Diamonds Can Be Deadly (10 page)

She'd also gained a far deeper appreciation of the desperation that brought people to Bartholomew Greene. She wasn't ready to admit a rock had anything to do with the few extra moments she'd bought Davy, but she couldn't dismiss the notion, either. Particularly since she'd gouged a good-size hole in her own palm with her borrowed emerald.

“You should really thank TJ,” she said, patting Patricia's back. “He got here with Davy's medicine just in time.”

TJ also received a fierce hug.

“Thank you. For getting here so quickly
and
for suggesting I leave a spare canister of albuterol at the security center. How did you know Davy needed it?”

“We don't monitor the Meditation Center during therapy sessions, but we do have security cameras in place. They kicked on when the fire alarm activated.”

“I pulled the fire alarm,” Edna put in, edging into the circle.

“Sure,” Felicity scoffed. Now that the crisis had passed, she was looking and sounding restless again. “After Jordan told you to.”

“I swear I don't know why you always have to be such a pain in the tuchas. You're almost as bad as my daughters.”

TJ stepped in to play peacemaker. “You did good, Ms. Albert. When the alarm went off, I saw what was happening and hotfooted it over here.”

Hotfooted it, hell! TJ had taken one look at the
drama playing out on the screen, grabbed the kid's medicine and made the two-hundred-or-so-yard dash in Olympic record time. His heart was still pumping.

Bartholomew's was too, he guessed, but you couldn't tell it from the therapist's beaming smile. “I trusted my instincts when I hired you. You've more than proved them right.”

Hardly, TJ thought sardonically. Fighting to keep his expression neutral, he said nothing as Greene gave his shoulder a squeeze and turned to Jordan.

“I trusted my instincts with you, too.” Reaching out, he gathered her hands in his. “Now you need to trust yours.”

Frowning, she looked down at their joined hands. Her hair fell forward in a smooth auburn sweep, hiding her face. When she raised her head again, her glance cut to TJ for a fraction of a second.

“Maybe I do.”

* * *

The image of TJ kneeling in front of Davy stayed with Jordan through what remained of the shortened group session. The small crisis had seemed to have bonded her and Scott in a very different way from their tussle in the sand last night. That was pure sex. Amazing sex, granted, but still just a physical reaction resulting from the clash of two strong-willed people, both hauling baggage.

Jordan had awakened this morning convinced she'd finally dumped the residual anger and hurt
left over from three years ago. She was also convinced she and TJ could team up for this mission and go their separate ways afterward. No harm, no foul, no hard feelings on either side.

The incident with Davy put a dent in that confidence. Jordan admired TJ's foresight in obtaining a backup supply of medicine from the boy's mom almost as much as the calm he'd exhibited after arriving on the scene. He'd been so good with the boy, so gentle. As he had been with her, Jordan remembered, brushing her thumb over her mottled bruise.

Irritated by the confused and wholly contradictory feelings the man stirred in her, she shoved her hand in her pocket. She had other things that needed thinking about. Like McShay's sudden departure and the imminent arrival of Alejandro Garcia.

Jordan had contacted Claire and advised her that TJ's people had McShay under surveillance. She'd also received a thorough background brief on Garcia. She was ready, more than ready, for a face-to-face with the Colombians.

Or so she thought, until she walked into the conference room just before noon and recognized Garcia's associate.

W
hen Jordan spotted the taller of the two men who entered the conference room, her heart leapfrogged from her chest to her throat.

Oh, hell!

She blew out a breath, trying to steady herself, while Bartholomew greeted his business associate. “Alejandro! So glad to have you back at the Tranquility Institute.”

Using the hearty exchange of greetings as cover, Jordan took a half step to the side. A leafy dieffenbachia shadowed her as she raised her hand to scratch the tip of her nose with a polished oval nail. Her open palm hid the slight movement of her lips.

“Control, we have a problem.”

The sensitive transmitter in the gold hoop picked up her low murmur. Claire's reply floated into her ear an instant later. Smothered by the thick sweep of Jordan's hair, it was inaudible to anyone but her.

“What kind of problem, Diamond?”

“I know the man with Garcia.”

Claire's response was instant and expected. “Do you need backup?”

Her mind churning, Jordan assessed the situation. Claire had TJ on the other net. He could ride to the rescue when and if she gave the signal.

“Not yet.”

That's all she had time for. Greene, Duncan Myers and the two new arrivals had completed their ritual of hearty handshakes and backslaps. The taller of the two slid his hands in his pockets, looking casual and relaxed.

Too relaxed, Jordan thought grimly as she moved away from the shadow of the dieffenbachia and strolled forward. She aimed her smile at Alejandro Garcia, but her peripheral vision stayed locked on the man who'd accompanied him.

He didn't blink. Didn't say a word. If not for the slight narrowing of his eyes, she might have believed he hadn't recognized her. Taking her cue from him, she gave no indication she knew him as Bartholomew grasped her elbow and drew her into the all-male circle.

