Книга - Diamonds Can Be Deadly

Diamonds Can Be Deadly
Merline Lovelace


If diamonds were a girl's best friend…Then emeralds came in a close second. So when ex-model-turned-agent Jordan Colby–Code Name: Diamond–was sent to Kauai to find a missing green gem, she jumped at the chance. There was just one hitch: the presence of her ex-fiancé, T. J. Scott, a former New York City cop who'd turned his back on everything that had meant anything to him. Starting with her…Or had he? T.J.'s sizzling stares were starting to convince her that his feelings for her had never cooled, and his protectiveness convinced her that he was one of the good guys after all. But if there was one thing she was beginning to learn, it was that dazzling surfaces were no reflection of what lay beneath….









“Well, hell. You really did a number on yourself.”


T.J.’s gaze had dropped to the middle of her chest. Glancing down, Jordan saw a mottled bruise already forming on the hand gripping the towel.

“It’s nothing. I just hit my hand on the counter when I went down.”

He crossed the room in two strides. “Better let me take a look at that.”

“Hey! Do you mind? I’m naked here.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” was T.J.’s response. “Give me your hand, Red.”

And release her death grip on the towel? Jordan didn’t think so. “What are you going to do?” she jeered. “Kiss the boo-boo and make it better?”

His grin slipped out then. The same grin that used to give her quivers. “The NYPD first responder’s medical training didn’t include kissing as a treatment option.

“But I’m certainly willing to give it a shot.”


Dear Reader,

I’ve visited Hawaii many times but was struck all over again by its beauty when my husband and I cruised the islands a few months ago. Jagged mountains, lush vegetation, steep ravines—nothing like all that wild splendor to fire a writer’s imagination and get her thinking about perfect spots for clandestine operations and/or buried bodies!

Then there’s the romance of the islands. How could anyone not fall in love on a spun-sugar beach kissed by tropical breezes and soft, shimmering waves? Sigh… So naturally I had to set Book #1 in the continuation of my CODE NAME: DANGER series in beautiful Hawaii. Hope you enjoy the adventures of T. J. Scott and Jordan Colby, aka Diamond, as much as I did.

And be sure to watch for Book #2, coming from Silhouette Desire in May 2006. Set along the coast of Baja, Mexico, Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea involves a tough, sexy undercover agent, a chopper pilot working the offshore oil rigs and a particularly smarmy shark.

All my best,

Merline Lovelace




Diamonds Can Be Deadly

Merline Lovelace





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




MERLINE LOVELACE


spent twenty-three years in the U.S. Air Force, pulling tours in Vietnam, at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform, she decided to try her hand at writing. She’s since had more than fifty novels published, with over seven million copies of her work in print. Watch for Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea, the next book in the CODE NAME: DANGER series, coming in May from Silhouette Desire.


For my sweetie and that never-to-be-forgotten

evening on the balcony of the Sheraton Hawaii!




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17




Prologue


It was the kind of party only Georg Vostok could throw, a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-head gala to benefit victims of the devastating earthquake that had all but destroyed his native Chekistan. Vostok had skimmed the very top layers of Palm Beach’s vacationing elite. Movie stars rubbed elbows with Armani-clad mafia. Politicians and poet laureates poured booze down their throats with equal enthusiasm. A sleek, wellknown madame smiled seductively as she sized up potential clients. There was even a smattering of royalty.

The arrival of an elderly French duke barely stirred a ripple of interest, but the American-born wife of the sultan of D’han stopped all conversation dead when her bodyguards escorted her into the soaring glass foyer of the Institute of Modern Art. Blond and bronzed, the sultana had traded her burqa for a strapless white evening gown that showed off her slender curves and formed a perfect backdrop for the Star of the East. The 900-carat oval emerald was set in a plain gold bezel suspended from a gold chain. Shooting sparks of green fire, it drew every eye at the gala.

A smile rearranged the lines of Georg’s dour, craggy face. Thrusting his Baccarat champagne flute at a waiter, he hurried forward to greet her. “Barbara. You have come!”

The sultana brushed past her bodyguards, took Vostok’s outstretched hands and stooped for a kiss. “For you, my darling Georg, anytime.”

“No, no! For my beloved Chekistan.” His smile faded. “You cannot imagine the horror. I tell you, Barbara, I have seen nothing like it. It haunts my dreams, my every waking moment.”

“We’ll help, Georg. My husband has earmarked fifty million for immediate aid, and we’ll—”

She broke off, her delicate nose wrinkling. She was too well mannered to mention the odd smell, but her host had already picked up on it. Frowning, Vostok sniffed the air.

“What is this stink? Excuse me, Barbara. I must—”

That’s all he got out before he gave a small, in- articulate grunt. His eyes rolling back in his head, he slumped to the floor.

“Sultana!”

The bodyguards shoved forward, but before they could reach their charge, her legs seemed to give out and she crumpled where she stood. The larger of the two men went down almost on top of her. The other dropped like a felled ox a few feet away.

An aged dowager in a collar of priceless pearls let out a shrill scream. Her thirty-something escort cursed. A tuxedo-clad waiter dropped a tray of champagne flutes and stumbled to his knees.

Five seconds later, the entire glittering throng lay sprawled across the black-and-white tiled floor.




Chapter 1


April was in full bloom in Washington, D.C. A gentle breeze rustled through branches budding with tender green. Forsythia flowered in great, showy bursts of yellow. Daffodils, tulips and crocuses sprang from pots and planters on almost every stoop, while tourists from around the world strolled the Tidal Basin under canopies of blooming cherry blossoms.

The graceful, Federal-style town house just off Massachusetts Avenue stood ready to greet the spring. Windows scrubbed clean of winter grime sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. The front door gleamed with a fresh coat of cinnabar paint. The discreet brass plaque set beside the door had been polished to a loving shine.

The plaque identified the town house as home to the offices of the president’s Special Envoy. Most Washington insiders knew that the Special Envoy was one of those meaningless positions created several administrations ago to give a wealthy campaign contributor an important-sounding title and an office in the nation’s capital.

Only a select few were aware that the Special Envoy’s offices occupied just the first floor of the town house. Fewer still knew that the other floors served as the headquarters and home base of a covert government agency. An agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet. An agency whose operatives were sent into the field only as a last resort, when all other government remedies had failed.

