The security buzzer went, and Toby dashed across the kitchen to answer it.
‘Hey? Yeah, cool, thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s Nicole’s cab, guys. They’re just buzzing her in through the gates.’
‘I’ll get the door for her,’ Angel said, so swiftly that Christine’s antennae went up. When the two of them didn’t return immediately, she slid off her bar stool, saying she needed the loo. Quietly crossing the living room, she paused at the opening of the hallway corridor. As she had guessed, Angel and Nicole were in the guest bedroom together, and a couple of steps down the hallway brought her close enough to overhear what they were saying.
‘My God, it stinks in here! Did someone break a bottle of scent?’ Nicole exclaimed.
Angel said: ‘It’s Toby laying in candles for Missy.’
‘Still besotted?’
‘More than ever. Pretty sickening, actually. Here, I brought you a glass of fizz.’
‘Oh, thanks, darling! Just what I need! I’ve had a hell of a day – the last meeting in Amsterdam ran really late and then the trains were a mess! Cheers!’
There was a short pause as, presumably, she took a drink of champagne. Then: ‘Is she –’ Nicole asked, and Angel said quickly:
‘Safely back in the kitchen.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine. Absolutely fine.’
‘She’s still cool?’
‘God, yes. Doesn’t suspect a thing.’
‘And you’ve been careful, you naughty boy? Have you been managing to keep your hands off her neck?’
‘Not even a spank when I fuck her doggy style!’ Angel said. ‘Not that I’ve been doing much of that. Missionary position, with me staring lovingly into her eyes and whispering her name, seemed most indicated in the circs.’
‘Eww, you’d better make sure you don’t freak her out,’ Nicole said. There was the sound of a glass being set down on a table, a coat being shrugged off and dropped onto the bed. ‘That’d give me the total heebie-jeebies if you did it to me.’
‘It’s making me want to choke her even more,’ Angel said wistfully. ‘God, that was fun, Nic! You should have seen her! She started crying, did I tell you? It made my cock hard as a rock. Never gone for the whole crying thing before, but for some reason it really turned me on. I fucked her like a positive animal.’
‘Lucky her! Well, don’t expect me to cry for you, darling!’ Nicole giggled. ‘I don’t know when I last cried – maybe back when Gisele was fucking Herr Hoffman and I was so obsessed with him. Mind you, those were more tears of rage . . .’
‘Ah, happy memories! I got Gisele on the rebound. She was so pissed off about you nicking Herr Hoffmann that she’d do simply anything to prove what a good fuck she was . . . God, she was bendy. I owe you for that. So! All good with the you-know-whats?’
‘Fantastic!’ Nicole said gleefully. ‘He’ll take them all. He thinks he can recut the huge one and even add value to it! Of course, he needs to see them first to confirm, not just photos, but it’s great news! He’s got a big job on right now but he can take them next week. You can bring them yourself if you don’t trust me with them alone.’
‘We’ll take them together,’ Angel said. ‘Drop them off, then pick up some filthy whore in the red light district to celebrate.’
‘Ooh, lovely! A really trashy one! What fun!’
There was another pause, filled by kissing sounds.
‘We should get back,’ Angel said, moving towards the door. ‘They’ll be wondering why we’re taking so long.’
By the time he had pushed it open, Christine was round the corner of the corridor, moving fast across the living room; as Angel and Nicole arrived in the kitchen, Christine was up on her stool, sipping champagne as if she had never left. The huge bouquet on the kitchen island was useful, as it partially blocked Angel from seeing her expression.
She waved a greeting at Nicole, but there was an excellent distraction underway. Toby had now realized that Missy’s ‘cauliflower rice’ was actually cauliflower zapped in a food processor to the texture of fine grains, and then microwaved. He was protesting, while Missy was responding that her form of ‘rice’ was an excellent low-carb replacement; Angel added fuel to the fire by saying, ‘Missy’s been threatening to feed us crickets.’
