by Ruth Wind
"Oh, please." I rolled my eyes. "There's no such thing as true love."
"Tsk, tsk," he said with a low chuckle. "You believe in the curse, but not true love?"
I shrugged.
"So young to be so cynical."
"Can you blame me?" I looked out the window. "My mother, my father, you, my own marriage—it's not exactly as if I've seen anything close to true love in my life."
"How me? What did I do?"
"You have never married. You've never seemed to ever be in love with anyone. You go along almost pathologically unattached."
His laughter was rich and merry. "Is that so?"
"Yes!" He started to add more, and I raised a hand. "Don't, okay? I'm not in the mood."
"True love does exists, ma petite puce."
"Whatever." We were halted at a traffic light, and we listened to the engine rumble for a long moment. Then I said, "Didn't the prince love the princess truly? He gave her an awfully big jewel."
"He stole her from her true love. He lusted for her, did not love."
"Isn't it always the way."
We pulled smoothly into the rounded drive of a tall, stone fronted hotel. Women in evening gowns that swirled out from beneath heavy coats were escorted by men in tuxedos. "It looks like a ball," I said. "How appropriate."
Paul laughed.
If I hadn't been watching the skittering trail of a shiny blue dress, I would never have noticed the blue stripe on the pant leg of the man next to her, which led me to noticing another man next to him.
It was the man from the airport in Glasgow, the first time. The big redheaded thug who'd shown up in Dunure.
"What the hell?" I said aloud, peering at him, sure I was mistaken.
But no. He looked sturdy and elegant in a tuxedo and cummerbund, had his arm on the elbow of a woman in a apricot-colored gown. A white bandage covered a wound on his right hand. Probably where I'd bitten him.
Without a second's hesitation, I leaped out of the car.
He spied me when I was only a few feet away, and took off, running full tilt through the crowds, knocking people aside. "Wait!" I cried. "Let me just talk to you!"
But of course, he didn't. I chased him into the ornate lobby of the hotel, and through a doorway. I dashed behind him, bumping into a woman, then a man, apologizing, ducking their frowns. When I ran through the doors, I found myself in a sea of tuxedoed men. A waltz was playing and mirrors reflected the whole dazzling satin and silk display. I stopped, flummoxed.
It seemed as if there were thousands and thousands of men in tuxes. For a few minutes, I pushed through, hoping to get lucky, but I knew it was hopeless. I returned to the lobby, where I spied Paul, looking frustrated and upset as I came closer.
He grabbed my arm. "Do not do that to me again, do you hear me?"
There was genuine fury, perhaps worry, in his tone. "I saw—"
"I don't care." He tucked my hand through the crook in his elbow, and held it there. "Tell me upstairs. Now, let's check in."
We checked in as Mr. Paul and Ms. Diamond, which Paul thought very funny.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Paul," the man said in heavily accented English, "and you have a package for your daughter, which will be delivered to your room shortly."
"Very good."
I was stung by the "daughter" comment. "That wasn't very politic, was it?" I commented quietly as the bellboy led us to the elevator. "What if he'd just called your wife your daughter?"
"It's a suite, with two bedrooms," he said.
"Oh."
Within the elevator, with mirrors reflecting us, Paul so elegant, me so much younger, looking very much as if we were father and daughter, I felt tangled and irritable and nervous. I said nothing until we were shown into the suite, an expansive set of rooms with views looking over the sparkling lights of the city.
"Why are we doing this?" I asked. "Shouldn't we be headed to the mountains?"
"It is snowing in the mountains, Sylvie. No one is driving there tonight." He looked around the room, poked his head into the bedrooms, nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you," he said, and tipped the boy. He departed, and when the door had closed, Paul tucked his wallet back inside his coat. "I have a plan, believe it or not. Perhaps you should trust me."
I paced to the window, peered out at the city, at a roundabout where little-toy-looking cars whirled around, brake lights flashing in the snow. "Maybe I would if you shared the plan with me."
"Ah, here we go," he said as someone knocked. "Here is part of it, Sylvie, if you want to stop sulking."
I turned as he opened the door. A man carried a garment bag and a box with what were presumably shoes. Paul spoke to him quickly, reiterating something, and the man nodded. A young man with a white jacket, he bent and smiled in my direction. Paul closed the door. "I told him it was your birthday and he is going to bring champagne."
"How will that help us get the jewel?"
