by Ruth Wind
"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 carv
ed, 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.
"He is very dangerous, Sylvie. Ruthless and ambitious." I raised an eyebrow and waited. If they'd wanted some silly little pawn to position and play, they should have chosen a different woman. Luca could be excused, but Paul could not.
Into the phone, I said quietly, "I can take care of myself, Paul."
"I have never doubted it."
"What do you want me to do?"
For a moment, silence roared between us. Quietly, he said, "Call me when you can."
"So you can warn me about another man I'm involved with?"
"Ah, sweet, you are still angry with me over Timothy."
My ex.
"No. Why would I be angry? You were right."
"And that is why you have not spoken to me in five years, because I was right?"
I ducked away from Luca's avidly listening ears. "No. I don't know. Maybe."
"Sylvie, venez à moi dans l'Arran," he said in French. Come to me in Arran.
Arran. Not in this lifetime.
"I'm taking the jewel to the inspector," I said, and hung up.
Chapter 9
Carat is the 4th C. This is the size of the diamond. One carat is divided into 100 "points," so that a diamond of 75 points weighs .75 carats. Carat weight is the most obvious factor in determining the value of a diamond. But two diamonds of equal carat weights can have very unequal prices, depending on their quality, and diamonds of high quality can be found in all size ranges.
—www.costellos.com.au
The line went dead. I held the phone a moment longer, feeling a thread reeling out from my ear, across the miles and the years to Paul, to my grandmother, who would be worrying now that he'd talked to her.
Against my breast, I felt the living jewel humming with power.
Luca said, "You must not believe what he says about me, Sylvie. He is very angry with me."
"I've known him a lot longer than I've known you."
"And he is like a father to you, no?"
Stung as always by this spin, I lifted a shoulder. "No." But I remembered again that I wanted to talk to my father. What time was it in Kuala Lampur? I punched the button for the World Clock option on my phone and looked at the little red dot traveling around the globe. "Where is Malaysia, exactly?" I asked.
"In Asia somewhere." Luca scowled. "I don't know."
The map didn't give me many choices. "Closer to Thailand or Singapore?" I frowned. "I think it's south of Thailand."
"That sounds correct, yes."
Only five thirty there. Too early. I clipped the phone closed.
"Paul is protective of you. He's also furious with me." Luca smiled, ruefully. "You know him—would he have anything good to say of my character at such a time?"
"No."
He spread his hands, as if to say, you see? I thought of the police, who would be expecting me in a few days, and what they would think of my consort, the jewel thief. Even the very fact that I'd had the jewel now for some six hours without notifying them spoke rather loudly, didn't it?
I did not look away from Luca's brilliant gaze. "What do you want with this jewel?"
"Only to return it to Romania," he said.
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing," he said, and raised his hands, palm up. "I swear."
I tucked the phone into my front pocket, rubbed the obviously comatose third eye between my brows. "Let's have our tea."
"Yes."
We returned to the kitchen area, and settled at the table before the wide window, now obscured by waves of sideways rain. "It's turned into a bad night," I said, pouring steaming tea from the stainless steel pot.
"It will make it more difficult for anyone to follow us."
"No one followed us. I would have seen them."
"Would you?" He stirred four spoonfuls of sugar into his mug of tea.
I raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged. "It's my weakness."
In answer to his question, I said, "I would know if someone followed us, yes. On those dark little roads?"
"Someone must have followed you earlier, or else how did that man in your room know you were there?"
I narrowed my eyes, thought about it. "I don't know. It would be easier to follow me from the airport."
"But who knew you had the jewel?"
"Aside from you, you mean?"
He nodded.
"I made a phone call."
"To?"
I shook my head. "None of your business." But would Paul have sent a man to steal the jewel from me?
No. There were many possibilities, but that wasn't one of them.
"Do not be too trusting, prieten," Luca said.
I glared at him. "Don't be a cliché." A hard gust of wind slammed into the caravan, making it rock slightly, and I shivered. "What do you know? What about others, criminals, who might want the jewel for themselves? Who knew about it?" I gave him a hard look. "If you want me to trust you, tell me what's going on."
"I am not certain I know everything."
"Why did he hire you?"
"To steal it."
I frowned. "That doesn't really make sense to me, Luca. I mean, just out of the blue, he hired you to steal one of the most famous diamonds in the world?"
"More or less, yes."
"It's been missing for decades. Where did Gunnarsson get it? Where was it all this time?"
"That, I do not know."
I absorbed that for a moment. Then, "Who killed him, then? And why didn't they take the other jewels?"
His eyelids dropped, and again I had that sense of shuddering that came from him. It must have been a terrible scene. "The police think it was an enemy, another drug runner," he said. "Isn't that right?"
"Yes."
"It was more crude than that. Gunnarsson was a very wealthy man, and he liked collecting beautiful things, as your Paul does."
"So?"
"His apartment was filled with many things that could have been stolen—he liked sculpture, art glass and objets d'art. There were those eggs, you know—Faberagé."
"What about them?"
"Some with diamonds and things, you know?" His mouth worked. "None of them were stolen, either."
"How do you know?"
His elegantly beautiful hands—the hands of a musician, or a lover, or a…thief—spread open around the cup. "I heard."
"Heard?"
"A friend of a friend."
Tension made my neck tight. "You're lying. And I'm not going to play if you lie. Get it? You want me to carry this freaking diamond, tell me the truth."
He pursed his lips. "All right," he said, and looked at me. There was new steeliness there. "You will not like it. Your Paul—" he emphasized and drew out the name "—will not look so sweet to you at the end of this telling."
"I have no illusions about Paul Maigny," I said.
"Don't you?" He inclined his head, those blue eyes sharpening on my face. "Do you know that your eyes grow warm when you speak of him?"
"What I know," I said, "is that he is a collector, that his childhood taught him to be shrewd, that he's quite determined when he sets his mind to a thing."
"He will stop at nothing to have what he wants."
"That's probably exaggerating."
"I don't think so," Luca said, meeting my eyes. "Here is the story—Paul was in negotiations with an art dealer for the Katerina, bidding against another collector for it. Unfortunately, the dealer had a little problem with drugs and gambling, and ran afoul of his supplier—"
