by Kat Faitour
When she moved to pull away, he grabbed her wrist in a hard grip.
“They died, Margaux.”
She froze.
“Every single one of Mason’s team lost a parent when they were children. Including, as you know, Mason. The investigations were closed, but I don’t think they were accidents.”
She dropped back down to the bench. “What are you saying?” She laughed, but the sound was choked and humorless. “Are you suggesting they killed their own parents?”
“No,” he scoffed. “I’m saying a group of kids grew up together. Attended the same school together. And all of them—at different times and by separate incidents—had a parent who was killed on the job.” Julian reached across the space between them and took Margaux’s hand in his. “They all worked for the mining companies.” He squeezed, and Margaux felt some of the numbness leave her fingers. “Isn’t it weird they all left Johannesburg but wound up together in Antwerp? Working with diamonds?”
He breathed deeply. “Don’t you think it’s possible they have an axe to grind with the industry? And this is their way of taking something back?”
“But what, Julian? What do you think they’re taking?” Margaux shook her head, bewildered by all the information Julian had dumped on her. “What exactly are you accusing them of?”
“I think they’re thieves.” He scooted closer on the bench, invading Margaux’s personal space. “I wouldn’t put it past them to be replacing mined stoned with lab-grown ones.”
“What?” She reared back, her hand slipping out of his. “What could they possibly have to gain?”
Julian leaned forward, his hands cupped over his knees. “Listen, I don’t pretend to know the details. But something is off with that group.”
Margaux stood, this time determined to walk away.
“Will you at least think about what I’ve told you? And promise to keep your eyes open?”
She nodded. But there was no way Mason Graff would hurt her. They’d met because he’d saved her. Her fate could easily have been the same as Andrew’s.
She brushed her lips over Julian’s cheek. “I promise. Now you promise to take some time off. As much as you need.”
He shrugged, and Margaux figured that was enough. She started walking away, but he called out, addressing the back of her.
“And Margaux? One more thing. Ask yourself why Mason was in South Africa at the same time as you.”
Margaux looked over her shoulder, a hand raised to rub the temple where her headache pounded.
“Why?”
“Because it was the first time he’d been back. Since he left school.” Now it was Julian who rose from the bench where they’d sat. He turned to walk in the opposite direction, but not before finishing his thought.
“All those years, Margaux. Think about it. Why then?”
* * *
Margaux ran through the estate, banging doors behind her. She was upset, rattled from her meeting with Julian. Either he’d gone completely mad or else his wild accusations held a grain of truth.
But what truth? What exactly did Julian think Mason was up to? He ran a respectable business in lab-grown diamonds. He and his team were reputable and seen as industry experts.
There was nothing nefarious about them. And as for being thieves? The thought was absurd. In the incestuous, cloistered world of diamond trading, word would have gotten out. There would have been whispers. And suspicion, once ignited, ran rampant.
She poked her head into the stables and saw Thomas trying to coax Buck in from the ring. As far as she knew, no one could ride or lead the Arabian. He was gorgeous but mean and viciously tempered.
Thomas held out an apple. The horse nickered and snorted, coming close enough to snatch it from the old man’s palm. But not before trying to take a nip out of his shoulder.
Thomas laughed, a hearty and full-throated sound. And if Margaux had been in any other mood, she’d have joined him.
But first, she needed to shake off the conversation with Julian.
So she would paint instead.
It never failed to calm and center her. Painting made her feel right with the world. And that was exactly what she needed.
She waved at Thomas, her mind already elsewhere. He may have said something on her way out, or it might have been a trick of the wind. But she ignored it and headed for her rooms, determined the rest of the world could wait for a while.
She knew, as soon as she entered her suite, that it was gone.
Slowly, her steps hesitant, she walked to the corner with the large bay windows where she’d set up her easel and paints. The easel remained, the paints were organized, but the art was missing. Absent.
With knuckles pressed against her mouth, Margaux turned in a slow circle, eyes searching the room as if the piece of art had moved itself. Perhaps to another corner or nook.
But it hadn’t. It was gone.
A breath shuddered out, and then she inhaled slowly in an attempt to calm her pulse. A painting could not simply walk itself out of the room. Someone had moved it. Thomas had tried to tell her something, so maybe it was him. Or it could have been Mason.
Margaux checked her watch, surprised to find it later than she realized. Mason was probably still at the lab, but she’d check his rooms in case.
She walked down the hallway and rounded the corner to where his suite of rooms were located. Unlike hers, which included a large bedroom, en suite, and sitting area, his contained an additional room that housed his home office and library.
She pushed the outer door open a crack and leaned her head in.
“Mason?”
Her voice echoed. She stepped over the threshold, looking around. His room was masculine and tidy, the bed made and no clutter or clothes in sight. She stuck her head into his office. “Mason?”
Nothing. There were papers and planners on his desk in neat stacks. But no sign of the owner.
For some reason she would only question later, she opened the pocket doors that led to his walk-in closet.
Metal rods held suits and dress shirts, organized by color. Open shelving contained folded jeans, sweaters, and casual tees. One section held a floor-to-ceiling cabinet of drawers, but they were all closed, no doubt hiding the basics of socks and underwear.
