Authors: Rita Sable
She stopped in front of a colorful display of tulips. They reminded her of spring, her favorite season. But Trevor urged her deeper into the store.
“Let’s check out the roses, darling,” he whispered seductively into her ear.
An older man tended those lusty blooms, his curly red hair threaded with silver. Cynthia guessed he must be the shopkeeper since he wore a green smock and rubber boots. His broad smile revealed a space between his front teeth and genuine joy sparkling from pansy-blue eyes.
“Ah, now ye look like a lady who would enjoy roses.” His heavy Scottish brogue rolled with the last word.
She couldn’t help but smile at him. “There’s not really a flower I don’t like.”
He held out a bouquet of white roses, their dewy petals creamy soft under the light.
“Oh, my. Those are beautiful.”
The man turned his attention to Trevor. “How about a dozen for yer beautiful lady?”
“Would you like them, Cyn?”
“Ah, well, sure. But you don’t have to buy me flowers, Trevor. I mean, with all the running around we’re doing, I hardly—”
“She’ll take them,” Trevor interrupted. He handed the shopkeeper his valet ticket and took a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of tight, white rosebuds in exchange. He handed them to her.
“Let’s go.” He urged her out of the flower shop.
She glanced over her shoulder. The shopkeeper grinned toothily and waved his fingers, then turned to the door at the back of the shop and disappeared. Cynthia sniffed her fragrant roses to hide her smile. “Ah, I get it. That was Mr. O’Rourke, wasn’t it?”
“No.” A reckless spark brightened Trevor’s intense eyes. “I’ve never seen him before in my life. That was just a daft old man selling flowers in Grand Central Station.”
“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “All you spies are the same. Sneaky.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I’m not a spy. And I don’t sneak.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Wrong, darling.” He guided her to the exit door and held it open. “I go after what I want. Never had the need to sneak.”
Chapter Eleven
The curvy black Porsche Cayenne SUV purred powerfully through New York City traffic. Four-wheel drive gave it agility and traction on the snow-slicked city streets. Bypassing the valet attendant, Trevor drove the car into the hotel’s underground parking garage himself. He took a sharp corner around the snug space and tested the vehicle’s exceptionally tight turning radius.
If he had to get Cynthia away quickly, again, he felt much more confident with this Porsche’s ability to do the job.
The luxurious leather seats had claimed Cynthia right away. She’d fallen asleep shortly after they’d left Grand Central Station. He couldn’t help but steal quick, admiring glances at her face. Her full lips were slightly parted in slumber and the wine-red lipstick she’d put on earlier had faded to a dusky pink. Despite the steely determination of her character, she looked vulnerable now.
Trevor parked the Porsche and shut off the engine. For a moment in the dimly lit hotel garage he indulged in watching her sleep. She appeared exhausted. Silky dark lashes fanned across the pale skin beneath her eyes. Wisps of golden-brown hair touched the curve of her cheekbone. He wanted to reach out and tuck that soft hair behind her ear but kept his hands wrapped firmly around the leather-covered steering wheel. He pressed his own lips together and recalled the sultry, eager taste of her mouth. The warning voice inside his head bumped his conscience again.
Whatever you think you
’
re feeling for this woman
,
don
’
t
.
The white roses he’d “bought” for her lay in her lap, the cellophane-wrapped bouquet cradled protectively between her slender hands. With a wry grin, he realized that this was the first time in his life he’d ever bought a woman flowers. The bright look in her eyes when he’d handed them to her drove that point home with surprising clarity. Why hadn’t he ever thought to woo his former fiancée with something as simple as flowers?
Because you were always too involved with your job to spare a moment of thought for what your woman needed from you
.
He’d discovered too late that a woman wanted more than security and the social status of his family’s name in marriage. His former fiancée, the lovely and very proper Miriam Elaine Belford, hadn’t settled for that. She’d wanted his participation in all things. She wanted children and a husband to help raise them. Trevor could never guarantee how long he’d be away from home while he pursued his job. A week, months, or even half a year wasn’t uncommon.
