If Wishes Were Horses
by Jayne York
Chapter One
Returning to Tamarack had never been part of the plan. Emily Converse had sworn the only way she’d ever step foot in that slice of hell again would be to dance on her stepfather’s grave. Time and circumstance, however, had a way of intervening.
She was not a woman given to self-pity, but damn, it was tempting. And practically impossible to avoid, considering the litany of crap that had landed in her lap in the last two weeks. She’d never considered herself a glutton for punishment, but on top of all the other things on her list of woes, she was driving cross-country to rescue her brother from financial collapse.
Certainly not the way she’d planned to ring in year number forty. She was supposed to be on a plane right now, headed to Playa Del Carmen. She was supposed to be floating in water so warm it felt like a bath and so blue it looked like a summer sky. She should have kept the reservation and celebrated her freedom, but no. Instead she reverted to a previous version of herself and did the last thing on earth she wanted to do—drive home to Tamarack, Colorado.
She rocked her head to loosen the tension in her neck and flexed her shoulders. Her hands felt like claws clamped around the steering wheel. She was exhausted. The last few weeks had been pure hell as she rushed to wrap up one life and hit the reset button on another. Add to that a two-day snooze-fest drive from Seattle, across the flatlands of Idaho, and into the hills of Wyoming. It gave her plenty of time to obsess over the step she was taking.
Once upon a time, she’d run away from Tamarack like her heels were on fire, and now here she was volunteering to step back into the furnace. What was the definition of insanity? Doing the same things over and over, expecting a different outcome. Like if she managed to change, be stronger, be smarter, things would turn out better—different.
It wouldn’t be that simple.
Through the windshield of her Jeep, the wilds of the Wind River Range eventually gave way to the high country of Colorado, and soon Emily was navigating the twisting curves where she’d learned to handle a four-wheel drive vehicle in snow up to her backside. Twelve hundred miles on the road culminated at Cutthroat Pass, the entrée to Tamarack. It was hardly the most direct route to the town nestled in the valley below her.
She downshifted the Jeep to slow for the last of the S-shaped turns on the narrow ribbon of asphalt. The road led her past the pretentious granite columns that marked her stepfather’s compound. She wasn’t consciously holding her breath, but a trickle of fear dribbled down her spine just the same. Her molars ground together in determination. The past wouldn’t decide her present, not ever again.
In spite of herself, images of her last day on his estate flashed through her mind like the herky-jerky frames of a child’s flip deck animation. Fear sharpened every visual, clarified every word, enhanced every touch. She’d run down the steps, racing for her car. He’d charged after her, smelling of alcohol and fury when he tried to stop her headlong rush toward an unknown future. They’d screamed out their mutual hatred, all the bitter dregs of their time together. She smirked when she remembered getting in the lucky shove that had landed him in a heap on the ground. It had been her first glimpse that Senator Ray Domenico was not the invincible, all-powerful monster she’d known him to be.
A deep lungful of crisp air dispelled the clinging fragments of that memory, and she reached out to flick the stuffed mouse hanging from her rearview mirror. She’d bought him to guard her good luck. The specters grabbing at her from Ray’s driveway had only landed a glancing blow, so his silly grin and suit of armor were working perfectly.
Finally, she was in easy striking distance of Tamarack. First she had one crucial stop to make.
The apex of the last switchback widened into a pull off, and she nosed her vehicle into the space provided. The roaring voice of Angel Falls surrounded her, and she felt the power of the Saint Vrain River as it plummeted more than one hundred feet over a massive rock outcropping. From there it boiled and foamed its way to a clear, tranquil lake adjacent to the town. The view was impressive, no arguing that point.
She sat quietly for a moment, gazing at the jagged peaks surrounding the valley. Her seat belt seemed to unfasten itself; she was drawn out of the Jeep as if an invisible rope towed her forward. She found herself on a slim finger of stone overlooking the cascading water. With a shaky breath, she remembered all the times she’d come here to pay respects to her mother.
The cacophony of the torrent below swallowed her greeting. “Hi, Mama. Bet you thought you’d never see me here again. I sure wish you were here; I could really use you right now.” She leaned back against the rocks that provided a seat for watching the terrible, beautiful tumble of Angel Falls. “I’m ashamed to say it, but I think you’d be disappointed in me. You counted on me to take care of Ian, and I tried so hard to help him. Nothing seemed to work with him. I got tired and frustrated, and I quit trying. Now, I’m back, and he…well, he’s not going to like it.”
