Eye of the God (11 page)

“Are you saying he was
possessed
with the stone?”

Abby stared deep into her wine glass. “Or by it.”

“The curse?”

“Just an opinion and—”

“—completely unverifiable,” Alex finished for her.

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “It does make one wonder,” Alex finally said.

“Which is why the Hope Diamond has captivated the imaginations of so many people for hundreds of years. There is something compelling about a mystery we just can't solve.”

Alex scratched a few words on his notepad and then asked, “So he held on to the diamond for fifteen years. Who finally bought it?”

“King Louis XIV, and he paid
dearly
for it.”

Isaac passed through the doors of the Bluefish Grill unnoticed. A quick scan of the room revealed his brother sitting at a small table in the corner with Abby. They appeared to be deeply engaged in conversation. Alex had always possessed a gift for connecting relationally, and it had come in quite handy over the years. Yet there was something about the look on his face that bothered Isaac. Alex enjoyed his work, but at the moment it appeared as though he was enjoying the company as well.

Isaac kept his distance from Alex's table. Soon he made eye contact and strolled toward the men's room.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Alex said, rising from the table.

“Of course.”

He pushed open the men's room door and quickly checked out the small room. Two men in their late fifties stood at the urinals, discussing a disappointing round of golf they had played that day. Only one of the three stalls was occupied, and Alex entered the one next to it. A contact lens case dropped to the floor beneath the partition, and Alex picked it up and put it in his pocket. He waited a couple of moments, flushed the toilet, and exited the stall. He ran water over his fingertips, dried them on a paper towel, and returned to the table without a word to Isaac.

“Sorry for dominating the conversation tonight,” Abby said.

Alex smiled. “This is an interview after all. You're supposed to do all the talking.”

“My throat is parched.” She sipped her wine. “Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?”

“There isn't much to tell. I'm a journalist. I live in the city. And I travel a lot. So much of my time is spent living out of a suitcase that I wonder why I even bother paying rent.”

“Everyone needs a place to come home to.”

“Home is a concept I lost a long time ago,” Alex said.

“That's pretty sad. Don't you ever find yourself wanting to slow down?”

Alex stroked the stem of his glass. “I can't say that I actually know how to slow down. I fear it would be tremendously boring.”

“But living at breakneck speed can't give you much time to establish … friendships.” Abby winced. She had almost said
relationships
.

“Ah, yet another thing I'm not good at.”

Abby leaned back in her chair and studied him for a moment. “You don't strike me as the kind of guy who is bad at anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just that you're confident and intelligent and successful. I can't imagine you have a lot of insecurities.”

His eyes glinted as he studied her. “I'm afraid you have me pegged. One of my worst character traits is that I don't often find myself in need of confidence. Some people find it quite annoying.”

“On the contrary, I admire people who are confident. It's not something I come by naturally.”

“Could've fooled me.”

“Yes, well, I've spent a lifetime trying to prove myself.”

“The art community doesn't strike me as being an exclusive men's club.”

“It isn't really. But establishing myself as an expert among my father's colleagues is another matter. He's brilliant, so I'm expected to be brilliant, and differentiating myself as an individual has been difficult.”

Alex shrugged. “They've entrusted you with the Hope Diamond event. That's a pretty big deal.”

“More like a disaster in the making. That thing is going to be the death of me.”

“How so?”

Abby tapped her finger on the white linen tablecloth as she decided how much to share. “Well, the truth is I'm not sure I'm up to the task.”

“You're being a bit hard on yourself, aren't you? You earned a doctorate from Cambridge at the age of thirty. That's pretty impressive.”

“Cambridge?” Abby grinned. “Somebody has been doing his research.”

“Busted. I Googled you.”

“Funny, I tried to Google you, but I didn't find anything.”

Alex dropped his gaze. “That could either be a sign of a dismal career, or the fact that I often write under another name.”

“Really? What name?”

He met her gaze and offered a sinister smile. “If I told you I'd have to kill you.”

Abby laughed. “Isn't it a little early in our relationship to be keeping secrets from one another?” There it was again, that word.
Relationship
. She'd used it unintentionally, but a blush of red crept across her face nonetheless.

Alex pulled away from the table and leaned back in his chair. “When the article comes out, you can meet my alter ego.”

“I can't wait.”

“Now,” he said. “Back to this Tavernier fellow. He eventually sold the diamond to King Louis XIV. How did he manage that?”

“Tavernier acquired a reputation throughout Europe as not only the premier jewel merchant, but a top-notch storyteller as well. He learned early on that if he could weave a story around a particular gem, it increased the value. So the king invited him to Versailles on December 16, 1668, to present his current jewel collection and tell stories of his travels.”

“I'm assuming he did an outstanding job because the king bought the jewel.”

“He didn't just buy the diamond, he incurred the wrath of his Minister of Finance, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, because he spent such an extravagant amount.”

“What was the purchase price?” Alex asked.

“Four hundred thousand livres. Or the equivalent of $3.6 million in today's currency.”

Alex let out a low whistle. “A shrewd businessman.”

“One of history's most notorious. When you study Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, he makes Donald Trump look like a carpet salesman.”

“So do you think it bothered Tavernier to let go of the stone?”

“I imagine there must have been some remorse. But whatever twinge of regret he had was easily soothed by the gross fortune he made.”

“I must say, this is turning out to be one fascinating interview.” Alex took a sip of his wine. “For more than one reason.”

An hour later Alex walked Abby to her apartment, making sure to stay a few steps behind. He unscrewed the cap to the contact lens case and took out what appeared to be a penny. As Abby fiddled with her keys, he slipped it into her purse.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said. “I really enjoyed it.”

“The dinner or the company?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

Abby's cheeks colored and she laughed. “Both, actually.”

“Likewise. And thank you for letting me pick your brain.”

“Any time,” she smiled.

Alex looked at her for a moment, noticing that her eyes were the same reddish brown as her hair. Warm. Comforting. Soft.

“Do you mean it?” he asked.

“Mean what?”

“Any time?”

The corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“Good. Then I'm going to take you up on that offer.”

“Please do,” she said. Her voice hovered just above a whisper.

Alex took a step closer. “You know, for all the talking we did, I still only have a fraction of my story. May I call you again?”

She grinned. “About the story I presume?”

“Yes,” he said with a mischievous grin. “And no.”

They looked at one another for a moment, not quite sure what to do. Finally, Alex leaned in and brushed his lips against her temple. “Goodnight, Abby.”

“Goodnight,” she replied, suddenly nervous.

He ran his thumb over her fingers for a moment and then left.

Abby entered her apartment in a daze. Alex had left her with an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach. She walked to the window and watched as he left the building and made his way to his car. She stood there in the dark and felt the color rise in her cheeks once more when he turned to look up at her apartment. He stared for several seconds, and Abby felt quite sure that a smile spread across his face.

Turning toward her bedroom, Abby peeled off her work clothes and tossed them in the hamper. For a moment she considered taking a shower and then decided she was too
tired. Instead, she brushed her teeth, washed her face, and put on an old tee shirt. No sooner had she climbed into bed than the phone rang.

“Surely not,” she said, looking at the clock. She grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“You said I could call.”

Something began to flip uncontrollably in her abdomen as a smile spread across her face. “That I did.”

“Did you mean it?” His voice was deep on the other end of the phone—intense.

“Yes.”

“Good. Because there's something I wanted to say.”

“And what would that be?”

“Just that I really had a great time tonight.”

“And here I thought you were calling me to get the rest of the story, Mr. Weld.”