He’d been so dense and self-absorbed during their short time together. When she accused him of being married to his job, he brushed it off. He shouldn’t have been so surprised or shocked when she ended their engagement.
How odd to realize now what a blessing in disguise Miriam’s decision had been. He’d found out on his own how empty his life really was. And now that he’d met Cynthia he knew he wanted her for more than tonight. At nearly thirty-three, he no longer craved the thrill of his job and the intrigue that fueled it. A loving wife, being home each night, perhaps having some children–-those things had an uncanny, satisfying appeal. New feelings pulled at his heart in a way he’d never really appreciated.
Not being able to understand it all made him nervous.
Hunger rumbled in his stomach, reminding him they’d hadn’t eaten since before noon and that hadn’t been more than a bite to satisfy a flea. Her knee would need some ice too. Although she hadn’t complained after her first mention of it, he had noticed she rubbed her knee often to soothe the pain.
His eyes wandered to the leather backpack she carried. It rested beside her hip on the seat. Instinct told him she valued it more than her lost purse and he suspected he knew why. Was she truly brave enough to hide the diamond in that inexpensive, scuffed leather bag? He itched to search the contents while she slept but respect for her kept him from doing so. He had to convince her to give the diamond to him. For some damned reason it meant something to have her trust.
If she didn’t, he would attempt a search. Later.
He reached out and lightly stroked a finger down her soft cheek. She jerked awake with a gasp, wide-eyed and fearful.
“It’s all right,” he whispered reassuringly.
Cynthia rose from her slumped position and rubbed her forehead with the back of one hand. “Sorry. I guess I dozed off for a while. Where are we?”
“At the hotel, in the garage. Ready to go inside?”
Her hands fluttered over the backpack lying on the seat beside her. She looked relieved after lightly pressing on it. He felt another pang of guilt for her lost purse.
“Come on, darling. I’ll order dinner to be brought to my room. You can rest.”
He carried her large suitcase inside the hotel lobby. The elevator whisked them up to the fifteenth-floor concierge level, stopping twice to take on other guests. Cynthia leaned against him, whether from weariness or her role-playing for the benefit of the others in the elevator, he didn’t know for sure. He only knew he welcomed the way her body fit alongside his. It felt right, like she’d always been there. Like she belonged there beside him.
By request, he’d taken a room farthest from the elevator near the stairwell. Cynthia eyed each hotel room door they passed as if she expected them to open and reveal a monster. She lagged behind him the closer they got to the end of the hall. He keyed his hotel suite door and pushed it open wide.
Cynthia hesitated before entering. She chewed her bottom lip and glanced down the hall toward the elevator. He waited, giving her plenty of time to decide to go in or back out completely. What would he do if she decided not stay with him? He hadn’t considered any alternatives. He couldn’t let her out of his sight.
On a weary sigh, she walked in. She placed the roses on a side table and then turned around to wait for him, hugging her coat close to her body as if she were still cold.
He set her suitcase down and closed the door. They’d only known each other for the span of a day. Bringing her to his hotel room held a certain connotation of implied intimacy. The circumstances surrounding her ordeal must have taken a toll on her both physically and mentally. Yet he couldn’t forget the way she’d melted into his embrace and opened for him earlier, meeting his passion and need with an amazing fire of her own.
He crossed over to the small dining table and picked up the room service menu. “What would you like to eat?”
Her face was pale but she took the menu from him with a little smile. “Anything sounds good right now. I’m starved.”
This moment felt awkward and stilted—as if he were a school-aged boy on his first date. He reached for her coat and she dropped her backpack on a chair before letting him slip the coat off her shoulders.
“Choose whatever you like from the menu,” he said. “I need to make some calls before dinner arrives. Shouldn’t take me long.”
She nodded and opened the menu, scanning the contents quickly. “I’ll take the chicken Caesar salad.”
“Something to drink? Dessert? I’m a big fan of desserts.”
Cynthia set the menu down on the table. When she spoke, he had to strain to hear her words. “I want you for dessert.”
* * * * *
The words came out of Cynthia’s mouth before she could stop them.