She took a deep breath of the fragrant air and settled more comfortably on her stone seat. Aspens, tall and white-barked, skirted the edges of the canyon and shivered in the crisp fall air. Their golden, coin-shaped leaves glittered in the afternoon light.
“I didn’t do such a bang-up job with my own life either, Mama. The man I finally married? Yeah, so much for him being my hero. Balls of solid brass, though. Can you believe he and his pregnant girlfriend had the nerve to ask me to paint a mural for their baby’s room?” The roaring of the falls drowned out her derisive laugh. “The sale papers were already signed, so I figured what the hell and told him exactly what I thought of him and the baby-mama. Not my finest hour.” She leaned back on the stone. The texture was cold and gritty on her palms, an accurate metaphor for how she felt. “Guess you and I had poor taste in men in common; neither of us could pick a good one out of the herd if we tried. I was a fool for a pretty face and smooth line. You picked power and money. More fools us, huh, Mama?”
Emily studied the drop from the edge. This had been her mother’s favorite vantage point, the final thing she saw before she died. This was the spot that had changed all their futures. It looked innocent enough now, just a wide spot in the road. Just a point for tourists to take in the natural grandeur of the falls and the valley below.
Innocent, deadly, and dear.
On a map, the falls were only wavy lines. In her world, they were an indelible marker. One that brushed away her childhood and replaced it with unassailable loneliness and anger. For years, she’d lived with impotent outrage at the twist of fate that allowed her mother’s car to sweep off the curve and plunge over the edge with her toddler brother still strapped in the backseat carrier. Locals had proclaimed it a miracle they’d found Sarah’s car, let alone the little boy trapped inside. The cold water, they’d said, was the only thing that kept Ian from suffering brain damage. Ian should have drowned, just like his mother. Their mother.
A full-body shiver shook Emily at the horror her mother must have felt at that moment.
Sadness tugged her gaze to follow the course of the Saint Vrain past the falls and down to the mirror finish of the lake. The spillway closest to town poured back into the river and sliced the town in half like two sides of one body. For most of the year, the river was a rollicking tumble of water. Occasionally, like the spring it had taken her mother’s life, it swelled to a raging torrent.
She sat forward and dusted her palms on the legs of her jeans. The day was waning. Soon the light would wash the valley in vibrant pinks and soft violets before fading quickly into the crystalline blue of evening. The town, from this vantage, looked unchanged; some of the older landmarks stood out. She picked out the courthouse roof, the steeple of the First Baptist Church, the public library, and a few of the more established businesses, like Blanche’s Diner and the Moonlight movie theater. An extra traffic light hung on Main Street. Over the years, new houses had been built up the sides of the valley. Roads cut into the Aspen groves. The changes reinforced how long she’d been gone. From this distance, Tamarack was as perfect as a picture postcard, and that was the problem. It wasn’t a postcard, all squeaky clean and shiny. It for damn sure wasn’t perfect.
“So, Mama, here I am, right back where I started.” She swallowed the guilt she still carried over the self-inflicted separation from her little brother. The tough-love approach she’d adopted hadn’t worked to keep him in her life. It was a rough and awkward tightrope to walk most of the time.
“Maybe this time will be different for us both. Kinda like that old quote, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ Remember? You said that countless times. The wishes we made for better times and a happier future were never enough to make them a fact, were they?” She levered herself to her feet and took a last look down into the misty foam below her. Touching her lips, she blew a silent kiss to Sarah Converse and turned toward her Jeep.
She made her way back past the stone barricades at the edge of the road. The rectangular barriers had always reminded her of primitive altars. Their slab tops were thick plinths of gray-and-white, mottled stone that sparkled in the sunlight. Pressuring the state to install the cement and granite guards had been the only good thing her stepfather ever did. Of course, it’d come too late to prevent his wife’s death.
