"Of course."
"I would like to know about your life, too," Jasmine added, as Neil walked away.
"Believe me, your life is far more interesting than mine. When is the wedding?"
"June. It's a wonderful thing that has happened—love finally found me."
Jasmine's words took Parisa back in time, to a question they'd asked each other as teenage girls—when will love ever find us? "Yes, it did. You're lucky."
"We used to wonder all the time when it would happen, how it would happen. Remember?" Jasmine asked. "All the times we talked about boys and our futures?"
"I do." But she'd never really expected love to find her. She wasn't a passive person by nature. She didn’t like to wait for things to come to her; she preferred to go out and get them. Unfortunately, so far, love—real, everlasting love—had eluded her.
Jasmine glanced toward the two very obtrusive security guards, who were standing nearby. "I feel like everyone is watching us. I heard you wanted to speak to me, and I really want to hear what you have to say. It's been so long since we've spoken. Shall we go upstairs?"
"I'd love a few minutes, but are you sure you can leave the party?"
"It will be going on for hours. And you are my dear friend from so long ago." Jasmine glanced over her shoulder and spoke to the older of the two men. "My friend and I will be going upstairs for a few minutes."
The man nodded, and they were escorted through the crowded room, into the hallway, and past a guard posted at the bottom of the grand staircase.
They made their way up to the third floor and into a luxurious bedroom. At first impression, everything seemed white or pink, from the king-sized bed with a dozen soft pink and lavender pillows, to a white love seat by the window with more pillows, an ornate dresser with matching silver mirror, and thick plush carpeting.
As the door closed behind them, with the guards on the other side, Jasmine blew out a breath of relief and sat down on the couch, then moved an overnight duffel bag from the sofa to the coffee table so Parisa could sit next to her.
"This is actually a nice break," Jasmine said.
She suddenly realized that there was more stress in Jasmine's eyes than joy. "Are you all right, Jasmine?"
"All of this is—it's a lot. When I saw how many people were here, I almost couldn't breathe. And this ring…" Jasmine held up her hand. "Ever since Westley put this on my finger, I've felt like my world is spinning."
She leaned in to take a closer look. The blue diamond was sheer perfection: the rectangular cut, the clarity, the sparkle. "I've never seen a diamond this big or this blue."
"It's one of a kind. It has been in the Larimer family for two hundred years."
"That's a long time."
Jasmine licked her lips. "Westley's mother Grace told me I should refuse to take it. She said it's cursed, and that Westley's grandmother, who wore the ring at her wedding, died in childbirth a year later. Apparently, there were other tragedies before that. Grace told Phillip she'd never wear it, so it's been sitting in a vault for a very long time."
"I'm sure that sad event didn't have anything to do with the ring."
"That's what Westley told me. He said it's silly for this magnificent diamond to be hidden away, and that he wants it to be a symbol of how big our love is. How could I say no to such a romantic gesture?"
She smiled. "You couldn't."
"I know. I'm acting crazy. I'll only be wearing it a few times a year. Westley is having a much smaller, but still beautiful, diamond ring made for me to wear every day. Anyway, enough about rings. How are you, Parisa?"
"I'm great."
"I had no idea you were here in New York."
"I'm not actually here. I came for the party."
"Oh…I guess I didn't understand. You work for the state department, though, right? You followed in your stepfather's footsteps."
"Yes. I'm putting my language skills to good use. What about you?" She was more eager to learn about Jasmine than to talk about herself.
"I'm a professor of economics at Everly College, or at least, I was—I quit at the end of the fall semester. Once Westley asked me to marry him, I realized how many events he has to go to, and how much traveling he does for work. Westley is a vice president at Larimer Enterprises. He needs a wife who can travel with him and help him entertain and truly be his partner. I wouldn't be able to do that with a full-time job."
"That makes sense."
