Diamonds Can Be Deadly

by Merline Lovelace

  Frowning, she eased her grip on the stone. Evi­dently she had more in common with Felicity Wal­ler-Winston than she would have imagined. She'd trust every member of the OMEGA team—male or female—with her life, but ice would coat this trop­ical paradise before she'd trust anyone with her heart again. Especially ex-cops with hard eyes and a touch so gentle her injured hand still tingled with the memory of it.

  The emerald dug deeper, vying with the bruise for attention. She used the pain to keep focused on her reason for joining this little psycho-circle. When the session finally ended and Jordan tried to return the stone, Bartholomew insisted she hang on to it.

  "Wear it you while you're here. You may get attached to it," he added with a mischievous grin, "and add to the institute's profits by making a pur­chase."

  "I may," she agreed, slipping the chain over her head. With the green teardrop nestled between her breasts, she took advantage of the opening he'd just offered her. "But as you said, the choice of a stone is a very personal matter. I'd like to test some others. Perhaps I'll feel their energy more directly."

  "Of course!" Beaming at the possibility of a convert, Bartholomew pulled a small laminated schedule from his shirt pocket. "I have private sessions scheduled before and after lunch and another group at three. Why don't you join me at my residence for drinks before dinner and I'll show you my private col­lection."

  "I'd like that."

  Very much!

  "Shall we say sixish?"

  "Sixish works for me."

  Jordan used the rest of the morning to explore the resort's facilities and talk with as many of the guests and staff as possible without appearing too inquisi­tive. Her casual inquiries confirmed the surface im­pression of a superbly run and extremely profitable operation. The only hint of anything unusual came during lunch.

  It was an elaborate affair, served poolside by waiters in flowery Hawaiian shirts and waitresses in long, flowing muumuus. Another shower pattered against the protective overhang as guests helped them­selves to a buffet of fresh fruit, exotic salads and downright sinful pastries. Jordan indulged in a generous helping of lobster salad and was debating between a meringue swan and a star-shaped kiwi tart when the short, squat computer mogul she'd met at dinner last night appeared at her elbow. The bulldog folds of his fleshy face creased into a smile at Jordan's dilemma.

  "Take one of each," he suggested. "According to the staff, they're all no-cal."

  "Uh-huh. And if you believe that..."

  Her mind clicked up the data she'd gathered on Harry McShay. Thirty-six and a billionaire several times over, he'd lost his wife and only child to a boating accident. Two years after the tragic event, he was still reportedly haunted by their deaths.

  Grief hadn't dulled his business acumen, though. Loading his plate with the supposedly no-cal good­ies, he directed a shrewd glance at Jordan. "I under­stand you're proposing a line of eyewear to be sold through the Tranquility Institute's network."

  "That's right."

  "I have the same kind of arrangement with the meditation software one of my subsidiaries devel­oped for Bartholomew. Made millions off that program. Pain in the ass, though, working with Myers."

  "Why?"

  "The man's a shark. He'll devour you whole if you don't protect yourself. I wouldn't do business with him at all except for Bartholomew."

  McShay's gaze went to the sun attempting to burn through the misty rain. Whatever he saw there added a gruff edge to his voice when he addressed Jordan again.

  "Bartholomew Greene is the only reason I get up in the morning. He's worth whatever price I have to pay."

  The hairs on the back of Jordan's neck tingled. She sensed McShay was talking about more than the Tranquility Institute's exorbitant fees, but before she could probe deeper Edna and two other guests joined them. When McShay drifted away, Jordan made a mental note to corner the man again later.

  First she intended to corner Liana Wu. In addition to her duties as spa director, the slender, exotic Wu spe­cialized in Aquarius salt glows. Jordan figured she might as well pump the woman while exfoliating under a mask of ocean salts, essential oils and green algae.

  The spa was a tropical Eden brought indoors. Fountains splashed. Fish swam in pools that mean­dered through stands of "bamboo. Muted Hawaiian chants, stone tiki gods and ginger incense stroked the senses the moment a guest opened the emerald green doors.

