my heart with a single kiss.
So I thought I was just projecting when the recorded voice on the other end sounded exactly like the voice of that very man, Paul Maigny. In French he said, “Hello, thank you for calling, please leave a message.”
Startled, I hung up. Stared at the phone, the card in a hand that had suddenly begun to tremble violently.
It couldn’t be Paul, of course. Only someone who sounded like him. Paul still lived in Paris—my father, his best friend, had recently spent a week with him—but I would have known if he’d been on that plane. With a slight shake of my head, I picked up the receiver and dialed again. Again the voice shocked me.
And again, before I could decide what to do, I hung up.
There are some voices you do not forget. Your mother. Your best friend. Your spouse. I was not mistaken about this one, either. Those elegant vowels, the slight rasp.
I scowled.
It had been almost five years since I’d heard Paul’s voice—since the day of my wedding, as a matter of fact, when I’d told him never to speak to me again. And he was likely in my mind because the island of Arran, lying backward on the sea like a man, made me think of him. Still.
It couldn’t be his case on my bed. I knew it wasn’t his handwriting, which was an elegant, sprawling hand I’d seen thousands of times.
I was just imagining things.
Firmly, I dialed the number a third time. When the voice mail picked up, I left my name and the telephone number of the hotel on the voice mail of the stranger in Paris, who no doubt had my bag and felt as bewildered as I did. In case he’d left a message for me, I next dialed my home voice mail box. No messages.
So there I was, damp in my towels, with a hot date in an hour. The stranger’s bag was open on the bed. I did what any red-blooded woman would do: I looked through it. Maybe there would be something I could wear.
A scent of laundry and man rose from it, entirely alien from the smell of my own packing. I wondered, briefly, if the stranger would go through my things. I thought of thongs and red leather pants—when you have a job as stuffy as mine, you’ve got to take your pleasure where you can find it—and a little sense of discomfort rippled through me.
Beyond the gorgeous turquoise silk and linen shirt, there was a black, zipped shaving kit, three silk T-shirts, a pair of black trousers, black socks, a pair of well-worn jeans, swimming trunks, the aforementioned boxers. A pair of walking sandals were sealed in a plastic bag. A little sand gathered in the corner. He’d been on the beach.
My stomach growled and it hit me again that I was starving. Which brought home the fact that I still I didn’t have anything to wear.
Grr. All I’d wanted was a little supper and a good night’s sleep. The mix-up was a pain in the neck.
But let’s get a grip here—it was not tragedy or disaster. It was only inconvenient. I keep some makeup in my purse, and the hair dryer in the bathroom would work fine for my wet head.
What I didn’t have was deodorant. With only a slight flush of shame, I opened the man’s shaving kit to see if he had any. There it was, a red roll-on that smelled pretty good.
There was also a white box. Jewelry, I thought—after all, jewels are my stock in trade—I opened it to see what taste he had on this level. Judging by the rest of it, it would be something understated. Probably gold, expensive.
It was expensive, all right.
For the second time in five minutes, my brain couldn’t get itself around what my eyes were seeing. It wasn’t a watch or a ring or even a tacky bracelet.
Pillowed in cotton batting was a jewel. A diamond.
A huge diamond.
My hands shook as I pulled it out. Not only was it huge, it was very rare and storied, this jewel. A jewel that was presumed to be lost. It was very old. Priceless.
It was even cursed.
Katerina’s Blood.
Since I was one of only a handful of people who would recognize the astonishment of it at first sight, I was also convinced of one other thing.
The switch of bags was not an accident.
Chapter 4
Many stones are valued for their rarity; for example, the colored stones, rubies, sapphires and emeralds are rated on their scarcity. In spite of public perception, diamonds are not among the rare stones on the earth. They’re plentiful the world over, and if it were not for a cartel controlling the distribution of these sparkling stones, the cost of diamonds would be much lower.
—Sylvie Montague, Ancient Jewels and the Modern World
Jewel geeks are an odd little club. We come to it in many ways, from many walks in life. My entry came through a trip to the British Museum when I was eleven, when a family friend took me to see the crown jewels. There I saw a collection of Indian Raj’s jewels and was stung right through the chest. In that instant, I fell madly in love with the entire mythology and wonder of gems. I have been handling them, assessing them, admiring them in my work professionally for eight years, and have seen some spectacular beauties. My particular specialty—passion—is for ancient and antique jewels.
The Katerina made my heart race. I carried it to the window, as carefully as if it were a baby bird, and held it up to the light.
Good grief.
The diamond was legendary, its history vague—very, very famous, but also elusive, changing hands with dizzying speed. I couldn’t remember the exact weight off the top of my head, but I knew it was something over 80 karats. As a point of reference, the Hope Diamond is 43.
Katerina’s Blood was cut in medieval times, so it wasn’t the glittery, winking faceted one of more modern diamonds. It was what they call table cut, flat across the top, with two narrow facets along each side. Laid in a brooch, it was set in white gold, with a line of pigeon’s blood rubies encircling it. The color was nearly crystal, clear without yellow or brown to mar it. In the diamond business, it would be a grade D, nearly as clear as glass.
But it was neither the size nor the extraordinary color that made this diamond so very, very famous and prized. It was a flaw.
