Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (3 page)

“I think he's here,” William said by one of the barred windows.

“Oh...my God,” Janice murmured as she leaned in beside her colleague. “He certainly is.”

James slid the vacuum out of sight and snapped his suit jacket back into place. His heart was alive in his chest, beating fast, but on the outside he was calm as he walked toe-heel, toe-heel over to look into the street.

Customers were welcome in the store from ten a.m. to six p.m.

Monday through Saturday.

Clients got to come privately after hours. On any day and time that suited them.

The gentleman who stepped out of the BMW M6 was solidly in client territory: European-cut suit, no overcoat in spite of the chill, stride like an athlete, face like an assassin. This was a very smart, very powerful man who probably had some shady in him, but it wasn't as though Mafia or drug money was discriminated against at Marcus Reinhardt. James was in the business of selling, not judging—so as far as he was concerned, the man coming to his door was a paragon of virtue, upstanding in his pair of Bally loafers.

James released the lock and opened the way before the bell was rung.

“Good evening, Mr. diPietro.”

The handshake was firm and short, the voice deep and sharp, the eyes cold and gray. “Are we ready?”

“Yes.” James hesitated. “Will your intended be joining us?”

“No.”

James shut the door and indicated the way to the back, studiously ignoring how Janice's eyes clung to the man. “May we offer you a libation?”

“You can start showing me diamonds, how about that.”

“As you wish.”

The private viewing room had oil paintings on the walls, a large antique desk, and four gold chairs. There was also a microscope, a black velvet exhibition pad, the chilling ice wine, and two crystal glasses. James nodded at his staff and Terrence came forward to remove the silver bucket while Janice took away the globlets with a bit of a fluster. William remained in the doorway, at the ready for any requests.

Mr. diPietro took a seat and put his hands on the desk, a platinum Chopard watch flashing from beneath his cuff. Those eyes of his, which were the same color as the watch, didn't so much as focus on James as bore right through to the back of his skull.

James cleared his throat as he sat opposite the man. “Pursuant to our conversation, I have pulled a selection of stones from our collection as well as called in a number of diamonds from Antwerp directly.”

James took out a gold key and inserted it into a lock in the top drawer of the desk. When he dealt with a client who had yet to do a viewing or purchase, as he was now, he had to make a call whether they were the type who wanted to see the top range of their options first or build up to the most expensive choices.

It was clear which category Mr. diPietro fit into.

There were ten rings in the tray that James put out on the blotter, all of which had been steam-cleaned for presentation. The one he plucked from the black velvet crease was not the largest, although only by a fraction of a carat. It was, however, by far the best.

“This is a seven-point-seven-carat emerald-cut, D in color, internally flawless. I have both the GIA and EGL certifications for your perusal.”

James stayed silent as Mr. diPietro took the ring and bent down to inspect it. There was no reason to mention that the polish and the symmetry of the stone were exceptional or that the platinum setting had been handmade for the diamond or that it was the kind of thing that came onto the market very infrequently. The reflected light and fire spoke for themselves, the flashes radiating upward so brilliantly one had to wonder if the stone itself weren't magical.

“How much?” Mr. diPietro demanded.

James put the certificates on the desk. “Two million, three hundred thousand.”

With men like Mr. diPietro, the more expensive the better, but the truth was, it was a good deal. For Reinhardt to stay in business, one had to balance volume and margin: too much margin, not enough volume. Besides, assuming Mr. diPietro stayed out of jail and/or bankruptcy, this was the kind of man James wanted to have a long relationship with.

Mr. diPietro handed the ring back and studied the certs. “Tell me about the others.”

James swallowed his surprise. “Of course. Yes, of course.”

He proceeded from right to left through the tray and described the attributes of each ring, all the while wondering whether he had misread his client. He also had Terrence bring in six more, all over five carats.

An hour later, Mr. diPietro sat back in the chair. The man had not stretched or wavered in his attention and there had been no quick checks of his BlackBerry or jokes to break the tension. He hadn't even glanced in passing at Janice, who was lovely.