  A smiling attendant greeted Jordan, confirmed her appointment and escorted her through the fa­cility. The exercise room was a jungle of gleaming steel, with enough treadmills and stair-step machines to whip the 82nd Airborne into shape. The salon boasted six stations and an assortment of ex­pensive hair and skin products. Steam rooms, hot tubs, whirlpools and a lap pool shimmering in tur­quoise completed the workout area.

  The treatment rooms formed a semicircle at the rear of the facility. Each faced the exterior, so the guest could enjoy spectacular views of verdant peaks and rolling waves while being pumiced, pummeled or prepped. The attendant led Jordan to one of the cubicles and drew a batik wrap from the bamboo cabinet.

  "I'll let Ms. Wu know you're here. She'll be right with you."

  Jordan took a few moments to poke around the cubicle before shaking out the wrap. She was reaching for the drawstring on her shorts when the door opened once more. It wasn't the attendant or Liana Wu who entered, however, but TJ Scott.

  He was in his duty uniform again—crisp slacks, emerald green polo shirt imprinted with the Tran­quility Institute logo—but his expression conveyed none of the warmth and cheerful friendliness dis­played by other members of the staff.

  "Don't you ever knock?" Jordan asked, seri­ously annoyed.

  "I want to talk to you."

  "We said all that needed saying yesterday."

  "Not quite. Where were you last night?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I saw the wet suit wadded up on your bathroom floor. Did you go out for a swim?"

  "Maybe I did. Is that against the rules?"

  "No. The thing is, our computers indicate you went in through the front door only once last night, when you returned from dinner."

  "That doesn't give me a great deal of confidence in your hot-dog system. Does it fail regularly?"

  "This is the first time. If, in fact, it failed, which I don't believe happened." His eyes drilled into her, granite hard, stone cold. "Why did you bypass the system, Red? Where did you go?"

  "What I do and where I go is my business, Scott. Yours is to protect Bartholomew Greene and his guests. It's just my opinion, of course, but it sounds like you're doing a piss-poor job of it."

  He let that zing by him and kept his gaze narrowed on Jordan's face. "How did you keep your name out of the papers?"

  The sudden shift caught her off guard. "What?"

  "When I was arrested. The media had a field day skewering me from all sides. Yet your name never appeared on either the police blotter or the press releases put out by the NYPD, much less in the tabloids. Why?"

  "I had a good lawyer."

  And she worked for one of the most powerful men in the country. OMEGA's director had a direct line to the White House. Nick Jensen didn't use it often. When he did, the call produced instant results.

  Her pat answer rubbed TJ the wrong way. His jaw tight, he issued a terse warning. "Listen to me, Red. I don't know what your game is or why you showed up at the Tranquility Institute just a few short weeks after I signed on, but this isn't the time or the place to fix what went wrong in New York."

  It took a moment for the implications to sink in. When they did, she hooted in derision.

  "You think I flew to Hawaii hoping to pick up where we left off three years ago? Hardly!"

  His mask slipped for a moment. She caught a glimpse of the frustration and impatience behind it as he thrust a hand through his hair, shagging it into short brown spikes.

  "Just give me a yes or no. Did you leave your bungalow last night after you got back from dinner?"
>
  "No."

  She was good. Damn good. TJ didn't know how she managed to infuse just the right mix of disdain, disgust and annoyance into a single syllable, but the woman had the combination down pat.

  Problem was, he didn't believe her now any more than he had last night. This made twice that she'd lied to him, and the why of it was gnawing at his insides.

  TJ had reviewed last night's security videotapes until his head pounded and the grainy images had blurred. He'd also run a physical sweep of the entire business center. If someone had penetrated the facility, they'd left no evidence behind.

  And if that someone was Jordan, she was playing a very dangerous game. Until he figured out what that game was, he intended to keep her front and center on his internal radar screen.

  "Bartholomew advised me that he plans to show you his private collection later."

  She blinked at the terse pronouncement, obvi­ously trying to follow the sharp turns in his question­ing.

  "Why did he advise you? Does he require your permission or approval to show off his goodies?"

