The Diamond Secret (16 page)

In two strides, he was across the room, capturing me from behind with an arm looped around my neck. He pulled me against him, kissed my hair.

"Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie. You cannot know how many arguments I have had with myself over you." He touched the side of my neck with his fingers, brushing downward, softly, erotically. "How often I voiced both sides of the argument. One day, I say to myself, you are a woman, finally grown. The next minute, I see some tenderness, some delicate thing about your collarbone that makes me think you are still so young, so vulnerable."

Tears burned in my eyes. "Not that young."

His mouth touched my neck, lightly, with full heat. "I do long for you, my Sylvie. It is that love that keeps me from it." The last was said fiercely. "Do you hear me?"

My hands were shaking, almost violently. My own conflict, made plain. I leaned back into him, feeling the fabric of his shirt against my naked back. "Yes. I hear you." Taking a breath, I straightened. "But what if the reason I haven't been able to find a soul mate is because I already found one?"

He didn't speak. Only pressed his mouth to my shoulder.

"What if you are my soul mate, Paul?"

He touched his nose into my neck. "Let's go find your Luca and get your jewel to safety, then we will deal with each other, hmm?"

I am a fool,
I thought to myself. A foolish girl with foolish passions and confused motives. Hadn't I been lusting over Luca only hours before, wanting
his
hands,
his
kiss? And on the way to Scotland, hadn't I been nursing the humiliation of my divorce?

Was I so pathetic I just wanted someone to love me for a day, or a night?

Was that so bad? To long for the loving touch of a man, his arms around me? I'd gained strength from having Luca hold me last night.

But it would be an entirely different thing with Paul. It would be an irrevocable act with long-term consequences, and I wasn't sure whether I was more afraid to discover that I genuinely loved him, or that I didn't.

I had lost everyone I loved, one way or another. It would be too hard to lose Paul.

"You're right," I said, and stepped away from him, mustering a smile I hoped looked a little more genuine. "Let's do it.'

* * *

The ball was a birthday party for a lovely young woman with hair piled onto her head. Next to me, Paul said, "She is descended from the former royal family. I think her brother will know where we shall find Luca."

"Good."

We moved through the crowd, smiling, nodding. My hair was piled on my head, little waves left free to tickle my shoulders. The dress drew no small amount of attention, and I was pleased to recognize Paul was sticking close to me because of it. His hand strayed to the bared small of my back, lit on the center, swept the nape. It aroused me and annoyed me and pleased me all at once. "Who are we looking for? Luca?"

"Luca, mainly, but who was it you saw earlier? The Scot?"

"Yes, he was one of the thugs."

"Would you recognize any of the others?"

"Maybe. I don't know. It was dark. I knew him because I saw him earlier, at the airport." I frowned. "I'm concerned about this, about who might be chasing us. There had to be two groups, right? Yours, and the ones who got killed."

"Yes."

I scanned the crowd carefully. "So who hired the big Scot? The one who is here tonight?"

"I don't know. Someone else obviously knows the jewel is tremendously valuable."

"Right."

"We need to be very alert. Don't go too far from me. We should be ready to give chase or get away very quickly if need be."

"Why would we need to get out quickly?"

"He might try to run when he sees me, no?" He shifted his shoulders restlessly. "There is trouble brewing. I've got the Jaguar ready, too." He patted a pocket. "It is parked to the front—turn right and it's just around the corner."

"Black, I assume?"

He smiled. "Of course."

"Did my father have a hand in that?"

"I don't need your father, Sylvie." He grinned down at me. "You're forgetting who
I
am."

I raised my brows. "That's an interesting question, Mr. Maigny. Who are you, anyway? Are you a criminal?"

His gaze traveled around the edges of the room. "Not really. Perhaps, in some small ways. Mostly, I have invested in real estate." He smiled down at me. "Not quite as exciting."

"Real estate?" I echoed.

"Yes. As it happens, I own quite a lot in California and London, and in other places I think will be good investments over time."

"Hmm." A little something in me eased. "That's better."

He laughed softly. "Too much imagination,
mon petit chou
."

Too easy. "Oh, no you don't," I said. "You dabble in jewels and painting and the thieves who might find them for you."