“Jordan, this is my friend and longtime business
associate. Alejandro Garcia, may I present Jordan Colby, a new friend and, hopefully, also a new business associate.”

Garcia was short and rotund, with wavy black hair. The emerald business must be doing well, Jordan thought as she extended her hand. His pinstriped suite was Brioni, his shoes Bally, and the glittering stone in his pinkie ring looked like Colombian prime.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Colby. I have seen your pictures in many magazines. May I say you are even more beautiful in person than in print?”

“You may, indeed, Mr. Garcia.”

“Since it is my hope that we, too, shall become business associates, you must call me Alejandro.”

Smiling, she nodded to the hard-sided case he'd rolled in with him. “I would say our future relationship depends a great deal on what's in that case.”

“Ah, the contents will truly astound you.” His lips curled, revealing blindingly white teeth. “And you, Bartholomew. I've brought something I know you will wish to add to your private collection.”

The therapist's eyes lit up. “You have?”

“I have. I'll show you in a moment. First let me introduce the man who makes me feel so secure traveling with my precious stone. Ms. Colby, Bartholomew, Duncan…this is Colonel Luis Esteban.”

Jordan half expected to hear a hiss of indrawn breath in her ear. She should have known better. Claire was too well trained to react to the name of her handsome, debonair, sometime lover.

Jordan had met the Latin American only once, at a Washington cocktail party. Esteban had lifted Jordan's hand to his mustached lips with old-world charm and murmured that American women were truly among the most beautiful. Since he turned to the woman on his arm and included her in the compliment, a smiling Claire had agreed.

Looking into his dark eyes, Jordan had to admit he was as jaw-droppingly gorgeous in the bright light of a Hawaiian afternoon as he'd appeared at that cocktail party. Curling black hair, bronzed skin and a killer smile, all wrapped up in six-two of solid male.

“Luis was chief of the Cartozan Special Forces before his retirement from the military,” Garcia explained. “He then worked for the president of Mexico as a private consultant until we lured him away to handle security for our courier and distribution system.”

Claire had to be wondering whether Esteban had gone over to the enemy. Jordan was wondering the same thing. Her mind jumped with the possibility she might be working with two cops who'd gone bad—at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

With the same smiling charm he'd demonstrated the night they'd met, Esteban lifted Jordan's hand to his lips. His cloud-soft mustache tickled her skin.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Colby. I, too, have seen your picture in many magazines. And I
very much admire your elegant eyeglasses. My sister-in-law reads the newspaper through a pair with your diamond logo.”

“If Alejandro and I can negotiate a satisfactory price, perhaps she'll switch to a pair with a butterfly made of emeralds from his mine.”

“Perhaps she will.”

Garcia took that as a signal to get down to business. Declining Bartholomew's offer of refreshments, the wholesaler collapsed the telescoping handle on his wheeled aluminum sample case and lifted it onto the conference table. Jordan made a show of not watching too closely while he spun the combination locks. She could get into the case easily enough later if she needed to.

The front opened, revealing a nest of twelve or fifteen trays. Jordan had dealt with enough diamond sales reps to know the contents of those trays would be sorted by color, clarity, cut and carat weight—the all-important four Cs of the gem world.

“Duncan faxed me a copy of your proposal,” Garcia said. “Your designs call for stones a half carat or less in weight, graded VVS1 in clarity. I brought a representative sampling for you to examine.”

Still trying to factor in Esteban's unexpected appearance into her mental equation, Jordan forced her attention to the tray Garcia slid out.

“These stones range from light to good in color.”

The loose gems winked up at Jordan from their
velvet nest. Unlike diamonds, hue and tone were the most important factors in evaluating colored gemstones. This was especially true of emeralds. Bright, rich, intense greens commanded higher prices than light or very dark tones.

Sliding a flat wooden case out of her shoulder bag, she extracted a folding jeweler's loupe and a set of tweezers. She wasn't a certified gemologist, but she'd been in the business long enough to recognize quality when she saw it.

These emeralds were definitely top quality. Their cuts were smooth, their color rich, and their inclusions appeared only under the ten-power magnification.

Jordan knew better than to appear overly impressed. She'd worked up those proposals as a means to get her foot in the door at the institute. Greene, Myers and Garcia didn't know that, however. They'd expect her to employ tough negotiating skills.

“These might do for the less expensive lines of eyewear I'm proposing. I want a more symmetrical cut and richer color for the higher-end products.”

“I see you are a woman of discerning taste,” Garcia said unctuously. He slid out another tray. “Perhaps these will meet your standards. They range in color from very good to exceptional, and from medium to medium dark in tone.”

The loose gems gleamed like cats' eyes peering through a dark night. Jordan selected a pear-shaped
stone with the tweezers and squinted at it through the loupe. The cuts were symmetrical and the surfaces reflected the light evenly. The intense color blew her away.

“This is closer to what I had in mind,” she said in a cool tone that suggested she'd seen better. “What are we talking about in terms of price per carat?”

Garcia put a pudgy finger to his lips, as if performing mental calculations. The emerald in his pinkie ring caught the light. The stone was almost as eye-catching as the monster that marked the epicenter of Bartholomew Greene's empire in the wall map behind him.