  "No, but he does need me to add you to the tem­porary access list for entry into the vault." He waited a beat, watching for her reaction. "I'll have you on the monitors every second you're inside."

  "Thanks for the warning. If I decide to lift any of Bartholomew's emeralds, I'll be sure to turn my back to the cameras."

  "You do that, Red."

  TJ's glance dropped to the teardrop nestled between her breasts. Like the others in Greene's private collection, the emerald had been treated with a chemical compound visible only when viewed through special filters. The insurance company required the chemical paint for tracking purposes. If Jordan—or anyone else—tried to leave the institute with a stone that hadn't been washed of its special coating, she'd light up like the high beams on a semi.

  TJ almost hoped she would. He could nail her then, make her answer the questions she'd dodged so skillfully up to this point. Every cop knew ways to force unwilling suspects to talk, some legal, a few close to the edge. The way he felt right now, he wouldn't mind getting Jordan Colby alone in a small, confined interrogation room.

  He was deep into that scenario when Liana Wu appeared at the door to the treatment room. Her curious glance went from TJ to Jordan and back again.

  "Excuse me. Am I interrupting?"

  "No," he answered. "We're finished."

  For now.

  Chapter 6

  In preparation for her visit to Bartholomew's private residence, Jordan traded her shorts and halter for a strapless sundress with a shirred bodice. The elasticized fabric clung to her breasts, leaving the rest of the white-on-white print to fall in soft folds to midcalf. The dress was sophisticatedly simple and provided the perfect foil for the emerald teardrop clasped around her neck.

  The bulky, cheerful Danny appeared in his golf cart to transport Jordan to Greene's private retreat. The house sat in isolated splendor, separated from the main part of the compound by a bend in the coastline. Although the two-story residence con­formed to the same plantation-style architecture as the rest of the institute, the lanai at its rear was sharp and angular and jutted out above the cliffs like the prow of a ship. Like the master of a sailing vessel, Bartholomew Greene could stand on that balcony and soak in an unobstructed view of the vast, ever-changing Pacific.

  Given what TJ had imparted earlier that afternoon about the security surrounding Greene's private col­lection, Jordan wasn't surprised to find Duncan Myers had also been invited to the showing. The sharp-eyed business manager could no doubt tell her the exact size, shape, weight and clarity of every stone in the vault.

  Myers was waiting with Bartholomew in a living room dominated by a soaring cathedral ceiling and the prow-shaped windows. The furnishings were minimal, the dimensions of the room huge, leaving an overall feeling of spaciousness.

  "I have good news," Myers said after a houseboy served them all frothy, nonalcoholic cocktails. "I contacted our account rep at the Muzo mine to let him know about your proposal and see what kind of a deal he could give us."

  Us, Jordan noted with great interest. Myers obvi­ously expected a cut of whatever arrangement she worked out with his supplier over and above the prof­it-sharing percentages she'd laid out in her proposal.

  "Alejandro and his associates had planned to make a delivery next week, but he's moved his trip up so he could meet with you while you're here."

  How accommodating of the Colombians to alter their schedule on her account. Jordan downed a sip of her juice to slow her suddenly racing pulse.

  "When do they arrive?"

  "The day after tomorrow. Alejandro said he'd bring a supply of stones suitable for the frames you've proposed."

  "I've dealt with Alejandro Garcia for more than a decade," Bartholomew commented. "He knows as much or more about emeralds as anyone in the business."

  Jordan logged the name into her memory bank. She'd have to get Claire working on the man, like fast.

  "He supplied many of the stones I'm going to show you," Greene said as he escorted her into his private lair.

  The study exuded the same tranquil air as of the rest of the residence. Wide windows took up one wall. Fitted with retractable screens to block the glare, they framed a stunning view of Ma'aona, the holy moun­tain. Bookshelves painted a creamy white stretched from floor to ceiling along the other three walls. In­terspersed among the hundreds of volumes were photos of Bartholomew posing with presidents, kings and rock stars.

  Including, Jordan saw with a swift, indrawn breath, a shot of her host with the sultan and sultana of D'han. Cradling her cocktail, she meandered over for a closer look.

