Chapter 8
Diamond, the hardest known material, is pure carbon, crystallized under a very high pressure and temperature. In nature, such an environment exists only at depths of 150 to 200 km below the surface of the earth. Volcanic eruptions drive the diamond-bearing rocks called "Kimberlite" and "Lamproite" to the surface of the earth where the diamonds can be extracted.
—www.costellos.com.au
T
he caravan park sat on a spit of level ground nearby the sea. By day, the views were spectacular—the sea and hills, a ruined castle, and in the distance, an unruined one. My preference was always for those that were not spit-shined and orderly; my mother had loved the gardens at Culzean, the topiary and paths and the gilt within the castle itself, and my great-grandmother often spoke of her childhood walking those lanes to Sunday school, she and her sisters, along the beach and up the long, long stairs to the castle.
But my taste was for the neglected ones. They didn't have to be falling down, but I wanted them to myself so I could hear their stories, put my hands on the walls and feel the past vibrating through the stones. I wanted the possibility—however thin—that I might find some forgotten relic, some dropped thing from a hundred or even a thousand years ago. It was the romantic in me.
Which was the part I'd been trying to kill now for at least a decade. My mother's life, then my own, had shown me there was no such thing as soul mates or eternal love, and intellectually, I'd given up believing in them.
Emotionally…well, that was more difficult. The heart wants to believe all kinds of things, doesn't it? And what was I doing in my work—specializing in legendary jewels. Hard to imagine anything more romantic than that. Being in Scotland made me remember…
The view from the caravan at night depended upon how many people were around, and how many lights were on, and what the weather was like. Sometimes, a full moon could make the seascape and hills seem hauntingly cold and lonely. Tonight, there was no moon, only the cloud-washed sky, faintly gray, and the sea spray in the air. I saw no other lights in the caravans. It was a place for weekenders, summer getaways. At midweek in late March, there was no one about at all. I found the key beneath the flower pot, and let myself in; Luca came in behind me.
It was very cold inside, but the light went on when I flicked the switch. It was ordinary and tidy, the big front window facing the darkness of the water, a table with bench seats tucked beneath it. In the back were two bedrooms and a shower.
As I leaned against the counter, I suddenly felt again the slam of jet lag. I
really
needed some sleep. The lack of it made my neck and shoulders feel as brittle and hard as an old book.
"Sit down," I told Luca. "I'll find the first-aid kit."
I turned on the stove, a space heater that would warm the area quickly, then shuffled through the cupboards in the small kitchen area. There was a first-aid kit in a drawer, and I took it out, along with a face cloth.
Only then did I look back to Luca. In the light, the blood looked gruesome, crusted in his hair and on his face, gumming up his eyebrow. His skin was pale, and the angle of the light made his cheeks look hollow, like a skeleton or death.
"Jeez," I said lightly, and turned on the water to let it warm up a little. "You probably needed stitches."
He lowered the hand that held the wad of tissues, and the cut over his brow leaked a little. "Scalp wound," he said with a shrug. "They bleed a lot, no?"
I carried the wet, warm rag to him and began to gently wash the blood that had dried on his face. A very good face it was, too, with tan skin stretched thinly over cheekbones, high brow, the strong bridge of his nose. His lashes were thick and inky, like his hair, the nose strong, lips full. Exotic. As intimacy goes, hand to face or head is very high, and I felt the thrill and recklessness of it as I tended him. He kept his eyes cast down. It helped.
Finally, I got to the cut, which was—despite his protests—deep enough it should have had stitches. The bleeding was slowing, but a small patch of gray bone showed. I blanched a little, but managed to get it clean, then bandaged with a sterile patch of white strapped into place with strips of white first-aid tape.
Only then did he raise his eyes. He took my hand, raised it to his lips and kissed the second and third knuckles, and looked up at me. "Thank you."
In the light, the blue irises were astonishing. Not a single fleck of gold or green or any other color, just shades of blue. Grade D for clarity.
"You're welcome," I said, taking my hand away. I dropped the soiled rag into the sink. "Do you want a cup of tea?" I asked, filling the kettle.
"I'd prefer coffee, if there is any."
