by Ruth Wind
I looked at him.
"If I return this jewel, they will make a place for me again. I am tired of wandering."
"So let me help you!"
He shook his head, and with one gentle hand, brushed my hair from my face. "It seems you have charmed me, little Sylvie. I do not wish you to be hurt."
"So you're going to tie me up and leave me here?"
"I wish to make you comfortable," he said.
"Oh, I am so comfortable," I said furiously, my arms trapped behind me, duct-taped firmly together.
"Forgive me, Sylvie," he said, "but I must have the jewel."
He unbuttoned my sweater, then started on my blouse without looking at me. I could see it was not easy for him. His long, graceful fingers fumbled twice, and as my flesh became exposed, I admit, I too, was somewhat rattled by the whole thing. When he spread open my blouse to expose my chest, bra and belly, my breath caught. He noticed. His gaze lingered on my breasts, his fingers brushing lightly against my belly.
Despite the situation—or perhaps because of it—I found myself responding. He still smelled of oranges, and my body still thought him beautiful, and the brush of his hands over my belly as he pushed my blouse out of the way made my nipples leap to attention, the eager little sluts.
Luca noticed. "I wish," he said with regret, "that I had been able to give your beautiful breasts the attention I think they would like from me."
"It's cold in here," I said.
"Ah." He raised his eyes and smiled at me, those teeth flashing white against his beautiful mouth. "Is that what it is?"
"Yes."
"You have no reaction to me at all?"
"No."
"So," he said, moving closer, "if I touch you, all it does is revolt you? If I do this—" he traced a light circle on my belly "—it does nothing for you?"
"Nope."
"What if I bend my head, and take that bold soldier into my mouth? Hmm?"
His hands slid downward, and teased the tops of my breasts. I finally found my voice.
"Get away from me, Luca. You're a liar, a thief, a petty criminal. You're gonna get yourself killed. What would I want with a man like you?"
His laughter surprised me, a low, rich sound, so knowing. "This is what you want, Sylvie," he said, and kissed me.
It was no light, teasing thing. It was an aggressive demand, his mouth and tongue utterly claiming my mouth. I resisted him at first, keeping my mouth closed and tight, but his lips were lush and coaxing, the movements of his body suggestive, softly easing into me, against me, his shirt brushing my bare belly. When he touched my hair, took my face into his hands, I felt a swift tug through my being, and without consciously choosing it, I somehow opened to his kiss. He made a sound, a low groan, and his tongue swirled in, and coaxed mine into a slow, sensual dance.
I could do nothing, hands and feet bound. Instead of protesting, I found myself opening to him.
He groaned and pulled away. "You move me, Sylvie Montague."
I said nothing. He raised his head, looked me in the eye. "I must do this now," he said, and took one small step back so he could lift his hands to my breast, and using one hand, gingerly pulled back the fabric of the bra, reached inside, and withdrew the jewel. When he had it in his hand, he trailed one finger down the slope of my uninjured breast, and bent down to kiss the same spot.
He tucked the jewel into his pocket, then took a moment to button my blouse again, and then put a piece of tape over my mouth and laid me on the bed. "So long, Sylvie."
I glared at him.
He reached into my purse, found my keys and was gone.
Chapter 16
One of the great jewel heists of the twentieth century occurred during the weekend of February 15-16, 2003, when thieves cleaned out more than two-thirds of the 160 safe-deposit boxes in the highest security centers of an Antwerp Diamond Center. Most of the city's dealers were attending the Diamond Games tennis tournaments, so the robbery was not discovered until the day after the games. The numbers were so high that even weeks later, police had not fully counted the losses. None of the missing diamonds have ever been recovered.
—Jewel Heists
I did not lie there long. It was a bed and breakfast, after all, a small establishment. I could have waited for the maid or cleaner to come around, but that would cost precious time—time Luca was rushing away with the Katerina, on his way to Romania.
No doubt driving my car, the bastard.