Paul carried the bag to a door, where he hung it up. "We must go downstairs to the ball." He flipped the bag away from the clothing below and exposed a black dress with a low neckline and a low back. A wrap was draped over the hanger. "I had to guess the sizes, so I hope they are all right. Here are shoes—" He raised them. "I will leave you to get dressed. A half hour?"
"It's beautiful," I said honestly. "You always have great taste, but I don't understand. Why are we going down there?"
"I suspect your friend Luca may be there tonight."
"Why? You don't think he's on his way to his mother's village?"
He didn't look at me immediately, instead smoothed a hand over the skirt of the dress. I liked the look of his big hand, so male and square, in contrast to the delicate material of the dress. "Perhaps," he said, finally. "But perhaps it is more likely that he knew of this gathering some time ago and knew he could use the jewel to curry favor."
I blinked. "So the village story was just to get my sympathy."
He shrugged.
"God, I'm an idiot, aren't I?"
"Not at all, Sylvie. He is afraid of the jewel, and he wanted to get it here. At any rate, there are any number of jewel aficionados in the gathering downstairs, and some others who may be of help to us. It was no accident I booked this room, this hotel and I arranged for the dress from Scotland."
"All right. It won't take me long to get ready." I kicked off my shoes and strode across the room to take the dress off the door. "You don't have to go anywhere. I'll be quick."
He stood where he was, looking down at me. "Are you nervous, Sylvie?"
"No."
"I think you are." He touched my chin with one finger. "I suspect that you are worried that you have set things in motion that you do not know if you wish to ride forward—you should forgive the double entendre." His smile was wry, his eyes so clear and sage.
I swallowed. "I don't know."
"It is all forgotten."
A sense of pressure drained out of me suddenly, replaced almost as quickly with regret. Push. Pull. My heart pounded. "I'll get dressed," I said, and took the dress into the bathroom.
I hung it on a hook and smoothed my hands over it. Exquisite, as would be any dress of his choosing. I stripped off my blouse, skirt and bra. The sudden fall of support reminded me of the bruise, and I turned to look at myself in the big hotel mirror.
"Jeez," I said aloud. The lower half of my left breast was a deep purply blue, and the red mark in the middle perfectly imitated the ruby at the heart of the Katerina.
But that was not—not by a long shot—the only bruise or mark on my body. There was a trail of little marks down my thigh, a bruise on my elbow, a scrape on my knee I didn't remember getting, and of course, the bruised chin.
No help for it. I put the dress on over my head, and it slid silkily into place over my skin. The neckline was plunging, showing nice plump rounds of breast on either side—I would have to pin it to hide the bruise on the left—and a cut that left nearly my entire back bare, all the way to the base of my spine. With long, close-f
itting sleeves, the exposed skin was elegant rather than slutty, and I loved the swirl of the skirt over my hips.
"Nice," I said, admiring the back. I slid into the high-heeled sandals and headed out to the other room for my bag, where I had some lipstick and mascara to touch up my face.
Paul was opening a bottle of champagne when I walked out, and he stopped to admire me properly. "That looks very, very nice, Sylvie. I knew it would suit you."
I spun around, feeling a heady sort of recklessness as air swooped over my bare back, as the skirt swirled around my legs. "It's beautifully cut," I said.
He poured champagne into two glasses for us, and handed me one. "To a successful venture this evening," he said. "Cheers, ma poulette."
I grinned at his endearment. "Cheers." We clinked glasses and each sipped. Then I remembered the revealing nature of the neckline. "I think I need a safety pin, though. Let me check for one, so you can see if it shows."
"A pin? For what? I don't see the need for a pin."
Unthinking, I touched the edge of my left breast, and pushed a little fabric aside. "I have a pretty bad bruise."
"Sylvie!" he exclaimed, and put his glass aside. "Have you had someone look at it?"
"No—when would I have had time?" I raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome to the job."
"Christ." He stepped forward, lifted a hand, put it back down. "What did you do to yourself?"
"I was carrying the Katerina in my bra, and had a little fall." I touched the bruise on my chin, too. "It happened all at the same time."
"Well," he said, "pin it, I suppose, for tonight. We'll find someone to look at it later."
Some evil part of me wanted to poke at him, protect myself. "Not you?"
"That's enough," he said, mouth grim.
Stung, I turned away, put the champagne down, and absurdly found I was blinking away tears. It felt, suddenly, like the awful night when I was sixteen and Mariette's deliberate humiliation of me. "Fuck you," I said before I realized I would.
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
Luca 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.