I chuckled, putting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner beneath it. "Don't hold your breath." I opened the cupboard and took out a stainless steel kettle, big enough for several cups, and found the tea bags. There was sugar sealed in a plastic container, and powdered milk in a matching one. "Sorry, no coffee."
"There never is in the UK. I have
never
had a decent coffee here. Ever. It all tastes as if someone has put five grains of instant in the bottom of a cup and poured in three cups of water." He shuddered. "Awful."
"Right." I chuckled, and was rewarded with a quirk of smile. "May as well go for tea, then." As I waited for the water to come to a boil, I gathered up the scissors and tape and bandages and tucked them back into the kit. Individual packets of aspirin were nestled next to the iodine, and I pulled one out. "Headache?"
"It is unmanly to admit it," he said, but he held out his hand. I gave him the pills and a glass of water, then leaned on the counter as I waited for the kettle.
Again, I remembered the phone messages I hadn't heard and pulled out the phone to see if there was service here. The screen showed a little bear turning backward on the screen—success. "Finally," I said. "Isn't cell phone reception weird?"
I punched in the voice mail numbers, and wonder of wonders, it worked.
The service said, "You have three new messages," and I took the phone away from my ear to punch in the number to let me hear it. Luca stood, put his hand over mine.
"Wait," he said.
"What?"
"Check later," he said, and bent down to kiss me. He put the warmth of his palms exactly where I needed to feel them, flesh against those tight, tired muscles.
And it was just…. so much simpler to be kissed, so pleasant to taste the richness of his mouth and breathe in that clove and orange scent—I half expected some cordial flavor to be on his tongue, like the syrup inside a chocolate bar.
I turned my head, angled my mouth to fit him better, and he made a soft noise, took a step closer, put his body against mine. His chest, his hips, our thighs touched. I felt his jeans on my bare knee. His hands slid from my shoulders to my hair, still damp in its braid. He just touched my scalp, shaped his palms to it, and moved his hips against me.
And there I stood, small of my back against the counter, cell phone forgotten in my hand, mouth open and drinking.
The kettle whistled. Luca slowly—reluctantly, it seemed to me—let me go. For an instant, he looked down at me, a soberness in his eyes I had not seen. Again I thought of the post-war industrialism of Bucharest, the grimness of an eastern European nation that had spent so much time struggling to hold its own.
Stop it.
He was a thief who'd stolen one of the most valuable diamonds in the world, double-crossed the man who'd no doubt paid him handsomely to steal it, then set me up to take the fall for him and carry the bloody—literally—gem across the continent to his homeland.
"How," I asked, snagging the screaming kettle, "did you get the jewel through security?"
He lifted one jet-black, glossy brow. "I say it is a bauble for my child."
I nodded. Because who would believe such a big stone was actually a real diamond?
"I'm going to find some warmer clothes," I said. "I'll be back in a minute."
In the bedroom, I pulled open drawers until I found some jeans. My cousin Alan wasn't a lot taller than I, and although they'd be baggy, they'd be a lot warmer than bare legs. As if to reinforce my decision, a gust of wind blew into the caravan walls. Rain came with it, falling in sideways sheets. I shivered and buttoned the jeans, then found a warm sweater to put on over the turquoise linen shirt I'd taken from Luca's bag.
Then, in the quiet of the bedroom, by myself, I took out the diamond and held it in my hand. She filled my palm, clear as water except that small, piercingly bright ruby floating within, like a heart or a bloody tear.
Again, I felt the depth of vibration within it, a magnetic tingling. All jewels—all rocks, actually—have a vibration, though I have been told not everyone can feel it. As far back as I can remember, however, my game was to walk along a beach or a path and keep my eyes open for intriguing stones. I'd then pick them up and clasp them in my hand to measure the vibrational hum they held. The strong ones I kept. The "cold" ones I left behind.
Gemstones nearly always have particularly strong vibrations. A gem is not only a rock but an object of desire, and they often have a history. They've absorbed the passions, the hungers, the sorrows and joys of those who have held them. I do not speak of this in scientific circles, of course. I'd be laughed out of the company of my peers, even if many of them could identify with me on some level.