Most diamonds have what are called inclusions—bits of other stones or dust or other flaws that mar the clarity of the jewel. Usually such flaws render diamonds much less valuable, but the “flaw” in Katerina’s Blood was a ruby. It floated like a drop of blood in the center of the stone.
As long as I could remember, I’d heard of this possibility—and had often heard of the gem—but the reality was beyond even my wildest imaginings.
It was unbelievably beautiful. I could barely breathe with the wonder of it. One of the rarest, most storied jewels in the world. In my hand. All the history, all the people who’d held it, all the tragedies attached to it—
The phone rang. My reverence shattered so violently that I dropped the Katerina. It banged against my toe and bounced across the rug. The phone rang again. I grabbed the diamond and headed across the room with shaking hands, thinking it must be the person who had my—
Oh, God.
A foot from the table, I stopped. Clutched the jewel to my chest.
It had been Paul on that answering machine in Paris. Some coincidences in life I could buy—say, watching a movie then seeing an actor from it at a local restaurant, or maybe Halley’s Comet streaking by on my birthday.
I could not swallow the notion that somehow, by accident, I held in my hands the jewel Paul Maigny had most wished—all of his life—to see and touch. His father, a jewel thief of some talent, had died trying to attain it. Paul, who had, in turn, fostered my own passion for jewels, had spoken of the Katerina to me many, many times.
I clutched the jewel, narrowed my eyes at the phone, as if it were responsible for this mess.
What was going on here? Paul was a collector and aficionado, not a thief like his father. The Katerina would be a gem he would pursue with great passion if he knew it had surfaced.
But he would not deliberately involve me. Which meant that someone else had learned of my connection to Paul, and planned to use me to get to him, or use me as protection against him.
The phone shrilled again. I had no doubt it was Paul on the other end. My mentor, my father’s best friend, at one time my guardian, and a man I had once believed I loved more than anyone on earth.
I let the phone ring.
I told myself it was because I was going to be damned sure I knew what the hell was going on. I wanted to know who stole it, where it had been, why I had been chosen to carry it here to Ayr.
The ring shrilled. I thought of the last time I’d seen Paul, before my wedding in San Francisco. I thought of picking up the receiver, listening to whatever he’d say.
Instead, I just stood there.
The phone stopped ringing. With slightly shaky hands, I gathered my clothes from the floor. There were spare undies in my purse, and I shimmied into them, then the skirt I’d worn on the plane. The blouse was crumpled and sweaty. Ditto the bra. I thought about going without, but that would be my hiding place, so I had to put it on. The jewel, long and flat, slipped into the space below my left breast. In the mirror, I looked to see if it was obvious, but the blouse draped down loosely, and unless a person touched it, no one would ever notice.
From the suitcase, I took out the silk and linen shirt—payment for my troubles—and it was as luscious against my skin as I’d imagined. It was clean, but I could smell a hint of the man in it. Paul? I didn’t think this was his smell.
By then, I started to feel jumpy. Nervous. Had the jewel been part of the cache taken from the drug honcho? Or had it come from some other source? How could I find out?
A rumble rolled loudly through my belly, and a jetlag headache was pounding against my sinus. Adrenaline had perked me up, but in order to think clearly, I would really need some sleep. First, food.
I’d work out a more detailed plan later, but for now, I’d go ahead and meet the guy from the plane—it occurred to me that I didn’t even know his name yet—and eat, then come back and get some sleep. In the morning, I’d ring the Glasgow police and do some fishing. In the meantime, I’d keep it to myself. The fewer people in the loop, the better.
Maybe I’d ring my father, too, if I could figure out where he was staying and under what name. I’d check the race schedule first, to be sure he wasn’t in the middle of the Grand Prix. No point in worrying him if he was driving. He’d done very well last year, and there was talk that he was making a comeback, that he might be the one to unseat Michael Schumacher at last.
If the race hadn’t started, I could innocently probe him about Paul.
My hair was just damp, and rather than taking time to dry it, I wove it into a braid that hung against my spine. I examined myself in the mirror. The diamond did not show.
The phone rang again. I grabbed my purse and coat and rushed out without answering. A creepy sense of urgency crawled down my neck, the same warning that shows up when I’m driving sometimes—a sharp directive I’ve learned to obey. This one said, Get out, get out! I did. I was on the high street in three minutes.
It was early evening, still light, and there were plenty of people out walking. Too dark for sunglasses, and I had not thought to bring a hat. I was worried that I might bump into someone I knew—a cousin or a neighbor of a relative—and they’d want to join me, and then I’d have to say no, and then there would be hurt feelings all around. Plus, until I could figure out what was going on, I really didn’t want to take the chance that this business might put somebody in danger. Besides me, anyway.
I really wished I hadn’t stopped at my grandmother’s house.
I kept my head down. The street was busier than I would have expected for mid-March. There were tourists around, mixing with the matrons in their cardigans, plaid skirts and sensible shoes, teenagers with piercings and their shaved heads. It all made me very aware of both my jet lag and my empty stomach, which now roared in response to the smell of meat and onions in the air. I paused for a minute, looking around.