“For that size and quality,” he said after a moment, “we would normally ask no less than two hundred U.S. dollars per carat weight. Since you will be marketing your products through our dear friend, Bartholomew, we can go one-eighty.”

That was well below market and less than Jordan had anticipated, even from a
dear friend
of Bartholomew Greene's.

“I would hope you can do better than that,” she countered, playing the game. “Another source gave me an estimate of one-fifty.”

“For VVS1 stones of this color and intensity! Surely not.”

“They're Thai emeralds,” she admitted with a shrug. “I would prefer Colombian, but only if I can make a satisfactory profit.”

“One-fifty.” Garcia tapped his lips again. “I must consult my superiors before I can agree to such a price. It is late, but I may be able to reach them. Duncan, may I use your office?”

“Of course.”

Bartholomew countered with a suggestion. “Perhaps you should show me what else you've brought first? We may need to do some haggling, too.”

“For this, my friend, I think you will most definitely wish to haggle.”

Sliding out another, deeper tray, Garcia lifted out a chunk of black graphite. Embedded in the graphite was a ten-inch shaft of green beryl. Bartholomew started salivating almost before he got his hands around the magnificent uncut emerald.

“My God! Where was this found?”

“The north vein of number-twelve shaft.”

His face filled with reverence, Greene turned the piece to examine it from all angles. “I thought that vein had played out.”

“We had thought so, too, until we caught one of the miners attempting to smuggle this piece out. The man is no longer employed at the Muzo mine.”

Jordan guessed he was no longer employed
anywhere.
In fact, she'd lay odds he was buried at the bottom of another shaft.

Interesting that Bartholomew knew so much about Muzo operations. She'd get Claire to run his passport, see when he'd made his last visit to the source of his favorite stones.

“What are you asking for this?” Bartholomew wanted to know, tilting the piece to catch the light.

“Perhaps we should conduct our negotiations in your office,” Garcia suggested. “We don't need to bore Ms. Colby or Colonel Esteban with our haggling.” His white teeth flashed in a deprecating smile as he closed his case and spun the combination lock.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Bartholomew couldn't scurry out of the conference room fast enough. Holding the rough emerald before him like a beacon, he threw an apology over his shoulder.

“Please excuse us, Jordan, Luis. Perhaps you'd like to have some refreshments. Or enjoy the view from the veranda. It's quite spectacular.”

When the door swished shut behind the other three men, silence settled over the conference room. Esteban glanced at Jordan, his expression unreadable, before shifting his gaze to the red, unwinking eye of the security camera above her head.

“I should like to enjoy the view from this veranda Bartholomew speaks of. Will you join me?”

“Diamond!”

Claire's urgent whisper filled her ear, blanketed by the sweep of her hair. “Your friend Scott says to stay inside the conference room, where he can keep you on the monitors.”

Jordan weighed TJ's instruction against Esteban's obvious desire to get outside, away from the cameras and their sensitive microphones. He had
something he wanted to discuss in private and Jordan had to find out what the Cartozan was doing here.

“Shall we go outside?” the colonel asked politely. “I believe this door leads out onto the veranda.”

He worked the lever and slid the glass panel open. With a little bow, he gestured Jordan onto the lanai. She stepped onto the windswept deck, almost certain she was doing the right thing.

Once outside, Esteban surveyed the area with a quick glance. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him. Turning back to Jordan, he palmed a silver cigarette case from his suit pocket.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

“These are hand rolled for me in Cuba. They're quite mild. Would you care to try one?”

Declining one of the thin black cigarillos, she leaned an elbow on the railing and waited while he lit up. The stiff ocean breeze blew the stream of smoke out to sea.

“So, Jordan, we meet again.”

“So we do.”

“Are you truly here to conduct business with Bartholomew Greene?”

“Why else would I be here?”

“Why else, indeed?”

He blew another thin stream and tapped a manicured nail on his silver cigarette case a time or two before setting it squarely on the railing.

“You may speak freely. We won't be overheard.”

Jordan eyed the slim case, wondering if it emitted a signal strong enough to jam the transmitter in her earring. If so, Claire would
not
be happy. Nor would TJ.

“You first,” she said to Esteban. “Are you really working for the Colombians?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons for infiltrating their organization.” He flicked an ash over the railing. “You will have to trust me that they are very much in concert with yours.”

“What makes you think I'm trying to infiltrate anything?”

“You've established contact with Bartholomew Greene. You're now dealing with Garcia. You wish to discover if it is more than the buying and selling of emeralds from the Muzo mine that links them. So do I.”

Jordan wanted to believe him. According to the OMEGA rumor mill, Claire Cantwell and this sexy Latin had quite a history.

“Turn that off,” she said, jerking her chin at the silver case.

Shrugging, he slid a finger along the edge of the case. Jordan hooked her hair behind her ear and spoke clearly enough to be heard over the wind and restless waves.

“This is Diamond. Come in, Control.”