The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (50 page)

“It’s just a hobby.”

Although he was right, jewelry was an obsession of hers, and throughout the year, she poured over all the Christie’s and Sotheby’s catalogues for the houses’ New York, Geneva, and Hong Kong sales. Often, in the past, she had been a buyer.

No more, though.

Gin looked up at him. “I need you to handle something discreetly for me.”

“Always.” He indicated a pair of chairs that had been pulled up by the diamond case. “Come, tell me what you require.”

Following him over, she sat down and put the flute on the glass case. Taking off her engagement ring, she held the thing out.

“I want you to remove this stone and replace it with a cubic zirconia.”

Ryan took the diamond but didn’t look at it. “Why don’t we just make you a travel copy? I can have one ready for you tomorrow by ten a.m.—”

“I want you to buy the stone from me. Tonight. For gold.”

Ryan sat back, shifting the ring onto the tip of his forefinger. And yet he still didn’t look at the thing. “Gin, you and I have done a lot of business together, but I’m not sure—”

“I believe it’s an H color. VVS2. Harry Winston on the shank, and I think he got it new. Carat weight has to be high teens, low twenties. The value is around a million and a half, retail, a million at auction. I’m asking five hundred thousand—which is slightly higher than wholesale, I know, but I’m a loyal customer of yours, number one, and number two, I know you’ve read the newspapers. I may be in a position of having to liquidate some of my mother’s collection, and if you don’t want me going up to New York to the auction houses, you have to do right by me on this deal.”

Again, he didn’t examine the ring, just kept looking at her. “You know I want to help you, but it’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be. There are tax implications—”

“For me,
not you. And the ring is mine. It was given to me in contemplation of marriage, and I married Richard Pford yesterday. Even if we divorce tomorrow, it stays with me legally.”

“You’re asking me to be complicit in insurance fraud, though. This must be insured—there’s no way this asset isn’t scheduled.”

“Again, my problem, not yours. And to make things easier, I’m telling you right now that I’ll cancel the policy, whatever and wherever it is. You have no reason to think I won’t follow through on this, and no way to know if I don’t.”

Finally, he looked at the stone, holding it up to his naked eye.

“This is a good deal for the both of us,” she said.

Ryan got to his feet. “Let me look at it under the microscope. But I have to take it out of the setting.”

“Do whatever you need to.”

Leaving the champagne behind, she followed him into an anteroom that was used for private consultations during business hours, typically by men buying diamonds for their girlfriends.

Richard, you cheap bastard,
she thought.
That stone better be real.

B
ack at Easterly, Lane entered the kitchen and followed the sound of chopping to where Miss Aurora was making quick work of a bag of carrots, reducing the lengths to perfectly even, quarter-inch-thick orange disks.

“Okay,” he said, “so we’re you, Lizzie, me, John, and Jeff for dinner. I don’t think Max is coming, and I have no idea where Gin or Amelia are.”

To kill time while Lenghe was looking over all the documentation on the Rembrandt, Lane had gone down to the row of cottages to try to talk to Max. When he’d found the guy sound asleep, he’d tried Edward, but had gotten no answer—and as Lane didn’t know when he was going to get a response from his potential poker opponent, he didn’t want to leave the estate.

“Dinner’s ready and holding,” Miss Aurora said as she reached for another carrot out of the mesh net. “I did us a roast beef with mashed
potatoes and stewed beans. This here’s for Gary. My puree is the only vegetable he’ll eat, and he’s likewise joining us for dinner.”

“You got any cobbler left?”

“Made a fresh one. Figured you boys will be hungry.”

Bracing his palms on the granite, Lane leaned into his arms and watched Miss Aurora work that blade like a metronome on a piano top, the rhythm always the same.

He cleared his throat. “So Lizzie and Greta made up a list of the staff who are going to have to go.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A lot of people are being laid off.”

“Who’s staying?”

“You, Lizzie, Reginald, Greta, and Gary. Gary’ll wanna keep Timbo, and that makes sense. Everyone else goes. Turns out Greta loves paper-work—she’ll become the new controller for accounts half time. Lizzie says she’ll take over cleaning the house and helping Gary and Timbo with the mowing.”