A shadow passed through Jasmine's eyes. "Does it? Sometimes I wonder if I'm giving up who I am to be a part of who Westley is. Am I surrendering my life for his? I guess that's what marriage is. My mother certainly became my father's most ardent supporter. He has changed jobs many times, and she has always been there to do whatever he needed her to do. And they're happy, at least, most of the time."
She didn't really know what to say. She was surprised to hear the doubts in Jasmine's voice. "I'm not an expert on relationships or marriage, so I'm not in a position to hand out advice, but I think you should talk to Westley about your concerns. I'm sure he wants to make you happy as much as you want to make him happy."
"He is very devoted. I never really thought anyone could love me as much as he does, but he tells me all the time how wonderful I am. He truly swept me off my feet." She paused. "Is there a man in your life, Parisa?"
"Not at the moment."
Jasmine gave her a disbelieving look. "I can't believe that. Look at you. Are you too picky?"
"Quite possibly," she said with a laugh. "I also work a lot. I travel. I'm busy. And I'm happy."
"That's good. I've thought of you often over the years. We never really got to say a formal good-bye—at least not in person. The letters were great, but they weren't the same. Anika and I both missed you terribly after you had to leave. We were so excited when we heard you wanted to reconnect tonight."
She blinked in confusion as Jasmine's words echoed those her sister had said earlier. "What do you mean?"
Before Jasmine could reply, a heavy scent blew into the room.
She coughed as she looked toward the vent and saw thick, swirling air coming through the slats. Instinctively, she put a hand over her mouth.
"What is that smell?" Jasmine asked, getting to her feet. Then she suddenly swayed and sank to the floor.
She got up to help Jasmine but found herself tumbling to the ground, feeling light-headed and dizzy. She covered her mouth and nose with her fingers and tried not to breathe. Something was terribly wrong.
The bedroom door opened, and she was relieved, thinking the guards were coming to rescue them.
But as two pairs of men's shoes rushed by her, they seemed—wrong. One man was wearing black Nike's; the other had on brown boots.
She tried to lift her head, to say something, but she couldn't move. She felt paralyzed. Someone kicked her leg. She didn't know why. She tried to see but realized her eyes were closed. She was sinking into oblivion, and she willed herself to keep fighting, because if she fell asleep, she didn't think she would ever wake up.
Two
Jared MacIntyre had his target in sight. He took out his phone and pretended to be reading a text when he was in fact taking photographs of guests, who were engaging in conversation with the person he'd been following for the past week.
As he finished snapping the latest group he couldn't help glancing back at the camera roll, at the beautiful brunette with the deep-brown eyes, sexy smile and killer curves, who had crossed paths with his target a half hour earlier. He'd definitely had a visceral reaction to her, but what had really bothered him was the fact that he didn't know who she was.
He'd studied the party guest list at great length, matching names to faces, long before he'd come to the consulate. But he didn't remember her face, which was extremely odd, because she had the kind of heart-stopping beauty he would not have forgotten.
Her long, thick, dark-brown hair fell over her shoulders in flowing, silky waves, and her facial features and olive skin, implied that she was a mix of
cultures. He'd seen her greet several people, including the bride-to-be, with a warmth that seemed very familiar. So, who was she and why hadn't she been on the guest list?
He opened up a text and sent her photo with one questioning word—name?
He'd no sooner done that when a waiter passing by with a full tray of glasses suddenly stumbled, sending sparkling wine in every direction, including the front of his shirt.
"Sorry, so sorry," the young man said.
He gasped at the sudden, cold wetness. His shirt was drenched.
A woman who'd been standing quite close to him began squealing about her dress, and there was a general commotion as waitstaff came to clean up the mess and offer towels and apologies to those who had been soaked in champagne.
He pushed the conciliatory waiter away, muttering that he was fine, and stepped out of the fray, searching once more for the person he was supposed to be watching.
It took him only a minute to realize his target was no longer in the living room.
