Diamonds Can Be Deadly (5 page)

“All better now?”

“Yes.” Jerking her hand free of his, she shoved it into the pocket of her terry cloth robe. “Good night.”

He took the hint. Finally! Relieved she would be rid of him, Jordan trailed him to the entryway.

“I'll check on you tomorrow,” he told her at the door. “If there's any swelling or stiffness in the finger joint, we'd better take you into town for X-rays.”

She frowned up at him, struck by the absolute absurdity of the situation. She hadn't exactly led a sedate life before
or
after being recruited by OMEGA. More than one of her undercover assignments had required her to dodge bullets and/or bounce off walls.

Just last year she'd dangled helplessly at the end of a helicopter retrieval cable, slamming into sheer canyon walls while the crew worked frantically to compensate for a sudden downdraft and reel her in. The year before, she'd cracked a rib leaping from one rooftop to another in pursuit of a Swiss forger.

That TJ would make such a big deal about one little pinkie both annoyed and disturbed Jordan. She wasn't used to people fussing over her. Especially rogue cops who topped her shortlist of suspects in a possible money-laundering scheme.

“I'll let you know if the hand bothers me. Good night.”

He tipped her a salute and departed. Jordan stood at the door for a moment, listening to the soft crunch of his footsteps on the lava walkway, watching him move through the tropical night. As he merged with the shadows, her gaze swept the postcard-perfect scene.

A fat moon hung low above the mountains,
washing their jagged peaks with pale light. The dark silhouettes of palm trees stood like tall sentinels against the night sky. Their fronds rustled in the breeze, as if whispering secrets to the waves curling against the cliffs.

It was a setting designed for romance. A night made for lovers. Jordan didn't realize she was rubbing the spot TJ had kissed until she pressed the bruise a little too hard.

“Idiot,” she muttered, thoroughly disgusted with herself.

One crooked grin. That's all it had taken to breach her barriers again. She knew what the man was. Knew what he'd done. Yet here she was, tingling like some silly schoolgirl from his touch.

“Idiot,” she said again and slammed the door on the magical night.

What she needed, Jordan decided, was a long, hard workout at the spa. She'd schedule one for tomorrow, after the group session Greene had talked her into. And that seaweed wrap, she thought, remembering Felicity Waller-Winston's sly comment about the spa director. If the dark-haired Eurasian had gotten as close to TJ as Felicity had hinted, Jordan might be able to worm some information about him and their mutual employer out of the woman.

The plan should have sparked a sense of anticipation. Instead, the idea of pumping Liana Wu for intimate details about TJ left almost as sour a taste
in Jordan's mouth as the prospect of listening to Felicity go into detail about her horny state.

Her mouth curling, she retrieved a towel from the bathroom, yanked a tray of ice cubes from the mini-fridge and slapped an ice pack over her injured hand.

* * *

How the hell did she do it?

His jaw tight, TJ cut across the grounds to the building that housed the security center.

How the hell did the woman tie him in knots every time he got within five feet of her?

Granted, a man would have to be dead from the neck down not to react to the sight that had greeted TJ when he'd entered the steam-filled bathroom. He suspected the erotic image would keep him awake for most of the night. That and the fact that Jordan had lied to him.

Still puzzling over her slip about the shampoo, TJ let himself in through the rear door of the administrative center. With its wide porch, green shutters and high, hipped roof, the building blended in with the turn-of-the-century style of the other structures. The offices inside, however, were equipped with the best that money could buy.

Housekeeping and personnel took up one wing, maintenance another. TJ's domain included offices for him and his second in command, a locker room and break area for his staff of thirty, an administrative area and the ops center lined with banks of monitors.

There was also an armory stocked with a lethal assortment of weapons. TJ insisted his people hone their skills regularly at the firing range. The wealthy, high-profile guests who sequestered themselves at the Tranquility Institute made too tempting a target for stalkers or kidnappers.

The security officer working the 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift looked up when his boss entered. “How's Ms. Colby?”

“You pegged it. She did take a fall.”

“She okay?”

“She hit her hand going down, but I don't think she broke any bones.”

TJ snagged a cup of coffee from the pot his security crew kept perking twenty-four-seven. The sludge looked like something pumped out by an exhaust pipe and was probably ninety-nine percent caffeine, but he didn't figure he'd get much sleep tonight anyway.

