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.
W
hen 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
I
n 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.
But they tried. They rode my tail all the way out of town.
"Are you squeamish about fast driving?" I asked.
"No."
"Good," I said, and kicked the car into a purring race, swooping around the tight curves and dark downhill drops with glee. The photographers dropped off when we sped down a six percent or so grade that whipped and turned like a test course.
Next to me, Luca was hanging on for dear life, and I laughed. "I thought it didn't frighten you?"
"I didn't know you were going to go 80 miles per hour! Holy Mother of God!"
In the rear view mirror, my tail was clean, so I dropped the speed down to a more normal level.
"Who the hell was that in my room?" I said.
"How would I know that?"
"They weren't your guys?"
"I do not have any guys, as you say it." He swore, or at least I assume it was a swear, since it was in Romanian. His fingers were pressed to his head. "I am getting blood all over me."
"Just don't get any on the car. I don't want to have to pay for cleaning."
His tone was dry. "I will do my best."
I dug in my purse and found a minipack of tissues. "Try these." When he would have tugged out just one, I shook my head. "Take out the whole thing and press it against the wound."
He did. I rounded a turn, realizing that I was headed quickly away from the lights of Ayr, my family. I looked backward into the mirror, feeling an odd sense of plucking loss.
"Do you know how long it's been since I've seen my grandmother?"
"No."
"Years. Three years."
He flicked a shoulder. "So go when we are finished here."
"Here?"
"With all this."
"You seem very sure I'll help you."
He looked at me, and it was like the moment in the pub—such a certainty about his knowledge of me that I was again unnerved. "I do not think you will turn your back on the jewel."
"I don't have any attachment to it."
"No?" He pulled the thick padding of tissue from his head, looked at it. "Perhaps I was wrong."
"That's still bleeding," I said, and downshifted as we sailed over a hill. For a brief, blissful instant, I felt the unity of car and myself. To the right was a ruin standing up against the lowering clouds. The rain was coming. I could drive forever in this elegant machine on these narrow, lonely roads with the rain coming in from the west.
I thought of the scene in the hallway of the hotel. "Who would know I have the jewel? You're the one who planted it. You must have some idea." I shifted, thinking aloud. "It had to be someone who was following you."
He turned his face toward the sea. Silent for a moment. "Probably from the drug gang, people looking for the jewel."
"Ah. Because they know it's missing and the police don't even know he had it."
"Yes."
"How did Paul know Gunnarsson had it?"
"It was on the grapevine that The Swede had purchased a very rare jewel, but Maigny didn't know until Gunnarsson sent him an e-mail."
"An e-mail," I repeated with a short laugh. "How very modern."
From the corner of my eye, I saw him gingerly exploring the wound with his finger, saw him wince. In America, we might have had a chance to find some bandages at some little shop along the road, but out here, on this rocky western coast, there would be nothing open so late save a pub that served the locals. "Does it hurt?"
A shrug.
"I'm headed for my cousin's caravan. We'll camp there tonight and figure out what to do tomorrow."
He turned his face toward me. I felt his measuring, his wondering—would we be lovers?—and did not look at him. "Don't get any ideas," I said.
"Why would I?"
"So long as we're on the same page."
He put his head back against the seat.
"I'm sure," I said, "that he has a first-aid kit there."
"No doubt." Luca closed his eyes.
The act of driving gave me a kind of cocoon in which to think, and even through my exhaustion, I felt the benefit of it. For a little while, my thoughts were a little less muddled.
What did I know to be an absolute truth? Very little, when it came right down to it. One of the only actual facts was that I had taken possession of a jewel that was rare and storied.
The other fact was that I'd heard Paul's voice on that answering machine. Luca wanted Paul to know I was involved, and by kissing me in front of the paparazzi had made sure of it. "How did you switch the bags?" I asked.
"You were sleeping. It was easy."
"But how did you know what bag I had? It was exactly the same as mine."
He looked at me. "I broke into your apartment in San Francisco."
"Why not just plant the jewel there?"
He paused. "If you came to Scotland, I knew you would be more likely to help me."
True enough. I
was
helping him, wasn't I? "So you spied on me? Broke into my home?"
"I did not touch anything. Except your cat. He's very nice." He gave me a half smile. "And, the purple underthings were very pretty, hanging on the shower."
"Don't be sly. That's disgusting."
"Expedient," he said, and leaned his head back on the seat. "That is all."
I grunted, and thought of my apartment, overlooking the beach in San Francisco. I paid a bloody fortune for it—and on my modest salary, I'd never have been able to afford it. It was the one thing I'd let my father do for me. Too far from the sea, and I began to feel restless and out of sorts.
"You should be better protected," he said. "The paintings are valuable, no?"