One of OMEGA’s agents was preparing to go into the field now. The director had yanked her out of New York and was personally conducting her mission pre-brief.

A former operative himself, Nick Jensen was the owner of a string of outrageously high-priced watering holes for the rich and famous. His international contacts—and hefty contributions to several presidents’ campaign chests—made the tall, tanned sophisticate a natural choice for Special Envoy. His years as a field operative gave him the experience and edge to take over as director of OMEGA.

Initially, Nick had chafed at being tied to a desk. His subsequent marriage to Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA’s chief technical adviser, had reconciled him—somewhat—to his current duties. He felt the weight of those responsibilities now as he clicked a remote and brought up a slide on the floor-to-ceiling screen dominating OMEGA’s high-tech Control Center.

“This is the Star of the East.”

Jordan Colby, code name Diamond, slid her half glasses to the tip of her aristocratic nose. A one-time model turned eyewear designer, she studied the oval-cut emerald with a coolly assessing eye.

“Quite a rock. I’ve read about it. Nine hundred-plus carats, isn’t it?”

“Nine hundred and seven,” Nick confirmed. “It was mined in Zambia in 1963 and purchased by the then sultan of D’han for a cool five million. The current sultan presented it to his bride as a wedding gift.”

The next slide was a digitized security-camera shot of the sultana entering the Palm Beach soiree.

“I’ve read about her, too,” Diamond commented. “She’s come a long way since graduating from Yale.”

“Where she happened to share a dorm room with the president’s sister-in-law,” Nick added dryly.

With a slither of silk crepe, Diamond uncrossed her legs and tipped her boss a droll look over the rim of her glasses. “Is that why OMEGA got handed this op? Silly me, I thought it had something to do with the millions of barrels of oil we import from D’han each year.”

“Let’s just say the president is extremely displeased that the wife of a friend and ally sucked in a lungful of benzilate gas at a charity event held on American soil and woke up twenty minutes later minus her wedding present.”

“And that’s the only item that was taken? The Star of the East?”

“The only item.”

Shifting in his seat, Nick studied the operative he’d assigned this mission. Jordan still looked and carried herself like the model she’d once been. Long-legged, slender, she surveyed the world through gold-flecked amber eyes framed by a mane of shoulder-length auburn hair.

As Nick knew all too well, however, external appearances could be and often were deceiving. His gaze settled briefly on the logo embedded in one lens of the half glasses perched on the tip of her nose. That tiny diamond butterfly was more than a trademark. It represented the brutal cocoon the woman known to the world as Jordan Colby had emerged from.

The details were sketchy. Diamond never talked about her past. Only a few trusted insiders with access to her highly confidential background dossier knew she’d once laid into her stepfather with a tire iron and escaped into the icy night, a bruised and frightened fifteen-year-old.

The dossier included only vague references to where or how she’d lived until she burst into the limelight as a sultry-eyed runway model for a top New York designer some years later. After several seasons under the lights, she’d opted out of modeling to design high-end eyewear. Her jeweled sunshades and reading glasses now sold for more than three grand a pop.

Nick had recruited her to work for OMEGA. He’d trained her himself, knew her lethal skills. He also knew the stakes for this particular mission.

“We’re talking more than oil and emeralds here, Diamond. We’re talking a possible link to a man suspected of laundering billions in drug money.”

Another click brought up a glossy PR photo of an internationally renowned psychotherapist and self-styled guru of Greene Tranquility, a multimillion-dollar industry that promoted the healing power of emeralds.

“Ahhh,” Jordan murmured, studying the boyish face that smiled back at them from behind a lectern. “I should have guessed Bartholomew Greene would be involved in this. He has a thing for pretty stones the same color as his name.”

“More than a thing. Greene tried to buy the Star on two separate occasions. He also tried to purchase the 600-carat Patricia Emerald, currently residing in the American Museum of Natural History in New York.”

Nick zoomed in for a head-and-shoulders shot.

“According to what we’ve dug up so far, Greene was born Bartholomew Crynyk. He reportedly suffered from epileptic seizures as a boy. During one of the seizures, his grandmother draped a rough-cut Russian emerald around his neck. The fit subsided. Miraculously, he claims. He believes the gem’s soothing qualities cured him and he became an instant convert. Eventually he even changed his name to reflect his absolute belief. He now preaches a combination of transpersonal meditation and stone therapy as a remedy for every illness.”

Diamond’s lip curled into the closest thing to a sneer her perfect features could achieve. She didn’t comment, but Nick guessed what she was thinking. There were some sicknesses only a tire iron could cure.

“We theorize Greene’s fixation with emeralds was what got him into the money-laundering business,” he said. “Colombian mines produce the finest-quality emeralds in the world. Greene requires a steady supply of stones to sell to his millions of followers. The deals he’s negotiated with sources in Colombia look legit on the surface, but…”

“But we both know nothing’s legitimate in that corner of the world.”

Frowning, Diamond hooked her reading glasses atop her head. The graphite frames caught her hair back in a tumble of red-gold.

“I take it you want me to infiltrate Greene’s inner circle, sniff out his system for helping his pals in Colombia convert their drug dollars to pesos and, oh by the way, retrieve the Star of the East.”

“That about sums it up.” Nick’s tanned, handsome face creased into a frown. “You won’t be the first undercover operative to attempt a penetration. DEA tried to insert an agent last year. According to our friends in the Department of Justice, he’s dropped off the radar screen.”

Diamond took the news with a nod. This wasn’t her first op. She understood the risks.

“I see why you pulled me in for this mission. I have the perfect cover. I can approach Greene about a line of glasses for his thousands of disciples.”

“With a butterfly logo.”

One delicate brow arched. “Of course. But done in emeralds instead of diamonds.”

“We’ve pulled together a detailed briefing on Greene’s Tranquility Institute in Hawaii. Floor plans, security system, employees, a complete dossier on the master himself. I’ve got Claire Cantwell standing by to brief you on Greene’s modus operandi. She’ll act as your control for this op. Also, the wizards in the field dress and technology units have devised an interesting suite of accessories to outfit you for this mission.”