Total and complete absorption.

James had to wonder about the woman whose finger would bear the ring. She'd be beautiful, naturally, but she'd have to be very independent and not very emotional. Generally speaking, even the most logical and successful man got a glint in his eye when he bought a ring like one of these for his woman—whether it was the thrill of surprising her with something over the top or the pride that came with being able to afford something that only .01 percent of the population could, the men usually showed some emotion.

Mr. diPietro was as cold and hard as the stones he regarded.

“Is there something else I might show you?” James said, deflating.

“Some rubies or sapphires, perhaps?”

The client reached inside his suit jacket and brought out a thin black wallet. “I'll take the first one you showed me for two million even.”

As James blinked, Mr. diPietro put a credit card on the desktop. “If I'm giving you my money, I want you to work for it. And you will be discounting the stone, because your business needs repeat clients like myself.”

James took a moment to catch up with the fact that a transaction might actually occur. “I...I appreciate your discerning eye, but the price is two million, three hundred thousand.”

Mr. diPietro tapped the card. “That's debit. Two million. Right now.”

James quickly did some math in his head. At that price he was still making about three hundred and fifty thousand on the piece.

“I believe I can do that,” he said.

Mr. diPietro did not sound surprised. “Smart of you.”

“What about sizing? Do you know what size your—”

“The seven-point-seven carats is the only size she's going to care about. We'll take care of the rest later.”

“As you wish.”

James typically encouraged the staff to engage with a client as he went back to set a purchase into its box and print out the valuation for insurance purposes. Tonight, though, he shook his head at them as Mr. diPietro palmed a cell phone and started dialing.

As James worked in the back office, he heard Mr. diPietro talking on the phone. There was no teasing, “Darling, I have something for you,”

or suggestive, “I'm coming to see you.” No, Mr. diPietro was not calling his soon-to-be fiancé, but rather someone named Tom about some kind of land issue.

James swiped the card. As he waited for authorization, he steam-cleaned the ring again, periodically checking the green digital readout on the card machine. When he was told to call the bank's twenty-four-hour line directly, he was not surprised given the purchase amount, and as soon as he got on with them, the representative requested to speak to Mr. diPietro.

Transferring the call to the phone on the desk in the viewing room, James put his head through the door. “Mr. diPietro—”

“They want to talk to me?” The man extended his right hand, flashing that watch, and picked up the receiver. Before James could come and take the line off hold, Mr. diPietro did it himself and started talking.

“Yes, it is. Yes, I am. Yes. Yes. My mother's maiden name is O'Brian.

Yes. Thanks.” He looked up at James as he put the call on hold again and the phone back in its seat. “They have an authorization code for you.”

James bowed and went back to the office. When he reappeared, he was carrying a sleek red bag with satin handles and an envelope with the receipt in it.

“I hope you will call on us again if we may be of service.”

Mr. diPietro took what he now owned. “I plan on getting engaged only once, but there will be anniversaries. Plenty of them.”

The staff stepped back to get out of his way and James had to hustle to open the store's door before Mr. diPietro came to it. After the man breezed through, James relocked the thing and looked out the window.

The man's car was gorgeous as it took off, its engine growling, the bright lights of the street lamps reflecting off black paint as glossy as still water.

As James turned away, he caught Janice leaning into another window, her eyes sharp. One could be quite sure she wasn't measuring the car as he had, but focusing on the driver instead.

Odd, wasn't it. That which you could not have always seemed more valuable than what you did, and maybe that was why diPietro was so removed: He could afford all of what had been shown, so to him the transaction was no different from buying a newspaper or a can of Coke to the average person.

There was nothing that the truly wealthy could not have, and how lucky they were.

***

Jim put down his empty and grabbed for his leather jacket. He'd had his two Buds, and one more was going to put him into DUI territory, so it was time to pull out.