Wriggling my way to the end of the bed, I lifted my legs and started slamming my heels down against the floor. Over and over—bam, bam, bam. It wasn't long before someone was at the door, keys in the lock. The proprietor came in.
"Oh, God!" she cried when she saw me lying there, trussed with gray duct tape. She rushed over, keys rattling, and bent over, her hands waving. I made a noise, frustrated, and turned to show her my taped wrists.
"Oh, dear!" She reached for the tape on my mouth, and I shook my head violently, pointing with my head to my wrists.
In my purse, my cell phone started ringing. Good grief! What was it about that stupid thing going off at all the worst times?
"D'ye want me to get that?" the woman asked.
"Mmmmm!" I cried behind the tape, knocking my head toward my hands.
She must have misunderstood it as a nod, because she rushed over and picked up the phone, flipping it open and breathlessly saying, "Hallo! Hallo! She's busy just this minute." She listened and said, "Just a minute." To me she said, "He says his name is Paul."
Only I could get rescued by The Three Stooges' little sister. I stopped making any noise, not moving at all, and she got it.
"Sorry, dear," she said, "I don't know what I'm thinking."
At last she reached behind me and pulled the tape off my wrists, then handed me the phone. I yanked the tape off my lips, feeling skin ripping off with it, and barked into the phone, "Hello?"
"Where are you, Sylvie?"
"In a bed and breakfast in Ardrossan. I've had a little delay." Nearby, the proprietor folded and unfolded her hands. I lifted a finger to her, the phone to my ear as I bent to untape my ankles. "Why? I said I'd be there and I will."
"Have you seen the news today?"
"Not yet."
"Two men were found dead at a caravan near Dunure. The police think it was related to the murder of Gunnarsson."
A chill passed over me. "Dead?"
"Where is he, Sylvie? You are in grave danger."
"No, I'm not, actually. I'll be on the next ferry. We'll talk then."
I hung up.
"You need the police?" the woman asked, a worried frown between her brows, those narrow hands working around in circles.
"No, thank you," I said, shaking off the tape and dropping it in the trash. "This is personal. I'll handle it myself."
"If ye're sure, then?"
"Very," I said, tasting blood. Grabbing my coat and purse from the chair, I said, "Sorry for the trouble," and stalked out.
* * *
The ferry dock was close enough I could walk to it, and it was good for my mood to get some exercise. It was crisp and cold outside, threatening rain, but after spending the day wet yesterday, I felt downright toasty warm. Amazing what dry clothes will do for a person's comfort.
The exercise was also good for my mood. Back in San Francisco, I worked out three or four times a week, usually running on the beach or, if it was rainy, on tread-mills at the gym. After two days of sitting in planes and cars, my legs and arms were grateful for the movement. I crossed my arms over my chest and strode through the narrow lanes, making my way toward the dock.
Fuming.
I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. I should have left Luca on the side of the road, in the steaming wreck of car he'd stolen from the thugs he'd killed.
Except…. there was something odd about that. How could Luca have single-handedly killed them? Two guys, not to mention one had been Frankenstein's size. I'd left one in the caravan, injured, but not dead
—at least I didn't think so.
Something about it just didn't feel right.
I bought my ticket and sat on a bench outside, watching seagulls circle overhead. One lit on a post nearby and preened as if waiting for his picture to be taken, his white feathers a lovely contrast against the dark purple-gray sky and the rounds of the island in the distance.
Arran. A place of memory and promise, disappointment and embarrassment, magic and mystery.
Quite a lot of people were gathering, and I felt crowded by the numbers. I stood up and walked toward an open spot nearby the ropes, and shook my head.
Why was I bothering to go to Paul when the jewel was stolen? I'd be better off to just follow Luca on my own, try to track him down myself. It was my problem—I'd lost the jewel, and it was my responsibility to get it back. I was no longer a girl, seeking rescue from a champion.
But Paul had money and muscle. He'd do it faster than I could, and I'd have the satisfaction of seeing Luca's face when Paul showed up.
