Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

On sale October 2005

at your favorite retail outlet.

Chapter 1

London—Scotland Yard

Green and crimson fire escaped myriad facets of the diamond. Cut in the asscher style—a stepped square cut with cropped corners—each slight tilt or turn of the jeweler’s tweezers released another scintillating wink of color. Even beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of Scotland Yard’s interrogation room, the rock put on a show.

There must be a flaw. Nothing in this world was perfect.

At the back of her thoughts Becca Whitmore heard whistling. Symphony No. 8 in B minor? That one of the Scotland Yard inspectors would cruise down the hallway whistling Schubert made her smile. Someone must have stepped out on the town last night for a bit of culture.

“Miss Whitmore, I am told?”

Thoroughly startled by the male voice, Becca dropped the diamond. It clinked onto the Formica table and then jumped onto the creased ultrawhite card she always used to lay out gemstones.

A whistle acknowledged her jumpiness. “Sorry,” the man offered. “Will dropping it damage the thing?”

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Becca resumed her composure. “No.”

Why then had she been so jumpy about dropping the gem? It was too early, and she was still on New York time, which should find her snuggled in bed.

“Diamond is one of the hardest substances found in nature, Mr….”

“Agent Dane.”

A slender, six-foot-tall advertisement for laid-back leaned in the doorway to the interrogation room, wearing a presumptuous smile and a pale blue turtleneck sweater. Tufted blond hair warred for one direction on his scalp, and lost. Right hand cocked at his hip flared back a black tailored suit coat to reveal sculpted pecs beneath the snug sweater. The Brits had a thing for close-to-body tailoring, as if they still clung to the 60s-era style.

Swank, Becca thought.

He tugged out a leather badge wallet from inside his coat pocket and flashed it quickly. “Agent Aston Dane. MI-6.”

The wallet snapped shut as Becca stood and offered her hand. “Becca Whitmore.”

Grasping her hand with both of his, he pumped twice. A simple band circled his right thumb. Silver? Cool, relaxed. Thumb? Open. She had a knack for judging a person by the jewelry they wore. Men, most particularly, offered intriguing analysis merely for the subtleties their choices uncovered.

“Nice to meet you. Could I see that badge again?”

Still holding her hand, Dane winked. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Becca tugged her hand from his grip. A lift of her eyebrow challenged. “I don’t need a little slice of plastic to prove my credentials.”

“Oh? And yet, who the bloody hell is Becca Whitmore?”

“I’m the gemologist.”

“Ah! Yes, the expert in gems imported from the good old US of A. I was told an American was making the trek. From the JAG?”

He referred to the FBI’s Jewelry and Gem program. They only worked thefts in the United States, and so had handed the case on to the CIA. The CIA had been the one to contact Becca’s superior, Renee Dalton-Sinclair.

This case had begun in New York, but had quickly gone international with today’s theft in London.

Yesterday’s attempted theft involved a request for a very specific ten-carat diamond—the very diamond sitting on the white card, Becca presumed. The New York gems dealer had told the thief she’d sold the stone, and then he’d shot her in the head.

The victim? One MaryEllen Sommerfield. Becca knew the woman from the occasional purchase or meeting at a gems convention. MaryEllen was still alive, a bullet lodged in her frontal lobe as if a ticking time bomb. Surprisingly, she remained coherent, and had been able to give the details to the questioning officers.

She’d also told the officers she’d sold one ten-carat stone to a London jeweler who had plans to create a necklace for a Transylvanian countess, and another to a Paris dealer. Had the thief been aware there were two stones? He hadn’t made such knowledge apparent to MaryEllen.

Becca’s cover was more than a story; she actually was a gemologist. But she was so much more. Recruited into the Gotham Roses four years earlier by Renee Dalton-Sinclair, Becca served as an agent in an undercover operation that concentrated on crimes committed by the rich and untouchable. Those “good ole boys” who lived above the law and could get by with nearly anything—yes, even murder—merely by flashing their cash or the incredible power of political connections.

On the surface, the Roses were made up of young socialites who focused on charity and giving back to the community. Nary a crime fighter in the bunch. Hardly the sort the criminals would expect to come beating a path in their wake.

Less than two dozen of those exceptional young women were aware of and worked for the covert branch of the Gotham Roses, which cooperated with the CIA, FBI and other crime-fighting agencies.

Fate had placed Becca in the path of a fleeing purse snatcher several years earlier. Reacting to instincts she’d never known she possessed, she’d swung her Fendi bag, catching the thief in the face and laying him out flat. Renee Dalton-Sinclair had witnessed this scene from the back seat of her limo.

Renee Dalton-Sinclair was a gorgeous and powerful woman married to Preston Sinclair, a noted businessman who had been incarcerated for embezzlement. The scandal had been the motivating force behind Renee’s creating the Gotham Roses. Renee answered to a mysterious woman the Roses knew only as the Governess. Becca often wondered if she were CIA or FBI, or someone higher.

No matter, the Governess had made it clear she wanted intel on this case—and hard evidence. Suspicions from unnamed sources suggested there was something different about these two diamonds.

What had Agent Dane asked? Ah, was she with JAG.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss my orders,” she finally said. The usual excuse. Scotland Yard knew the CIA had sent her here. “You said you’re with MI-6?”

“We’re the obvious match for this case—” His pause ended in a forced smile. He smoothed his palm down the front of his thin blue sweater. Summoning the truth or concocting a lie? It was the kind of pause Becca was familiar with, and used herself, when needed.

“So what makes you believe this case is organized crime?”

Agent Dane stepped backward and slapped a hand over the wall next to a large picture window. The expanse of glass changed from a light-blocking white to reveal it was actually a two-way window.

“Exhibit A,” he offered, crossing his arms and ankles to pose beside the scene.

Inside the room sat a thin man in black sweats. Blood trickled down his stubble-darkened jaw. A vivid purple bruise marred the left side of his forehead. Hands secured behind his back, his head hung, and his shaved scalp revealed a scar that curved around his ear.

“Is that the thief?”

“You’d bloody better believe it. Picked him up as a lovely bonus prize along with the diamond. Sergei the Dog, a middle-tier thief.”

“Middle-tier?”

“Sure. You’ve got your scummy low-class blokes who do smash-and-grabs and tilt over little old ladies on street corners.” He ticked off his fingers as he explained. “You’ve got your upper tiers who do exquisitely planned heists. And then there’s the middle, who are basically all the rest. They work in groups or are hired by the big blokes who haven’t the time or motivation to delegate the upper-tier heists.”

“I see.”

“Good on you, Miss Whitmore. I like a woman who picks up the ball without fumbling. There’s also a notation on Sergei’s record that he’s snitched for the SVR. Er, that’s the—”