And damned if I didn’t see my cousin Keith three doors down. Luckily, he was talking on a cell phone and didn’t see me. I ducked behind a crowd of Australian schoolteacher-types and followed them into the pub. I found a seat in the dark back room, ordered a pint of Stella and the most ordinary meal in the world—pie, beans and chips—and tried to figure out what my next moves should be.
The jukebox played old rock and roll quietly. At the bar sat a gathering of after-work males. The sound of their voices—that lilting accent, always the sound of my mother—eased the tension in the back of my neck. I took the first big breath I’d had in a half hour.
Beneath my left breast was the comforting bulk of the diamond. Who had made sure I got it? Why?
As if called by my questions, the man from the airport materialized at the end of the room. He stood there, staring straight at me, for a minute. No longer smiling, and I didn’t know if it was the light or my fresh knowledge, but he looked older and a lot more dangerous than he had sleeping over the Atlantic.
The certainty penetrated my jet-lag fog: he, too, had a part in this.
I knew he was too good too be true. I cursed myself for being attracted to him anyway.
He approached and gestured toward the empty seat in front of me. “May I?”
I just looked at him. He sat down, and I realized he was older than I first thought—early- to mid-thirties instead of a decade younger. The bartender came over and he ordered a pint.
The bartender nodded. “Want something to eat?”
“I ordered the pie,” I said.
He nodded. “Another then.”
When the bartender was gone, the man took off his leather coat and rubbed a hand across his face. “Pssh,” he said, and leaned on his elbows. Even in the darkened room, his eyes were astonishing, like chips of blue marble. Looking at the shirt I’d taken from the suitcase, he said, “My sister bought me that shirt in Paris. It’s my favorite.”
“I’m keeping it for my troubles.”
His gaze slid admiringly down my body, over my breasts. Somehow—I don’t know why—a European man can almost always get away with that, while it’s only the rare American who can. His eyes came back to my face. Direct contact, eye to eye.
He had those beautifully cut lips, a slight grizzling of black beard. Good hands. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he moves his hands. An old boyfriend of mine used to just barely scratch the top of a cat’s head. It was frustrating. Guess what else was frustrating?
“It suits you,” he said. It took me a moment to realize he meant the shirt.
“Thanks,” I said, then shook my head. “Let’s not play games, all right. You need to tell me what’s going on. Who are you? And what is this really about?”
He leaned back to let the bartender set down his pint. Waited until he was gone before he said, “You found it, then?”
“A little hard to miss.”
A slight inclination of his chin, not quite a nod. “And you have it?”
I gave him a look. “What do you think?”
“Good.”
“Where are my things?”
He drunk from his glass of beer, thirstily. “I have your bag in my car.”
“I was furious about my leather pants. Do have any idea how much they cost?”
“I have good reasons to involve you, I swear it.”
“Where does Paul Maigny come into it?”
The heavy lashes swept down for a minute. Good. He wasn’t a total fool if he was smart enough to be afraid of Maigny. “May I tell you after we eat? It would be safer.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe we can take a little walk on the beach, eh?”
If I hadn’t been so bloody starving, I’d have insisted we go right then, but there was nothing to be gained by skipping a meal that would be served any minute. “All right. Maybe in the meantime, you can tell me your name. You already know mine.”
“Luca Colceriu.”
“What do you do?”
One eyebrow lifted elegantly. “That’s saved for later.”
I lifted my beer and took a slow sip. A burly man with a receding hairline walked to the jukebox and put in some coins. “Well, then, what shall we talk about, Mr. Colceriu?”
“Do you know the legend of this jewel?”
“Bits and pieces,” I said. “Not the whole thing. Something about a prince, and curse.” I almost touched the comforting solidness of it beneath my blouse and resisted. It was there.
“It was discovered in India, in medieval times,” Luca said. “A Romanian prince—”
“Ah-ha. Romanian. Of course.”
He looked confused. “Pardon me?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t place your accent earlier. Romanian, of course.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, on with the story.”
Looking a little bewildered, Luca continued. “Yes, well, the prince purchased it and had it made into a splendid necklace for his wife-to-be.”
“Katerina.”
“Yes. Three days after he gave it to her, she was gruesomely murdered by the prince’s rivals. The prince, in his grief, ordered her buried with the gem around her throat, and then he killed himself. His younger brother took the throne.”
A jewel that had been buried in a grave now pressed into my left breast. Even with my passion for stones, that was a little unnerving. “Eww.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Our food came, two heavy white plates of plain Scottish pub fare. It smelled heavenly—like onions, like meat and fat and a thousand blipping memories of my mother. I picked up my fork and took a deep breath before digging into the beans. “Perfect,” I said.
He followed suit, without my reverence, and nodded. “Not bad.”
“Back to the jewel,” I prompted. “Someone must have done some grave-robbing, however, because it’s not down there around her neck anymore, is it?”
He took his time, then in his slightly formal English said, “It was two generations before enough of the curse had ebbed for people not to be afraid of it. A greedy priest, with his eye on the papacy, twisted church law for a new prince to dig it up, retrieve the jewel.” He took a bite of pie, washed it down with beer. “The priest was killed by a lunatic three days later, a leper who’d lost his mind and killed three others before he was restrained.”