Waves lapped against the shore, and the only sounds about were the birds and the water, and far away, the sound of the whistle. A lonely sound. A lonely place.
There was a hollowness in my chest now, and I stood up, trying to fight it off. Too many memories were warring for precedence, and I refused to let any of my humiliations come up at all.
A girl with a long scarf walked by. The fringes hung down her back, orange and pink, which made me think of the dress I'd worn on my sixteenth birthday.
Paul and I had gone shopping for it in Paris. After the first blaze of awareness of my changing feelings for my guardian, I protected my secret carefully. It was painful and sweet. It kept me awake nights, and lent my days an effervescence I'd never known.
I also knew it was ridiculous, that he was so much older than I, and so much more polished and knowledgeable in every way that I could never hope to capture his attention.
But it was also nothing like my seven-year-old self saying I was going to marry him someday, much to the indulgent amusement of the adults in my world.
It is also true that I was not an ordinary, sheltered sixteen-year-old girl. I'd lived all over the world, and had learned to function in almost any setting. I spoke three languages, had lived on four continents, and could order wine for one or a hundred.
The day we went shopping for my birthday dress, I relished the experience of being alone with him, modeling dresses for his pleasure. We finally settled on a floaty chiffon dress with spaghetti straps that fluttered over my body like a breeze. The pink and orange colors set off my dark blond hair and showed off my tan shoulders. In a pair of high-heeled shoes, I felt like a Parisian.
Afterward, we stopped for a lemonade at a café on the Rue de Sévigné, and as I watched the people parade by in their summer suits and dresses, I found the courage to say, "Paul? May I talk to you about something important?"
He reached for my hand. "Of course. Anything."
I took a breath. "Did you just—um—" I cleared my throat, started again. "Am I a both—" I halted again.
His fingers moved on my hand, his gray green eyes showed concern. "What is it, Sylvie? Is everything all right?"
"I—oh, I just don't know how to say it, so—" I sat up straight and looked him in the eye. "I don't want to go with my father. I want to stay here in Paris and live with you and go to school."
Something bright, then dark, passed over his eyes, too fast for me to read. "You like it here?"
"Yes!" I said fervently. "I think I am happier in Paris than anywhere. Brigitte takes good care of me, and you teach me things all the time, and I think…. I don't…." I thought of my life in Rio and had to fight very hard to keep tears out of my eyes and voice. I scowled, hard. Swallowed. "I just want to be here."
He moved his thumb over my thumbnail. "I have always been honest with you, ma poulette. I do not know that staying here would be best for you."
"Why?"
With that peculiarly European click of his tongue, he looked toward the shops. "You should go to America, learn that part of yourself."
Stung, I lowered my eyes. Tried to withdraw my hand, but he caught my fingers, smiling at me. "So much pride, my Sylvie. I would be happy to have you stay. You bring laughter and pleasure into my house, but I am not always here—"
"Brigitte is here when you are gone, and at least I know…at least…"
"There is someone at home?"
"Yes."
"Your father has been in a place to dry out this summer, Sylvie. It means the world to him that he should have you back again."
This shamed me. I took a breath. "I know."
He squeezed my fingers gently. "I am delighted that you have found so much to love in Paris, Sylvie. It suits you, this city."
"Does it?"
"Oh, yes." He smiled and straightened, letting my hand go. "You are welcome to return as often as you like."
I tried not to show my disappointment, but it stung like physical pain, and to my horror, tears welled up in my eyes. Blinking brightly, I tried to nod, then stood abruptly. "I'll be right back."
"Sylvie—"
Blindly, I rushed for the toilet, and once there, let the tears fall as they would, rushing from my eyes in a river that shocked me. I loved Paris, and living in the Marais, and the apartment with its quirky bedroom, and having Brigitte fuss over me was like having a mother around.
But I would not pine for those things, not like I'd pine for the company of my guardian. When I looked back in my life, it seemed those times I was happiest were when he was part of our lives. This summer had only reinforced that tenfold, a hundredfold. I didn't want to live anywhere that I'd face long stretches of not seeing him.
