Black Diamond (10 page)

Camille entered her condo, laid her keys and phone on the hall table and stopped to look into the wall mirror. She could still feel his finger moving over her freckles. She hated them as a child because they were a source of teasing. As an adult, she had accepted them and since she rarely wore makeup, it meant they were there for all to see.

Kicking off her shoes, she went to her living room closet to remove the pertinent files she needed to take with her. Camille noticed Harold’s file on top. He was an astute businessman. As a result, IJDC garnered the reputation as one of the finest jewel distributors. He expected nothing but the best and Harold fully supported her career at IJDC and for that, he’d gained her respect.

Despite the bureau’s suspicion, she still doubted that he was the internal contact for the trafficking. He was aggressive and he sometimes preferred walking in gray areas versus black and white. That didn’t make him responsible for something as awful as being in cahoots with a rebel group profiting on the backs of children and women.

She was not convinced of Harold’s involvement. Regardless of her personal opinions, Camille had to prove them wrong or find the source.

Moving the files to the hall table, she glanced at the flashing light on her company Blackberry, signaling a new message. She grabbed her IJDC leash and read the text message.

It is with great remorse that we announce that Harold Donovan passed away earlier this morning. Our prayers and condolences are with the Donovan family. Management is asked to report to the main conference room Monday morning at 8:00 am. We will forward details regarding the funeral arrangements once they are made available.

Camille tried Ashanta again. She left a message and went to her room to shower and change. She loosened her ponytail holder as she stepped into her walk-in closet. She tried to decide whether she should wear a suit or something casual. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she scanned her closet.

She heard ringing coming from the front room. She ran to her cell phone hoping it was Ashanta and looked at the display, but didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello.”

“Hey, I wanted to ensure I had the correct number.”

It was Marc.
His voice sounds even better on the phone.
Camille tapped the heel of her hand on her right temple, chiding herself for allowing her thoughts to go down that path.

“Are you there?”

“Uhm…yeah, I’m here,” she answered, deciding to move this conversation to a safe topic. “Are you calling to cancel, or should I expect you at six?”

“Cancel? Oh no. Now why would I do that?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I should be there a little before six. Oh, and wear something casual ‘cause we’re going to Artista. Our reservation is for 6:30.”

She loved that place. They had the best mashed potatoes in Houston. However, this wasn’t a date. It was business;
strictly
business.

“Marc, we don’t have to go there. What about something quick like…Papasittos?”

“No, thanks. I haven’t been home in a while and I love their mashed potatoes. It sounds simple but it’s true. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of man. I’ll see you in the next half hour or so.” They had something in common. She wouldn’t tell him though.

“Okay.”

“Goodbye, Camille.”

“Bye.” She stood in the middle of her living room, staring at the phone. She needed to change. She tried Ashanta again, but still no answer.

Camille’s concern was turning into frustration. If she didn’t hear from Ashanta by tonight she’d head over to her house first thing tomorrow morning. With that decided, she got ready.

* * *

What if he died because of me?
Unshed tears stung Ashanta’s eyes. She could not rid herself of that haunting voice. She stood in the middle of her living room, bewildered, fists closed at her side. What would she do now?

She walked to her mantel and picked up a picture of her mother. She traced her mother’s face with her index finger. Ashanta smiled at the thought of that day; her father behind the camera while she and her mother smiled so hard her cheeks burned. Her mother was elated knowing she was graduating from college and preparing to attend graduate school in the United States.

Ashanta lifted the picture and placed a gentle kiss on the photo as if kissing it goodbye. She didn’t know if her mother was dead or alive, and learning of Harold’s death made her feel alone.
Again.

The tears that threatened to fall began to stream down her face. She had to put her plan into action. She walked to her bedroom and saw the flashing red light on her phone. She would check her messages later. Right now she had to go to IJDC.

She entered her closet and knelt down, searching the far corner for a black lock box. Ashanta searched her keychain for a small silver key. She opened the box and pulled out a stack of papers and a platinum locket. She grabbed the largest shoulder bag she could find and shoved the papers inside then slid the necklace over her head.

Ashanta sat on the bed and put on her sneakers. She was startled by her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her worn denim jeans and basic tank were far from the glamour girl everyone knew.

She walked to the mirror and rubbed away the traces of her tears.
She had to get going
. She grabbed her purse and headed to her car.

Ashanta opened the door and sat behind the wheel of her luxury vehicle. She’d worked hard and come a long way. She thought of Harold and felt the tears coming again. She told him only part of her story because she thought she had time to fix the mess she had created, but time apparently was not on her side. Happiness seemed to evade her once again.

Ashanta drove to IJDC. She had begun saving copies of financial reports that showed large deposits to several international bank accounts. As president of international accounts, Saul was charged with handling all international matters. To a perusing eye, everything seemed legit, but upon close examination, she noticed discrepancies. About a year ago, she started noting recurring account numbers, inconsistent shipments, and bogus company names.

Her plan was to sit down with Harold and share the information with him but her plan crumbled before her eyes.