She straightened her spine, shook off the melancholy the falls always brought to her, and climbed back into the Jeep. Soon she was rolling down the last stretch of road and onto Main Street. The Cloud to Ground Gallery fell slap in the middle of the business district. It’s rustic faux front testified to the town’s Old West origins. She’d intended to call her oldest friend, Noni Evans Sears, to announce her arrival but had gotten distracted up at the falls. As she slowed to a stop at the second of Tamarack’s three stoplights, she saw two familiar figures standing arm in arm on the wide sidewalk in front of the gallery. They must have had the road into town staked out, waiting for her. If they were trying to look nonchalant, their foolish grins ruined the disguise.
She eased to the curb, and Noni’s father had his arms open to her before she got out of the car. A feeling of peace filled her when Sheriff Pat Evans wrapped his big arms around her and lifted her off the ground. His rough voice rumbled into her hair. “’Bout time you showed up, Emmy.”
“It’s so good to see you, Papa Pat. Sorry, I’m later than planned. I had to stop and talk with Mama. Guess I was up there longer than I thought.”
Noni bounced on her toes like a two-year-old on a sugar high. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. You’re here! What took you so long? You shoulda been here by noon.”
Pat gave her an affectionate pat and one last squeeze before relinquishing her to his daughter. “Glad you’re finally here,” he said and gave Noni an indulgent smile while he rubbed the small of his back. “She’s been impossible today.”
“Now, Papa,” Noni chastised. “You know you love being needed. I’ve had him running errands for Lois’s wedding all day.” She patted his arm. “How would I have gotten it all done without you? You’re so big and strong.”
He just grumbled. “Yeah, yeah. I’m tellin’ you, Emmy, it sucks to be the only man in a family full of crazy women.”
Emily grinned at them bantering like an old married couple. God, she’d missed them. Independence was no substitute for the familiarity of lifelong friends. Maybe coming back wouldn’t be as jarring as she’d feared. She could use a period of quiet and positive interaction with her new/old town.
The gallery storefront beckoned her, and she reached for the door handle. The old brass knob was smooth with wear, and she rattled it when it didn’t turn. Her brow furrowed. “I was expecting Brad to be here, foaming at the mouth.” She glanced up at the sign above the gallery windows. It could use a fresh coat of paint. At least the glass was clean, and one of Ian’s pieces was on prominent display. Disappointed, she dusted her hands and jammed them in her back pockets.
Noni snorted. “Nope. He’s in Denver meeting with his lawyer. Said he’ll see you tomorrow at the bank to sign the papers.” She looped her arm through Emily’s. She took a determined step down the street toward Blanche’s Diner. “You hungry?”
Emily only resisted for a second. “I’d rather find a shower and a bed. I’ve been on the road for days, and I’m bushed.” Her stomach picked that moment to gurgle in protest.
“Ha, that’s what I thought, and besides, Blanche threatened to whip my butt if I didn’t drag you to the diner soon as you got here. Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Pat huffed loudly but followed along like her long-suffering servant. Noni frowned him into submission.
The interior of Blanche’s Diner was unchanged. A veritable symphony of fifties chrome and seventies kitsch with a sprinkling of Western rodeo. Worn Formica still covered the long counter that sported a tall pie spinner. Shiny chrome corrals railed in napkins, menus, and condiments. Brightly upholstered stools lined up like overstuffed mushrooms, waiting patiently for the backsides of regulars and first-timers alike. Booths flanked wide windows, perfect for people-watching and gossip. Their broad depth repeatedly covered, then re-covered in tucked and rolled vinyl. All of it so familiar Emily willed back the sting of tears.
Behind the counter, Blanche Reese stood, her arms akimbo with her bony hands gripping denim-covered hips. A beehive of impossibly red hair still topped her head. Her normally scowling face split into a wide grin when she saw who Pat and Noni hustled along with them.
“Well, I’ll be damned if it ain’t a blast from the past.” The woman’s voice sounded like gravel on an old dirt road as she threw open her arms and gathered Emily into a hug. “Honey, you look so much like your mother it takes my breath away. Welcome back.” Without warning, she bellowed over her shoulder. “Teddy! You ain’t going to believe who I got here. Come out and say howdy.”
Before Emily could say a word, she was grabbed and spun around. This time by the long, strong arms of Blanche’s flamboyant son, Ted. “Honey, I can’t believe it. Is it truly you?” His expressive bright blue eyes welled with tears, and he dabbed at them with the corner of the apron around his narrow waist. “Now look what you made me do. I got mascara in my eye; that shit burns like fire.”