I scowled, and maybe it was my imagination, but it suddenly felt the jewel was very hot against my skin. “What about the prince who ordered it dug up?”
“I do not know about him.”
There are some things worth enjoying, and food was one of them. Despite the weird circumstances, the danger, the jewel, I was determined to enjoy my first Scottish meal in nearly five years. Hot food. Good food. Heaven. “I guess mass murder isn’t a new thing after all, huh?”
His teeth flashed, white and square. The grin lightened his whole face, and I could suddenly see through to someone else, a man who made jokes in a language I didn’t understand, to friends he’d known his whole life, who all lived a life entirely different from my own.
I wanted, suddenly, to go back with him to his Romanian world, into a walk-up flat in a faceless post-war building. I could see the kitchen, Communist-built utilitarian and plain, with half curtains at the window. There would be a little television on a stand on which he watched football games. The kind of football where they wore shorts, not shoulder pads.
It lasted only a flash, my little vision, but it must have put a different expression on my face, because his shifted. His gaze was more direct, his mouth softer in that way that’s so dangerous for a woman who has been devastated by the games of men. “What do you know, Sylvie Montague? Hmm?”
I looked away, lifted a shoulder. “Don’t even start playing with me,” I said, and looked back. “And don’t make the mistake of underestimating me. You’ll regret it.”
“I will not underestimate you.” His mouth lifted on one side, and he held up one hand. “Promise.”
“Finish the story,” I said.
“Well, it goes on as it began. A murder over and over, whenever someone got his hands on it. It is stolen, disappears for a generation or two, resurfaces.”
“So not everyone who comes into contact with it dies.”
“No.”
“But you’re not taking any chances, are you?”
He lifted a brow. “I am a thief. Perhaps not the cleanest soul, yes?” His eyes glittered. “I prefer not to touch it.”
“It’s okay if I’m cursed to possible murder? Thanks ever so.”
“You do not believe in curses.”
“I wouldna count on that,” I said in my best Scottish English. I drank a deep draft of my beer. “I am half Scot myself, you know. We believe in the dark side.”
“Not you,” he said, and his voice was quite sure.
I scowled. “What makes you think you know me?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t believe in anything. You don’t believe in ghosts or God or curses.” His eyes were steady. “Men, families, nothing.”
A hollowness emptied out my chest. I narrowed my eyes. “You did your research.”
He tilted his head. Curls tumbled to one side. “Yes.”
Against my thigh, my cell phone buzzed suddenly. It startled me, but I grabbed it and looked at the ID to see who was calling in. “Unknown” flashed over the screen. That might have meant it was anyone at all in Scotland, since I didn’t have their numbers programmed in. I didn’t answer.
“Sorry,” I said, “I have relatives here. That’s something you might have considered, you know, before you dumped you secret on me.”
“I did.”
A brief cold chill touched the back of my neck. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Just that you’d have resources.”
“For…?”
“To help you, that’s all. You do not think I would hurt them?” He said it with a slight shake of his head, a slight wrinkling of his brow.
I met his gaze, smiled slightly. “Luca, don’t try to play me. I was raised with international playboys and the women who wanted their money, with thieves and art experts and people currying for favor with every sort of celebrity you can imagine.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re an amateur.”
For a long moment, everything about him was utterly still, and I had a clear image of a sleek cat, tail twitching dangerously.
Then the thick black lashes swept down, heat rose in his cheeks, and he laughed softly. “Forgive me.” His chin jutted out, and he met my gaze. “I forgot who raised you.”
“Touché,” I said, heat in my own cheeks. I slammed down the rest of my pint. “Let’s get out of here. You can get me my suitcase.”
I stood, jammed my arms into my coat sleeves. He stood with me, and put his hand on my arm. His hair gave off a scent of cloves and oranges, startling and exotic. “Sylvie, I am sorry.”
“I’m going to the toilet.” I pulled my arm away, tossed my purse over my shoulder. “Pay for our dinner. Then you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I will,” he said, taking out his wallet. “I promise.”
Chapter 5
The first step in evaluating a diamond is the simplest, cut. There are eight basic cuts for a diamond: emerald, heart, pear, round, marquise, radiant, oval and princess. There are others, of course, but these are the main shapes found in modern diamonds.
—www.costellos.com.au
In the ladies’ room, I checked my lipstick and then took out my phone. One message was waiting, and I flipped open the phone to punch in the voice mail number. Nothing happened. The phone flipped back to the original icon of a flashing envelope. I tried it a second time, and the same thing happened.
I scowled, but I’d have time to figure it out later. I washed my hands and went back out front. Luca was counting out money to the bartender. While I waited for him, a short, sturdy-looking man at the bar said, “Hey, ain’t you that race car driver’s daughter? The one in papers all the time?”
I raised my brows. “’Fraid so.”
“Yer mum’s a local girl? I went to grammar school with her.”
“Is that right?” I smiled. “I’m here to visit my grandmother.”
“She was sweet, yer mum. I was wrecked to hear what happened to her.”
“Thanks.” Against my hip, my phone buzzed again, and I was about to pull it out when Luca came toward me, tucking pound coins in his jeans pocket. Time enough to check the message later—it was likely a cousin or aunt, anyway.