Ashanta only had one other option. She would gather everything from her office and talk with Camille. Satisfied with her new plan, she made her way across Houston to IJDC.

* * *

Marc glanced up and down Camille’s street. The subdivision was a newly constructed area outside downtown Houston. It was a nice complex. He climbed the stairs leading to her front door. He knew he was a few minutes early, but he wanted to allow time for parking, if needed.

He rang the doorbell and waited. Marc could hear the clicking of heels on the other side of the door. He braced himself. The other night she wore casual jeans and a blouse and earlier that day she looked like she was auditioning for a role in
Men in Black
.

The chuckle fighting to escape lodged in his throat as he stared at Camille in the doorway. She had on what a basic black dress revealing a small amount of cleavage and hugging her womanly curves. And her halo was not obstructed in that nun-like bun. The light from the corridor made her appear almost angelic.

He stared at the top of her head and took his time scanning her body ending with a simple black heel. They added a couple of inches to her height, but stepping closer he noticed she still only reached his shoulders. He leaned in and placed a quick peck on her check before she could protest.

He lingered a little longer than anticipated, imprisoned by the soft sweet scent coming from her body. His groin tightened with awareness. He stood back, trying to calm his physical reaction to her.

“Are you ready?” He sounded as if he had chewed on frogs all evening. Clearing his throat, he tried to read her expression.

“Yes, let me grab my shawl,” she said, turning as she walked further into the house giving him a full view of her backside. It would take everything in him to keep his distance. Everything from her cute freckles and uncontrollable blushing to her seductive body beckoned him.

She stopped with a questioning look on her face and he realized he wasn’t paying attention to what she said.

“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” he asked.

“I asked whether you’d like a drink,” she responded.

Marc mustered all his strength to focus on what she was saying because her entire presentation was causing his senses to blow a fuse. He looked at his watch. “No, I think we should head to the restaurant. I’m not sure about the parking situation there.”

“Oh, they have valet, but I understand. I’ll be right back.”

He remained standing in the walkway by the front door. He could see her living room was decorated in warm hues. It appeared cozy, but it was missing something. He scanned the area and noticed that he didn’t see any pictures or personal touches to the décor, which he expected since she was technically undercover.

As if hitting him for the first time, he let that thought settle over him. Camille was an FBI agent. He didn’t know if he liked it or not. He had made it a rule not to date agents. The life was hard; hence his single status.

As she sauntered toward him, he noticed her soft pink lips and the absence of her freckles.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Marc placed his hand on her lower back and guided her out of the house. Camille locked the door and Marc shook the handle to ensure it was locked as she waited on the sidewalk with her small black attaché.

He led her to the car, opening the door and waited as she adjusted the seat. He dipped into the car and grabbed the seat belt, and crossed her body to fasten it. He froze upon hearing her sharp intake as his shoulder brushed across her breast, now nearly eye level. Her chest rose and fell at a speed that matched his racing heartbeat.

“Thanks.” Camille said. He felt the warmth and the minty scent of her breathe.

Marc was a gentleman, letting Camille in the car and shutting her door. He needed to be on his best behavior. He reached for his handle and inhaled the fresh air counting to ten to calm his senses before sitting in the driver’s seat. He placed one hand on the steering wheel and the other behind her seat.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a low husky tone.

She said yes, but in her mind, Camille knew she was not ready for a man like him. He exuded sexuality and danger. Her instincts told her that she was physically safe, but was unsure about those unexpressed emotions dancing in his eyes. No, she was not ready; not for what he wanted, especially if it was anywhere near the lustful and longing gaze he was directing toward her. His handsome face was a woman magnet and she had been there and done that. Hell, she had the honorary t-shirt and she did not plan to be another woman running behind him. No, thank you. Her experience with men was limited, however, she knew without a doubt that he would change her life.

They arrived at Artista, allowing small talk to fill the sexually charged space that lingered between them during the drive to the restaurant. He gave the valet the keys to park the car and once inside they were shown to a booth, which made their dinner seem more like a date. It was intimate and the low lighting only added to the ambiance.

Camille scanned the room as she held a water goblet noticing a slight shake in her hand. They were surrounded by couples. She let the cool ice water settle her anxiety since he seemed content with ogling.

She reached for her attaché on the seat beside her. She had brought the pertinent files for them to discuss. Focusing their conversation on the case would help relieve the anxiety she felt.

“What all do you know about the case?” she asked, unzipping the attaché.

Marc settled back in the plush booth, giving her his full attention. It made her uncomfortable. He casually rested his right forearm on the edge of the table.

“We have all night. How about we talk business
after
we eat? I’ve had a long day and I’d like to enjoy my meal
and
your company. Is that all right with you?”

She had a feeling that her response would not dissuade him from whatever he had set his mind to. The smug look on his face challenged her to object. Camille knew how to pick her battles and she had a feeling that there would be one coming. Their chemistry ensured it. She nodded her approval, closing the attaché and settled into the booth, mimicking his relaxed posture. He chuckled and lifted his glass in a mock salute. She tilted her head in recognition and grabbed the menu.