She plucked the cloth from his fingers and took over wiping his eyes. “I’ve been telling you for years waterproof is the way to go. You never did listen to me, did you, Teddy Bear?”
She stepped back to look them over. Mother and son were still quite the pair. Both unique and unafraid of flaunting convention. Blanche had raised her son on her own, fierce in her protection of the boy who never fit into a traditionally male role. Ted had known early on that his view of the world and his place in it were never going to jibe with the narrow-minded members of Tamarack’s conservative older generations. Somehow though, he’d managed to win a grudging acceptance from them. It might have had more to do with the way he loved and supported his mom than maintaining his alternative lifestyle out of town. Of course, being the lead dancer in the most popular drag club in Denver made it tough to ignore him.
“Honey, the days you taught me to use an eyelash curler are so long gone they’re gathering dust.” He cast a disapproving look down her wrinkled T-shirt and worn jeans. “Looks like you could use a really good meal and a bath. In that order. Want me to fix you up with my latest miracle on a plate? We can catch up while you eat.”
Pat clapped the younger man on the back. “That sounds great, Ted, but we’ll just have coffee and a piece of Blanche’s famous apple pie. If you don’t mind.” He pulled Emily into a booth. “Y’all can catch up later. I don’t want to drag out getting her settled in the apartment.”
“Papa!” Noni slapped her father’s arm. “You just killed my surprise, dang it.” Her scowl became a sunny grin. She flapped her hands in excitement. “Okay, okay. I’ve been keeping this a secret, but I found you a place to live. You’ll love it, and you can’t beat the commute to work.”
“I thought I was staying with you,” Emily said suspiciously. Noni, problem solver extraordinaire, had the homecoming bit clenched in her teeth.
“You were, till the kids came down with chickenpox. Didn’t think you’d enjoy that, so I came up with the perfect answer. The apartment above the gallery is just ideal for you.”
“Oh, come on, Noni. The place has been storage for years. It can’t be livable. What have you done?”
“I pulled off a miracle in two short weeks, that’s what. You said Ian refused to come back to town, so Cloud to Ground needs a presence. That’s you.” Again the grin and the shrug. “It’s a done deal.”
Ted huffed his disappointment. “Well, I see where I stand in the pecking order, so I suppose tomorrow will do just as well. I’ll save you a plate of huevos rancheros for breakfast, Em. How’s that sound?”
“I can’t wait, Teddy Bear. Besides, I’m sure Pat can live without our trip down shenanigan lane.”
Pat’s laugh filled the diner. “Ain’t that the damn truth. Parents never want to know all the stuff their kids got away with.” He pointed a beefy finger toward the apple pie, and Blanche dropped three wide wedges in front of them along with three coffees.
Emily relaxed for the first time in weeks. For better or worse, she was home.
Midnight Acquisition
by Jayne York
Chapter One
“Welcome To Charleston!”
Juliette Rochambeau scowled at the bright blue-and-white banner hanging above the baggage carousel. South Carolina’s humidity only took a moment to kink her carefully straightened hair back to its normal volume. She grunted out a curse as she grabbed her suitcase and wrestled it onto its wheels. Yay, home sweet home.
The terminal’s wide windows spilled a sweltering pile of sunlight onto the terrazzo floors, creating a blinding reflection. She yanked her sunglasses into place and fired up her phone.
A text alert flashed across her screen. —Hurry— it read.
Huh. Generally, if one word would do, Evie Rochambeau used a dozen. A skitter of alarm kicked her heart.
Juliette hustled to the curb and issued a shrill, double-fingered whistle for a cab. Unlike the stream of taxis that zipped by her Manhattan apartment, this driver hopped out and loaded her bags into a back seat reeking of incense and homegrown ganja. She dropped in beside them and shouted the address over the pulsing reggae pouring from his speakers. She got a lopsided smile and a thumbs up in return.
“Hey.” She tapped the driver. “Turn that down, would you? I need to make a call.”
The driver nodded, and the decibels retreated a couple notches.
She plugged one ear and listened to her mother’s line ring. And ring. No answer. “Can you step on it? I need to get to Rochambeau, Inc. double-quick.”
The cabbie glanced at her and grinned. She slammed into the seat as they raced away from the airport toward downtown.