  "Now, that's an emerald worthy of a queen."

  Bartholomew came to stand beside her. "The Star of the East," he murmured. "There's not another stone like it in the world."

  Side by side, they eyed the glistening nine hundred carats.

  "I tried to buy the Star from Omar's father," her host admitted, "then from Omar himself when he in­herited the throne. Unfortunately, he insisted on keeping it to give Barbara as a wedding present. Now," he added with a sigh, "it's gone."

  Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Jordan pumped him for information. "From what I read in the papers, the theft was extraordinarily well planned and executed. Whoever was behind it knew exactly what he wanted and went after it with ruthless determina­tion."

  "That's why I guard my treasures with such zealousness."

  Pulling a leather-bound volume of the works of an obscure Chinese philosopher from the bookshelf, Greene blinked into a small round scanner. The shelves slid to the side on silent skids, revealing a narrow corridor blocked by a steel door.

  "If you'll wait here a moment, I'll enter the nec­essary access codes."

  Myers lingered beside Jordan at the entrance to the corridor and swiped a palm over his high-domed forehead in what she was coming to recognize as a characteristic gesture.

  "This vault rates higher than most banks on the Insurance Service Office scale," he told her.

  She believed it. Halon fire-suppression nozzles dotted the ceiling. Red laser beams crisscrossed to form a tight grid. Hidden motion, heat and sound sensors no doubt augmented the surveillance cameras bristling behind protective steel screens. The cer­tainty that TJ was watching her every move raised prickly little goose bumps on Jordan's arms when the steel door swung open and Bartholomew beckoned to her.

  She expected a sterile vault with rows of steel drawers, each requiring its own access code. What she stepped into was a treasure room.

  "My God!"

  Lighted display cases lined the walls. Inside the cases were collections of silver chalices, jeweled fans, bishops' miters and other art objects, all studded with emeralds. An ostrich-size Faberge egg sat on a gold stand encrusted with diamonds. The egg had been carved from a clouded Russian emerald that must have weighed more than two hundred carats.

  Table-style cases displayed jewelry of every
style and era. Jordan's glance skimmed over what looked like an authentic gold-and-emerald Egyptian collar, a tiara that might have graced the powdered wig of a Hapsburg empress and an assortment of bracelets, rings and brooches any museum director would have killed for.

  The centerpiece of the collection was contained in a lighted case given solitary prominence on the far wall. It was a massive gold crucifix hung from a chain of gold links as thick as a man's finger. The dozen or so emeralds studding the cross were mag­nificent. Jordan estimated the center stone at close to a hundred carats. It wasn't the size of the stones that drew her awed gaze, though, but their clarity and brilliance.

  "That's the Cross of the Andes," Greene said with quiet reverence. "It was recovered from the Santa Ignacia, a Spanish galleon that sank off the Florida Keys in 1622."

  "I read about that. Weren't the treasures found aboard her auctioned off at Christie's?"

  "Most of them."

  "Bartholomew financed the Santa Ignacia's salvage operation," Myers explained as Greene keyed in a cipher and opened the display case. "He claimed the Cross as his share of the proceeds."

  Greene removed the heavy piece and cradled it in both hands. "According to legend, an Inca prince had it crafted as a gift for the king of Spain. The Spanish governor of Peru cut the prince's throat and sent the gift in his own name."

  "Nice guy."

  "Lay your palm over the center stone. Now close your eyes and breathe deeply. Again. Don't think. Don't analyze. Let your senses take you."

  Jordan played along, breathing through her nose, thinking that Greene really got carried away with this stuff. Suddenly her eyes popped open.

  "Did you feel them?" Bartholomew asked.

  She'd felt something. Her skin still tingled where it came in contact with the surface of the gem.

  "Them?" she echoed, frowning.

  "The tears of the Incas. They weep for their lost prince."

  It was the power of suggestion, Jordan decided. The hypnotic quality of Bartholomew's voice cou­pled with the green glow from his display cases. That was the only rationale she could come up with for the odd sensation that seemed to be increasing in inten­sity.