"Do I?"

"How else—" Something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. "Never mind. Look to your extreme right. I believe we have our mark."

It was Luca.

Chapter 22

In some cultures there is still a deep superstition about diamonds. For example, in the Malaysian diamond mines if a stone contains in its center a gray or black ghost diamond, the well where it was found is abandoned: a Malaysian legend holds that these stones hold the "soul of the diamond", and the mine will die if its soul leaves it. However, diamond soul is a personal talisman that people will wear as an amulet.

—www.diamondgeezer.com

L
uca stood there in a tuxedo with a blue satin cummerbund, his hair falling in those gorgeous curls around a face that was pale and marked by our journey. "Ah."

Luca did not appear to feel nervous or worried—he gave every appearance of a man having a lovely time at a party. He smiled at the woman, who was dark and rosy-cheeked, like Snow White. With a sense of determination, I moved forward.

Paul caught my arm. I shook it off with a glare. "Let me handle this," I said.

Maybe it was something in my expression, or perhaps he finally understood that I was not the vulnerable child he'd once had to rescue, but he let me go. "As you wish."

I made my way through the milling people, edging along the wide, polished floor where couples danced a waltz. They made me think of a jewelry box my grandmother had, with tiny spinning couples on a floor of mirrors.

As I edged closer, Luca, perhaps alerted by the odd sense of being watched, looked around the room, still talking to the young woman in front of him. When he caught sight of me, his face shifted, alternately dismayed and pleased. I almost could see him formulating lies to tell me. To my surprise, however, he didn't bolt.

Luca kept his eyes on me as I approached, and I realized that the young woman he spoke with had a similar look to the birthday girl. She was likely a royal, too. Luca's cousin.

What had he said? Fifth in line for the throne?

From a waiter carrying fluted glasses of cham pagne, I snared a drink, and approached the pair. "Luca!" I said with a French accent. "How lovely to see you!" I turned to the girl, holding out my hand. "Hello. I am Sylvie Montague. My father is—"

"Yes, I know you," the girl said in Dracula-ac cented English. "Your photos are in the tabloids all the time." She managed to get a sneer into it, as if it was my fault, the act of an ill-bred sort.

I tossed my head back and laughed gaily, as if it were such a funny joke. Taking Luca's arm, I cozied up to him, pressed my breast into his upper arm. "You must have seen the ones of us kissing in Scotland, then, hmm? It was the whim of moment, and now all the world thinks we are lovers."

Her tight smile said she'd not seen those particular photos, and she was not pleased. "How vulgar."

"Oooh," I said, "I am so sorry! Did I misunder stand?"

Luca said smoothly, "This is Anya, Princess Anya, actually." He met my eyes. "My cousin."

"What a delight to meet you!" I cried, and without letting Luca go, lifted my glass her way. "Since he is your cousin, it is all right that I have been feeling my heart flutter about him since I first saw him at the airport."

"Of course. I cannot think of any reason I would mind." She raised her haughty chin. "Excuse me."

Luca said something in Romanian, obviously an attempt to smooth things over. She flashed him a furious glance over her shoulder.

"Sylvie, I beg you," he said, turning back to me. "Do not do this thing. My moment of triumph is at hand. The entire royal family is here. They want this jewel. There are some who believe it will restore the throne."

"Well, bully for them." I edged him closer to the wall. "The trouble is, Paul paid you for it, so it technically belongs to him."

"No. Technically, it belongs to me until I return it to the crown jewels with which it belongs." His eyes blazed. "Beyond his reach."

"Luca," I said in a weary voice, "one way or another, I'm leaving here with it. If you just give it to me, I'll walk away. If you hold on to it, you'll go to prison in the UK for theft."

He laughed.

"Where is it?"

He gave me an amused glance. "It is quite safe."

"Mmm." Over his shoulder, I saw Paul not far away, and made eye contact, gave him a slight nod. "The thing I wonder, Luca, is how you feel at all safe, with thugs all around, and me, and Paul Maigny, all on your tail."

"Surely you have guessed by now?"

"What?"

"That 'thug' you chased earlier is my bodyguard, Sylvie."