He walked through the crowd with a growing sense of uneasiness. He couldn't help but wonder if the dropped tray hadn't provided the perfect distraction to slip out of sight. He could have been made and the sudden champagne spill might not have been an accident at all.
He quickened his pace, walking out of the living room and down the hall.
He'd studied blueprints for the consulate in great detail. He knew there were nine rooms on the first floor: the main living room where most of the partygoers were gathered, a smaller sitting room, the library, the dining room, which was filled with several long buffet tables, two restrooms, a small office, and a small bedroom with attached bath. There were additional offices, bedrooms and bathrooms on the second floor, while five bedrooms and five bathrooms took up the third floor, and where the more private and personal rooms for the family in residence were located.
He also knew there was a back stairway off the kitchen and if one needed to make a discreet exit or entrance, there was a short tunnel out of the basement that led to an alley a block away. He'd used that tunnel to get into the party without an invitation.
As he moved through the rooms, he couldn't help noticing that the bride-to-be didn't seem to be present, either. Nor did the beautiful brunette he'd seen talking to Jasmine and to his target.
He made his way down the hall. He needed to get upstairs, but he wouldn't be able to get past the guard without bringing attention to himself. The back stairway was a better bet.
He moved into the banquet prep area next to the kitchen, walking confidently among the servers. No one paid him any attention, which was exactly as he wanted it. He stopped by a pantry closet, shrugged out of his suit coat, and grabbed a chef's coat, putting it on over his clothes. Then he entered the kitchen.
It was controlled chaos: smoky, steamy heat coming from the ovens, lots of people rushing around, and beyond all that noise was a back hallway, a stairway. He expected to find a guard there but there was no one stationed at the bottom of the stairs. That seemed odd, too. The Kumars had brought in additional security because of the Larimer diamond.
He went up the stairs, bypassing the second floor in favor of the third. There was a door at the top landing. He opened it and peered down the hall, shocked to see the two security guards who had been following Jasmine sprawled on the floor, unconscious. There was no sign of blood, but there was a terrible smell in the air.
He pressed the material of his chef's coat across his nose and mouth and made his way toward the guards. A nearby door was ajar. He pushed it open and saw a woman lying on the ground. She was struggling to move, her eyes flickering open, then closing.
His heart jumped. It was the beautiful brunette in the clingy black dress. He rushed over to her.
"Jasmine," she stuttered. "Took Jasmine."
Her words sent a rush of alarm through him, but first he had to get her away from the terrible and obviously toxic smell.
He pulled her to her feet.
She swayed against him. "You? Who?" she murmured, her gaze meeting his.
He didn't bother to answer as he half-dragged her, half-walked her out of the bedroom and down the hall to the back stairwell. He closed the door to keep the fumes out, then opened a small window at the top of the stairs.
He pushed the woman as close to the window as he could. She took several breaths and seemed to gain strength with each one.
"What happened?" he asked.
She stared back at him in bemusement, her eyes cloudy and unfocused. "Someone…took Jasmine. Didn't see. Air…bad."
He heard a shout from the hallway. The guards had been discovered. It would be only seconds before security would be all over this area, and he couldn't allow himself to be caught up in whatever was about to happen. "Stay here. Someone will find you. They'll help you."
"Wait. Who are you?"
He didn't answer her question as he dashed down the stairs. As he hit the bottom step, he ran into several guards coming through the kitchen. "Heard a woman scream," he said, pointing toward the stairs. "Up there."
The men ran past him, probably thinking he was just one of the cooks. He made his way into the kitchen, where the servers were still moving about, although there was some chatter about an emergency. He slipped through the door leading into the basement without anyone noticing. Stripping off his chef's coat and tossing it aside, he jogged down the steps, into the wine cellar, and out another door, moving past old furniture and boxes, finally reaching the far end of the room where a large bookcase had previously blocked the door to the tunnel.