I ran cold water and splashed my face with it gently, then squared my shoulders and met my eyes in the mirror. Crying would not get me what I wanted.
What would?
I didn't know. But I would give it some thought.
* * *
As I boarded the ferry, I pushed the memory of that Paris summer away, and snapped my cell phone open. It was finally a decent time to try to reach my father in Malaysia.
His cell phone rang on the other end. Once, twice, three times. With much disappointment, I thought I wasn't going to get through. I was about to hang up with he answered, "Hey, baby girl! Where are you?"
"Hi, Dad. I'm on a ferry going to Arran. Did you have a practice race today?"
"Not bad. Not great. I finished third, but it's early days yet. What are you doing in Arran?"
"I'm going to see Paul."
"Is that so." It wasn't a question. "Hmph. Thought you didn't talk to him anymore."
"Well, maybe I got over it."
"About time."
I felt stung over that, and had to take a minute to figure out why. "I'm calling to ask you about him, actually."
"Yeah? Like what?"
The questions seemed idiotic now that I was about to phrase them. Do you think he could be a killer? Do you think he's a high-level crook who had a drug lord murdered? "Oh, I don't know. Never mind."
"Something bothering you, kiddo?"
"Well, I've sort of gotten mixed up with this big mess of a jewel heist. Paul is mixed up in it, but I'm not sure how."
"Mixed up how, babe? Are you in trouble?"
The last thing I wanted was for him to worry before a race. "No! Not at all. I've called the police and will talk to them this afternoon."
"Good. I heard they called you to Glasgow. I'm really proud of you."
"Thanks."
"How long will you be in Europe? Can we get together? I'm headed to France after this, maybe Paris for a day or two when you're finished?"
"I'd like that. I've got a job lined up outside Lyon in a couple of weeks—it's meant to be a spectacular set of jewels, the mistress of some sixteenth century prince."
My father chuckled, the sound robust and rich, the laughter of a younger man. Racing, he always said, keeps him young. "I'll skip Lyon, but let's plan on Par
is, huh?"
"All right."
"And about Paul, kiddo? I'd trust him with my life. More, I'd trust him with yours and I have."
"Thanks, Dad."
"Will you see the race tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world. You know I'm always watching you, Dad."
"I'm always racing for you."
I smiled. "Thanks. Talk to you soon."
Chapter 17
Not only was it believed that diamonds could bring luck and success, but also that they could counter the effects of astrological events. These myths laid the groundwork for monarchs to begin wearing diamonds as symbols of power. King Louis IX of France (1214-1270) valued diamonds so highly that he established a law reserving diamonds for the king alone.
—www.diamondgeezer.com
I found a cup of tea and took it to the deck to watch the sea, thinking of my father. He wanted to be reliable. He wanted to take care of me.
He just didn't really know how, and that had caused all sorts of chaos in my life. Even the simplest of things—showing up, or rather not showing up, for my sixteenth birthday dinner, had held consequences for me, more than him.
Everyone else had made an effort to help me celebrate this birthday—my grandmother had sent gifts early, and they'd been sitting on the table in the foyer for a week; Paul had gone to great lengths to plan an evening that would be glamorous and enjoyable. Brigitte had baked my special favorites, and washed and combed my hair for me. We giggled all day, nibbling sweets, drinking café, trying on jewelry and hairstyles. My father was due at three, and we were all going to go for a leisurely ride on the Seine in a small yacht Paul had borrowed from someone.
My father called at 2:00, just as Brigitte was brushing my hair out into long waves. "Happy birthday, baby!" he cried into the phone.
"Thanks, Dad! Where are you calling from?"
"Well, that's the thing, sweetheart. I'm stuck in the States, still. Can't get there today after all."
"What?" Swords of disappointment sliced through me. Not again.
"Honey, I just couldn't get there. I'm so very sorry."