“Take care,” I said to the man at the bar.
“You do the same, gerl.”
Luca went out on the street into the dusk, but I remembered in time to duck my head out first and look for my cousin Keith, who’d been out here just a little while ago. No sign of him. No sign of anyone much, really. I stepped out. A small breeze buffeted my bare knees, and it would be cold later, but it wasn’t bad yet.
“Which way?” I said to Luca.
“A car park by the station,” he said, cocking his thumb. “Will you walk with me for a little while first, please? Let me tell you my story?”
A damp gloaming hung in the air, soft purple brushed with orange, and I did want to walk by the sea before I slept. This sea, which I’d traveled a very long way to visit. Birds with muscular wings flapped overhead, calling to their mates to come get supper amid the pools left behind by the tide. I could smell the muskiness of the water.
Beside me, Luca stood a head taller than I, his body lean and graceful, his shoulders a square evenness I wanted to touch. He tossed on a leather jacket, and I found my gaze lingering on his mouth again.
At the same time, I was aware that he’d used me, that he was a thief, that his life was not the sort I should get mixed up in.
But how boring would life be if we only did what was good for us? “All right,” I said. “It better be good.”
“That will be for you to decide.”
I tucked my purse close and folded my arms over my chest as we headed west, down the street toward the sea. “You stole the jewel?” I prompted.
“Yes,” he said. “I am, by profession, a thief.”
“And where did it come from?”
He smiled slightly as we emerged onto the quiet promenade. “I imagined you had unraveled that by now.”
“Ah. The Kingpin. The drug lord.” I paused at the top of a short set of steps to the sand. The last fingers of light gave a backlight to the Goat Fells on Arran, and splashed against the windows of the expensive homes lining the beach.
Luca inclined his head. “You do not know who it is?”
“Who? You mean the drug lord?”
“Yes. They called him The Swede.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Should I know it?”
“Perhaps. It will explain the Maigny connection.”
I waited, but he was savoring his moment. I spread my hands. “Well?”
“Henrik Gunnarsson.”
“Still nothing,” I said. “And while I know Maigny would not particularly care for a close examination of his business, I wouldn’t think drugs would appeal to him.” He preferred art, jewels, antiques. “Drugs would be too messy.”
“Let’s walk,” Luca said, gesturing.
I frowned at his stalling, and stopped where I stood. Wind came off the water, brisk and invigorating, but it would soon be very cold. The wind skittered up my skirt and I shivered. “Let’s not. We can stand here on the bridge.”
“As you wish.” He faced the sea, putting his face in profile, and I saw something ancient in the Semitic angle of his high-bridged nose, the fullness of his lips. A profile meant for an ancient Greek coin. No, not Greek. An ancient Romanian coin. Yes, that worked. A Gypsy prince, that was Luca, both wild and elegant. The wind gusted his scent of oranges toward me, and I found myself breathing it in before I knew what I was doing.
Dangerous.
In a hard voice, I said, “Tell me.”
“Maigny hired me to steal the jewel from Gunnarsson. They are old, old rivals—something that began over a woman who became Maigny’s mistress. You may remember her.”
“He had a lot of mistresses,” I said with a shrug.
“I have the impression this one might have meant a little more to him. Elena?”
I didn’t say anything, but memories swished forward. A woman with a deep bust and long legs and beautiful shoes, chuckling at me. A man with ice-blond hair and cool eyes, smoking on a balcony in Paris. Paul, his jaw hard, ordering them out of his house. I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. “I remember her, but not because he was somadly in love.” Though I supposed he might have been. What did I know—or care—of adult love affairs at the time? “She betrayed him. Stole something, maybe. I can’t remember exactly.”
“Yes, she betrayed him. She stole a Celtic brooch from him, and took it to Gunnarsson.”
“I see.” And I could. I could imagine the cold fury that must have overtaken him when he discovered her treachery. “So, how did Gunnarsson end up with the Katerina?”
“It was largely to thwart Maigny,” Luca said.
“Ah.” Old, bad blood. How typical of men. “So Paul wanted it as payback for the earlier theft.” It was a test to see how much he knew.
He glanced at me below his lashes, quick and measuring. “Not exactly. Partly, of course, but he has been seeking this jewel for twenty years or better. Something to do with his father.” He shrugged, and leaning on the bridge, laced his hands together. “I don’t know.”
“His father was a thief, like you,” I said. I watched a pair of gulls wheeling against the eggplant-colored sky. “He spent years tracking down the Katerina, and managed to at last steal it from a war criminal who’d fled to Brazil. Paul was young, eight or nine, and saw the jewel when his father brought it home.”
“Mmm.” Luca’s murmur was sympathetic—and knowing. “I can guess the next part. Maigny’s father was murdered and the jewel disappeared.”
“From what I gather, it was quite brutal. Dismemberment, maybe even decapitation.”
Was it my imagination or did Luca shudder slightly? “So it goes with curses.”
I thought of Gunnarsson, he of the Kingpin’s Crown Jewels that I’d been brought in to evaluate. He’d been garroted. “Did you know the Kingpin?”
“No.” The word was short and cold. “He was dead before I arrived. He had only held the Katerina three days.”
