Diamonds Can Be Deadly (6 page)

The sudden shift caught her off guard. “What?”

“When I was arrested. The media had a field day skewering me from all sides. Yet your name never
appeared on either the police blotter or the press releases put out by the NYPD, much less in the tabloids. Why?”

“I had a good lawyer.”

And she worked for one of the most powerful men in the country. OMEGA's director had a direct line to the White House. Nick Jensen didn't use it often. When he did, the call produced instant results.

Her pat answer rubbed TJ the wrong way. His jaw tight, he issued a terse warning. “Listen to me, Red. I don't know what your game is or why you showed up at the Tranquility Institute just a few short weeks after I signed on, but this isn't the time or the place to fix what went wrong in New York.”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in. When they did, she hooted in derision.

“You think I flew to Hawaii hoping to pick up where we left off three years ago? Hardly!”

His mask slipped for a moment. She caught a glimpse of the frustration and impatience behind it as he thrust a hand through his hair, shagging it into short brown spikes.

“Just give me a yes or no. Did you leave your bungalow last night after you got back from dinner?”

“No.”

She was good. Damn good. TJ didn't know how she managed to infuse just the right mix of disdain, disgust and annoyance into a single syllable, but the woman had the combination down pat.

Problem was, he didn't believe her now any more than he had last night. This made twice that she'd lied to him, and the why of it was gnawing at his insides.

TJ had reviewed last night's security videotapes until his head pounded and the grainy images had blurred. He'd also run a physical sweep of the entire business center. If someone
had
penetrated the facility, they'd left no evidence behind.

And if that someone was Jordan, she was playing a very dangerous game. Until he figured out what that game was, he intended to keep her front and center on his internal radar screen.

“Bartholomew advised me that he plans to show you his private collection later.”

She blinked at the terse pronouncement, obviously trying to follow the sharp turns in his questioning.

“Why did he advise you? Does he require your permission or approval to show off his goodies?”

“No, but he does need me to add you to the temporary access list for entry into the vault.” He waited a beat, watching for her reaction. “I'll have you on the monitors every second you're inside.”

“Thanks for the warning. If I decide to lift any of Bartholomew's emeralds, I'll be sure to turn my back to the cameras.”

“You do that, Red.”

TJ's glance dropped to the teardrop nestled between her breasts. Like the others in Greene's
private collection, the emerald had been treated with a chemical compound visible only when viewed through special filters. The insurance company required the chemical paint for tracking purposes. If Jordan—or anyone else—tried to leave the institute with a stone that hadn't been washed of its special coating, she'd light up like the high beams on a semi.

TJ almost hoped she would. He could nail her then, make her answer the questions she'd dodged so skillfully up to this point. Every cop knew ways to force unwilling suspects to talk, some legal, a few close to the edge. The way he felt right now, he wouldn't mind getting Jordan Colby alone in a small, confined interrogation room.

He was deep into that scenario when Liana Wu appeared at the door to the treatment room. Her curious glance went from TJ to Jordan and back again.

“Excuse me. Am I interrupting?”

“No,” he answered. “We're finished.”

For now.

I
n preparation for her visit to Bartholomew's private residence, Jordan traded her shorts and halter for a strapless sundress with a shirred bodice. The elasticized fabric clung to her breasts, leaving the rest of the white-on-white print to fall in soft folds to midcalf. The dress was sophisticatedly simple and provided the perfect foil for the emerald teardrop clasped around her neck.

The bulky, cheerful Danny appeared in his golf cart to transport Jordan to Greene's private retreat. The house sat in isolated splendor, separated from the main part of the compound by a bend in the coastline. Although the two-story residence con
formed to the same plantation-style architecture as the rest of the institute, the lanai at its rear was sharp and angular and jutted out above the cliffs like the prow of a ship. Like the master of a sailing vessel, Bartholomew Greene could stand on that balcony and soak in an unobstructed view of the vast, ever-changing Pacific.

Given what TJ had imparted earlier that afternoon about the security surrounding Greene's private collection, Jordan wasn't surprised to find Duncan Myers had also been invited to the showing. The sharp-eyed business manager could no doubt tell her the exact size, shape, weight and clarity of every stone in the vault.

Myers was waiting with Bartholomew in a living room dominated by a soaring cathedral ceiling and the prow-shaped windows. The furnishings were minimal, the dimensions of the room huge, leaving an overall feeling of spaciousness.

“I have good news,” Myers said after a houseboy served them all frothy, nonalcoholic cocktails. “I contacted our account rep at the Muzo mine to let him know about your proposal and see what kind of a deal he could give us.”

Us,
Jordan noted with great interest. Myers obviously expected a cut of whatever arrangement she worked out with his supplier over and above the profit-sharing percentages she'd laid out in her proposal.

“Alejandro and his associates had planned to make a delivery next week, but he's moved his trip up so he could meet with you while you're here.”

How accommodating of the Colombians to alter their schedule on her account. Jordan downed a sip of her juice to slow her suddenly racing pulse.

“When do they arrive?”