“Oh, Lord!” Diamond couldn’t quite suppress a groan. “The last time I went into the field, I carried enough electronics to launch the space shuttle. I hope your wife doesn’t load me down like that on this op.”

Nick merely smiled. Once chief of communications for OMEGA, Mackenzie now served as technical adviser to a loose conglomerate of governmental agencies that included OMEGA. To Mac’s delight, her electronic toy box had expanded exponentially with her increased responsibilities. When it came to high-tech gadgetry, Nick’s dark-haired, vivacious wife believed more was better and too much was best.

He left Diamond with instructions to check in with him when she’d completed her mission prep.



Jordan’s mission preparation took the rest of the day. Her first session was with Claire Cantwell, code name Cyrene. A noted psychologist in her other life, the slender, delicate blonde had lost her husband in a bungled attempt to free the kidnapped oil executive years ago. She’d buried her grief behind a serene facade that disguised her absolute dedication to stamping out the kind of economic terrorism that had claimed her husband.

Drawing on her training and years of experience as a practicing psychologist, Claire gave a slide presentation attempting to explain Bartholomew Greene’s healing methods.

“Transpersonal psychotherapy offers itself as an interface between traditional psychology and spiritual transcendence.”

“Riiiight.”

Cyrene accepted the underlying sarcasm in the drawled comment with an unruffled smile. She and Jordan had worked together in the field. The two operatives respected each other’s strengths. They also recognized their weaknesses. Claire’s was a certain too-handsome Latin American by the name of Colonel Luis Esteban. Jordan’s was her refusal to allow her past to intrude on her present. Sooner or later, Claire had suggested in her quiet way, Jordan would have to reconcile the two.

“The therapist supplements traditional techniques such as behavior modification or psychoanalysis with practices designed to elevate the patient to a higher level of awareness of self. The ultimate goal is a fusing of the physical and spiritual, thus providing a deeper, broader and more unified sense of identity.”

Jordan forced herself to pay close attention as Claire presented a crash course in meditation therapies, alternative medicine and theories concerning the healing properties of gemstones. When Claire finished, she had to admit to more than a degree of skepticism.

“So you’re telling me I’m going to find a bunch of middle-aged flower children chanting and rubbing colored stones when I get to Hawaii.”

“Something like that.” Claire clicked off her last slide and regarded Jordan thoughtfully. “You understand it isn’t going to be easy getting close to Greene. His Tranquility Institute is supposedly open to anyone willing to fork out the ten grand required for a week-long session with the master, but we know his people screen every applicant closely.”

“I’m not going in as an applicant. I’m going in as a designer of very exclusive, very expensive eyewear that will allow the man to gouge his followers even more.”

“That’s your entrée, of course. But don’t underestimate Greene. He couldn’t have gained such a large following without exercising considerable skill as a therapist. Or developing keen insights into people.”

Jordan stiffened. “What are you saying? That I should pass myself off as a candidate for therapy?”

“What I’m saying,” Claire replied quietly, “is that Greene isn’t going to do business with anyone without without checking their background. He’ll see the holes in yours and wonder about them.”

“Let him wonder.”

Jordan hated the ice that coated her voice. She’d trust Claire with her life. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to talk about her past, even with this cool, composed friend. And she certainly wouldn’t discuss them with a psychobabbler like Bartholomew Greene.

“Just be prepared,” Cyrene advised calmly.

The warning lingered in Jordan’s mind as she met with Mackenzie Blair and her electronic wizards. As always, Mac had come armed with a full bag of tricks.

“This is the latest in sniffers. We’ve souped it up a little for you.”

Her eyes gleaming, the former naval officer palmed what looked like a compact, handheld CD player. It was a CD player, Jordan discovered when Mac grinned and depressed a button.

“You can listen to Travis Tritt while you search for listening devices, hidden cameras or electronic sensors. In receive mode, this little baby will pick up and interpret any and all electronic vibrations. In send mode, it could fuzz those signals temporarily or put them out of operation on a permanent basis.”

After a few bars of “Too Far To Turn Around,” Mac set aside the sniffer and briefed Jordan on an array of other equipment that included a thermal suit designed to contain body heat, thus defeating infrared sensors and night-vision goggles. She saved a pair of slender gold hoop earrings for last. One of the earrings was just what it looked like—a decorative piece of jewelry. The other was Jordan’s primary means of communication while in the field.

“Just thumb the slight indentation at the back of the hoop,” Mackenzie instructed. “You’ll be able to receive and send clear voice-stream signals off a secure satellite. We’ll monitor for transmissions around the clock.”

Nodding, Jordan traded her diamond studs for the lightweight gold hoops. She was testing the astonishing clarity of the transmissions when word came that Lightning wanted to see her and Claire.

Mackenzie decided to accompany the two operatives downstairs to her husband’s office. A specially shielded elevator zipped the three women to the first floor. The titanium doors wouldn’t open unless the Special Envoy’s executive assistant activated a silent release.

Trim, silver-haired Elizabeth Wells manned the ornate Louis XV executive assistant’s desk. She’d worked for several of OMEGA’s directors including Adam Ridgeway, his wife, Maggie Sinclair, and now Maggie’s handpicked successor, Nick Jensen. Her cheerful efficiency was matched only by her skill with the .9mm Sig Sauer concealed in a special compartment in her desk drawer.

Jordan greeted the grandmotherly assistant with a smile. “Hi, Elizabeth. What’s up?”

“I don’t know, dear. Lightning just said he wanted to see you. Let me tell him the three of you are here.”

Mackenzie winked at the two operatives. “That’s Elizabeth’s polite way of saying not even the Special Envoy’s loving wife gets access to his office without clearance.”

Her wicked grin said that restriction extended only to his office.

Once Elizabeth had cleared them, the three women entered the inner sanctum. It was furnished to suit the Special Envoy’s exalted status. An acre or so of polished mahogany served as a conference table. His double pedestal desk was wide and long enough to serve as a landing pad for the space shuttle. Tall, wingback leather chairs stood in a window alcove, grouped around an antique map chest containing priceless charts Nick had collected over the years.

Rounding his desk, Lightning shared a quick smile with his wife. “Do you have Diamond all rigged out?”