She grinned. He was as orderly as a monk. Lucky for her, that’s where the similarity ended.
She was about to turn around and leave, her mood improved in spite of the missing painting. There was an explanation, she was certain. Just as there was an explanation for all Julian’s concerns.
A duffel bag lay on the floor, partially unzipped. It was the only item not put away and seemed to be empty. Margaux bent over to peer inside.
Black clothing was rolled up, military style. Cargo pants and crewneck, even black socks and running shoes.
She sat back on her haunches. She was pretty sure it was what he’d been wearing the night they’d met. When he interrupted her mugging.
But why wait this long to unpack? It didn’t make sense considering his other things had clearly been removed, laundered, and put away.
“Hm.” More curious than anything, she pulled the bag closer. Something hard lined the bottom of the case, underneath the clothing. She pushed aside the pants and shoes then reached inside to remove a compact rectangular hard case. It was very similar to one that would hold a small collection of jewelry. Except there appeared to be no lock, just standard steel toggle latches.
More intrigued by the moment, she hooked her thumbs underneath and flipped the hardware open.
And gasped.
An advanced set of lock picks lay in the padded interior, sorted by size. There were other tools as well, all small scale, some basic hardware, and other things Margaux didn’t recognize. One thing did stand out though, and that was a combination safe auto-dialer. The technology was used to open old-style combination locks with up to three wheels.
It was exactly the sort of thing a thief would use to open an antique safe
like the one they had in their laboratory in Johannesburg. Except they’d performed an upgrade recently, converting it so it retained the lock but used a numerical keypad.
She stared into the case but only saw her office in South Africa, as she remembered it from that awful morning after Andrew’s attack. The ransacked files. The upended furniture. The vandalized safe. And her painting, one of her precious firsts, torn asunder by rage unleashed.
Her legs cramped, and she eased herself to the floor, stretching her legs straight out in front of her. She had no idea how long she sat like that, with the duffel at her side and the tool case open on her lap, showcasing its wares.
There was only one reason someone owned a kit like this. But Margaux shut down the thought, unable to go down the path it would take her.
Finally, she stirred, her limbs stiff and cold. With careful precision, she refastened the case and laid it in the bottom of the bag, like it had been when she found it. And then she refolded the clothing so it was also the same but displaced a balled up piece of wool in the process. She took it out, with the intention of rolling it up again, but paused when she realized it was a cap.
Another memory, this time one of Mason when she first saw him. Dressed all in black with a wool beanie on his head. He’d removed it later, but now it was here, right in front of her. As she smoothed out the fabric, she saw that it multi-functional. It was obviously designed so that it could be worn one of two ways.
Folded like a cap.
Or unfolded as a balaclava.
Which made it exactly the kind of thing a thief would wear.
* * *
Mason crossed the polished marble floors of the art gallery, grimacing when his rubber-soled sneakers shrieked against the glassy surface.
He was dressed in dark denims and a button-down, typical attire for a day at the lab. But before heading to work, he’d first wanted to perform this errand, something he’d debated but ultimately decided was best.
Since that day a week ago when Noor arrived unannounced at his home, he’d known himself to be a man on borrowed time. Soon, in fact today, he would switch Margaux’s diamonds for lab-grown ones. It was an irreversible, final act. One that would doom him and Margaux as a couple, especially once the switch was leaked.
She would know what he’d done, and that he’d planned it almost from the beginning. There would be no going back.
And certainly, no way forward.
So long as the project proceeded to plan, he could at least console himself with that success. He and the Orphans would see a large batch of conflict diamonds removed from the market. No company would make a profit at the expense of African lives. And after the leak, they would see the end of Taylor Diamond Corporation.
There would be one less corrupt mining company.
He shook off the notion that it wasn’t worth it, not when he would lose the woman he loved. Before Margaux, he’d never entertained such a fanciful idea. They were a group of thieves, but with a higher cause. A mission like theirs required sacrifice. Stoicism. There was no room for exceptions, or losing sight of the end goals. As the unspoken leader of the group, Mason knew it was his responsibility to set an example. To do what was necessary, even when it hurt like hell.
Collateral damage was unavoidable. This time, he would be the one to pay its cost.
He walked farther into the gallery with Margaux’s painting. Its brown paper wrapping crinkled loudly as he hoisted it higher in his arms. Several pairs of eyes swung his way, but Mason was preoccupied as he sought out the man Thomas had recommended.
He was an old friend and former colleague to Mason’s butler. An esteemed insider of the art world, a respected critic and collector.
While Mason was still searching, the man in question found him. He was small and trimly built, with a shock of silvery-white hair. Round wire frames perched on a snub nose and his cheeks were round and full, like a hamster storing food.
“You must be Mr. Graff.”
Mason nodded and stuck out his hand, but the owner was off, bustling across the expanse of the gallery toward a room on the other side. Since it was clearly expected, Mason followed at a slower pace, taking in his surroundings. When he caught up with the other man, he could clearly see it was the curator’s office, with three of its four walls comprised of clear glass. Briefly, Mason wondered if he could work this way, on display like an animal at the zoo.