“And was murdered.”
He looked down at me, his hands quiet on the stone balustrade of the bridge. “Yes.”
“Who did it?”
“Who knows? Perhaps it was your Maigny.”
“No.” Paul was a very wealthy man with an eye for beauty who’d made his fortune in canny investments. While I could credit the idea of his hiring a thief to steal a gem from a drug lord with whom he had an old grievance, I didn’t think he was a killer. “Who else wanted the jewel?”
He made a pishing noise. “More to the point, who did not?”
I nodded. “And you have now stolen it yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Has he paid you?”
“Half.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And now you’ve stolen it and have his cash and there are others after the jewel, and if you live another week it will be a miracle.” I tossed my heavy braid over my shoulder. “And you dragged me into this mess, why?”
“It belongs to Romania,” he said.
I half snorted. “And a thief cares about that, why?”
He gave me an injured look. “My country is poor but proud, and she has been overlooked. Our wealth comes in claiming our own heritage and taking pride in it. If the crown jewels of England were stolen, wouldn’t a British thief wish to return them?”
“I suppose.” I was still picking up a note of insincerity. Something not quite right. A gust tossed handfuls of dust into my eyes. “Let’s go back.” We turned around, and I noticed a pair of lovers kissing on a bench. Something about them looked—off.
I frowned. Or was I just being paranoid? Not everybody was paparazzi. “What do I have to do with all of this?”
“Your name was in the newspapers after the murder.”
“Yeah. And?”
He paused, put his hand on my arm. Again the night wind blew his exotic scent toward me, mixing it with the sea in a heady combination. I looked at his mouth, wondered…
“When I saw your photo in the paper, I knew I had seen it before, but only when they mentioned your father was Gordon Montague did I realize that I could protect myself from Paul’s wrath.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How will I protect you?”
“Sylvie, think,” he said. “Why choose you? He won’t kill me as long as you are with me.”
“Why would I care if he kills you?”
“It does not matter what you think. It matters that he will do nothing to endanger you. You are the most precious of all creatures to him, did you know that?”
I snorted. “We haven’t spoken in five years.”
“That may be,” he said quietly, and lifted a hand to my face to capture a strand of long hair that had escaped my braid. He smoothed it back. “But it has not changed his feelings for you. He’s very protective of you.”
Luca’s fingers were graceful and delicate on my cheekbone, and as I looked up at him warily, I spied something in his blue eyes. Surprise, perhaps. A tendril of awareness unfurled on my spine as he took a step closer.
From behind us came a shout, “Hey, Sylvie! Is that your new boyfriend?”
I turned, instinctively, and the flashes went off, pop, pop.
“Shit.” I whirled away, putting my back to them. “C’mon,” I said to Luca. “Let’s get out of here.”
He had not moved, his hand still circling my arm. He appeared to be confused as he stared at the photographers, and I’m sure they caught very flattering, open-mouthed pictures of him. They’d run with some appropriately awful headline about shocking secrets or something appropriately comic-bookish.
The flashes from the cameras lit up the night, and Luca scowled. “Who—?”
“Fucking paparazzi,” I said, striding away. “Where’ s the car?”
He hurried to catch me. “Language, language,” he said with a chuckle in his voice.
“You try having sleazy photographers taking your picture every time you’re about to kiss someone.” I was still stinging from an encounter in New York last spring, when the doggedness of a pair of photographers had cost me a developing relationship with a man I’d really liked. Joseph had been a professor at Berkley. He’d found the attention daunting, and dumped me.
“Were we about to kiss?” Luca asked.
I glared at him. “Don’t be arch.”
He grinned. “The car is here.” He pointed toward a car park near the train station. Behind us the photographers strolled along, shooting photos lazily, their cigarette smoke carried invisibly toward us on the night.
He led the way toward a tiny Ford Mini. White. I raised an eyebrow. “Could you possibly have chosen anything less cool?”
He made a face, brushed the question from the air with a wave of his hand, and opened the passenger door for me. There was that one moment of disorientation when I looked down and there was no steering wheel on the left. I started to duck into the car, but Luca captured my arm. Stopped me.
And before I knew what was happening, he slid his hand into my hair, tilted his head toward mine and kissed me.
Even as I was falling into it, I knew exactly what he was doing—for some reason he wanted our photos in the tabloids. He wanted something passionate and sexy. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d never be famous enough to make the covers, but with the news of the drug dealer’s stash, and the sexy possibility of a lost gem, and the excitement over my father’s current wins on the circuit, chances were excellent—especially with Luca’s good looks—that we’d be plastered over them all tomorrow. For a split second, I wondered who he wanted to see us.
I started to pull back, half offended, but who was I kidding? I was using him, too. It wouldn’t exactly kill me to have my ex-husband see photos of me kissing some dashing foreigner. For a single long moment, I felt a ripple of satisfaction at the idea of Timothy standing in line in some grocery store, and the tabloids emblazoned with me and Luca kissing.
That was where I was in one minute.
The very next second, he lifted his head slightly, his hands cupped around my face, and he looked faintly puzzled. “Well,” he whispered, and before I could gather my senses enough to move away, he’d bent his head again, claimed my mouth, and something shifted with both of us.