“Atta girl.” Miss Aurora paused in the chopping and looked up. “And that’s a good crew. We can handle it all.”

Lane exhaled in relief. “That’s what I think. Mother will retain her nurses, of course.”

“I wouldn’t rattle her cage too much. Keep things the same up there.” “We’re going to be saving … almost a hundred thousand dollars each month. But I feel bad, you know? I’m going to talk to each one of them myself.”

“You’ll hire ’em back. Not to worry.”

“I don’t know about that, Miss Aurora.”

“You’ll see.”

As she resumed chopping, she frowned and moved her shoulder around as if it was stiff. And then Miss Aurora paused, put down the knife and seemed like she was having to catch her balance with the help of the countertop.

“Miss Aurora? Are you okay—”

“I’m fine, boy. Just fine.”

Shaking
her head as if she were clearing it, she picked up the knife and took a deep breath. “Now, go get your friend from out of town. That roast is drying in my holding oven, and I don’t want to be wasting all that meat.”

Lane searched her face. God, he felt like she lost more weight every time he laid eyes on her. “Miss Aurora—”

“The out-of-towner is here,” Lenghe said as he came into the kitchen. “And he is hungry—and ready to play poker.”

Turning around, Lane made a mental note to follow up with Miss Aurora. Maybe she needed more help in the kitchen?

“So,” Lane said as he clapped his palms. “We going to do this?” “The documentation could not be more impressive.” Lenghe took a seat at the counter after greeting Miss Aurora with a “ma’am.” “And the value is there.”

“I also checked with my tax guy.” Who had been a buddy of Jeff’s up in New York. “At our tax rate, which is the highest, long-term capital gains on a collectible is twenty-eight percent. My grandmother, as you know from the paperwork, paid a million dollars for the painting when she bought it. Accordingly, the tax man is going to be looking for ten million, nine hundred and twenty thousand from me.”

“So fifty million, nine hundred twenty is the magic number.” “Looks that way.”

Lenghe put his hand out. “You put up the painting, and I’m prepared to wire that sum to the account of your choice Monday morning if I lose. Or, if you’d feel more comfortable doing an escrow overseas, where there’s a market open right now, we can do that, too.”

Lane shook the older man’s palm. “Deal. No escrow necessary, I trust you.”

As they shook, Lenghe looked over at Miss Aurora. “You’re our witness, ma’am.”

“Yes.” Then she nodded at Lane. “And as much as I enjoy catering to our guests here at Easterly, you’ll be understandin’ that when y’all play, I’ll be prayin’ for my boy.”

Lenghe bowed his head. “I would expect nothing different.”

“Wash
up for dinner,” she commanded as she put the knife down and turned to the stove. “I’m serving family style tonight in the small dining room.”

Lane headed for the sink across the way and Lenghe fell into step right with him. As he turned on the water, soaped up his hands, and passed the bar to the Grain God, he had to smile. Only Miss Aurora wouldn’t blink an eye at a poker game with over fifty million at stake—and just as blithely order a billionaire to wash his hands before sitting at her table.

Indeed, he loved his momma so.

A
s Ryan
Berkley took his time at the microscope, Gin went back for her flute and returned to sip at the Dom Pérignon as she waited. From time to time, she glanced into the cases there in the private area, where the diamonds were even larger than the ones displayed out in the open. Still, they were but chips compared to what Richard had gotten for her.

Assuming it wasn’t a CZ.

When Ryan finally straightened from the equipment, she said, “Well?”

“You’re right. VVS1. H—or maybe an I with medium blue fluorescents kicking the color up a grade.”

He went to another machine, an infrared light flashed, and he nodded. “No, it’s an H. You’ve got a hell of an eye, Gin.”

“Thank you.”

Ryan took a deep breath. “Okay. You have yourself a deal.”

To hide her relief, she took another draw from the champagne. “Good. That’s good.”

“You realize that five hundred thousand in gold is going to weigh just over twenty-five pounds?”

“Two bags.
Twelve and a half in each. I can carry them just fine.” Her jeweler frowned. “That’s a lot of money just to walk out of here with. Are you going to be okay? Where are you going to put it?”