“Right up to her ears.”

“I’m good to go,” Jordan confirmed, flicking back her hair to display the gold hoops. “Or I will be, once I work up designs for a whole new line of glasses, fire off a proposal and arrange an appointment to discuss the line with Greene in person.”

“Yes, well, we’ve run into a slight complication.” Nick smoothed a hand down his Italian-silk tie. “I had our folks run another screen of all guests and employees at Bartholomew Greene’s Tranquility Institute. Seems he recently hired a new chief of security. TJ Scott.”

Jordan’s heart stopped, then restarted a second or two later with a painful kick.

Thomas Jackson Scott. The man she’d once tumbled so quickly, so stupidly in love with. The bastard who’d hurt her far worse than her heavy-handed stepfather ever had.

His face grave, Lightning gave her the option. “Do you still want to go in?”

“Oh, yeah.” Jordan’s lips curved in a feral smile. “No way I’d pass up a chance to nail a crooked faith healer and a dirty cop.”




Chapter 2


“There’s a Jordan Colby at the gates of the compound, boss. I have her on screen six.”

TJ Scott’s muscles went tight under the green-knit polo shirt that constituted his duty uniform these days. He’d spotted Jordan’s name on the access list, knew she had an appointment with Bartholomew Greene this afternoon. He’d had plenty of time to prepare himself for this moment. Yet it took a conscious effort of will not to drop the report he was reviewing and whip around.

He forced himself to scrawl his initials on the report before he lifted his gaze to the bank of monitors that took up almost an entire wall of the Tranquility Institute’s security operations center. The new, state-of-the-art digital cameras he’d had installed after his arrival a few weeks ago captured the driver who sat behind the wheel of the rented Mustang in excruciating detail.

She hadn’t changed. Not outwardly. The hair only half confined by a designer silk scarf was the same shoulder-length waterfall of red. Those high cheekbones and full, sensual lips might have leaped right off one of the dozens of glossy magazine covers she’d graced over the years. She wore a minimum of jewelry, only gold hoops at her ears and designer sunglasses with the tiny diamond butterfly logo that had become her signature.

And there, just above the left eyebrow, was the small, leaf-shaped scar. The only flaw in an otherwise perfect face. She’d shrugged aside TJ’s question about how she’d gotten it, giving only a vague reference to a childhood accident. He’d always thought it made her human.

It was one of his favorite spots to drop a kiss. Right up there with the slope of her breasts and the smooth curve at the base of her spine. The memory of her taste and scent drilled into him. For a moment, he could almost smell the unique blend of Chanel and warm, musky female that was burned into his senses.

Christ, he thought in disgust. All this time, and the woman could still put him in a sweat.

“She’s on the access list,” he growled to the on-duty security officer. “Run her through the drill.”

Nodding, the officer keyed his mike. “May I see some identification, Ms. Colby?”

She fished a driver’s license out of her wallet.

“Hold it up a little higher, please.”

The camera captured the number and fed it to the institute’s computers. They in turn would run it through a half-dozen databases, most of them legit.

“Thank you. Now remove your sunglasses.”

“Excuse me?”

“For the security of our guests, we perform an iris scan of all personnel entering the institute’s grounds. Please remove your sunglasses.”

Frowning, she slid the glasses to the top of her head. The camera mounted at eye level whirred a few inches closer to capture an image of her left iris. A second later, it shot the right.

TJ had insisted on this very sophisticated, very expensive scanning system as one of his first upgrades to the institute’s security. The iris was the most individually distinctive feature of the human body. No two persons had the same iris pattern, even identical twins. Cameras could scan that pattern in real time, unlike the minutes or hours or sometimes days required for DNA or fingerprint sampling and matching.

“Thank you, Ms. Colby. You may proceed to the main reception center. Just follow the signs to Kauna Cove. One of our staff will issue a welcome packet and show you to your bungalow.”



Jordan dutifully followed the signs through acre after acre of gorgeously landscaped grounds. Graceful, swaying palms climbed to impossible heights. Hibiscus, sweet-smelling ginger and stately birds of paradise blossomed everywhere, adding a heavy fragrance to the salty tang of the sea.

Set on a bend of Kauai’s rugged coast, the Tranquility Institute encompassed sweeping vistas of nature at its most elemental. Jagged volcanic peaks covered with dense vegetation stood like silent green sentinels against an achingly blue sky. Their steep slopes cut straight down to the waters they’d thrust out of so many millennia ago. Waves rolled in, foamed against the black volcanic rock at their base, and sent lacy spumes leaping high in the air.

The views were so incredible Jordan slowed at one turn to drink them in. Even as her soul responded to the raw, untamed beauty, her mind was imprinting the layout of the grounds, noting various facilities, and plotting escape routes.

There didn’t appear to be many. The steep cliffs surrounding the institute dropped straight to the sea. Where not covered by vegetation, their slopes showed razor-edged creases of black volcanic rock, made even more slick and dangerous by the spume. The only descent was a set of wooden stairs that led to a small, protected beach fringed with palms.

On the landward side, the gate Jordan had driven through appeared to be the single egress point in the twelve-foot-high iron fence almost hidden by the lush tropical foliage. The fence was topped by pointed spikes that would be a bitch to scramble over.

Jordan eyed the iron barrier thoughtfully. She could go under it, of course. Or through it. She had a special pneumatic tool tucked at the bottom of her carryall that would pry the bars apart. She suspected, however, either of those alternatives would set off a half-dozen different alarms, silent and otherwise. TJ Scott was nothing if not thorough.

Her stomach twisting at the thought, she shoved the rented Mustang convertible into gear and followed the curving drive to the main reception center. The plantation-style building featured a high-pitched roof, fanciful white trim and a wraparound porch designed to protect the interior from Kauai’s frequent showers. Thronelike rattan chairs invited guests to laze in the shade of the veranda, while swirling fans stirred the perfume of the orchids spilling from a series of hanging baskets.

Jordan parked beside a golf cart painted a deep emerald color with a green-and-white-striped awning. Skirting the cart, she started for the veranda. Only then did she spot the figure shaded by the deep overhang. He was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses.

Waiting for her.