Just that simple. He tasted exactly right. There are people you know are bad for you and you let them get away with murder for all kinds of physical reasons. That’s all I can tell you about Luca. His mouth was as luscious as it looked, the lips full and delicious and somehow elegant. That scent of oranges, sharp as freshly grated peel, swept through me, made my hips soft, and I lost my head for three seconds.
Or maybe it was thirty.
I know my head fell back into his palm, that his thumb was on my cheek, that he might have been mugging for the cameras at first, but it shifted for him at the same instant it did for me, and there was nothing pretend in the sudden thrust of his tongue, the sparking electricity that ran in blue rivulets between us. That tendril of unfurling awareness on my spine moved trough my body, twining around those places our bodies touched—chest, knees, lips.
I very nearly let go. His fingers slid down my neck, traced my collarbone—
Some internal alarm screamed my name. I shoved him away. “Stop!”
For one long second, he didn’t release me, only hovered there a moment, eyes sharp and hot, one hand still tangled in my hair. His lips were slightly parted. I forgot there were photographers hovering. Forgot that I had a giant diamond stashed in my bra. Forgot I was in Scotland for a good reason and I needed to protect my integrity.
Then his nostrils flared and he abruptly dropped his hands, moved away from me.
“Get in,” he said.
Chapter 6
Diamonds were worn by aristocratic families to ward off the plague during the Middle Ages. The poorest people always died first, since they lived closer to the docks, where the ships often brought the plague from other countries. The rich had an idea that since the poor went first, that displaying their wealth (diamonds) would keep them from infection.
—Margaret Odrowaz-Sypniewski, B.F.A.
When I climbed into the car, he slammed the door and came around to get behind the wheel. He did not look at me as he turned the key in the ignition. I noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.
“Where is your room?” he asked gruffly.
I gave him directions. He nearly turned the wrong way out of the parking lot, and cursed left-hand drive before he corrected his turn. “When will Britain catch up with the rest of the world on traffic?”
“Never.”
“It’s idiotic.”
I shrugged. “Probably.”
It took longer to get out of the parking lot than it did to get to the hotel, and we pulled up into the lot there. Lamplight glowed at the windows stacked up into the darkness.
Would I invite him in? Under other circumstances, I might have. But I would not do it tonight. There were too many volatilities built into it. Too much at stake.
I got out. He followed me, keys in hand, to the back of the car. Without speaking, he opened the trunk, let me grab my bag, and slammed the top down again.
“Thanks,” I said, and headed toward the door of the hotel, rolling the case behind me. He followed.
I stopped. “What are you doing?”
“Coming with you.”
“Why?”
“What are you going to do, Sylvie?” He scowled. “Turn it in to the authorities?”
That was exactly what I should do. My career depended on my doing exactly that. Why was I hesitating? “I don’t know yet.”
“Before you act, Sylvie, will you think on it? It belongs to Romania. If you take it to Maigny, it will never be there again.”
“He has no part in this. I told you, we haven’t spoken in years.”
“So you say.” He paused. “If you will help me return it to Romania, I will make it worth your while.”
“If I do that, my career is over, Luca.”
“Not if it appears that I kidnapped you.”
I shook my head. “No.”
He lowered his eyes, then looked at me. “And what if I kidnap you now?”
“You would have done it already if that was what you intended.” I paused with my hand on the door to the hotel. “Would have been much easier for you all around, wouldn’t it? Grab me in San Francisco, make sure Paul knew so he didn’t kill you and then get the jewel back to Romania.”
“Yes.”
I met his eyes. “But you didn’t. You’re a thief, but not violent.”
A slight shrug. He started to speak, then paused. Looked toward the parking lot. “If—”
I waited, but he didn’t finish. “‘If…?’” I prompted.
“If I return the jewel to Romania, I can perhaps regain the good opinion of my family. It would mean a great deal to me.”
Something about his plea moved me. The diamond felt almost as if it started to hum against my flesh. “I’m so tired,” I said. Touched cold fingers to the middle of my eyebrows. “Do you suppose we could talk about all of this in the morning?”
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s get my bag.”
We went into the hotel, and the girl nodded to me. I went up the stairs, not wishing to wait for the tiny, narrow elevator. My room was on the third floor. Luca didn’t say a word. His keys jingled in his hand as he followed behind me. It occurred to me that I should be afraid of him—but I wasn’t. My instincts, honed in dozens of cities throughout my childhood spent following my father around the circuit, told me that Luca meant me no harm.
I thought of his mouth, that luscious kiss, and considered the possibility of letting him sleep in my bed tonight. And what kind of an idiot I’d be if I let him.
But you know, it had been a long bad year. My divorce anniversary was in two days. Sometimes what you want is a little affirmation that you’re attractive, that you’ve still got it. Or maybe I just wanted the warmth of another person’s skin next to mine.
On the landing, I paused. “I’m really not going to give you the jewel.”
“I will not ask it.” His eyes were luminous and direct. “Take it to the police, let it be stolen again, let another fool be murdered.”
“Or perhaps I’ll take it to Paul,” I said, dangerously.
“That, too, is an option. But a criminal who wants it for greed will surely be swept away by the curse, will he not?”