“The day after tomorrow. Alejandro said he'd bring a supply of stones suitable for the frames you've proposed.”

“I've dealt with Alejandro Garcia for more than a decade,” Bartholomew commented. “He knows as much or more about emeralds as anyone in the business.”

Jordan logged the name into her memory bank. She'd have to get Claire working on the man, like fast.

“He supplied many of the stones I'm going to show you,” Greene said as he escorted her into his private lair.

The study exuded the same tranquil air as of the rest of the residence. Wide windows took up one wall. Fitted with retractable screens to block the glare, they framed a stunning view of Ma'aona, the holy mountain. Bookshelves painted a creamy white stretched from floor to ceiling along the other three walls. Interspersed among the hundreds of volumes were photos of Bartholomew posing with presidents, kings and rock stars.

Including, Jordan saw with a swift, indrawn breath, a shot of her host with the sultan and sultana of D'han. Cradling her cocktail, she meandered over for a closer look.

“Now, that's an emerald worthy of a queen.”

Bartholomew came to stand beside her. “The Star of the East,” he murmured. “There's not another stone like it in the world.”

Side by side, they eyed the glistening nine hundred carats.

“I tried to buy the Star from Omar's father,” her host admitted, “then from Omar himself when he inherited the throne. Unfortunately, he insisted on keeping it to give Barbara as a wedding present. Now,” he added with a sigh, “it's gone.”

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Jordan pumped him for information. “From what I read in the papers, the theft was extraordinarily well planned and executed. Whoever was behind it knew exactly what he wanted and went after it with ruthless determination.”

“That's why I guard my treasures with such zealousness.”

Pulling a leather-bound volume of the works of an obscure Chinese philosopher from the bookshelf, Greene blinked into a small round scanner. The shelves slid to the side on silent skids, revealing a narrow corridor blocked by a steel door.

“If you'll wait here a moment, I'll enter the necessary access codes.”

Myers lingered beside Jordan at the entrance to the corridor and swiped a palm over his high-domed forehead in what she was coming to recognize as a characteristic gesture.

“This vault rates higher than most banks on the Insurance Service Office scale,” he told her.

She believed it. Halon fire-suppression nozzles dotted the ceiling. Red laser beams crisscrossed to form a tight grid. Hidden motion, heat and sound sensors no doubt augmented the surveillance cameras bristling behind protective steel screens. The certainty that TJ was watching her every move raised prickly little goose bumps on Jordan's arms when the steel door swung open and Bartholomew beckoned to her.

She expected a sterile vault with rows of steel drawers, each requiring its own access code. What she stepped into was a treasure room.

“My God!”

Lighted display cases lined the walls. Inside the cases were collections of silver chalices, jeweled fans, bishops' miters and other art objects, all studded with emeralds. An ostrich-size Fabergé egg sat on a gold stand encrusted with diamonds. The egg had been carved from a clouded Russian emerald that must have weighed more than two hundred carats.

Table-style cases displayed jewelry of every style and era. Jordan's glance skimmed over what looked like an authentic gold-and-emerald Egyptian collar, a tiara that might have graced the powdered wig of a Hapsburg empress and an assortment of bracelets, rings and brooches any museum director would have killed for.

The centerpiece of the collection was contained in a lighted case given solitary prominence on the far wall. It was a massive gold crucifix hung from a chain of gold links as thick as a man's finger. The dozen or so emeralds studding the cross were magnificent. Jordan estimated the center stone at close to a hundred carats. It wasn't the size of the stones that drew her awed gaze, though, but their clarity and brilliance.

“That's the Cross of the Andes,” Greene said with quiet reverence. “It was recovered from the
Santa Ignacia,
a Spanish galleon that sank off the Florida Keys in 1622.”

“I read about that. Weren't the treasures found aboard her auctioned off at Christie's?”

“Most of them.”

“Bartholomew financed the
Santa Ignacia's
salvage operation,” Myers explained as Greene keyed in a cipher and opened the display case. “He claimed the Cross as his share of the proceeds.”

Greene removed the heavy piece and cradled it in both hands. “According to legend, an Inca prince had it crafted as a gift for the king of Spain. The Spanish governor of Peru cut the prince's throat and sent the gift in his own name.”

“Nice guy.”

“Lay your palm over the center stone. Now close your eyes and breathe deeply. Again. Don't think. Don't analyze. Let your senses take you.”

Jordan played along, breathing through her nose,
thinking that Greene really got carried away with this stuff. Suddenly her eyes popped open.

“Did you feel them?” Bartholomew asked.

She'd felt
something.
Her skin still tingled where it came in contact with the surface of the gem.

“Them?” she echoed, frowning.

“The tears of the Incas. They weep for their lost prince.”

It was the power of suggestion, Jordan decided. The hypnotic quality of Bartholomew's voice coupled with the green glow from his display cases. That was the only rationale she could come up with for the odd sensation that seemed to be increasing in intensity.

“I sensed the same sorrow in you the first time we met,” her host said, fixing his penetrating eyes on her. “Do you weep for someone you've lost, Jordan? A relative? A friend? A lover?”