Despite being forewarned, despite the hours Jordan had spent steeling herself for this meeting, her heart started to pound. Sweat dampened her palms and the perfumed air she dragged into tight lungs was suddenly too sweet, too cloying.

She was damned if she’d let the bastard see his impact on her, though. Pretending a nonchalance she wasn’t anywhere near feeling, she mounted the veranda steps.

“Aloha, Jordan.”

She went still, knowing he would expect her to recognize the deep Bronx baritone. Turning, she slid her sunglasses to the end of her nose.

“Well, well,” she drawled. “Look who’s here….”

“Welcome to Hawaii.”

He strolled over to where she stood and draped a lei of white orchids over her head. Somehow Jordan managed to resist the urge to rip off the garland, toss it onto the porch and grind the delicate blossoms under her heel. She didn’t bother to disguise her scorn, however, as she let her gaze travel over his tanned face.

Every feature was seared in her memory. The strong, square jaw. The nose with the irregular bump on the bridge. The tobacco-brown hair cut military short. The mouth that had driven her so wild.

Infuriated by the memory, she aimed a pointed glance at the logo on his emerald green polo shirt and pretended ignorance of his position at the institute.

“So this is what happens to cops who go bad,” she observed with a lift of her brow. “They wind up working as bellmen at tropical resorts for a living.”

“It’s worse than that,” he drawled. “I’m in charge of security here. I don’t even rake in any tips.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to skim off some cream.”

He didn’t rise to the bait, but Jordan spotted a small twitch at the side of his jaw. Deliberately, she slid the knife in deeper.

“Tell me, Scott. Does your present employer know the reason for your abrupt departure from the NYPD?”

“He does.”

“And he trusts you with his security? Bartholomew Greene must be a forgiving man. Or very, very foolish.”

Or so deeply involved in the same seamy underworld that had entangled TJ Scott, he’d jumped at the chance to bring the disgraced cop into his fold.

“Isn’t Greene worried you’ll betray his trust? The way you did your badge?”

“I didn’t betray my badge, Red.”

The pet name brought her chin up. She raked him with a withering look, not bothering to disguise her scorn.

“I suppose some people might not consider accepting bribes from petty criminals a betrayal. The squad from the anticorruption task force voiced another opinion when they kicked in your apartment door and found a suitcase stuffed with cash in your closet.”

The shame of that night came rushing back. She and TJ had been asleep when a splintering crash jerked them awake. He’d lunged for his service pistol and rolled naked from the bed. Jordan had dived for the neat little .38 she carried when not in the field. She could still hear the shouts and bellowed warnings, still remember the chaotic confusion of those first few seconds. Even now her cheeks burned with fury when she recalled how two members of the squad had stood watch while she and TJ dragged on their clothes.

That scene had been bad enough. The worst came a few moments later. To this day Jordan carried with her the absolute mortification of discovering that a highly trained and otherwise perceptive OMEGA agent had fallen for a dirty cop. A cop who still claimed he was set up.

“I said it then. I’ll say it again. That wasn’t my suitcase.”

The rough edge to his voice told Jordan he was fighting for control. The knowledge gave her a vicious sense of satisfaction.

“Tell it to the judge, Scott. Oh, wait! You already did, didn’t you?”

“And he dismissed the case against me.”

“Because of a technicality,” she shot back. “Some low-level clerk at the NYPD put the wrong apartment number on the search warrant.”

Fury bubbled to the surface, scorching away the hurt. She snatched off her glasses and let him have the full force of her contempt.

“It didn’t matter what the witness said. That whole chorus of pimps and street pushers who swore they paid you to stay off their backs. I would have believed you, TJ. I did believe you until the police report came back and confirmed your fingerprints were all over those bills.”

She’d kicked herself over and over for missing the small signs that, in retrospect, were so damn obvious. The gold Rolex. The Italian loafers. The weekend at that ritzy Connecticut resort.

Her only excuse was that it had all happened so fast. They’d met at a charity event to benefit children of NYPD officers who’d died in the line of duty. The next afternoon they’d shared a blanket at an open-air concert in Central Park. The following Saturday they’d zipped up to Connecticut for the wildest, most heart-pounding forty-eight hours of Jordan’s life.

She could almost—almost!—forgive herself for missing the signs that the cop with the linebacker’s shoulders and sexy grin was on the take. What she couldn’t excuse was how she’d fallen for the man so fast and so hard.

She knew better, dammit! All those years when she’d lived from hand to mouth, lying about her age, taking any job she could, she’d never let any male get close to her. The bone-deep wariness her stepfather had instilled with his fists had colored her every relationship with adult males. And despite the sultry image she projected on the runway, she’d never promised more than she intended to deliver. Until TJ.

Disgusted all over again at her acute lapse in judgment, Jordan angled her chin. “We’ve had this conversation before. Several times. Is there any point to continuing it?”

He opened his mouth, bit back whatever he was going to say and shook his head. “I guess there isn’t. See you around, Red.”

“That’s right,” she muttered, her eyes on the broad shoulders covered in green-and-white jungle print. “You most certainly will.”

TJ moved with the same lazy grace that had always characterized him. Even in those awful days after his arrest, his shoulders had stayed square and his long legs ate up the ground in an arrogant, self-confident stride.

Wrenching her gaze away, Jordan yanked open the door and approached the receptionist. Dark-haired, dark-eyed and lovely in a ruffled muumuu, the woman greeted her with a warm smile.

“Aloha. Welcome to the Tranquility Institute.”

“Aloha. I’m Jordan Colby. I have a reservation.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Colby. I have your welcome package waiting for you.”

Reaching under a counter made of a solid slab of gnarled wood, she produced a slim folder.

“This contains a map of the grounds and a schedule of daily activities. There’s also a note from Mr. Greene’s personal assistant, confirming your appointment with him later this afternoon.”

“I don’t see a key to my cottage,” Jordan commented, shifting through the packet.

“You don’t need a key. Entry to all facilities is by visual recognition. All you have to do is look into the blinking red light beside the door. Are your bags in your car?”

“Just a briefcase and carryall.”

“If you’ll give Danny your car keys, he’ll fetch them and transport you to your bungalow.”