She cinched her seatbelt tighter and dipped back into her bag for a tissue to wipe the sweat collected at her hairline. Her fingers brushed a copy of the Charleston Post Examiner tucked inside. The headline was tough to miss. “Rochambeau Family to Lend Historic Necklace.” The family’s heirloom necklace would get the long-awaited recognition it deserved, and from the Smithsonian no less. Quite the plum bit of press for the oldest family-owned jewelry store in North America. Her father was probably busting his buttons with pride. She smiled with satisfaction; it wouldn’t hurt her reputation, either. And she got to appraise the pigeon-egg-sized ruby with its swath of diamonds—lucky her.
As the traffic whizzed by, she tried her mother’s phone two more times. Her father’s line, same story—no answer. As a last resort, she tried her “favorite” uncle, Roland, though she prayed he wouldn’t answer. The misguided loyalty that kept his misogynistic, creepy ass an active part of Rochambeau, Inc. was a mystery to her. Finally, she tried the store phone. It went to voicemail. Strange for a late Saturday afternoon. The store should be hopping. Five minutes more and she’d have her answers.
The taxi finally rounded the turn onto Meeting Street and came to a screeching halt. A wedge of police cars blocked the road. Shocked, she gaped at the red-and-blue lights streaking color across the store entrance. Fear slammed her, and she grabbed the cabbie’s shoulder. “Pull over and let me out.” She shoved a couple of twenties at him and vaulted into the street.
No fewer than six cops milled about on the sidewalk. One burly, round-bellied uniform stepped forward. He raised a palm to stop her from charging up the marble steps leading to the showroom doors.
Her mouth was as dry as week-old cornbread as she moved to shoulder past him. “Oh, my God. What’s happened? Was there a robbery?”
“Whoa now, missy. This here’s a crime scene. Nobody goes in.” His face was ruddy in the heat. Sweat stained his light blue shirt’s underarms and dripped from his buzz cut.
“I’m Juliette Rochambeau. Sound familiar? My parents own this store.” She pushed past him, and he grabbed her arm. She shook off his grip and glared at him. “You’ll have to arrest me to keep me from seeing to them. Now get out of my way.” Her chin jutted skyward.
The cop shot her a mulish glare. For a second, she thought he’d take her up on the threat.
An older cop whistled him down. “Let her through, Clinton. She’s family.” The second cop tipped his hat and waved her forward. “Go on up, Ms. Rochambeau. We’ll collect your bags for you.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t spare Clinton another glance as she charged up the steps two at a time and skidded to a stop in the showroom. The scene was chaotic.
The showroom lights blazed unusually bright, delineating the destruction in stark detail. The primary island of display cases was awash with crushed glass and scattered forms. Beside her, the handmade antique tower displays lay in pieces on the burgundy Aubusson carpet. Delicate vases of fresh flowers wilted in fractured heaps on the hardwood walkways. The destruction was as severe as if somebody had used a battle-ax. As if more than simple greed was behind the havoc.
Wide-eyed with confusion, Juliette turned in a slow circle as she registered the carnage. “Oh, my God.” Her voice was small and childlike in the spacious room.
Charles Forman, their sales manager, spun on his heels. “Miss Juliette?” His eyes were bright with unshed tears as he reached for her. “I’m so sorry.”
She went willingly into his embrace and hid for a moment in his soft shoulder, then pushed back till their gazes locked. “Charles…?” Fear etched her question. “What… When?”
“I can’t believe this happened. Not here. Not to Rochambeau.” His usually booming baritone voice was a rough, cobbled grate. Charles’s jowls wobbled, and his gaze flitted from one destroyed fixture to the next. He swept a hand over his face and winced as his fingers met a bloodied piece of gauze on his cheek.
She reached out a tentative hand.
He grimaced away; his rounded shoulders crept toward his ears. “It’s nothing.” His thinning hair stood on end in tufted spikes of salt and pepper.
“Jesus, Charles.” She turned in a slow circle. “Did this just happen?” Her hand pressed to her lips to hold in a shocked sob. “The staff, everyone, are they all right?” She scanned the crowd.
The police grouped around her Uncle Roland as he slumped in a chair. Their employees huddled together off to one side, avoiding the crowd of blue uniforms. Her folks were nowhere to be seen.