The ensuing theatrical protests from Nicole, and a lively argument between Angel and Toby about the proportion of Guinness to champagne in Black Velvets, meant that no one paid any attention to Christine for a good twenty minutes, which was the bare minimum she needed to process the events of the last hour. Because, back in her office, she had remembered that the week before, Toby – accompanied by Angel – had visited Berkeley to look at selected pieces of Vivienne’s jewellery. Having taken Missy to meet Vivienne, Toby wanted to buy his girlfriend something from the film icon’s collection, and he had been positively giggly at the idea of looking at rings.
Nathan and Christine had brought out a whole range for Toby to look at, the purple and the orange diamonds among them. It had been a much larger selection than usual, the normal rules relaxed for a royal prince and Vivienne’s grandson, and Toby had been like a kid in a sweet shop. When Angel had suggested that Toby look at the ridiculously huge 114-carat cushion-cut, heart-shaped diamond, currently worn as a pendant, that had been a gift to Vivienne from Randon, Toby had been very enthusiastic.
Enormous as it was, however, this stone was surprisingly disappointing, which was Christine’s invariable experience with large cushion-cut diamonds. When the stones were high-colour and high-quality, the effect was to make the diamond look like glass. The cushion-cut lacked the numerous facets of a round brilliant, so the diamond failed to sparkle. The technical term for it was ‘dead’, and even the unskilled Toby, turning over the stone wonderingly, had commented that it was ‘a bit dull’.
The pendant had been set aside almost immediately. Like the orange and purple diamond rings, it was too expensive, too big for Missy’s tiny frame, and had only been brought up because no one could refuse Prince Toby if he wanted to see anything his heart might desire – especially not Nathan, who had a major crush on him.
But it wasn’t Toby who wanted to see the pendant, Christine thought. It was Angel who suggested it, because it was heart-shaped. There was much more coming and going at that client visit than I would ever normally allow. We were laughing and chatting and we didn’t keep the same eagle eye on the pieces we normally do, we didn’t stick to the usual rule that only one piece was being held at a time . . .
Asked for her professional advice about the diamond, Christine would have unequivocally suggested that the owner consider recutting it to add value. It would be a hard choice, as psychologically, no one wanted to relinquish the possession of a stone larger than a hundred carats. But the resulting diamond would probably be worth more, and besides, a good cutter would produce a few carat and two-carat round brilliants out of the trimmings. No question, a top-quality 96er, plus those extras, would bring more than a 114-carat ‘dead’ diamond.
Christine was sure that this must be the ‘huge one’ Nicole had just mentioned, that when Christine returned to the office first thing the next day, she would take out the 114-carat diamond and find that it, too, looked artificial. The Amsterdam cutter – Amsterdam was still, after many centuries, the world centre of diamond-cutting, and plenty of experts were willing to recut gems for higher than normal fees in compensation for their overlooking the lack of provenance – was clearly of the same opinion as Christine, that value might be added to the stone by careful reshaping.
As soon as a gem was recut, there could be no proving what had happened. It was brand, sparkling new. That was the magic of recutting: you created an entirely new gem. Always smaller, usually less valuable, but incapable of being identified as stolen and used as evidence against you.
As Vivienne’s grandson, Angel had full access to all the photographs and specifications of her jewellery. It would have been easy for him to pass copies to a contact who ha
d a lab set up to grow synthetic diamonds, making apparently perfect replacements for various large gems, then to have encouraged Toby to set up an appointment at the auction house. With the fake jewels tucked in his pocket, Angel could easily have swapped them over during one of the many moments when everyone in the room was distracted by the presence of a royal prince.
So many pieces were falling into place! Angel’s desperation to reconcile with Christine, saying all the right things with such miraculous smoothness, and his equally miraculous transformation. The ease with which he had found a therapist, and the great reports he had given of his treatment . . . the complete change in the way he made love to her, which, now she thought about it, was much too perfect, just like the orange and purple diamonds.
