Ruth Wind - The Diamond Secret

“Is she yours?” he asked, cocking a brow toward the car.

The accent was not French. It sounded eastern European, not quite Russian, not quite Polish. I couldn’t place it, but it was charming anyway.

I grinned. “For today.”

“Sometimes, that’s all we need, no?”

“Yes.” I nodded and made a show of unlocking the trunk. He walked down the length of her, admiring the curves swooping over the tires, the line of the hood. One hand was loosely tucked in the pocket of his corduroy slacks, and a leather jacket hung in the crook of his elbow. Every inch of him declared a casual Continentalness, that whiff of minor royalty. I liked his very thick, dark, glossy hair, a touch too long, extravagant with ringlets, and his beautiful white hands, long-fingered, artistic-looking.

I tucked my suitcase and coat into the trunk. Or boot, I suppose, since I was now in the UK again. I asked, “Is this your first trip to Scotland?”

“No. I have many friends here. You?”

“I’m here on business, and visiting family.”

“Ah.” He glanced toward the street, appeared to be thinking something over.

When he didn’t speak, I slammed the boot closed and smiled. “Enjoy your trip.”

His eyes were a strong blue when he looked back at me. “Are you in a hurry? Would you like to have a little supper with me?”

I had to shake my head. “Sorry. I have to be somewhere in an hour.”

“Ah,” he said, and cocked an eyebrow, obviously assuming I was going to meet my lover. I didn’t dissuade him, only smiled slightly. His shrug said there was never any harm in trying. “Perhaps we’ll meet again another day.”

I lifted a shoulder.

Several other passengers were picking out their cars from the lot, and I saw the red-faced pit bull from the rental car line. He climbed into a Nissan and slammed the door. He made me think of a cartoon, squished into the little car, and if his expression was anything to go by, he was Not Pleased.

A sudden thought made me wonder if he was paparazzi. They only bugged me now and then, but with my father racing this week and my own visibility on the jewel case—which they were calling the Kingpin’s Crown Jewels—I’d probably have to put up with them.

“Au revoir,” said the Continental.

I’d been distracted by the other man. “Au revoir,” I said and fit my key into the door lock. He slung a slim leather bag over his shoulder and headed for a different section of cars.

Too bad, I thought. I have no illusions about the permanence of holiday love affairs—or, well, love affairs in general—but there was no harm in a little flirtation. He looked as if he’d be one of those very dramatic and passionate sorts, the kind who likes to tuck a woman into his arm and kiss her wildly. It gets old to be smothered like that after a while, but it’s nice for the short term. And really, it had been a while.

I glanced over my shoulder to see if the red-cheeked man had gone, and he was pulling into traffic. Not a danger, then. I dashed after the Continental.

“Um…” We hadn’t exchanged names. “Wait!”

He paused. I held up a finger and tugged my card out of my wallet, scribbled a number on the back and gave it to him. “I’ll be in Ayr for a few days, if you’re in the neighborhood.”

“But I am going to Ayr!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“You are?” I echoed. It’s not a particularly large town, a holiday hamlet favored by Glaswegians in the summertime. But it was not yet quite April, and the weather was too cold and unstable for seaside retreats. “I didn’t think anyone visited Ayr until June.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps not. I have a good friend there.” He looked at the card, raised dark eyes to mine. “Sylvie. That’s French, no?”

“My grandmother’s name.” A Parisian swept off her feet by a Scottish soldier in WWII. “She lives in Ayr. That’s who I’m going to see this afternoon.” I looked at my watch and realized I needed to get moving. Backing away, a palm over the face of the watch as if to hide the time from myself, I said, “I need to be there by tea.”

“Will you be free later, then?” His smile showed slightly uneven, but very white teeth. “Shall we have supper?”

I thought about the requirements of the evening. No doubt a cousin or two would be at my grandmother’s house, and there would be catching up to do. Then I could plead exhaustion—it wouldn’t be far from the truth—and get to the hotel by seven. “At the Drover pub, at eight?”

He tucked my card into his front pocket. His blue eyes glittered. “I will look forward to it.”

I realized as I got in the car that I still had not asked his name.

It seemed a portent, somehow.

The 4 C’s of diamond grading are Cut, Color, Clarity and Carat Weight, but remember there is a full 13-point grading scale, and the best consumer will understand each point.

—www.costellos.com.au

I headed for Ayr on the A-77, just ahead of the worst of rush hour. It’s called the killer road for a reason. Narrow, unpredictable, given to odd lane shifts and sudden roundabouts—exactly the reason I love it. I learned to drive at my father’s knee, one of the only things he has ever been good for. Like him, I love fast, sharp and quick. Rush hour is just too congested to be much fun.

Probably just as well I had to limit my speed. My reflexes were probably not their best after such a long flight. Rolling down the windows to let the cool wind blow the jet lag out of my brain, I turned the radio to a Glasgow station pouring out a Scottish version of heavy metal. The voices between songs were so thickly accented I could only understand about every third word, but it didn’t matter.

Home.

After a fashion. My mother’s home, anyway, a place I spent a lot of time as a girl, splitting time between my father and mother. I was there to work at the request of the Glasgow police department, to evaluate and catalogue a cache of jewels recently seized when a high-profile drug runner known as The Swede was murdered two weeks ago.

The jewels stunned everyone, and various theories were batted around before they decided to call me. The investigator in charge had followed a case last summer when the Egyptian police called me in to help recover the Nile Sapphire, a very old and fabled jewel. The inspector also read that my mother was Scottish and trusted me a little more because of it. He called to see if I’d consult, had offered airfare and a hotel room in Glasgow for the duration.

It was a no-brainer. I was coming up on the one-year anniversary of my divorce, and didn’t want to spend the week moping back at home in San Francisco. It had also been a while since I’d seen my mother’s family, and although I do travel a bit for the job, most of it is pretty dull stuff—assessing estates and that sort of thing. Mostly, of course, I’m crouched over dusty brooches in mildewy rooms, giving myself a crick in the neck as I peer through a loupe and take notes on clarity and color.

Another reason driving was so thrilling. There was nothing like getting on a tight, challenging road in a good machine after a long day of estate assessment.

Or a nine-hour flight.

I turned up the radio, tucked a flying lock of hair behind my ear and passed a vivid blue Fiat driven by a man in shirtsleeves and dark sunglasses. I saw him take note of my blond hair and sexy blouse, and, with a slight grin, I gunned it.

It would be a pleasure to comb through the jewels of a drug lord, who’d had, by all accounts, very good taste. The inspector had mentioned several sapphires in particular; thought they might be connected to a group that had gone missing more than six years ago. I was excited to take a look at them.