Jordan eyed the map and saw her cottage was one of a half dozen scattered along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. The route looked simple and uncomplicated.

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Shaking her head, the receptionist signaled to a native Hawaiian the size and shape of a sumo wrestler. “We don’t allow private vehicles beyond this point. To maintain tranquility, the guest cottages and activity center are also telephone and television free. We ask that you leave your cell phone here at the desk to avoid disturbing the other guests.”

She smiled prettily, her teeth white against her skin.

“There’s a communications room here in the reception center with TV, phone, fax and Internet services if you need to keep in touch with the outside world.”

The tiny transmitter/receiver embedded in the gold earring would keep Jordan in touch with the outside world. She didn’t really require her cell phone and wouldn’t use it in any case to communicate with OMEGA, but decided to make the point that she hadn’t come as a guest.

“I’m here to see Mr. Greene on business,” she said firmly. “I need to retrieve messages and maintain contact with my employees. I won’t carry my cell phone with me when I leave my cottage, but I will be using it and my laptop computer while I’m here.”

The receptionist looked doubtful but was too well trained to argue with a guest.

“Very well. Danny, will you take Ms. Colby to her cottage, please?”



Big, bulky and exuberantly cheerful, Danny steered the golf cart along a path of crushed lava rock and pointed out the institute’s facilities. All the buildings were constructed in the same turn-of-the-century territorial style as the reception center, with steep, hipped roofs, green shutters and wide verandas.

“That’s the Lotus Spa,” Danny said, indicating a structure surrounded by swaying royal palms. “The spa café serves light breakfasts and lunches. Carrot juice and macadamia-nut salads and stuff like that,” he said with a shrug that suggested full-figured males like him needed heartier fare. “Regular meals are served from 6:00 a.m. to midnight at the Jade Buddha Restaurant. It’s over there, beside the waterfall.”

Jordan followed his pointing finger to a sparkling cascade that splashed downward from a bank of ferns into a three-tiered pool. At the upper lever was what appeared to be an elegant, open-air restaurant. At the lower level, water escaped in another silvery stream and plunged a hundred feet straight down into the sea.

“Room service is available twenty-four hours a day,” Danny assured her. “Best thing on the menu is the poke baked in seaweed.”

“Po-keh. Got it.”

“That’s the Meditation Center.” He hooked a thumb at a structure surrounded by flowering hibiscus. “Dr. Greene conducts all group sessions there. Private sessions are held either there or at his office.”

“Which is where?”

“His office? It’s in our corporate-headquarters building.”

Jordan consulted the printed map and saw that the central headquarters was set apart from the rest of the resort, along with several smaller administrative buildings and quarters for the staff.

“I understand you have an appointment with Dr. Greene at four,” Danny said as he pulled up at a cottage perched at the edge of the bluff. Rolling his bulk out of the golf cart, he retrieved her briefcase and bag. “I’ll swing back by and pick you up a few minutes before four.”

He stood aside for Jordan to activate the iris-recognition system. Stooping a little, she looked into the tiny camera eye mounted beside the door. A second eye, she noted, was positioned almost at waist level. For children, she surmised, or wheel-chair-bound guests.

“How do the maids get in to clean?” she asked when the door clicked open.

“They knock,” Danny replied, following her inside, “and if they get no answer, security authorizes an override.”

Jordan didn’t particularly care for the fact that TJ Scott controlled access to her bungalow. She knew it was standard operating procedure. All hotels required room entry for maintenance, servicing and the safety of their guests in emergency situations. Still, she’d make sure to set a few intrusion-detection devices so she could ascertain who went in and out of her rooms.

“This is your sitting room,” Danny said. “The bedroom and bathroom are through that louvered door.”

Given the exorbitant fees guests paid to stay at the resort, Jordan had anticipated sybaritic luxury. These rooms lived up to her expectations and then some. Exquisite Oriental art hung on walls painted a delicate coral. The furniture was an eclectic mix of rattan and dark, heavy antiques. Floral prints in mint green and coral provided splashes of bright color, while plantation shutters, overhead fans and potted palms added a distinctly tropical flavor.

But it was the view that stopped Jordan in her tracks. The plantation shutters framing the east wall of the sitting room were folded back, so that the interior of the cottage seemed to flow out onto the covered lanai. Beyond the lanai was a stunning vista of jungle-covered peaks saw-toothing up from a turquoise sea. Transfixed, Jordan could only gape at what looked like a Hollywood creation of paradise.

“This cottage has the best view of Ma’aona,” Danny commented as he deposited her briefcase on the sitting-room desk.

“Ma’aona?”

He directed her attention to a needle-sharp peak spearing high above the others.

“It’s a holy mountain, sacred to ancient Hawaiians. They threw people who broke tapu—the old laws—from the top of Ma’aona onto the rocks below.”

Tough bunch, the ancient Hawaiians.

“The burial site at the base of the mountain is off limits,” Danny advised, “but you can drive up to the state park near the peak.”

Jordan didn’t figure she’d have much time for visiting ancient archeological sites. With another glance at the jagged peak, she dug her wallet out of her shoulder bag.

Her driver refused the bill with a merry smile. “There’s no tipping anywhere on the grounds of the institute. It’s our pleasure to serve you. I hope you find peace and tranquility during your stay.”

Jordan hoped she found the 900-carat Star of the East and sufficient evidence of money laundering to hang Bartholomew Greene out to dry. The possibility she might hang his director of security alongside him was an added bonus.

A glance at her watch showed she had an hour yet before her meeting with the guru of green. Plenty of time to conduct an electronic sweep, advise headquarters she was in place and scrub away the effects of her long flight.

Plugging in the earpiece of Mackenzie’s high-tech sniffer, she hummed along with Travis while she ambled through the luxurious cottage. The sweep didn’t detect any devices inside the bungalow, only standard motion sensors at the windows and a security camera tucked up under the eaves of the lanai. At least Greene allowed his guests privacy inside their quarters, Jordan thought as she fought the urge to flip the bird in the direction of the camera lens.

No point in alerting TJ to the fact that she’d detected his silent sentinel. She knew where it was and could disable it when necessary. Leaning her elbows on the railing, she gazed in seeming absorption at the sea for a few moments before going into the bathroom.