She fought a suddenly smothering need to yank her hand back, break the connection and kill the strange vibrations. Refusing to give in to the superstitious urge, she smiled at Greene.

“You're very perceptive, Bartholomew. The first time we met, I
was
thinking of someone I'd lost.”

She flicked a glance at the security camera angled for a clear shot of her face. When she brought her gaze back to Greene, her smile was razor sharp.

“But I never wept for him. He wasn't worth my tears.”

* * *

Inside the Security Operations Center, TJ stood with his legs spread and his arms folded. His gaze was locked on one of the monitors fed by the six surveillance cameras inside Greene's private vault. Jordan's voice came through the speakers clear and undistorted. So clear, each word cut into TJ with the sharp, clean slice of a scalpel.

His face impassive, he said nothing as he and the on-duty officer tracked every move of the three people inside the vault. Neither of them would breathe easy until Bartholomew escorted his guests out of the vault and reactivated the redundant alarms, although for very different reasons.

Greene kept a cool fifteen million in artifacts, jewelry and gems inside that concrete-and-steel bunker. All of it had been acquired legally, or so the insurance documents and transfer certificates alleged. TJ had verified every item on the inventory personally when he'd assumed responsibility for security and again during scheduled maintenance and system tests.

Not that Bartholomew listed all his treasures on the inventory. Unknown to his employer, TJ had tracked down the original architects, obtained a set of drawings and compared them to the schematics currently on file. Sometime between design and installation, several small compartments had been added to the vault. Compartments not even the chief of security was supposed to know about.

TJ had already taken a look inside those compartments. He'd found all kinds of interesting objects, including a World War II–era cipher stone and an emerald phallus large enough to service a bull elephant, but not what he was looking for.

He fully intended to go back in for another more thorough search, but Jordan's unexpected arrival—and unexplained activities—had put a crimp in those plans. Not to mention a severe dent in his ego.

He wasn't worth my tears.

The scathing comment bounced around inside TJ's head as he watched her join Bartholomew at a cabinet fitted with velvet-lined drawers. The drawers held Greene's collection of loose stones, categorized by size, cut and color.

“This is one of my favorites.”

Bartholomew selected a heart-shaped emerald from its velvet nest and rubbed his thumb across its faceted surface. His eyes drifted shut. A dreamy expression came over his face. Making a low, throaty sound, he caressed the stone with the same sensual deliberation another man might stroke his mistress.

TJ's gaze zeroed in on Jordan. He thought he saw a flicker of revulsion cross her face. Or maybe it was derision. Whatever the emotion, it was gone when Bartholomew opened his eyes and offered her the stone.

“Try this one. See if it speaks to you.”

She hesitated, reluctant to take the shimmering
green heart. TJ didn't blame her. Bartholomew had practically ejaculated on the damn thing.

Instead, she curled a hand around the teardrop dangling from the thin gold chain.

“You know, I think you might have been right this morning. I didn't give this stone a chance. I'm starting to get attached to it.”

“I was
sure
that was the right stone for you!” Pleased with her choice, Greene restored the heart to its velvet pocket. “You said you didn't cry over this lost love. If you let it, the teardrop will weep for you and ease the pain you carry inside your heart.”

“It's not pain,” she said, lifting her chin to speak to the camera. “It's disgust.”

TJ stood stiff legged and tight jawed while the trio left the vault and the steel door whirred shut behind them. One by one, the alarms reactivated. His on-duty officer ran the checklist. When the last of the redundant systems came online, the retired cop blew out a breath.

“All systems up, boss. We're back in business.” After noting the time in the computerized security log, he swiveled around in his chair. “I'm stuck here for another six hours. What are you doing with the rest of the night?”

The question was innocent. Far too innocent. With a sudden prickle between his shoulder blades, TJ turned.

“Why?”

The man's mouth cocked into a grin. “The guys
on night shift have a pool going. So far the odds are on Liana Wu, but I may transfer my bet to that hot piece of tail in bungalow seven. The woman practically crawled all over you at the Jade Buddha last night.”

“Ms. Waller-Winston is a guest. Don't ever let me hear you refer to her in those terms again.”

Genial and slightly overweight, the officer took the reprimand with good grace.

“No, sir.” His brows waggled. “So what
are
you going to do tonight?”

TJ snorted. You could take a cop out of the uniform but you could never take the morbid curiosity out of the cop.

“Well, I'll tell you,” he drawled, still feeling the bite of Jordan's words. “I'm thinking about taking a bottle down to the beach and getting plastered.”

* * *

Revved from her session in the vault and the news that Greene's Colombian contact was making a visit to the institute, Jordan had to swallow her impatience to pass the information to OMEGA.

Bartholomew escorted her from his residence to the Jade Buddha, where the guests mingled for a leisurely cocktail hour. Declining a virgin mango sunrise, she opted for an alcohol-free coconut daiquiri. The creamy drink went down smoothly, as did the seared poke served for dinner.