A series of events snapped into place—every time I'd seen him, Luca had been nearby. I struggled not to let the revelation show but Luca laughed contemptuously.

"You are in over your head. Go home, go back to Scotland, and let the big boys play with the real rarities."

"Don't bother my pretty little head? Is that it?"

"Exactly."

Paul had come up from behind. "What about mine?" he said, and, touched Luca's shoulder.

Luca didn't wait—he bolted, straight for the door to the back of the room. I made a dive for him, and caught his sleeve for a moment, but he tore away, fast as a running back, and was swallowed by the crowd. Hobbled as I was by the high heels, Paul blasted by me, shoved keys in my hands. "Go," he cried. "Get the car and bring it to the back of the hotel."

I spun around and ran in the other direction, headed for the front doors, and the Jag.

It was snowing outside and I had nothing but high heels and a skimpy wrap to protect me from the cold. Spying a man's brown overcoat on the counter, I snagged it on my way by, ignoring a howl of protest from behind me.

Outside, I paused for one second to get my bearings and shove my arms into the coat. It was far too big for me, but the hem dropped well below my knees, and it was very warm.

The sidewalk was slippery, but I had learned a long time ago how to run in even the highest heels—it was a matter of balance and strong ankles—and I managed to stay upright. Skittering around the corner, I saw the Jag, unmistakable in its shape, even when covered by the snow. I opened the right side—saw that I was again in a right-hand drive country—and dashed around to the left. Dizzying, this business of driving on different sides, with shifting equipment.

Since I'd learned to drive in France and the U.S., I was happier on the right hand, and although there was always the slightly disorienting moments of shifting back to the default mode, it didn't suck to drive a Jaguar. Ever. "Hello, darlin'," I said aloud, gleefully listening to the engine rumbling to life.

We all have our favorites. The Alfa Romeo was a lovely creature, responsive and sleek, but if given a choice, I always loved a Jag.

I kicked off the high heels and jumped out to wipe snow from the back window with my sleeve, fast as I could. I didn't even know where the back of the hotel was—it had seemed as if they were going that direction.

The question was answered when Paul yanked open the driver's side door and said, "Let's go! Move!"

In most cases, I would drive, but he was the Formula One champ, not I. Not matter how great a driver I was, I could not come close to him, and I dashed to the passenger side.

"What's going on?"

"He's got a driver and a car. I don't know who it is, but we'll stick with them."

"I know who it is," I said, jumping in. "I kept thinking he was a thug, but he was with Luca all along. Luca's bodyguard."

A dark sedan tore out of the alley behind the hotel and sailed around us, going the opposite way. I saw the driver, and of course it was the redheaded thug I'd first seen at the Glasgow airport, the one I'd bitten at the caravan. "Get in," I cried. "Come on!"

"Sylvie, I came to this side by mistake. You have to drive."

"You're the champ, not me."

"I cannot drive like you can, not anymore. Not since my accident."

Startled for one long second, I thought of him lying in that hospital bed in Nice for so very long. He'd never gone back to racing, but it had never occurred to me it was because he
couldn't
.

"Ah, I hate that look on your face," he said.

As I stood by the car, a voice sailed into the night. "Hey, princess!" said a skinny man smoking a cigarette. "What brought you to Bucharest? This your new boyfriend?"

Before I even processed it was the
effing
paparazzi, he'd snapped a series of pictures—me in the stolen oversize coat and bare feet, the Jaguar with open door, Paul, looking so very, very Continental. Depending on our expressions, this could be good for almost anything.

I collected my scattered thoughts and dashed around the car in my bare feet. "Get in," I cried. "Let's go for a drive!"

He grinned and dove in the car. We buckled in, and I threw the Jag into gear. Luca and Frankenstein were ahead, but I wasn't particularly worried about it. No contest between a Jag and a sedan, no matter what the make. I punched the accelerator and pulled out, crossing three lanes of traffic to slip the nose of the car neatly ahead of a taxi who leaned on his horn without restraint.

Traffic was heavy—perhaps dinner traffic? "What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"My time-space continuum is really distorted."

Paul laughed. "It happens."

