Diamonds & Desire: The Priceless Collection
Read Diamonds & Desire: The Priceless Collection Online
Authors: Angelita Gill
Dedication
In memory of my mom, Charlotte, my first and most sincere fan, who encouraged the creative in me since kindergarten, who always believed I’d become a published writer.
You were right. You always were.
I love and miss you.
Table of Contents
Dedication
In memory of my mom, Charlotte, my first and most sincere fan, who encouraged the creative in me since kindergarten, who always believed I’d become a published writer.
You were right. You always were.
I love and miss you.
Chapter One
Jordana swung into the Ritz-Carlton valet in her old sedan, thrust the keys into the attendant’s hands with a ten dollar bill, and hurried past the long line of San Francisco’s elite. They donned crisp tuxedos and glittering gowns, murmuring among one another as she rushed by, sporting yoga capris and a faded yellow hoodie.
She followed the signs directing her to the volunteers and models in one of the ballrooms, hoping she’d find her sister without too much hassle. She’d called Lucee’s cell phone as soon as she got the anxious voicemail, but as per usual, no answer, which forced Jordana to make the drive to find out what was wrong. Down the hall, she spotted a group of long-legged beauties fussing with one another’s hair and taking selfies.
Bingo.
Pushing through the doors, Jordana was hit with a wave of loud chatter and wafts of designer perfume. Bustling bodies rushed by with racks of bright, colorful clothes. There was a mix of overwhelmed volunteers and harried charity coordinators in between the ruckus of models.
Lucee spotted her first. “Jordana! Over here!” Five-foot-seven, and clad in a snug red dress, she scampered through the bodies, and hugged Jordana tight. “You made it! I had zero doubt you wouldn’t come and you’re right on time.”
Jordana’s voice strained from the pressure of her sister’s hug. “You said it was an emergency! What’s going on?”
“Adam called. He needs me.”
She checked the need to groan…and reach for her sister’s throat. This so-called emergency had to do with Lucee’s stud boyfriend? She’d driven all the way from San Jose for this. The budding actor better be on his deathbed. “You leave me some hysterical message to come quick because Adam is acting mysterious again?” As much as Jordana liked her sister’s boyfriend, he could be self-centered at times and disregard other people’s responsibilities when it came to his needs.
Lucee shrugged, toying with her manicured nails. “Something’s up, but he won’t say what over the phone. I hate it when he does that. Can’t focus on anything.”
Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t roll your eyes. “What’s he up to now?”
Lucee gave a small whine. “Don’t be like that. You should’ve heard his voice. Sounds serious.”
“Does he need money?”
“I don’t know! So I’m going to meet up with him and I need you to cover for me tonight.”
Jordana jerked in surprise. “What! That’s why I’m here?”
“Please, Jordana? It’s only for an hour or so. There’s nothing to it. All you have to do is walk around and show off this piece, before and during the auction.” She held up a photocopy of a stunning necklace, yellow and white diamonds in round, silver settings, linked in a perfect circle.
“Wear that?” This was no ordinary accessory. Something for royalty or celebrities.
“All you have to do is memorize who designed it, what kind of stones, yadda yadda, and encourage people to bid on it tonight in the name of charity!”
Jordana wanted to help out, but the thought of taking her sister’s place, even for a couple hours, made her squirm. “I’m no model, Lucee.”
“Oh, please! You’re a natural knockout. What are you wearing by the way?” She pinched the hem of Jordana’s sweatshirt. “I told you to donate that fugly hoodie.”
Jordana gave a helpless sigh. Lucee had lucked out with her envious height and bright blue eyes from their father, her wavy blond hair from their mother, which hung all the way down to her Pilates-enhanced bottom. Her closet door couldn’t even shut with all the clothes and shoes stuffed in it. To her sister’s constant frustration, Jordana was content with her light brown shoulder-length mane and classic but flattering wardrobe. She didn’t need to turn her heads. As her aunt once murmured to her parents, “Jordana is a plain, natural beauty. Not amazon-exotic like Lucee. She’ll be less trouble to deal with.” Ha. Her aunt had been right.
Nonetheless, she did need to stop running whenever her sister cried wolf. This time, she would again cave in, having driven this far anyway. And really, she couldn’t say no to her only sibling. “All right, but I have nothing to wear.”
“So you’re going to do it!” Lucee grabbed her in another squeeze. “That problem is easily solved. This way.”
Lucee tapped the shoulder of a fellow model, a slim redhead. “Felicity, find my sister something to wear tonight. She’s going to cover for me.”