“I can't believe you're leaving alone,” Adrian drawled, his eyes going over to Blue Dress.

She was still standing beneath that ceiling light. And still staring. And still breathtaking. “Yup, just me, myself, and I.”

“Most men don't have your kind of self-control.” Adrian smiled, the hoop in his lower lip glinting. “Kind of impressive actually.”

“Yeah, I'm a saint, all right.”

“Well, drive home safe so you can keep polishing that halo. We'll see you tomorrow at the site.”

There was a round of palm slapping and then Jim was making his way through the crowd. As he went, he drew looks from the black-chained and spike-collared, probably in the same way all these Goths did when they were out at a mall:
What the hell are you doing here?

Guess Levi's and a clean flannel shirt offended their leather-and-lace sensibilities.

Jim chose a path that kept him far away from Blue Dress, and once he was outside, he took a deep breath like he'd passed some kind of test.

The cold air didn't bring quite the relief he wanted, though, and as he walked around to the back parking lot, his hand went to the pocket of his shirt.

He'd quit smoking, and yet a year later, he was still reaching for the Marlboro Reds. His frickin' habit was like having an amputated limb with phantom pain.

As he made the corner and walked into the lot, he went past a row of cars that were parked grilles-in to the building. All of them were dirty, their flanks spackled with salt from the road treatments and months-old white-snow grime. His truck, which was way down at the end of the third row in, was exactly the same.

He looked left and right as he went. This was a bad part of town, and if he were going to get jumped, he wanted to see what was coming at him. Not that he minded a good fight. He'd gotten into a lot of them in his younger years, and then been trained properly in the military—

plus, thanks to his day job, he was in rock-hard shape. But it was always better to—

He stopped as a flash of gold winked at him from the ground.

Crouching down, he picked up a thin gold ring—no, it was a hoop earring, one of those guys that plugged into itself. He cleaned the grunge off and glanced over at the cars. Could have been dropped by anyone, and it wasn't very expensive.

“Why did you leave without me?”

Jim froze.

Shit, her voice was as sexy as the rest of her.

Straightening to his full height, he pivoted on his work boot and stared across the trunks of the cars. Blue Dress was about ten yards away, standing under a security light—which made him wonder if she always chose spots that illuminated her.

“It's cold,” he said. “You should go back inside.”

“I'm not cold.”

True enough.
Hot as fuck
would cover it. “Well... I'm leaving.”

“Alone?” She came forward, her high heels tracking across the pitted asphalt.

The closer she got, the better-looking she became. Shit, her lips were made for sex, deep red and slightly parted, and that hair of hers...All he could think about was it falling over his bare chest and thighs.

Jim shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He was much taller than she was, but the way she walked was a sucker punch to the solar plexus, immobilizing him with hot thoughts and vivid plans: Staring at her fine pale skin, he wondered if it was as soft as it seemed.

Wondered a whole hell of a lot about what was under that dress.

Wondered what she would feel like beneath his naked body.

As she stopped in front of him, he had to take a deep breath.

“Where's your car?” she said.

“Truck.”

“Where is it?”

At that moment a cold breeze rolled in from the alley and she shivered a little, raising thin, lovely arms to wrap herself in a hug. Her dark eyes, which had been seductive in the club, abruptly became pleading...and made her nearly impossible to turn away from.

Was he going to do this? Was he going to fall into this warm pool of a woman, if only for a short time?

Another gust came barreling in, and she stamped one stiletto, then the other. Jim took off his leather jacket and closed the distance between them. With their eyes locked, he encircled her with what had warmed himself. “I'm over here.” She reached for his hand and took it. He led the way.

Ford F-150s were not exactly great for hooking up, but there was enough room if you needed it— and more to the point, the truck was all he had to offer. Jim helped her inside and then went around and got behind the wheel. The engine started quick and he turned the fan off, halting the blast of frigid air until things heated up.

She moved across the seat to him, her breasts rising above the tight bands of her dress as she got closer. “You're very kind.”