The Diamond Secret. Ruth Wind
digging into the beans. “Perfect,” I said.
He followed suit, without my reverence, and nodded. “Not bad.”
“Back to the jewel,” I prompted. “Someone must have done some grave-robbing, however, because it’s not down there around her neck anymore, is it?”
He took his time, then in his slightly formal English said, “It was two generations before enough of the curse had ebbed for people not to be afraid of it. A greedy priest, with his eye on the papacy, twisted church law for a new prince to dig it up, retrieve the jewel.” He took a bite of pie, washed it down with beer. “The priest was killed by a lunatic three days later, a leper who’d lost his mind and killed three others before he was restrained.”
I scowled, and maybe it was my imagination, but it suddenly felt the jewel was very hot against my skin. “What about the prince who ordered it dug up?”
“I do not know about him.”
There are some things worth enjoying, and food was one of them. Despite the weird circumstances, the danger, the jewel, I was determined to enjoy my first Scottish meal in nearly five years. Hot food. Good food. Heaven. “I guess mass murder isn’t a new thing after all, huh?”
His teeth flashed, white and square. The grin lightened his whole face, and I could suddenly see through to someone else, a man who made jokes in a language I didn’t understand, to friends he’d known his whole life, who all lived a life entirely different from my own.
I wanted, suddenly, to go back with him to his Romanian world, into a walk-up flat in a faceless post-war building. I could see the kitchen, Communist-built utilitarian and plain, with half curtains at the window. There would be a little television on a stand on which he watched football games. The kind of football where they wore shorts, not shoulder pads.
It lasted only a flash, my little vision, but it must have put a different expression on my face, because his shifted. His gaze was more direct, his mouth softer in that way that’s so dangerous for a woman who has been devastated by the games of men. “What do you know, Sylvie Montague? Hmm?”
I looked away, lifted a shoulder. “Don’t even start playing with me,” I said, and looked back. “And don’t make the mistake of underestimating me. You’ll regret it.”
“I will not underestimate you.” His mouth lifted on one side, and he held up one hand. “Promise.”
“Finish the story,” I said.
“Well, it goes on as it began. A murder over and over, whenever someone got his hands on it. It is stolen, disappears for a generation or two, resurfaces.”
“So not everyone who comes into contact with it dies.”
“No.”
“But you’re not taking any chances, are you?”
He lifted a brow. “I am a thief. Perhaps not the cleanest soul, yes?” His eyes glittered. “I prefer not to touch it.”
“It’s okay if I’m cursed to possible murder? Thanks ever so.”
“You do not believe in curses.”
“I wouldna count on that,” I said in my best Scottish English. I drank a deep draft of my beer. “I am half Scot myself, you know. We believe in the dark side.”
“Not you,” he said, and his voice was quite sure.
I scowled. “What makes you think you know me?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t believe in anything. You don’t believe in ghosts or God or curses.” His eyes were steady. “Men, families, nothing.”
A hollowness emptied out my chest. I narrowed my eyes. “You did your research.”
He tilted his head. Curls tumbled to one side. “Yes.”
Against my thigh, my cell phone buzzed suddenly. It startled me, but I grabbed it and looked at the ID to see who was calling in. “Unknown” flashed over the screen. That might have meant it was anyone at all in Scotland, since I didn’t have their numbers programmed in. I didn’t answer.
“Sorry,” I said, “I have relatives here. That’s something you might have considered, you know, before you dumped you secret on me.”
“I did.”
A brief cold chill touched the back of my neck. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Just that you’d have resources.”
“For…?”
“To help you, that’s all. You do not think I would hurt them?” He said it with a slight shake of his head, a slight wrinkling of his brow.
I met his gaze, smiled slightly. “Luca, don’t try to play me. I was raised with international playboys and the women who wanted their money, with thieves and art experts and people currying for favor with every sort of celebrity you can imagine.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re an amateur.”
For a long moment, everything about him was utterly still, and I had a clear image of a sleek cat, tail twitching dangerously.
Then the thick black lashes swept down, heat rose in his cheeks, and he laughed softly. “Forgive me.” His chin jutted out, and he met my gaze. “I forgot who raised you.”
“Touché,” I said, heat in my own cheeks. I slammed down the rest of my pint. “Let’s get out of here. You can get me my suitcase.”
I stood, jammed my arms into my coat sleeves. He stood with me, and put his hand on my arm. His hair gave off a scent of cloves and oranges, startling and exotic. “Sylvie, I am sorry.”
“I’m going to the toilet.” I pulled my arm away, tossed my purse over my shoulder. “Pay for our dinner. Then you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I will,” he said, taking out his wallet. “I promise.”
Chapter 5
The first step in evaluating a diamond is the simplest, cut. There are eight basic cuts for a diamond: emerald, heart, pear, round, marquise, radiant, oval and princess. There are others, of course, but these are the main shapes found in modern diamonds.
—www.costellos.com.au
In the ladies’ room, I checked my lipstick and then took out my phone. One message was waiting, and I flipped open the phone to punch in the voice mail number. Nothing happened. The phone flipped back to the original icon of a flashing envelope. I tried it a second time, and the same thing happened.
I scowled, but I’d have time to figure it out later. I washed my hands and went back out front. Luca was counting out money to the bartender. While I waited for him, a short, sturdy-looking man at the bar said, “Hey, ain’t you that race car driver’s daughter? The one in papers all the time?”
I raised my brows. “’Fraid so.”
“Yer mum’s a local girl? I went to grammar school with her.”
“Is that right?” I smiled. “I’m here to visit my grandmother.”
“She was sweet, yer mum. I was wrecked to hear what happened to her.”
“Thanks.” Against my hip, my phone buzzed again, and I was about to pull it out when Luca came toward me, tucking pound coins in his jeans pocket. Time enough to check the message later—it was likely a cousin or aunt, anyway.
“Take care,” I said to the man at the bar.
“You do the same, gerl.”
Luca went out on the street into the dusk, but I remembered in time to duck my head out first and look for my cousin Keith, who’d been out here just a little while ago. No sign of him. No sign of anyone much, really. I stepped out. A small breeze buffeted my bare knees, and it would