Had he been planning this from the beginning? When he’d realized in Tylösand that Vivienne was considering Christine’s auction house for the jewellery sale, had Angel asked Christine out that very evening so that he would have access to visits, the opportunity to swap the gems? No, surely because as Vivienne’s grandson, he could already have done that – or could he? After all, now that she thought about it, Angel had probably never been given free access to the safe before, the opportunity to photograph and substitute pieces.
One thing’s definite: every word he said about being in love with me was an absolute lie, she realized. Because when the jewellery was sold at auction, the first thing any sensible buyer would do was to have their purchase authenticated by a third party. Fraudulent stones would immediately be detected. Christine and Berkeley would be blamed, because they had appraised Vivienne’s gems before cataloguing them, had certified them as genuine. Their reputations would be ruined. Christine would be unemployable anywhere in her chosen field. It would, effectively, destroy her life.
The strangest thing of all was that, the instant she understood how badly Angel had betrayed her, Christine had the most extraordinary, ineffable sensation of lightness. She was free.
She had never, she realized, had any true feelings for Angel. She had been flattered by his interest, dazzled by his social status and handsome looks, seduced by his extraordinary sexual abilities. She shuddered: after hearing that snatch of conversation between him and Nicole, the thought of ever having sex with him again made her skin crawl.
After Angel had choked her, she had rejected him, and that had been the first intelligent decision she’d made in a long time. She should have trusted her instincts, should never have taken him back. But his story had been so compelling, so tragic . . .
I was such an idiot! she thought. I can’t believe I fell for the classic line men pull on women when they’ve behaved badly, the poor-little-boy routine! Well, it worked. I felt too guilty to do anything but take him back!
It was shocking how easily women could be manipulated this way. She wouldn’t have believed she would be susceptible to it. And yet here she was, the girlfriend of a man who had hurt her badly – a man who had choked her repeatedly until she passed out – a man she didn’t know at all.
Angel had lied when he said he knew the sexual games he had played at school were wrong. He had enjoyed every minute. And every time he had made love to her since, he had been secretly mocking her stupidity for falling for his sob story, his fake repentance, his pleas for forgiveness.
‘I know, right?’ said Toby, seeing her flinch and attributing it to the ongoing conversation about eating insects. ‘Disgusting! Here, have some more champagne and let’s talk about something less revolting . . .’
‘Darling, you’re very quiet!’ Angel said, coming round the corner of the island and giving her a quick hug. Summoning up all the guile she possessed, Christine smiled at him sweetly, hugging him back. She had never imagined that she was capable of acting a part so well.
‘I’ve just got a bit of headache, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the champagne will take care of it. I’ll have to have an early night, though – back at mine, so I can get a full night’s sleep. You don’t mind, do you?’
She found herself taking pleasure in adding:
‘Of course, after the auction’s over, it’ll all be different! We should plan a holiday in February. In January, I’ll be processing all the paperwork and the post-sale valuations and the shipping, so that’ll be almost as crazy as now. But February should be fine, and I’d love to get some sunshine. What about Mexico? I saw some amazing photos of a resort where the king and queen of Herzoslovakia went on their honeymoon – private pools and lovely cabanas, glorious weather, just you and me, very romantic . . .’
If she hadn’t been on high alert and unusually acute, it would have been almost impossible for her to notice the flicker of recoil in Angel’s eyes, or the smirk that briefly passed across Nicole’s face.
‘That sounds fantastic!’ Angel said, bending to kiss her.
Christine kissed him back, putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it fondly. She could do this. She could carry this off. She might not be as experienced at deception as Angel and Nicole, but she was perfectly capable of fooling them.
Of course, that was because they thought that she was nothing but a silly little victim. A dupe whom Angel had targeted from the first, too naive and unsophisticated to, oh, fully appreciate how lucky she was to be choked by him . . .
Toby was refilling her half-full glass; he was the perfect host. This would almost certainly be the last time a prince poured her champagne as she sat in a royal palace, Christine reflected. She should make the most of it. Thanking him with another sweet smile, she sipped her drink and watched Angel and Nicole from below her lowered lashes. She could tell from the way they glanced at each other that they were sure Christine had no suspicions at all about the shitstorm that was about to rain down on her head, courtesy of the two of them.