Hunger blazed from Trevor’s eyes, burning bright and hot. He gave her a wolfish smile. “Careful what you wish for.”
She swallowed past the hot lump in her throat. Her skin prickled when he stepped near and walked by without touching her, a smile still curving his lips. He picked up her suitcase and carried it into the bedroom, setting it down by the TV cabinet. She collected her backpack and followed him.
A king-sized bed dominated the room, tastefully decorated with warm golden tones and complementary royal blues. The open drapery revealed the glittering skyline of New York City. He yanked them closed.
“Wow. Interpol must have a hefty budget to afford a suite like this for you.”
Trevor shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over a chair. “Not at all. I have a stipend but I always upgrade when I can. With my own money.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off the large, gleaming gun strapped to his side. With deft fingers, he removed the harness and placed the weapon on the nightstand beside the bed. To her surprise he lifted his pants leg and removed a smaller gun from a strap around one muscular calf. She’d had no idea he carried a weapon there too. He put that one next to the bigger one on the nightstand and then reached for the phone.
“I’ll order dinner now and place my calls. Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”
Her cheeks still burned. How could she be so sexually forthright with him? What woman in her right mind tells a man she barely knows that she wants to eat him for dessert? Trevor must think she was loose and easy. She wasn’t, never had been. Yes, she enjoyed sex. But she never solicited it this freely. This man had a very powerful effect on her common sense. Or lack thereof.
“I’ll be in the bathroom.” When Trevor didn’t acknowledge her she hurried inside with her backpack and locked the door.
First things first, she had to take one more look at that diamond. She turned the water on in the sink to mask any revealing sounds and then opened her leather bag. Finding the jeweler’s case at the bottom beneath her cosmetics, she sat down on the toilet lid and carefully popped the velvet container open in her lap.
Against the brightly colored gems, the Russian white blazed with a fire that outclassed and outshone them all. It took her breath away. She used her gem grip to pick up the stone this time, locking it in place securely. The tiny, wire-thin grabbers held the diamond in a classic, four-pronged setting for easy viewing.
To the naked eye the stone looked normal enough, if exceptional. Using her loupe she examined the diamond through great magnification. An absolutely clear, bright white interior reflected back at her, like icy water with a rainbow of color skating through it. Not a single inclusion to mar the perfection. The faceting was just as flawless. Whoever cut this stone had done a masterful job, enhancing and highlighting the natural beauty of it, allowing light to enter the stone’s interior and reflect back with an astounding array of color.
A sigh escaped her lips, muffled by the water gushing in the sink. She turned the stone sideways to examine the girdle. Twirling the stem of her grip, she scrutinized the polished band that circled the entire crown. As she expected with a gem of this quality, it was precise and even all the way around.
Cynthia peered at the curious series of numbers on the girdle. She studied their shape more closely. The more she eyed them, the more uncertain she became. A few numbers could be one or the other. Was the number “1” really the letter “L”? And the number she thought was a “9” could also be a “G”.
Doubt scratched through her conscience. More than likely, she’d given Mr. Andrews a false reading. If his life depended on her deciphering of these numbers—
oh no
! She shuddered at the implication.
What could these numbers mean if not certification of some kind? Was this why everyone wanted this spectacular diamond? For whatever reason, a man tried to kill her last night and at least two others followed her with deadly intent. Even Trevor searched for this diamond—or at least the numbers engraved on it.
She rummaged inside her tool bag and found the small spiral notebook and pen she kept for idea sketches. She copied the numbers exactly as they appeared on the gem, underlining those she questioned.
Now what? Should she tell Trevor she had the diamond? Or should she hide it and just give him the numbers? Would that be enough for him?
Maybe not. Doubt scuttled into her mind like a nasty cockroach looking for a dark crevice to hide in. It made her feel dirty and tainted. She hardly knew Trevor. It seemed like a sin to give her client’s information so freely. Her physical attraction to this incredibly handsome man could be blinding her judgment, encouraging her to trust him with her life. He certainly did a good job of making her feel he was attracted to her too.