A Cut Above (14 page)
Huh? I’ve just been insulted. I think.
Max snickers.
I glare.
Before I can say anything else, the woman steps out from behind the desk, and I get a load of her glamorous duds. The coffee-colored silk blouse is tailored to perfection. It follows her Sophia Loren curves as though it were the country’s signature beverage poured over her. Straight brown trousers are smooth and unwrinkled, even though she’d been sitting.
During the years I lived in the Big Apple, I came to know that’s the mark of perfect construction in exquisite fabric. Somewhere I’m sure there’s a matching jacket to those pants, and the whole ensemble has to have set her back a good thousand bucks or more.
Never mind the to-die-for brown-leather-with-stacked-wooden-heel Christian Louboutin pumps, perfect down to their trademark red soles.
As I stare, she hikes a hip on the corner of her desk and crosses her arms. No one with eyes can miss the massive emerald ring on her right hand. From where I’m standing, I figure it’s got to clock in at around thirty-five to forty carats. And unless I’m much mistaken, the diamond-dusted setting is platinum.
Her chuckle hits me the wrong way.
“I don’t carry a weapon,” she says.
“That hadn’t crossed my mind,” I answer, which says a lot about me, none of it good. Plant me in front of glitz and glamour and my common sense jumps ship. It’s best to keep her guessing.
She arches a brow. “And your partner is as handsome as the camera presents him.”
Max mutters something under his breath.
I notice the blush on his cheeks. My chuckle slips out. “So you’ve seen our show.”
Never taking her gaze from my face, she picks up a television remote control gizmo and clicks on the flat-screen set on a console next to the door.
To my amazement, a video recording of Max and me pops up. Figures. We’re arguing, this time over the merits or lack thereof in heat-treating quartz to obtain the delicate prasio-lites better known as green amethyst.
“I visit the United States on a regular basis,” she says.
As if that clears everything up. Hah! Nothing makes sense. “And you bothered to tape us?”
Off goes the video—thankfully.
“I make it my business to know everything about the gem trade.”
At my side, Max gives a heartfelt groan. “Not again.”
I shoot him a warning glare. I hope his little comment was low enough for our hostess not to have heard.
When I turn back to her, she’s again wearing a blank expression.
What’s up with all this? Why, why, why? Why would she want to drag us here? What’s it all about?
“I’m sure you’re not interested in interviewing us,” I say, “so how about you tell us why you hauled us out here? Especially since an old-fashioned invite to lunch would have worked. You could have spared us the machine guns and the skanky truck, you know.”
An elegant eyebrow arches. “You would like me to believe you’d come to a stranger’s home just because of an invitation?”
“Maybe—”
“You wouldn’t have to be a stranger,” Max lays a hand on my shoulder, then squeezes. “You could have made arrangements to meet Andie in Bogotá if you’d only wanted to meet her. It seems to me you knew this would be the only way, because you knew she’d refuse if she knew whatever it is you’re up to.”
I slant him a look—an admiring one. “Okay. So what
are
you up to?”
“You won’t accept a fan’s interest in meeting an American TV star?”
I snort. “I doubt you’re wowed by my on-screen charisma, much less giddy at meeting me.” I gesture toward her. “I don’t see the giddy just yet.”
Max whispers, “Easy.”
I bite my tongue. And wait—not something I’m good at. Finally, our bewildering hostess gives us a brief nod. “Well, Andrea. It seems you have something that’s mine. And I want it back.”
A snarky feeling starts rumbling around in my gut. “How can I have something of yours if I’ve never met you before?”
Had I not been staring at her I would have missed the tightening of her lips and the slight narrowing of her brown eyes. “There are those who think they know everything, but actually know nothing at all.”
“Amen, sister,” Max mutters.
I shoot visual daggers his way. “Don’t you dare.” I face our hostess again. “Look. Consider me as stupid as you want, just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you—not that I have much of anything anymore.”
Her forehead lines with a slight frown. “What do you mean?”