"Some of them." The collection of artwork on my walls was my prize possession and included a tiny sketch by Gaugin, purchased at God only knows what price by Paul for my seventeenth birthday. "Did you steal any of them?"
"No," he said. "I am jewel thief, and I wanted only to discover what model suitcase you owned." His voice was wearing down. "You need better security. It was very simple to break in."
I nodded. Luca fell silent. I thought of the Gaugin, of a collection of works done by a Tahitian painter from the modern world.
Which led to thoughts of Paul. In the darkness, with so much that involved him, it was impossible not to let the past swirl into my brain.
I don't even remember the first time I met him. I must have been five or six—he's part of that stretch of my parents' lives—and a race broke him when he was thirty-three, so it was before then.
It is said that I turned to my mother and said, "I am going to marry that man." She laughed when she told the story, and it used to embarrass me.
I don't remember our meeting, but I have hundreds of other memories of him over the years. He runs like a thread through everything.
He was a sort of artistic guardian, seeing to my education of the world—painters and literature and poets; how to eat and dine and serve; how to converse and be sparkling. We loved museums and saw them all eventually. He loved to take me to the seashore, too, and help me build sandcastles, buy me ices in Italy, ice cream in America. He was boyish and exuberant, unlike the other adults in my world.
I adored him. He had a long, angled face, with large gray-green eyes that could twinkle so beautifully, and big gentle hands.
So much of my childhood is woven through with Paul: bringing a bauble from some exotic jaunt; laughing down at me as I danced on his feet. He read me stories in his lilting, French-accented voice. Taught me to cook hardboiled eggs and serve them in egg cups—which he then collected for me from all over the world.
I know now that—
Never mind. My mother eventually made peace with him. She never truly loved any of my brash American father's racing friends, but Paul had a way about him that pierced even my mother's hard veneer. Like my grandmother, Paul was French, and that held some weight with both of them.
When I was ten, he slammed into a seawall at Monaco, totaling his car and landing in the hospital for nearly seven months. He broke two dozen bones, including his skull and his jaw, most of his ribs, and all the bones in his right arm and hand.
Everyone thought he would die. They were careful to warn me—he's gravely injured, they said.
It will be a miracle if he survives.
I insisted that he would not die. Every day, I walked to the little Catholic church around the corner from our coral-painted house in Nice—my mother, being raised by her French mother, was that rarest of beings, a Scottish Catholic—and lit a candle for him. Every single day, I knelt before Mary, in her clean blue robes, and promised I would be good if Paul could just stay alive.
I begged to be allowed to see him, but they would not let me, not for weeks and weeks, during which he lay in a coma, unsupported by machines, but not conscious or aware. I fretted and complained and whined. Once, I tried to sneak in on my own.
At last, my grandmother, visiting our home in Nice from Scotland, took mercy on me. Brooking no argument from my parents, she drove me to the hospital where I could see for myself that Paul was still alive. Barely, but he could breathe on his own.
It scared me, of course—the tubes stuck into his skin and the plaster encasing his legs and arms and shoulders and head. His unmoving stillness seemed like the grave, but I put my hand on his and it was warm. It twitched, just the smallest bit.
Fiercely I said to him, "You must not die, Paul. I am here, waiting for you to wake up."
It was still another month before his coma dissolved, but I was there most days, waiting, talking, reading him stories from a collection of French fairy tales, which were not at all the sanitized, brushed-up American versions. I loved the very terrible things that lurked in French editions—they comforted me in some way that the less dark tellings did not.
I took my dolls in, and left a stuffed cat on his bed, which the nurses found charming. I learned to knit like my grandmother, and tried to knit lace as I sat at his bedside, watching the sky through the windows.
Every morning, before school, I detoured into the tiny church and lit candles to the Virgin, and to Saint Bernard, patron saint of racers. It was not clear, exactly, that Bernard would be of help to an auto racer, or healing, but his was the statue I could find, so it was to him I offered my petition.
The afternoon Paul did awaken, I was there all by myself, holding his big, knobby-knuckled hand. It was a blustery day, wind slamming sheets of rain into the windows, and I was watching it, fretting, wondering if he would ever wake up.
His fingers slowly curled around mine, warm and large, and I turned slowly, to see him looking at me. A sideways smile lifted his lips on the left. "My Sylvie," he said, and the words sounded raw in the voice that had not uttered a word in all that time.
I flung myself on him. "Paul!"
His other hand came up and touched the back of my head. "Sweet Sylvie. I heard you."
In my relief, I cried and cried. That day, I took flowers and all my accumulated little bits of money and offered them to the saints who had saved his life.
Offerings to saints had become a habit. I needed to make the offerings on my own behalf now.