He quickly realized that the bookcase had been moved, and the once hidden door was clearly visible. He went through the door with wary steps, pulling out the gun he'd tucked under his coat, keeping it at the ready as he maneuvered his way through the tunnel. The final door led to four stone steps and an alley behind a restaurant near Central Park. There were no lights, no security cameras—nothing but dumpsters and dark shadows.
He walked down the alley, ending up at the park, as sirens blazed through the air. He wandered down another path, disappearing into a thick thatch of trees, and staying in the shadows as he worked his way back to the front of the consulate.
There were four police cars out front. They'd set up barriers around the front of the consulate. A steady stream of people flowed out of the building in their cocktail dresses and expensive suits.
Was his target among them? Or had his target been involved in whatever had happened to Jasmine Kumar?
Unfortunately, he was too far away to identify anyone, and he'd just lost the best chance he'd had in weeks.
As ambulances pulled up in front of the building, he took out his phone, his hot breath swirling in the cold night air. He punched in a number, then said, "We have a problem."
* * *
Parisa was only dimly aware of being carried downstairs and put in an ambulance. Upon arrival at the hospital, she was treated with oxygen in the ER, and had blood drawn to see what toxins she'd been exposed to. With an IV in her arm, providing some much-needed fluids, her head finally began to clear.
Through the glass window of the examining room, she could see numerous people milling about in the hallway, including uniformed police officers and men wearing suits and badges. She also saw Jasmine's father, Raj Kumar, as well as Westley Larimer and his father Phillip.
Everyone looked impatient and terrified as they listened to a female doctor report on her condition. She knew that the doctor would tell them what she'd already told her—that while they didn't have the bloodwork back yet, her vitals were strong, her oxygen levels were returning to normal, and barring any other unforeseen problems, she should make a full recovery.
But the people in the hallway probably weren't that interested in her prognosis. They wanted to know if she was ready to talk about what happened.
First, she had to remember…
She'd been chatting with Jasmine in her room when something had been pumped into the ventilation system. Two men
had come in and grabbed Jasmine. But she hadn't seen anything, had she?
Closing her eyes, she willed her memories to come back. She saw shoes, black and brown. Men's shoes. What else?
She was frustrated that her mind couldn't come up with more details. She felt like she was trapped in a thick fog, a terrible nightmare.
The door clicked, and her eyes flew open as Raj, Westley and two men in suits entered her room. As the door was about to close, a third man stepped inside, and she caught her breath at the familiar blue eyes of Special Agent Damon Wolfe, one of her best friends at the bureau.
His gaze widened when he saw her, and he gave her a short nod, but made no mention of their relationship, or her real job, as he introduced himself as a special agent with the FBI.
The dark-haired man in the gray suit was Kabir Bhat, director of security for the consulate, and the balding man in black slacks and a wool coat told her he was Martin Vance, an NYPD police detective.
"Parisa, how are you feeling?" Raj asked, his innate sense of politeness probably prohibiting him from asking what he really wanted to know.
Westley had no such problem. "What happened to Jasmine?" he demanded. "Did you see who took her?"
"Give her a chance to answer," Damon cut in. "Ms. Maxwell, can you tell us exactly what happened?"
"Jasmine and I were in her bedroom when we smelled something very strong. I looked at the vent, and I could see thick particles of air blowing into the room. Jasmine jumped up and then she immediately fell to the floor. I tried to get to her, but as I hit the ground, I could barely breathe. I felt paralyzed. The door opened, and I saw men's shoes: black Nike basketball shoes and dark-brown boots."
"What about their clothes?" Detective Vance asked.
"All I saw was black. I'm not sure if they were wearing jeans or slacks."
"Did they say anything?" Kabir Bhatt asked.
She thought about his question. She felt like she had heard something, but what? Had it only been her own thundering heartbeat, her own breath? "I don't think so."
"If you couldn't move, how did you get out of the bedroom?" Westley demanded. "The guards found you in the stairwell."
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