“A couple of hours ago. They…they came in fast and held us at gunpoint. Then they started smashing cases and grabbing whatever they could get their filthy hands on. Gabby managed to hit the silent alarm. When we heard the sirens, the bastards ran. Terrible. Just terrible.” Charles’s voice hitched, and he stopped abruptly.
“Where are my parents?”
His face crumpled, and he shook his head. Her heart stopped beating.
“Mr. Edward, he took the brunt of it. They were after the necklace, and your daddy, he wouldn’t let go. They…they hit him real hard. He says he’s fine, but he wouldn’t go to the hospital. Miss Evie, she tried. He just wouldn’t listen. Miss Juliette, you’d best go upstairs. Your mama needs you.”
“Damn stubborn man.” She took off at a dead run. The back of the store and the stairs to her home looked a million miles away.
****
Becket Ford sat obscured in the deep shade of an ancient plane tree. He’d been summoned, and that was never good when London’s crime kingpin was involved. He could feel his deal with Fanish Singh evaporating like water on a hot griddle.
He kept his gaze on swivel as he watched the big man’s townhome. London’s Berkeley Square reminded him strongly of the quaint gardens in Charleston. The cold, damp air was different here, though, even in the height of summer. It didn’t hold the punishing, oppressive swelter accepted as normal in America’s South. He missed the sun, the humidity, and the heady smell of coffee strong enough to strip paint. Fifteen years gone was a long time.
He yawned and stretched. The night had been tedious—profitable, long, and dissatisfying. The mark never knew what hit him; the diamonds were firmly in Yosef’s capable hands. Nothing had gone wrong. No frightening glitches, no bowel-gripping moments, no breath-stealing incidents, no screaming sirens. Old hat, really. No fun at all.
He checked his bank app; his account was one hundred fifty thousand dollars richer, approximately twenty-five percent of the take. He was another step closer to paying off Renée’s debt to Fanish Singh. He knew going in his efforts would never be as simple as the bottom line on a balance sheet. Singh had a long reach and a well-deserved reputation as a man who believed in hanging on to his property. Beck detested being considered just that—property. It made his blood sizzle with irritation. The sooner he got out from under him, the better. Damn Renée. What was she playing at by taking on a job so far out of her league?
The only thing Beck could figure was that Singh was dissatisfied with how quickly he was getting the job done. Like he hadn’t just made the dude close to half a million dollars last night. What the fuck was his problem, anyway? And why attach a link to a news story about the Rochambeau necklace to his demand for a meeting? If Singh wanted him to make a play for that bit of fluff, closer pros could accomplish the job. The guy was just turning the screw. Letting Beck know who was in control, his “Beck and call boy,” as it were. He huffed out a mirthless laugh. He’d been called worse.
His head needed to be in the game, not thousands of miles away and years in the past. He focused his attention back on his objective—staking out Singh’s complex across the crowded street.
Mayfair’s Berkeley Square was a convenient vantage point and a good foil for just such a job. During the time he lounged on the park bench, several people had come and gone from the Georgian residential portion of Singh’s network of businesses. One of them Beck recognized, a woman he’d dealt with recently. Pashmina Mirin, a beauty whose dusky skin and startling, pale-blue eyes were a sure draw in any scam they ran.
Beck glanced at his phone and silenced the reminder tone that signaled his departure from his lookout post. “Teatime,” he said and rose to stretch out the kinks from his time in the shade. He strolled the length of the green space and exited the square down the block from Singh’s home, then doubled back along the sidewalk.
Like most of the older places on the edges of the square, shops carved out the street level, and dwellings took up the stories above. The marble steps leading from the street had a timeworn depression sculpting the tread, a testament to the hundreds of years of traffic to the door at the top. He glanced both directions down the street before lifting the heavy brass knocker. New money, dirty as it was, kept the brass gleaming in the watery sunlight.
The door swung open with a grating protest from the hinges. “What do you want?” Singh’s doorman growled up at Becket. The man couldn’t have been over four feet tall. He called to mind an angry bulldog, all slavering jowls and protruding teeth.
Beck nodded at him and suppressed a grin, tremendously grateful the spit stayed put inside the mutt’s mouth. “Becket Ford. Your master called me.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he got the inference. “Up the stairs, arsehole. End of the hall. No detours along the way.”