But I do feel it, and I suspect so do many people. That's why we reach, instinctively, for ancient vases or put our hands flat on an old wall. Our need to feel everything is the reason for all those signs in museums that say Please do not touch!
The Katerina practically sizzled. I lifted her and pressed her to the brow chakra, between the eyebrows, the spot of the third eye. Sometimes, doing that, I feel a hum that's quite intense. Sometimes—I know it's crazy—there will be a picture, or maybe a color associated with it.
Crazy, no?
With the Katerina, I felt the buzzing sense of motion, energy against my forehead, and a sense of darkness. Not a surprise, considering the history of the stone. Luca was right—I didn't believe in curses, but I did know that stones seemed to absorb all kinds of emotion. Greed was a particularly destructive drive, and this stone was no doubt permeated with it.
My cell phone rang. I was concentrating so closely on the stone that I startled, and for the third time, I dropped the Katerina. It was as if the jewel was leaping out of my hands.
Where did she want to go? I wondered.
The phone rang again, and I grabbed it, flipped it open. "Hello?"
As I spoke, I bent down, snared the jewel, and slipped it back into the safe hiding spot of my bra.
"Sylvie?" said a voice on the other end of the line, as clear and near as if he was standing next to me.
I went still. "Paul?"
"Yes. Where are you? I tried your hotel. They said you were not there."
It's impossible to tell you how his voice affected me. How it always affected me. I've heard the word "dulcet" all my life, but Paul is the only man I've known who really had a voice that could be described that way—honeyed and melodious. It was the pitch of a cello, and his English was thickly, charmingly accented. In my mind's eye, I saw his face, long and harshly carved, his eyes a greenish-gray that that could, by turns, be stormy or cold or vividly fierce.
With some hostility, I asked, "How did you get this number?"
"I called your grandmother. Have you not received my messages?"
"No, I haven't been able to get—"
"Where are you?" he asked again.
"In Scotland."
Luca knocked at the bedroom door. He'd obviously heard the phone ring. "Sylvie?"
I looked over my shoulder at the door, frowning. In my ear, Paul said, "I know you're in
Scotland
. Where?"
"I don't know that that's any of your business," I said.
At the door, Luca knocked again, both polite and insistent. "Sylvie?
"Just a minute," I said in the direction of the door. "I'm not dressed."
Paul said, "Is there someone with you?"
"Again, none of your business," I said. Through the fabric of the sweater, my shirt, my bra, I rubbed the Katerina.
Paul said, "I have never lied to you, Sylvie. Would you agree?"
His voice. God, his voice. I bent my head, pressed the phone close to my ear. Because I knew him so well, I was sure that right now, he'd be sitting down, and he might be drawing circles on a piece of paper. Circles or ovals, or jagged, electric-looking patterns, depending on his mood. Sometimes, the circles took on faces—nose, eyes, hair, neck. Sometimes, the ovals became feet or fingernails on a hand.
"No, you've never lied to me," I said. "Not as far as I know."
"Good. Listen,
ma poulette
, do you have the jewel?"
"It
was
you, on the phone! That message in Paris!"
"Yes. I am currently away, but I picked up my voice mail this afternoon. What is going on, Sylvie?"
At the door, Luca knocked again. "Sylvie, are you all right?"
I went to the door, opened it, pretending there was nothing wrong. I nodded, pressed my finger to my lips. Mouthed, "Paul."
He looked grim.
On the phone, Paul said, "Sylvie, are you there?"
"Yes, and I'm fine," I said.
"Do you have the jewel?"
"You know the answer to that question."
"You do not have it by accident,
ma cherie
."
"No sh—" I stopped myself in time. He hated to hear me swear crudely. "Kidding."
"Please, Sylvie," he said. "Listen to me. You will meet a man named Luca Colceriu. Do not trust him."
"Already made his acquaintance," I said, and met Luca's gaze. There was something hot and black in his eyes, and a hair-thin line of white around his finely cut nostrils, betraying the strong emotion he was attempting to hide. "He's standing right here."
"Merde!"
Paul said.
Luca scowled, shook his head, flung away his hands.