“Sure, Lu. Hmm.” She looked at Jordana up and down with a critiquing eye, then snatched a dress from the rack. “This one. It’ll show off the necklace the best.” She shoved the champagne-colored garment in Jordana’s arms.
“Perfecto!” Lucee exclaimed, then leaned down and grabbed at her right foot. “Here. Take my shoes, too.” Jordana scrambled to catch the platinum-inch designer heels. Luckily she wore the same shoe size. Without pause, Lucee grabbed flats from her satchel and slipped them on. “Let Simone do your makeup. She’s over there at the mirror. Don’t be nervous, it’s a piece of cake. Thanks, sis!”
Wham bam, gotta go. Typical Lucee. “Call me when you get home,” Jordana called while her sister strode off with a backward wave.
Felicity shook her head. “I keep telling her actors are a waste of time.”
“Yeah, but she loves him,” Jordana said with a smile.
“Hmph. Anyway. Let’s get you dressed. We’re supposed to be out there in twenty minutes. That doesn’t give us much time to…revamp you.”
With a wry smile, Jordana followed Felicity across the room, the dress in her arms. She had to change behind a flimsy fabric screen. The cocktail dress fit her well, although it was clearly made for someone taller than five-foot-five: a strapless frock with a deep, heart-shaped neckline that criss-crossed tightly around her breasts, as the rest of the gown flowed around her hips and to the floor.
“Need help with the zipper? Come out,” Felicity ordered.
She did as told, a self-conscious tug at the neckline. “Maybe you have something with straps? I can’t wear my bra with this dress.”
“No worries. You have perky boobies.” Felicity snatched Jordana’s hand and positioned her in front of a mirror, then stood behind and made her assessment. “Very nice. Fits nicely. You should wear your hair up and show off those pretty shoulders. The necklace will stand out more. Don’t fuss about the length, your heels will take it off the floor. Gotta say, you look fab.”
“Er, thanks. I feel a little overdressed.”
“You’re just not used to wearing art, sweetie. We’ve got to maximize the glam so all those rich housewives will want what we’ve got on. Don’t forget to memorize all you can about the piece. I’ll grab the details for you. Be right back. Simone! Help Lucee’s sister with her make-up and hair.”
Simone’s hands were quick and confident. When she handed Jordana a mirror to see the results, Jordana had to give the girl some major credit. The makeup was subtle. Her hazel eyes were softly highlighted, her lashes plumped heavy with mascara. A little blush, a softly pink lipgloss and boom, she went from an Old Navy to Vera Wang. She lifted a hand and touched the off-white artificial flower Simone had bobby-pinned on the simple chignon. She looked glamorous and sophisticated. That didn’t happen often as she spent her days behind a desk in medical scrubs.
“Wow,” Felicity said as she walked over, hands on hips. “You should dress up more often.”
“I would need a reason to,” she half-laughed accepting the paper from Felicity. She had to walk around to get used to the high heels while she attempted to memorize the necklace’s details. Minutes later, the coordinator brought her over to the people in charge of handling the jewelry. With security nearby, Jordana stood in awe as the gentleman brought it around her neck and fastened it. “Oh my—goodness,” Jordana breathed with a wide gaze in the mirror, her hand a little shaky as she touched it. The necklace sparkled under the lights as if it had a life of its own.
Felicity linked her arm in Jordana’s and walked her to the ballroom entrance. “You look terrific. Just remember to smile a lot. At everyone. And don’t linger too long in one group.”
“Okay.” Sighing, she touched the necklace, repeating the verbiage word for word. “Charles Sigvy, one-of-a-kind. Fancy yellow and white diamonds. Think I got it. I can’t believe I have thousands of dollars around my neck.”
“It’ll be a popular piece because you wear it so well, and one of them will have to have it. If anything, they’ll bid on it to outdo one another.” She gave her an encouraging smile and patted her shoulder. “Have fun.”
Jordana took a deep, long breath.
Mingle, smile, and talk about fancy jewelry. Like Lucee said. A cake walk.
Taking a step out, she gasped as her left foot caught the hem of her dress and she lost some balance, wobbling to stay on two feet. A couple of the guests noticed, but she recovered without a total biff on the floor. Straightening her posture, Jordana smiled and pretended as though nothing happened, even though her ankle knew otherwise.
Lucee, you so owe me.
“Welcome to the SFUA Children’s Benefit,” she said to a couple standing nearby. “I would like to show you this Charles Sigvy I’m wearing.”
The guests admired the necklace at length, and as Felicity predicted, most of the women were intrigued by the fact it was custom made for the event.