A grand staircase coiled up from the checkerboard marble on the foyer’s floor. Beck ran an appreciative hand along the glossy mahogany banister as he climbed toward the landing. Beside him, the satin-smooth plaster of the curved wall held an impressive collection of old oil portraits and modern landscapes. He itched to stop and study them, touch them. His “spidey-sense” tickled the back of his neck. Doubtlessly, the little man on the ground floor watched his every move. He gave the doorman an apologetic shrug and continued up the stairs.
At the end of a long hall, he paused and gave a perfunctory knock at tall double doors. He pushed them open and stepped into Fanish Singh’s office.
Singh sat comfortably reclined on a richly upholstered damask sofa. Casually, he watched the arc of a long-bladed knife as he flipped it from handle to tip and back again. His suit jacket draped in elegant precision from broad shoulders; his tie perfectly matched the gleaming black of his eyes. The knife split the air as it passed his face, destroying the image of a wealthy businessman relaxing after a hard day’s work.
Beck’s gaze dropped to the crumpled shape on the carpet at Singh’s feet. Blood-matted hair and dark-crimson stains stood in stark contrast against the man’s waxy pallor.
Singh flipped the knife again and buried the blade deep in the dead man’s chest. “Did you enjoy your time in the square, Mr. Ford? The weather is lovely. Don’t you agree?” His gaze rose slowly from the old target to the new.
Becket flinched slightly, then squared his shoulders. Bile burned his throat. He was surprised they’d spotted him, but advertising his error wasn’t recommended if living was on the agenda. “Surely you don’t begrudge me some reconnaissance.”
“Hardly.” Singh stood smoothly and stepped over the corpse. He pressed a button on his desk phone, and his watchdog entered the doors behind Becket, accompanied by two enormous helpers. Singh nodded to the body. Efficiently, the men bundled it up in the plastic sheet beneath it and carried the corpse out like yesterday’s garbage.
“I believe I offered you tea, Mr. Ford. Do sit down.” He glanced at the servant, and the man inclined his head as he turned to leave.
Beck gladly dropped into the chair nearest the desk—and as far removed from the recent carnage as possible. He forced his hands to relax and his breath to even out. If he showed the slightest weakness, he knew the killer across the desk from him would sense it. “That was quite a show. Did you stage it for my benefit?”
“Just a happy coincidence.” Singh skirted the desk and sat in his high-backed chair. The leather creaked as he settled. He rested his elbows on the dark surface and linked his long, tapered fingers together. Blood edged the nails of his right hand. The bastard damn sure knew how to create atmosphere. “I’m glad you came by. I want to discuss your debt to me.”
“You mean Renée’s debt. And you got a quarter of it back last night.” Becket wished for the millionth time he’d never gotten in between Renée Greenleaf and Fanish Singh. It never paid to mix personal obligations and business. Never.
“Must I remind you, Mr. Ford, you volunteered to take on her debt? So now the note is yours. Unless you default, and then, of course, you and Miss Greenleaf will pay equally for my losses.” He reached into his desk drawer and withdrew an envelope. He used a red-rimmed nail to slide it across the gleaming surface to Beck. “Or we can restructure the deal. It’s up to you.”
“Restructure? As in what, exactly? Hit the Bank of England or something?” Two million dollars was a lot of coin to scrape together, even in the diamond business. Especially when those gems came out of other people’s safes.
“Open it.” Singh indicated the stiff manila envelope. “I have a proposal for you. I’m sure you’ll agree closing your account quickly is preferable to dragging it out for weeks.”
Becket pulled back the clasp and slid out the contents.
“As you see,” Singh said, “I too believe in research. You’ve had quite the adventure in Europe, made a sizable reputation here in the UK especially. I found myself wondering, where does talent such as yours originate? My personal belief is that a man doesn’t simply become a thief. One of your caliber takes a lifetime of practice.”