“It’s all taken care of. Not to worry.”

Ryan inclined his head. “All right. I’m going to have to split it between bars and coins. I don’t have enough of one or the other. And according to APMEX, the current price per kilo is forty thousand, one hundred eighty-eight dollars, and forty cents. Do you want to see the report?”

“No. And I’m not going to nickel-and-dime you.”

“Fair enough.”

It took him a good forty-five minutes to get everything organized, and then he brought her into the cellar where he did the weighing and measuring of the gold in front of her at a long worktable. The kilo bars clocked in at just over two pounds apiece, and she liked the feel of them in her hand. Stamped with EMIRATES GOLD in a crest and engraved with 1 KILO, GOLD, and serial numbers, the thin blocks were about the size of her iPhone and he had seven of them to give her.

The rest of the price was made up of South African Krugerrands, which were one troy ounce of twenty-two-karat gold, even though, Ryan explained, they weighed a little more because of the almost three grams of copper alloy added to make the coins harder and therefore more durable.

Lots of coins. A pirate’s booty of coins.

The sacks were of a heavy nylon, and under the caged lights over the worktable, the glow of the pile gradually decreased as the gold was shifted into the bags.

When it was all apportioned, she signed the paperwork and stood up to leave.

“Wait,” he said. “We need to put the CZ in the setting.”

Gin closed her eyes as she imagined Richard’s reaction to her showing up with an empty ring. “But of course.”

Ryan made fast work of it, finding a suitable fake emerald-cut “diamond” and securing it in the platinum cage. Then he steam-cleaned the thing and gave it back to her.

As
she slid the ring back onto her finger on top of her wedding band, she fanned out her hand. “Perfect.”

“You’re going to have to keep that really clean if you want it to look real. The CZs are great, but any oil from the skin or soap residue and they dull immediately.”

She nodded and went for the bags. With a grunt, she lifted them. “Heavy—”

“Will you please let me take them to your car for you?”

“Actually, I think I will. Thank you.”

She followed him out of the cellar and back into the fancy part of the store. And they almost made it to the rear door.

But Ryan stopped. “I can’t … Gin, this really isn’t safe. I know that St. Michael’s is a relatively safe area of town, but please, let me see you home with these. Or call a security detail you. Please.”

“I’m not going home.”

His blue eyes were grave. “I’m licensed to carry. I have a gun on me at all times and two in my car. Let me get you wherever you’re going in one piece—I will never forgive myself otherwise, especially if something happens.”

She looked at the two bags and thought of how much value was in them.

Funny, she had spent her whole life around huge amounts of money … but it had been mostly represented by numbers in bank accounts, charge cards that fit in her wallet, and wads of cash that hadn’t come anywhere close to equaling half a million dollars. Even the value in the artwork, antiques, and silver in the house, or the jewels in the vault seemed different, more statements of style, decor, and grand living than worth.

There was something very nuts-and-bolts about bags of gold.

“I can drive you in my SUV,” Ryan pushed, “which is retrofitted for security. And then bring you back here for your car.”

“Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m a good Catholic boy whose father is about to turn in his grave if I let you walk out of this store by yourself. So yes, I’m sure.”

“All right.
Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Minutes later, he had backed the SUV right up to the rear door, got her settled in the passenger seat … and put the two bags in her lap.

“We’re just going up to the bank,” she told him as he reversed.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he muttered.

The local PNC branch was just up the road a little, and as soon as they pulled up, the manager, who was an attractive blond woman, opened the delivery door in the back.

She was in yoga-wear and had her hair in a ponytail, looking far younger than she did in her business suits.

“Hi there,” she said as they got out with him, lugging the weight once again. “Ryan, this is a pleasant surprise. I left your Stacy in class about twenty minutes ago.”

“Can I just tell you how happy I am to see you?” he said as he dropped a kiss on the woman’s cheek.

“That’s nice to hear.”

After they entered a shallow, dim space that was not ordinarily for customers, the woman closed things up, cranking a circular wheel until there was a
clank!
As they moved further in, passing into the regular part of the bank, the lights were down low, everything quiet and orderly.

“The paperwork is right over here.”