“Why would I care?”
He smiled. “Why, indeed?”
I turned my back and climbed the rest of the stairs. My door was the third one down. I paused for a second outside, and turned toward Luca. The door fell open beneath my hand, and startled, I turned back.
Holding my breath, I silently began to push it open. It was nearly impossible to keep my hand away from the priceless weight nestled beneath my left breast. The door moved heavily on well-oiled hinges, an inch at a time. There was a light on within. I couldn’t remember if I’d left one on or not.
My cell phone rang.
Three things happened at once—I scrambled to pull it out of my pocket; Luca leapt forward to push the door the rest of the way open, just as someone inside the room came hurtling out. I ducked, instinctively rolling toward one side.
I shouted, “Look out!” but Luca was already down, a red gash opening over his brow. I only had a hazy impression of a burly man in a sweatshirt before I saw the gun he carried in a white, freckled hand. I dove for the floor, my cell phone ringing again. Luca was on his feet, rushing for the intruder, but the man headed straight down the hall and disappeared into another hallway, presumably stairs for the staff. Luca went after him, but returned in a moment, shaking his head. “He’s gone.”
The cell phone rang again, loud against my thigh. I reached for it, thinking to flip it open, but just as I got it into my hand, doors started opening along the corridor. Luca grabbed me and shoved me toward the elevator, jamming his fingers against the buttons.
I managed a muffled, “What—?”
He pulled me into him, an arm across my chest, his mouth against my ear. “We must look like lovers. Be still.” He let go of a laugh, as if he were drunk, and hid the blood on his face by ducking into my shoulder.
The elevator came and he shoved me inside it. The doors closed. I yanked out of his grip, hit the second floor button. “I’m not going with you.”
“They’ll kill you for that jewel.”
“They! Who are they?”
“I don’t know. There were others who knew Gunnarsson had the Katerina. And someone killed him before I got there.”
“This is too much,” I said, putting my fingers to my temples. I desperately needed sleep, a break, some coherence.
“Sylvie, you must not be alone. Not until the jewel is delivered.”
“I don’t want any part of this!” I cried, and reached into my bra, yanked it out, tossed it at him. “You take it.”
The jewel, absurdly huge, fell against the floor with a thump and lay at his feet. He literally shuddered. The elevator moved, headed downward, and he punched the stop button.
The cubicle slammed to a stop. We stood there, staring at each other, with the blood dripping down his forehead, the jewel at his feet. “Please,” he said. “I will do whatever you ask. Help me.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
Blood trickled into his left eye and he blinked, wincing, his fingers white on the stop button. He kicked the jewel back toward me. “I am directly related to the priest who had it dug from the grave. I cannot touch it. I need you.”
“You had to touch it somehow.”
He shook his head. “I picked it up with a glove, put it in a box.”
“You can do that now.”
“Please,” he said. “Help me. It is not for me. It is for Romania, for the first Katerina. For justice.”
For a long moment, I thought about it. There was more I didn’t know, more I wanted to understand, and it all bumped around in my head like boxes on a stormy sea. None of the story hung together. Probably a lot of that was exaggerated by the very real case of jet lag that was dragging on my brain cells.
But the one thing I did know was that I did not want to let the jewel go just this moment. Before I decided, I wanted to get some sleep. And if I were honest, didn’t some part of me want to carry it to Paul himself, like an offering?
“All right,” I said, and bent down to pick up the jewel. In my hand, it was startlingly alive, with a deep vibration I could feel through to my wrist. I looked at it. “It’s very powerful, this stone,” I said quietly.
Luca looked as if he’d throw up. “Put it away,” he said.
I tucked it into my bra again, then remembered my clothes, now sitting upstairs in the hallway. “Damn it! I want to go back for my clothes.”
“No,” he said, adamantly.
“I have a pair of very expensive custom-made red leather pants in that bag, damn it.”
“I’ll buy you a new pair for God’s sake. Let’s go!”
Chapter 7
Clarity is the next step in determining the value of a diamond. Diamonds, more than any other gemstone, have the capability to produce the maximum amount of brilliance. And a diamond that is virtually free of interior or exterior inclusions (commonly called flaws) is of the highest quality, for nothing interferes with the passage of light through the diamond. To determine a diamond’s clarity, it is viewed under a 10-power magnification by a trained eye. Minute inclusions neither mar its beauty nor endanger its durability.
—www.costellos.com.au
In the parking lot, he headed toward his ridiculous little car. I shook my head. “I’m driving.”
He wiped his forehead, looked at the blood smeared on his fingers. “You’d better get me a towel first.”
I looked in the trunk, but it was as bare as every other rental car trunk in the world.
The pair of photographers, who’d obviously followed me to the hotel, swarmed suddenly out of the close, flashes popping. Grr. What an irritation!
“Get in the car,” I barked at Luca, and followed him in. “Put something over your face.”
“What? I do not have anything!”
“Use your hands, your arms. Cover the fucking blood, all right?” I turned the key. The engine rumbled to humming life, and I backed out, hit the road, letting the car have her head as we hit the open road headed south. Behind us, the photographers scrambled to follow us, but I knew they’d never catch me. Not in this car.
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