Arms extended out to my sides, I turn a circle. “I have nothing. My suitcase is in the SUV at the side of that sorry excuse for a road where your goons stopped us.”
She waves her dismissal of my comment. “Your luggage is here. My men brought it along.”
“Thank goodness for small favors—oof!” Max’s jabbing elbow tells me to keep my mouth in control. He does have a point.
I give it another whirl, more copacetically this time. “Since you have my luggage, I suppose your . . .
men
. . . have already searched it, and taken whatever you want. How soon can you have us back to the capital? I can’t wait to catch the earliest flight home.”
“You haven’t fallen under Colombia’s charm?”
Her sarcasm doesn’t escape me. “What charm? The guy at customs didn’t speak a word of the English he was supposed to be fluent in. A petty thief takes off with my purse when I’m minding my business, sitting in a restaurant, eating my dinner. I’m forced to go up and down and around the worst roads on earth just to get my business done. And then, when I’m heading back out of here, you have us accosted by machine-gun-topped jerks. You tell me where the charm might be hiding, ’cause I sure haven’t seen it so far.”
She smiles.
Great. I amused her. Not exactly what I wanted to do.
With a leopard’s sleekness, she steps away from the desk and strolls to one of the bookshelves. There, she runs a finger across a series of tall, slim, leather-bound books with gold writing I can’t make out on the spines. The tomes look like a set of those some people buy to make them look more educated than not, like something you’ve seen on the set of a TV show or movie, familiar and yet not.
The emerald catches the light and winks at me.
Our hostess sighs. “Let’s take care of, as you say, business, shall we? Then I’ll be happy to show you the charms of my country.”
I cross my arms and tap my foot. “I’m waiting. What is it you want from me?”
“Why . . . the emeralds, of course.”
Remember that snarky feeling I mentioned? Well, I shoulda paid more attention to it. Way more attention.
I don’t need to fake shock. Mine’s real, all right. “What emeralds?”
Now it’s her turn to cross her arms. “I’ll do you the favor not to consider you stupid if you do the same for me. You know what emeralds I’m talking about.”
I have a sneaking suspicion, but do I
know
? For sure? Nuh-uh. “I really don’t. You’ll have to enlighten me.”
My answer achieves a crack in her demeanor. She tightens her lips and taps the elegant open toe of her Louboutin pump. “You came to Colombia to buy emeralds, Andrea, not for a vacation. Rodolfo has emeralds—good ones too. I want the stones.”
I blink and give a small shake of the head. Nothing. It’s still pea-soup clear. She seems to know Mr. Cruz. Why doesn’t she hit him up for whatever emeralds she wants?
I take a step closer to our hostess—whose secret identity is beginning to bug me. Why doesn’t she tell us who she is? A plain ol’ name would help.
But noooooo.
She couldn’t really have meant what I’m afraid she did, could she? “Let me get this straight—”
“What is there to, as you put it, ‘get straight’?” She turns both hands palms up. “I want the emeralds.”
My next step brings me within sniffing distance. I catch the familiar scent of Joy and recoil. That’s Aunt Weeby’s signature fragrance. A woman who’d pull a stunt like this . . . well, she shouldn’t smell like my sweet auntie. Illogical, I know.
She
wrinkles her nose—Tang of Trash Truck isn’t much better than Eau de Dead Dog.
I smirk and come closer. “I told you you should’ve skipped the stinky truck.”
She steps back but holds her hand out. “The emeralds.”
“Okay. Back to the emeralds. You’re telling me the deal is, Miss Mona buys emeralds, but
you
get them? What part of ‘the customer’s always right’ do you not get? Miss Mona’s the customer, she writes the check, she gets the emeralds. She’s right. Again:
she
gets the stones, not you.”
Two red blotches mar the beautiful olive skin over her high cheekbones. “Those stones belong to me. They weren’t for sale.”
“Tell Mr. Cruz that. Not me.”
“Ahem.” Max says. “I have to agree with Andie. This would seem a problem between you and Mr. Cruz. Why don’t you let us get back to the capital, and then you can take it up with the man himself?”