Beck glanced up at Singh. “What’s this, my greatest hits?” He unfolded the contents. In a series of succinctly typed paragraphs was his dossier, birth to the current day. A concise picture of Becket Adam Ford, American pickpocket turned European jewel thief. Then came the article from his hometown paper covering the lending of the Rochambeau ruby necklace, and a copy of a second story concerning the unsuccessful attempt to lift it. A black-and-white glossy photograph followed it. For a second, his breath stalled—a photo of Juliette Rochambeau and family. A note at the bottom identified them leaving Roper Saint Francis Hospital emergency room in Charleston, SC. The time stamp on the photo indicated it was only twenty-four hours old.
Gooseflesh rose on Beck’s arms, and a drop of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The click of a lens had wiped away every moment of the carefully constructed distance from his old life.
“As you know,” Singh’s mouth quirked as he continued, “I am primarily a businessman. I depend on the collection of data to keep me informed regarding everyone who works for me. You, Mr. Ford, have a unique connection to an object of interest. I want you to get it for me.”
When all else fails—bluff. “The man you need is my stepbrother, Seth. If you know my history, then you should know he has whatever you need in place to get you what you want. And he’s already on-site. Why drag me into it?”
A sly smile ghosted across Singh’s lips. “Simple. The Rochambeau girl.”
Becket’s jaw stiffened. “Ancient history, Singh.”
The smile became a gloating sneer. “Given your penchant for rescuing damsels and your connection to Ms. Rochambeau, it’s hard to believe you’d want Seth Santos within arm’s reach of her. You know how he is with women. So little respect.” Singh shook his head in mock regret.
His stomach soured. The bastard was right. Beck wanted his stepbrother as far away from the Rochambeau family as possible. “Can’t say I give a flying fuck how Seth is with the ladies in his life, but he used to be a damn fine crook. And he’s got an ax to grind. His pops died in the jail cell where Rochambeau put him. My stepbrother holds a grudge like nobody’s business.” Regret tightened muscles already straining to feign disinterest.
“Yes, so I was given to understand. Santos was recommended for the job. Unfortunately, hiring him proved an unreliable choice. An unsuccessful attempt to acquire the item in question was made yesterday.” He tapped the picture. “That was the result.” He coolly appraised Beck’s reaction to the photo. “Apparently, the senior Mr. Rochambeau put up a valiant struggle, and the necklace remains in his possession. I’d like you to change that.”
Beck swallowed hard, fighting the panicky urge to charge back down the stairs. “I’m listening.” He couldn’t afford to jump before he knew the details.
Singh’s scrutiny was unwavering. “What I offer is simple. I will wipe clean your debt, as well as Ms. Greenleaf’s, in exchange for the Rochambeau necklace. Get it for me, and you’re a free man.” He reminded Beck of the cobras that fascinated him as a kid—cunning, focused, and emotionless. “You may, of course, decline. However, if you accept, I’ll ensure that Seth Santos is at your disposal to assist in whatever capacity you may require. My sole desire is that the necklace is delivered into my hands. The decision is yours.”
Beck blew out a long breath and rocked his head. Vertebrae crackled, but the tension remained. He’d hoped, once the parameters of the deal were made clear, he’d be able to figure a way out. No such luck. They couldn’t run—Renée didn’t have the grit to completely disappear. Singh would find her, and when he did, she wouldn’t live long enough to scream. But fuck, working with Seth? That was a truckload of problems all by its lonesome. Obligation sucks.
Singh pushed back in his seat. “Well, Mr. Ford, what’s it to be?”
Beck slapped his hands on the smooth leather of his chair and rose to his feet. “There’s no love lost between Seth and me . Call it elemental differences. I prefer a quick and silent in and out. Seth thinks with a crowbar in hand.” He blew out a long breath. “I can tell you he’s not gonna like playing second fiddle to me. What’s to stop him from getting in my way?”
“Are you questioning me?” The only change in his expression was a narrowing of his eyes. Threat received.
“I’m not stupid enough to do that.” Becket backpedaled. Well, shit. “I don’t have a real choice in this; you know I’ll do it.” He paused and watched his employer. “Answer me this, though. Why this particular necklace? What’s so special about it? I mean, I know the story about its history, and the center stone’s a whopper of a ruby, no doubt there. What I don’t get is why you’re so interested.”
Singh’s steady gaze flickered for a moment. Beck’s attention sharpened. What was that? Relief? Satisfaction? No. Vindication.
“Suffice it to say, monetary gain is not my sole motivation. You have until the Smithsonian takes possession. Two weeks, Mr. Ford.”