“You've got the incident recorded in your log, right?”

“Yes, sir.” The officer used a mouse to scroll down the electronic log. “Right here.”

TJ scanned the lines and was about to signal his approval, when a brief entry just above caught his attention. Frowning, he leaned over the officer's shoulder.

“What's this?”

“One of the intrusion-detection devices at the main business center went down. It came right back
up again, but I made a note for maintenance to test the system first thing in the morning.”

“Show me which device.”

A click of the mouse brought up the business center's security grid. Another click tagged the device protecting one of the first-floor windows.

“Did you direct the cameras to sweep that area?”

“Yes, sir, as soon as the device went down.”

“Pull up the sweep,” TJ instructed, a tight feeling in his gut. “I want to see it.”

T
he morning group gathered in a large, airy room at the Meditation Center. Outside, a tropical shower pattered down on broad-leafed palms and banyans. Inside, fans whirled lazily, drawing in the spongy scent of wet earth.

Jordan had taken her cue from the casual resort attire she'd observed last night. Comfortable in jeweled flip-flops, gauzy white drawstring shorts and a shimmering turquoise halter top by one of NewYork's top designers, she settled into a high-backed rattan chair and surveyed the others gathered for the session.

Felicity Waller-Winston lounged in the chair opposite Jordan's. Her blond hair was scraped back
from her face and caught with a band, making her look both older and unhappier in the harsh light of day. Her arms and shoulders were bare, her breasts flattened by a stretchy bandeau top. She held her emerald in her hand and thumbed it constantly with a twitchy stroke.

Edna Albert, the widow Jordan had met last night, sat next to Felicity. Barely five-one or-two, the frizzy-haired matron looked lost in the oversize fan-back chair. Her emerald dangled from a gold chain looped around her neck. Like Felicity, she worked her thumb over the stone.

The ten-year-old asthmatic, Davy Helms, claimed the seat next to Edna's.
His
thumbs skimmed over the controls of a Game Boy.

The other three attendees eyed Jordan with varying degrees of curiosity, but Bartholomew's arrival preempted introductions. His first order of business was to offer Jordan a glistening green teardrop threaded with a gold chain.

“Ideally, everyone should select his or her own stone. It's a very personal choice that must come from the heart. I've had this beautiful gem in my private collection for some time, though, and thought of it the moment I touched your hands yesterday.”

He dropped the emerald into her palm and made a clucking sound at the contrast between the stone's shimmering purity and the ugly purple bruise marring her skin.

“TJ gave me a report of your accident.”

Jordan wasn't surprised. She suspected Greene's director of security kept him apprised of everything that went on at the institute. Including, she couldn't help wondering, that touching, tender kiss?

She'd spent hours last night reliving Scott's sudden appearance in her bathroom, dissecting his every word, remembering the warmth of his lips against her skin. Annoyed that she could still feel a tingle, she shrugged aside her host's concern.

“The bruise looks worse than it feels. This stone is magnificent.”

Her deliberate attempt to change the topic worked. Greene almost purred as he closed her fingers gently over the emerald teardrop.

“It's one of the finer samples from our friends at the Muzo mine. My gemologist has had it soaking in saltwater since yesterday afternoon to release its healing properties. Perhaps you'll feel its energy during our session.”

Or not, Jordan thought as he took his seat and opened the session. After introducing her to the group, he went around the circle and invited the others to provide whatever information about themselves they felt comfortable sharing.

Jordan picked up a wealth of detail on each guest. She also learned more than she wanted to know about Edna's four ungrateful daughters and Felicity's vigorous sex life. When it was her turn, she supplied her name and the fact that she was visiting the institute on business.

Edna squinted across the room. “So what's your problem, sweetie?”

“I don't have one. I'm merely here to listen and learn how best to satisfy the needs of Bartholomew's clients in the line of glasses I'm proposing to sell through the institute's outlets.”

“Bull crackers,” the widow snorted, crossing one sneakered foot over the other. “Everyone has problems. You just don't want to talk about yours.”

Bartholomew intervened with a mild reproof. “Now, Edna. You know how group works. No one is required to speak if they don't wish to. Do you all have your stones?”

Hands went to pockets and to necklines. Emeralds of every size, shape and clarity appeared.