It was every bit as sumptuous as the rest of the bungalow. The counters were marble, the Jacuzzi tub was big enough to sleep four, and the open, glass-block shower was fitted with cross jets that promised a decadent water massage.

Although she hadn’t found any interior bugs, training and experience had Jordan turning the taps of the Jacuzzi to full blast. With the gushing water to muffle the sound of her voice, she thumbed the transmitter in her earring. The signal bounced off a secure satellite straight into OMEGA’s control center.

Claire responded within seconds, her voice soft and musical but clear enough to carry over the gurgling water.

“Cyrene here. Go ahead, Diamond.”

“Just wanted to let you know I’m in place.”

“Roger that. We saw there was some weather off the coast of California. How was your flight?”

“Long. Bumpy. Tiring.”

“What’s your status vis-à-vis the target?”

“We’re still on for our first face-to-face at four o’clock local.” Jordan hesitated for a moment. “I’ve made contact with Scott.”

“Anything to report?”

“No.”

She saw no need to advise Clair that the handsome bastard could still put a hitch in her step. After confirming the time frame for her next transmission, she dumped a generous helping of the resort’s frangipani bath salts into the tub, stripped off and indulged in a long hot soak.

Refreshed and revived, she pulled on ecru lace briefs and a matching half-cup bra. Strappy sandals, linen slacks and a short-sleeved silk jacket in an eye-popping red gave her just the right mix of casual and professional.

Once dressed, she peeled the adhesive backing off a flat disc the size of a dime and stuck it to the underside of an Oriental ginger jar. The device was simple, an off-the-shelf bug that Mackenzie had beefed up to detect both noise and movement. It transmitted signals to Jordan’s laptop, which required a special code to view. With the device in place, she used the short wait for Danny to gather her thoughts and prepare for the upcoming meeting.

The Hawaiian chattered cheerfully during the drive to the Tranquility Institute’s global headquarters. Jordan listened with half an ear while checking out the approach. Manicured lawns surrounded the low, two-story building. Scattered palms rustled gently in the late-afternoon breeze. Even the roar of the sea was muted, as if in deference to the master’s desire for serenity and peace.

The interior reflected the same simplicity. Potted banyans and rubber-tree plants with glossy green leaves added the only color to an airy vestibule with glass walls and a cream-colored tile floor. A receptionist greeted Jordan cheerfully and summoned the institute’s business manager.

The trim, bald individual who appeared a moment later introduced himself as Duncan Myers. “I’m Mr. Greene’s financial adviser. Since you’ve come with what sounds like an intriguing business proposal, Bartholomew asked me to sit in on your meeting.”

That was fine with Jordan. The more she could learn about Greene’s operation, the better. She followed Myers to a large conference room fronted by a glass wall that encompassed an endless expanse of sea and sky.

The opposite wall, she noted with deliberately casual interest, displayed a world map. Glowing round emeralds depicted each of the Tranquility Institute’s far-flung satellite cells. Home base here in Hawaii got what looked like at least fifty carats.

The sound of footsteps signaled Bartholomew Greene’s arrival. Sandy haired and medium sized, the man appeared even younger than his PR photos. He wore all white—white shoes, white slacks, white safari-style shirt, probably to showcase the pendant dangling around his neck. Its gold bezel featured a square-cut emerald with a color and clarity that took Jordan’s breath away.

Wrenching her gaze from the pendant, she looked into eyes almost as bright and green as the dazzling stone. Tinted contacts, she guessed as the target came forward with both hands outstretched.

“Ms. Colby. Welcome to the Tranquility Institute.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope you—”

Greene broke off. His welcoming smile faded. Frowning, he glanced down at their clasped hands. When he raised those startling eyes again, they held a gentle concern.

“How fortunate that you’ve come to me. I sense a deep hurt in you. Or is it anger?”

He squeezed her hands, his tone modulating to one of soothing assurance.

“We’ll work together while you’re here, shall we, and draw out your pain.”




Chapter 3


Jordan managed to keep from snatching her hands free of Greene’s—barely. For a startled moment she wondered if this man did indeed possess the extraordinary faculties his PR machine hyped.

Just as quickly, she dismissed the notion that he’d seen inside her head. Greene must have received a report of her confrontation with TJ, perhaps viewed a security tape of the two of them going head to head. He would have heard her anger, fed off her hurt.

It was all done with smoke and mirrors.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Greene,” she said with a cool smile, slipping her hands free of his, “but this is a business trip. I doubt I’ll have time for you to draw anything out.”

“Then we’ll have to make time. And please, call me Bartholomew.”

With scrupulous courtesy he waved her to a round table inlaid with multicolored woods. “I’ve ordered tea. Or would you prefer fresh-squeezed papaya juice?”

“Tea would be fine.”

It was green, of course, a fragrant blend served in delicate Chinese cups. Jordan sipped hers appreciatively while Bartholomew’s financial adviser opened a manila folder and slid out the proposal she’d FedEx’ed after several long sessions with her designers.

“Bartholomew and I have studied your proposal, Ms. Colby. Or may we dispense with formalities and call you Jordan?”

“Please do.”

Duncan Myers flipped through the pages of the proposal. “It’s very intriguing.”

No kidding! To get her foot in the door, Jordan had cut her costs to the bone and maximized the potential profit for the institute.

“You’ve got built-in outlets at the various Tranquility Institutes around the world,” she said, gesturing toward the world map. “You also have an established mail-order business for your herbal products and healing stones. That eliminates most of the distribution costs.”

Reaching into her briefcase, she produced the sketches she and her team of designers had worked up. They featured a variety of sunglasses, reading glasses and frames for prescription lenses, all with her signature butterfly done in emeralds. Many of the frames sported additional emeralds in the side stems.

With OMEGA’s extensive resources to assist her, Jordan had collected a wealth of information on the supposed healing properties of emeralds. According to ancient lore, the stone was a blood detoxifier and antipoison. More current literature insisted it promoted love, romance, joy, clear vision, faith and serenity. It was also supposed to lift depression; cure insomnia; cleanse the heart, lymph nodes, blood and pancreas; restore sugar balance; ease labor and delivery; and assist in healing eyesight and speech impediments. Just your average, all-around miracle rock.

