In the treatise on gems by Buddhabhatta (Finot, "Les
Lapidaires Indiens," Paris, 1896) we read: A diamond, a
part of which is the color of blood or spotted with red,
would quickly bring death to the wearer, even if he were
the Master of Death.
— Folklore of Diamonds
Three hours earlier
The flight from San Francisco to Glasgow was a miserable
one. Not that there's any such thing as a good
transcontinental flight. They're always too long, too
boring, too cramped and not even the luxury of my own back-
of-the-seat movies does much to alleviate the agony of
sitting still for that long.
The only decent thing about the whole flight was a guy
across the aisle. Dark hair, cut close to his head, a
little shadow of beard, a sharply cut mouth with full
lips. I pegged him as Continental, and then spent some of
the long, boring time trying to figure out why. The
sweater, perhaps — a wool turtleneck. His clean, long
hands. The shape of his mouth, which looked like it might
shape words with long, rolling r"s. French, maybe.
At the end of a flight like that, all you want is to get
off the freaking plane. It felt good to just walk down the
concourse pulling my bag, stretching out the cramped
muscles, shaking off the thickness of over-breathed air. I
had checked no luggage, so made straight for the car
rental counter, mentally crossing my fingers that my
father had come through for me.
When I said my name, "Sylvie Montague," the buzz-cut,
redheaded youth behind the counter blinked.
"Aye," he said, his eyes widening. "It's all set up. I've
got it right here." With a gesture of reverence, he handed
me the keys to an Alpha Romeo Spider.
Great car. Fast, elegant, very European. My father had
come through for me. I grinned and slapped the keys in my
pocket. "Thanks."
"Are you related to him?" the youth asked. "To Gordon
Montague, I mean."
"Mmm. My father."
"He's the greatest racer ever."
"Thanks. I'll tell him." When I turned around, I nearly
slammed into a burly man right behind me. With a balding
head of gingery hair and pale freckles across his forehead
and nose, his ruddy cheeks made him look as if he were
about to have a heart attack on the spot. I forgave him
the glare he leveled on me.
"Sorry," I said.
He grumbled something and shoved by me.
The car was in the parking lot, taut and silver, worthy of
the admiring stroke I gave her sleek rear. I opened the
driver door and was stripping off my coat when the
beautiful — Frenchman? — from the plane walked by.
"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 papa-razzi. 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 King Pin'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 redcheeked 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 grand-mother'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.