“Good. We'll begin with five minutes of meditation. Take a deep breath. Release it. Again…”

Like obedient children, the other six members of the group followed his instructions. Jordan snuck a glance at each of them as chests rose and fell.

“Now think about your physical state,” Greene murmured, stroking his pendant with a lover's caress. “Concentrate on the way you're sitting. Whether you're warm or cool. Are you full from breakfast or ready for lunch?”

Edna closed her eyes. Felicity dropped her head against the rattan chair back and let her gaze drift toward the ceiling. Ten-year-old Davy hunched his shoulders, swung his legs and stared at the floor.

Jordan went with the flow. Thankful that Claire's
pre-brief had prepared her for this sort of hocus-pocus, she closed her eyes.

“Shift your attention to your feelings,” Greene said after several silent moments. “Don't judge. Don't analyze. Just let the sensations come and go, bringing thoughts and memories and associations.”

Jordan didn't have any trouble identifying her feelings. Impatience ranked right up there at the top, although she had to admit the man had a mesmerizing voice.

“Now expand your focus. Bring in the world around you. Do you hear the rain on the roof? Feel the ocean breeze against your skin? Let the sounds and colors and shapes come to you. Broaden you. Stimulate you.”

Okay, this wasn't so bad. Head cocked, Jordan found herself listening to the rhythm of the rain and breathing in the tang of the sea.

“Relax,” Greene said in a seductive whisper. “Relax. Your body. Your mind. Become one with your world. Your self.”

Sneaking a peak, Jordan saw that several of the other guests appeared to have achieved a near-hypnotic state. Edna's mouth sagged open, showing a good deal of expensive bridgework. Felicity was gazing dreamily up at the ceiling.

“Who wants to begin?” Greene asked softly. “Who's feeling an increased perceptual sensitivity?”

Felicity let out a gusty sigh. “I'm feeling an increased something, Doc, but I wouldn't classify it as perceptual.”

Edna's mouth snapped shut. Her eyes popped open. With a cackling snort, she sat up in her fan-shaped chair.

“Hooo, boy! Here we go. Miss Hot Pants is going to tell again about how she can only achieve spiritual fulfillment with a stud.”

Jordan shot a look at the youngest member of the group. Surely Greene wouldn't allow Felicity to give the graphic details about her erotic cravings in the presence of a ten-year-old.

He didn't, thank goodness. With deft skill, the therapist led Felicity into an exploration of her seemingly deep-seated belief that a physical relationship was the only kind she believed she could have with a man. By the time the much-divorced blonde admitted she couldn't trust any male to love her more than her bank account, she was sobbing, Edna was clucking in sympathy, and the tip of Jordan's borrowed emerald was gouging into her palm.

Frowning, she eased her grip on the stone. Evidently she had more in common with Felicity Waller-Winston than she would have imagined. She'd trust every member of the OMEGA team—male or female—with her life, but ice would coat this tropical paradise before she'd trust
anyone
with her heart again. Especially ex-cops with hard eyes and a touch so gentle her injured hand still tingled with the memory of it.

The emerald dug deeper, vying with the bruise for
attention. She used the pain to keep focused on her reason for joining this little psycho-circle. When the session finally ended and Jordan tried to return the stone, Bartholomew insisted she hang on to it.

“Wear it you while you're here. You may get attached to it,” he added with a mischievous grin, “and add to the institute's profits by making a purchase.”

“I may,” she agreed, slipping the chain over her head. With the green teardrop nestled between her breasts, she took advantage of the opening he'd just offered her. “But as you said, the choice of a stone is a very personal matter. I'd like to test some others. Perhaps I'll feel their energy more directly.”

“Of course!” Beaming at the possibility of a convert, Bartholomew pulled a small laminated schedule from his shirt pocket. “I have private sessions scheduled before and after lunch and another group at three. Why don't you join me at my residence for drinks before dinner and I'll show you my private collection.”

“I'd like that.”

Very
much!

“Shall we say sixish?”

“Sixish works for me.”

* * *

Jordan used the rest of the morning to explore the resort's facilities and talk with as many of the guests and staff as possible without appearing too inquisitive. Her casual inquiries confirmed the surface im
pression of a superbly run and extremely profitable operation. The only hint of anything unusual came during lunch.