They’ll pay for this, Christine resolved, even as she slid off her stool and followed the rest of them to the big oak table at the far side of the room, where Missy was dishing up her quinoa stir-fry. In a big serving bowl, a gleaming pink paprika-dusted heap of king prawns was piled on top of a mound of cauliflower ‘rice’, which had been toasted in a pan after being microwaved. Open bottles of Sancerre from the palace cellars were placed at intervals along the table, white wine glasses laid out by the plate settings, and massive silver candelabras glowed at either end, polished that day by one of the palace housekeepers.
Toby and Missy stood at the head of the table, arms around each other’s waists, beaming as their guests seated themselves. Not to be outdone, Christine wrapped her arm around Angel’s waist for a second, flashing a grin of contentment at Nicole, who smiled back at her in return, tossing back her enviable mane of dark hair.
And the best part is, they won’t see it coming. They think I’m such a total idiot, they won’t have any idea that I’m going to screw them back just like they’ve tried to screw me.
Christine’s body sat down at the table, smiling cheerfully, drinking Sancerre and eating the surprisingly tasty food. It took very little part in the banter; but then, no one was expecting her to say much. Angel and Toby were boisterous, Nicole sexy, Missy amused by the upper-class badinage of English males, and Christine thoughtful; that was the pattern of their social engagements.
Which is great, as no one will be at all suspicious that I’m not chattering away, Christine’s brain thought, floating free, leaving her body to eat and smile and nod while her intellect worked away, that dedicated, meticulous intellect and drive that had taken her from foster care to huge success in her chosen career.
I was determined to be a gemmologist. I was determined to get the Vivienne Winter sale. And now I’ve got a new goal. I’m going to save myself, and turn the tables on the two of them.
She raised her glass in a toast, unnoticed by anyone else at the table.
And wow, I’m really going to enjoy taking my revenge . . .
Chapter Twenty-One
London – the next day
A little before midday, Christine let herself into Angel’s fla
t and paused, the door still open, listening with great care and attention to hear if there was any movement inside. The night before, kissing Angel goodbye as he put her into the taxi he had called on his account to take her home – enjoy these free cabs while you have them, Christine, she had told herself, you’ll be back to public transport and having to carry flat shoes in your handbag soon enough – she had asked him what he was up to the next day, if he could maybe manage lunch with her. She had said that she felt bad about leaving early and not spending the night with him; she’d assumed the soppiest expression she could manage, and been quietly amazed to see Angel fall for it, hook, line and sinker.
He really does think I’m a complete idiot, she realized. But then, I’ve been behaving like one as far as he’s concerned, haven’t I?
If, as Angel declined the idea of lunch regretfully, he had pleaded a therapist’s appointment by way of excuse, Christine wouldn’t have believed a word of it. The closest Angel had ever been to a therapist, she was quite sure now, was the four-handed massage he regularly got at the spa at the InterContinental, Park Lane, after his steam temple ritual there. Instead, he had told her that he was booked at noon for a session with his personal trainer. This Christine did believe. Angel took his slim, lean physique very seriously, and paid the man he had nicknamed the Wacky Russian a very large sum to maintain it. The grimace with which Angel had told Christine that it was leg day was further proof he was telling the truth. He always made that face when he told her it was leg day.
She should have, at minimum, a couple of hours alone in his apartment. After Angel worked out, he swam in the pool, visited the sauna and steam rooms; his club at Chelsea Harbour was the height of luxury. And it wasn’t one of the days that the housekeeping service came in to clean. Christine had checked that already. Closing the door behind her, she was still on full alert, however. What if Nicole was here? That brief snatch of conversation between her and Angel last night had made it clear they were much closer than they’d led Christine to believe. But Christine had phoned the apartment and rung the doorbell, both with no answer. She was taking every precaution she possibly could.
Killer Diamonds Page 36