"I need to remember," I said, watching a motorcycle roar between two lines of cars to snake up behind us, "that my father is racing tomorrow."

"I'll remember. Kuala Lumpur, is it?"

"Yes." The photographer from the hotel was on the motorcycle, with someone on the back. They'd obviously abandoned the hopes of seeing royalty for a photo op of a different sort. "Damn them!" I said. "We don't need this headache along with everything else."

"Ignore them."

The other trouble was, there were dozens of dark sedans in the congested street as we approached a roundabout. I thought I spied the car and pushed across the lanes only to discover it wasn't Luca at all. The motorcycle came right behind us, in no hurry.

"There is your prince," Paul said, pointing to the left. "Go!"

The light had turned and traffic was pouring like water through the intersection. The car, a dark blue Audi, with the distinctive five circles and a European Union circle on the bumper, swirled into the roundabout, edging to the left. I followed, trying to beat back a sense of urgency.

"There he goes!" I cried and accelerated, shoving through thick lines of cars with fury as the Audi broke out of the roundabout and headed down a side street.

Traffic was less congested here, but the Audi wove in and out, dashing through little breaks, headed down alleyways and through side streets in a way that let me know the driver knew the city well. Behind us, shooting photos in a lazy way, were the photographer and his pal on the motorcycle.

Snow was still falling, and there were horns honking and the streets were slick. "Frankenstein knows how to drive," I said aloud.

"He's taking us somewhere," Paul said. "This is too easy."

"Well, then," I said, shifting and pressing down on the accelerator, "let's take the lead then, shall we?"

I zoomed through traffic, the Jag smooth as a knife through butter, and the sedan speeded up, looped through a residential area, and dashed through a small park. "What are you doing?" I murmured.

Around me, the Jaguar seemed to come alive. The faster we went, the better the engine purred, and I thought of my father, racing around the tracks of the world, around Monaco and Kuala Lampur and all the other exotic places he raced through my lifetime.

He loved it, and he'd given it to me, the only thing he really had.

Frankenstein suddenly cornered around a tight, almost geometrically triangular turn and accelerated wildly as he drove down a deserted, dark street. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see the motorcyclist was still with us.

Speed was very high for these conditions, the heavy snow, the slick roads, the twisting, turning back streets—

The road swerved suddenly to the left, a brutally sharp angle that ran along a body of water. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" I cried, downshifting, holding my breath as I tried to keep the Jag from spinning out entirely on the curve. We slammed over a low curb, narrowly missed a tree, skimmed along the water for fifty yards, and managed to get back on the road.

The motorcyclist, too, was still in the running, and the trio of us went sailing over a bridge, past a giant white Stalin-era building, back into a dark road, and along a very long park.

"This is getting old," I said.

"There's a wide area coming up. See it?"

It was a square of some sort, maybe the center of a park. I slammed my foot down and raced forward. Just ahead, the dark sedan picked up speed to attempt to stay ahead, and just as I felt the first nerve-wracking loss of traction an instant before I lost control, I saw the Audi hit a patch of ice and start to slide.

At the same instant, the Jag skidded into the same ice and whirled like a top, spinning so hard it was like a merry-go-round.

"Hold on!" I cried.

"Keep your head low!" Paul yelled, and just then, the motorcycle slammed into us, the machine crashing into the windshield, the humans somewhere else. In the blindness, I couldn't see where we were going.

"Paul!" I cried.

"Hang on, hold on. You can do it."

I clung to the shivering steering wheel, and suddenly, it was as if I
became
the car—I was no longer skin and limbs and brain, but suddenly melded with the car. I could feel the tires as part of my body, feel where they met the road, feel the engine rumbling through my lungs, my belly. In my groin was the center of balance, and my hands were the wheel.

It was still a struggle to regain control, to steer against the spin and avoid braking, which would only slam us even further out of control. The car slowed, and slowed, and I raised my head to steer us to a stop—

And heard a huge, slamming explosion.

I knew that sound.

For an instant, I waited for my body to break apart, go spraying out into the ether, but nothing happened.

When the car spun out, my body—and Paul, I noticed—had gone into an instinctive crouch, intensified when he'd yelled at me to duck, and now I straightened.