The smaller man waved him inside, his movements short and jerky. Once Mason entered the room, he was led directly to a large easel that sat in one corner. The man pointed.
“Put it there.”
Mason obeyed, a bit bemused.
“Now unwrap it. Let’s see what you have. And if it’s as good as Thomas says.” His tone was ripe with old rivalry.
Mason had the sense this man and Thomas must have been competitors at one time. Mason tore off a piece of tape, taking a large triangle of the brown packing paper with it.
“Mercy,” the man exclaimed. He swatted Mason’s hands, pushing him aside. “You’re too rough. You’ll destroy it before I ever have a chance to see it.”
Mason choked back a laugh. Never, in his wildest imagination, could he see Thomas working within the art world if this level of melodrama was typical. The small man reacted to Mason as if he were a bull in a china shop rather than someone who worked with intricate stones and diamonds.
The eccentric owner stood motionless in front of the uncovered painting for several long, painstaking moments.
“Well, what do you—”
Mason was interrupted by the man’s hand chopping the air between them.
“Shh!”
Mason’s brows shot up. “I’m sorry, but you are—” He wanted to confirm this was, in fact, the man Thomas had recommended. Because surely this could not be the same person who Thomas had described as cool, composed, and cultured. Although Mason didn’t see how there could be two men alive with the same hair.
“Arthur Van Wyk.” He never looked in Mason’s direction but continued to absently wave his hand behind him, shooing him away. “Call me Art.”
Mason shook his head. The tiny, wizened man was definitely unusual, somewhat strange, and borderline rude. But he was assessing Margaux’s art with singular focus, and for that Mason was thankful.
Mason mentally crossed his fingers, hoping he could leave her with this last gift. It would be his apology and someday, he hoped, a measure of atonement.
Arthur straightened and spun on his heel. He strode to the outer edge of the office, pressed his back against the glass, then continued his perusal of Margaux’s painting.
Mason checked his watch. If he was going to complete the switch today, he needed to get to the lab. He stepped closer to Arthur and cleared his throat.
The hand flew up again, practically in Mason’s face. “Silence!”
Well, for God’s sake.
While Mason was willing to humor the other man’s quirks, he drew the line at ill manners. He moved toward the painting. He would find somewhere else—someone else—to take it to.
“It’s genius.”
Mason stopped. “What?”
“It’s genius,” the other man pronounced. He was all smiles now, a picture of congeniality and accommodation. “Do you see it? What she did?”
Mason cocked his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He hesitated.
“She’s a modern impressionist.” He took Mason’s arm as if they were familiar friends and pulled him so his back was also against the far glass wall. “Can you tell what she’s painted?”
Mason stared, only seeing a blurred, abstract image in muted colors that were painted in somewhat of a concentric pattern. Suddenly, he narrowed his eyes and exhaled.
“It’s a mine,” he stated. “She’s painted a diamond mine.” He looked to Arthur, unconsciously seeking the man’s approval.
He wasn’t disappointed. The other man slapped him on the shoulder. “Yes! And do you see what she’s done with the small dab of red
?”
Mason looked again. The bright color was incongruous with the rest of the work. Jarring.
“Why red?” Arthur seemed intent on helping along.
“Because…” Mason hesitated. Why had she used red? And such a deeply scarlet shade?
The answer came to him, nearly taking his breath away. “It’s blood. She’s using it to symbolize blood.”
“Exactly.” Arthur continued to stare unblinkingly at the painting, his torso pitched slightly forward. Mason shifted on his feet and surreptitiously tried to check his watch again.
Finally, the older man sighed and relaxed his stiff pose. He fixed his gaze on Mason.
“I’ll draft the paperwork. I want everything she’s ever done.”
* * *
The atmosphere in the lab was tense. Mason stood between Noor and Cullen as the three of them examined the stones laid out before them.
On the left side of the table, there were two columns of three trays each. The right side of the table held the same. And in the middle was an individual case with an enormous, flawless diamond.
“It’s like a problem child.” Cullen pointed at it. “So far, it’s caused nothing but trouble.”
Mason nodded in agreement. Cullen was right. And he knew it was because of this one stone that Hope had stayed in the other room, with the excuse of catching up on other work.
She was worried Mason was still upset about her choice to shape the large diamond into a classic, emerald cut. But he’d accepted her decision at least a week ago. It had been much harder to accept he had no match for it.
“Now it’s practically famous.”
Mason looked directly at Noor. “Why did you tell Margaux about it? You must have known doing so would kill any chance we had of duplicating it.”
Noor wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t realize the impact it would have. I didn’t think.”
Mason continued to eye her as intently as she was eyeing the trays of diamonds. “Hm. It’s just that I’ve never known you to speak or act impulsively.”
She surprised him by rounding on him, her lips curled. Fiery temper lit the black depths of her eyes to a brilliant, glowing obsidian. “Well, forgive me for not staying within the boundaries of the box you’ve sorted me.” Her tone was ripe with sarcasm. And something else, something that went deeper than anger.