It was an elaborate affair, served poolside by waiters in flowery Hawaiian shirts and waitresses in long, flowing muumuus. Another shower pattered against the protective overhang as guests helped themselves to a buffet of fresh fruit, exotic salads and downright sinful pastries. Jordan indulged in a generous helping of lobster salad and was debating between a meringue swan and a star-shaped kiwi tart when the short, squat computer mogul she'd met at dinner last night appeared at her elbow. The bulldog folds of his fleshy face creased into a smile at Jordan's dilemma.

“Take one of each,” he suggested. “According to the staff, they're all no-cal.”

“Uh-huh. And if you believe that…”

Her mind clicked up the data she'd gathered on Harry McShay. Thirty-six and a billionaire several times over, he'd lost his wife and only child to a boating accident. Two years after the tragic event, he was still reportedly haunted by their deaths.

Grief hadn't dulled his business acumen, though. Loading his plate with the supposedly no-cal goodies, he directed a shrewd glance at Jordan. “I understand you're proposing a line of eyewear to be sold through the Tranquility Institute's network.”

“That's right.”

“I have the same kind of arrangement with the
meditation software one of my subsidiaries developed for Bartholomew. Made millions off that program. Pain in the ass, though, working with Myers.”

“Why?”

“The man's a shark. He'll devour you whole if you don't protect yourself. I wouldn't do business with him at all except for Bartholomew.”

McShay's gaze went to the sun attempting to burn through the misty rain. Whatever he saw there added a gruff edge to his voice when he addressed Jordan again.

“Bartholomew Greene is the only reason I get up in the morning. He's worth whatever price I have to pay.”

The hairs on the back of Jordan's neck tingled. She sensed McShay was talking about more than the Tranquility Institute's exorbitant fees, but before she could probe deeper Edna and two other guests joined them. When McShay drifted away, Jordan made a mental note to corner the man again later.

First she intended to corner Liana Wu. In addition to her duties as spa director, the slender, exotic Wu specialized in Aquarius salt glows. Jordan figured she might as well pump the woman while exfoliating under a mask of ocean salts, essential oils and green algae.

The spa was a tropical Eden brought indoors. Fountains splashed. Fish swam in pools that mean
dered through stands of bamboo. Muted Hawaiian chants, stone tiki gods and ginger incense stroked the senses the moment a guest opened the emerald green doors.

A smiling attendant greeted Jordan, confirmed her appointment and escorted her through the facility. The exercise room was a jungle of gleaming steel, with enough treadmills and stair-step machines to whip the 82nd Airborne into shape. The salon boasted six stations and an assortment of expensive hair and skin products. Steam rooms, hot tubs, whirlpools and a lap pool shimmering in turquoise completed the workout area.

The treatment rooms formed a semicircle at the rear of the facility. Each faced the exterior, so the guest could enjoy spectacular views of verdant peaks and rolling waves while being pumiced, pummeled or prepped. The attendant led Jordan to one of the cubicles and drew a batik wrap from the bamboo cabinet.

“I'll let Ms. Wu know you're here. She'll be right with you.”

Jordan took a few moments to poke around the cubicle before shaking out the wrap. She was reaching for the drawstring on her shorts when the door opened once more. It wasn't the attendant or Liana Wu who entered, however, but TJ Scott.

He was in his duty uniform again—crisp slacks, emerald green polo shirt imprinted with the Tranquility Institute logo—but his expression conveyed
none of the warmth and cheerful friendliness displayed by other members of the staff.

“Don't you ever knock?” Jordan asked, seriously annoyed.

“I want to talk to you.”

“We said all that needed saying yesterday.”

“Not quite. Where were you last night?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I saw the wet suit wadded up on your bathroom floor. Did you go out for a swim?”

“Maybe I did. Is that against the rules?”

“No. The thing is, our computers indicate you went in through the front door only once last night, when you returned from dinner.”

“That doesn't give me a great deal of confidence in your hot-dog system. Does it fail regularly?”

“This is the first time.
If,
in fact, it failed, which I don't believe happened.” His eyes drilled into her, granite hard, stone cold. “Why did you bypass the system, Red? Where did you go?”

“What I do and where I go is my business, Scott. Yours is to protect Bartholomew Greene and his guests. It's just my opinion, of course, but it sounds like you're doing a piss-poor job of it.”

He let that zing by him and kept his gaze narrowed on Jordan's face. “How did you keep your name out of the papers?”