Her eyes blaze. “I want the emeralds, not another argument with Rodolfo.”
My frustration grows; she has a one-track mind. And a history with the vendor. So . . . “If you wanted them in the first place, why didn’t you just buy them?”
“Sometimes things aren’t as simple as they would seem.” She heads back behind her desk. “Give me the emeralds, and I’ll send you on your way.”
Somehow, I don’t think she means that send-you-on-your-way part. I mean, get real. What self-respecting world-class gem thief is going to face her victim, take the loot, then send said victim off
to tell the cops who did the stealing
?
I stare at the outstretched hand, the one with the honker emerald. I point. “You’ve got that one. Why would anyone want another stone with that one on her hand?”
She turns her hand so she can better admire her ring. “Yes, it is the finest stone Colombia’s produced in many years.” She looks me in the eye, and I see the ghosts of flames in her searing gaze again. “But this one’s
mine
.”
Call me Dumbo here, but I’m not getting what
she’s
getting at. “And the others aren’t.”
“Yes.”
“Right. But you want them, even though they’re not yours.”
“Of course.”
“Let me repeat that: you admit they’re not yours.”
“Yes.” A thread of impatience runs through the brief word.
I shake my head again. “But you have no right to them.” “That’s an arguable point.”
“Nope. Miss Mona paid, so they’re hers. You’re fast outta luck.”
The eyebrow arches again, but this time it’s accompanied by an ugly smile. “That’s why you’re here. To persuade you as to the rightness of my point of view before the emeralds travel to the U.S.”
Max laughs. “Andie’s a tough nut to crack.”
I shrug. “So far, the lady’s batting zero with me.”
“See?” he says.
Her eyes narrow. “Well, then. I suppose I’m going to have to use less pleasant methods to persuade you. It’s your choice.” “No, ma’am.” I try for a last stab at politeness. “The choice is yours. You can choose to do what’s right and let us go, or you can choose to break the law. You know what they say. Crime doesn’t pay.”
“Ah . . . but you’re in Colombia now.”
I get her drift. It’s not hard. I gulp.
“I see we understand each other. So, Andrea. What will it be? Will you give me the emeralds or will I have to take them from you?”
A momentary zing of panic shoots from the depths of my soles right through the pit of my gut, to the middle of my heart, and straight to my head. I can’t believe this is happening.
But I do believe God’s still in control. Even now. And I can’t just cave in to this madwoman’s demands. So I’m going to have to go for it.
Lord, I’m about to fib—a big one too, but you know my
heart’s in the right place on this, don’t you?
I take a deep breath. “You took a gamble, and you just lost. I don’t have the stones.”
Max sucks in a rough lungful of air.
The woman in brown goes pale. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. I don’t have the stones.”
Her nostrils flare and her eyes blaze again, but the tight line of her lips develops a white rim. She comes right up to me, toe-to-toe. “Of course you have the stones. You bought them from Rodolfo. Don’t waste any more of my time. Give them to me.”
The “or else” doesn’t have to be said out loud. My heart whomps harder’n a drummer in a thundering marching band.
But as chicken as I am, that’s how stubborn I also am. “Read my lips: I don’t have them. And Rodolfo has plenty more where those came from. Go get ’em, lady!”
She scoffs. “I don’t care for
anyone’s
leftovers. I only want the best of the best.” She shrugs. “This is so disappointing, Andrea. I truly had hoped to avoid such unpleasantness, but you’ve made the choice.” She whirls around and goes back behind her desk, pushes a button, speaks when she gets a response, then faces me again. “As I said, I didn’t want to have to do this. You’ve left me no alternative. I’m going to have to search you for the gems.”
Now I’m the one I’m sure has turned whiter than the polar caps. “You don’t mean . . . ?”
Steely determination freezes the older woman’s face into a hideous distortion of her natural beauty. “That’s precisely what I mean.”
At my side, I can feel Max practically quiver with rage.
My stomach dives.
Lord, I’m trusting you, even in this.