The event photographer took several photos of her with other models, and they showed her how to pose with pouts and sucked-in cheeks. As the champagne flowed, the energy of the cocktail hour transformed from a stuffy, low-toned affair to a more relaxed and upbeat gathering.
One moment, she’d be laughing at an outspoken old woman’s dirty joke, the next she’d be yanked in the arms of a tipsy Spanish benefactor, who asked if she knew how to tango. She caught snatches of conversations from plastic surgery to politics to scandalous marriages, and other various things she knew very little about. Like Dragon Boat racing and horse breeding.
After circulating around the ballroom, she scooted behind a fern for cover to discreetly tuck and lift her breasts back to their rightful place. The dress was obviously designed to show off an ample amount of décolletage.
As she was about to rejoin the party, an older gentleman from a nearby group exclaimed, “It’s just like Dickens wrote, ‘One should always play fair when one has the winning cards.’”
She froze, poked her head out, noticing everyone in the small group nodded in ignorant agreement.
Apparently, no one knew he was mistaken.
Although an inner voice told her not to, she stepped forward from the protection of the fern. Hands cupped behind her, she stated, “Um, sorry to intrude but…I don’t think that’s accurate.”
The group of six set their gazes on her. The older gentleman who’d misquoted—a serious resemblance to Colonel Mustard on the board game Clue—rose a brow. He frowned, and gave her an intimidating sneer with a softly British accent. “I’ll wager I know a little more about Charles Dickens than you do.”
“Oh I’m sure you do! It’s only that I remember that quote because I’ve read the book four times, and it wasn’t in a Dickens story. Oscar Wilde wrote it in his novel, An Ideal Husband.”
The older man’s rounded cheeks bloomed crimson. His regal wife slipped her hand into his arm, and smiled. “I think she might be right, dear. She sounds quite confident.”
“How confident are you?” a deep masculine voice asked.
A cascade of tingles raced down her spine. She turned, and her pulse tripped at the sharply attractive man in the middle of the group. He gave her a half-smile, brows raised, waiting.
“Oh. I’m—confident enough. In this case,” she faltered.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his iPhone. A few moments later, he announced, “The young lady is right. According to Google. The quote is from Mr. Wilde’s novel, not Dickens.”
He was gorgeous in that ridiculous cliché way: tall, run-through black hair, straight nose and sharp chin. Not a fleck on his tailored suit and he possessed stance that spoke of an urbane countenance, money, and unapologetic sex appeal. He held up the phone, locking his dangerously hypnotic blue eyes with hers.
Colonel Mustard huffed and puffed. “Put that blasted thing away, Savant! I stand corrected, no need to rub it in my face. Well, very good miss,” he said, arching a wiry, dark gray brow at Jordana. “Who might you be?”
“No one. Just a model.”
“I was asking for your name. It’s not every day I’m bested by a girl my granddaughter’s age.”
Her face flamed. “Oh. My name is Jordana. I’m modeling this custom-made Charles Sigvy.”
“It’s very pretty,” said Colonel Mustard’s wife.
“Custom-made you said?” a tall brunette asked to her left.
The women gathered around her, oohing and ahhing at the piece. While she recanted the details, the blue-eyed devil kept his gaze on her, and the pull of his stare had Jordana’s heart galloping.
As studied her over his champagne glass, she feigned ignorance, even though every cell in her body bloomed with bright awareness. She lifted her lashes for a quick glance at him and he tilted a predatory, provocative smile at her.
After the ladies had taken turns viewing the necklace, she stepped away, and headed for the refreshment table, suddenly parched. The bartender handed her a cup, and she took down the punch in one giant gulp, attempting to extinguish the inner fire.
“Excuse me, miss. I would like another look at the necklace. Please.”
She set the cup down with a wry smile and pivoted to face him. Of course. The handsome guest responsible for her thirst. “Another? You couldn’t see it when I was standing a few feet in front of you?”
“I wanted a more private opportunity. May I?” Without her consent, his fingers delicately lifted the necklace, bringing his tall, six-foot-plus frame closer. She grasped the edge of the table as he towered over her. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck while he toyed with the piece, skimming from her rapid, telltale pulse to the base of her throat. Flesh bumps rose on her skin, as if he’d grazed her entire body.
“Extraordinary,” he murmured, lifting his gaze.
So were his eyes. What color were they exactly? Carolina blue, she decided, rimmed with cobalt, surrounded by thick black lashes, and dark brows above. Unfair. A girl could lose herself in those. She’d been holding her breath so long it had to escape in a rush, which made her breasts contract behind the bodice of the dress.