Jordan’s crash course had also included detailed briefings on chakras, or the centers of energy located along the midline of the body. There were seven, running from the crown of the head to the pelvis. Various stones, she’d learned, impacted the chakras differently. Playing to that theme, she began her pitch.

“As you’re aware, the emerald primarily strengthens the heart chakra. However, the stone is reputed to have positive properties for—”

“Reputed?” Greene interrupted, one brow lifting. “Don’t you believe these healing stones generate their own unique force fields?”

“Well…”

She hesitated, reluctant to come out with a flat lie. Greene would see right through it.

“All crystals and gemstones emit vibrations at different frequencies,” he said, filling the small silence. “That’s why we have quartz watches.”

“True.”

“If a stone chip can power a watch, surely it’s not that big a leap to believe it can transfer its energy in other ways. Ways that help heal.”

“I know many people believe in the healing power of stones,” Jordan said, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t question the sincerity of that belief.”

Bartholomew steepled his fingers under his chin and accepted her tap dance with a smile. “Perhaps we’ll make a disciple out of you while you’re here.”

He could try. Jordan attempted to keep an open mind regarding others’ beliefs. But she figured the world wouldn’t need doctors if colored stones could cure every ill and restore balance to the human body.

“As you can see,” she continued, fanning the sketches across the table, “I’ve designed some glasses with emeralds on the right stem, some on the left.”

According to her research, the left side of the body was the feminine or receptive side. Wearing a gemstone on the left drew in its energies. Wearing it on the right, or masculine side, sent the energy out to others.

“I’ve designed these stems to be detachable. The wearer could interchange them according to his or her needs that day.”

“That’s very clever,” Bartholomew said with warm approval. “You might not be a believer, but you’ve obviously done your homework.”

“Yes, I have. I also read that most men carry their stones in their pocket.”

Greene patted his pendant. “I wear mine here, right over my heart.”

Jordan suspected most men weren’t secure enough in their beliefs—or their masculinity—to display their emeralds so openly.

“Since female clothing has fewer pockets,” she continued, “women must either wear their stones as jewelry or tuck them inside their bras. Jeweled glasses would eliminate that necessity, which will make a great marketing pitch. As an added benefit, both men and women could slide the glasses up on their foreheads to get the stones closer to their head chakra.”

She tipped hers up to demonstrate before drawing out an accessories page.

“Or they could dangle the glasses from one of these specially crafted chains.”

Greene’s face lit up as he eyed the gold links studded with tiny emeralds. “I like these.”

She’d figured he would. Anything to bilk his customers of a few more bucks.

“I’ve researched your client base. While they tend toward the high end of the income scale, I think we should offer a wide range of prices for each line. The cost, of course, will depend on the weight, cut and clarity of the embedded stones.”

Duncan Myers spoke up at that point. Sitting back in his chair, he palmed a hand over his shining bald crown.

“We can help there. Since we sell so many emeralds at our tranquility centers, I’ve negotiated special rates with our suppliers.”

It was the perfect opening. Jordan let a note of excitement creep into her voice. “You have an in with the Colombians?”

“We do business with them, yes. And with several dealers in Russia and South Africa.”

“The Colombian stones are the purest,” Bartholomew put in, “although I admit I’m partial to the veining in the Zambian stones.”

Yeah, Jordan thought, she’d just bet he was. Like in the Star of the East. Extracting a spreadsheet from her briefcase, she slid it across the conference table.

“I prepared detailed cost estimates and suggested retail prices for the designs you see here, but they’re based on the current market price per carat. If you work me a deal with your suppliers, we can adjust the bottom line.”

“You’ll also need to take into consideration the fact that you’re trading on Bartholomew’s name and reputation,” Myers commented.

“Of course. But I assure you, I’ve squeezed my profit margin as tight as I can.”

The financial adviser made a tsk-tsking noise. “There’s always room for negotiation. Let me crunch the numbers and we’ll talk again.”

Clearly uninterested in the nitty-gritty business detail, Bartholomew shoved back his chair. “In the meantime you can relax and enjoy some of the activities here at the institute. And I’d very much like you to attend one of our group sessions.”

The tone was mild, but Jordan got the message. If she wanted to convince the guru of green to buy into her proposal for a line of pricey, emerald-studded glasses, she’d better play his game. Shrugging, she made a show of giving in.

“Why not?”

“Splendid!”

“I believe I saw a group session on the schedule for tomorrow morning. I’ll join that—if you don’t think I’ll upset the dynamics of the group.”

“Not at all,” Greene assured her, beaming. “Our guests come and go all the time. One of my main goals is to help them maintain inner serenity despite the constant changes taking place around them.”

Jordan gave a noncommittal nod, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized joining one of Greene’s group gropes worked to her advantage. It provided an excuse to hang around the institute for a few more days and observe the natives in their natural setting. She might even be able to work in a session or two at the spa. A seaweed wrap or mud bath sounded pretty good after her bumpy flight.

“You’ll join us for dinner, I hope.” Greene issued the invitation with one of his disarming smiles. “Seven o’clock, in the Jade Buddha Restaurant? That will give me the opportunity to introduce you to some of our other guests.”

“I’ll see you then.”



Despite its appellation, the Jade Buddha was more of a dining hall for the rich and famous than a restaurant. Everyone arrived at pretty much the same time and the menu posted in elegant script at each table offered only two choices—fish and vegetarian.

The fat, happy Buddha who gave the place its name sat cross-legged on a stone pedestal, surrounded by pools filled with floating lotus blossoms and magnificent koi. Guests mingled poolside while waiters served fruit-juice cocktails and passed trays of appetizers.

Greene escorted Jordan through the crowd, making introductions as they went. She shook hands with an aging movie star whose face showed the ravages of his years of substance abuse, a short, squat computer mogul and a frizzy-haired widow in a thousand-dollar St. John lounge suit paired with high-top black sneakers.

Several of the guests recognized Jordan from her modeling days. Some, like the anxious-looking mother accompanied by her ten-year-old son, were too wrapped up in their own problems to evince any interest in the newcomer’s background.

“Davy’s asthmatic,” the thin, nervous Patricia Helms explained, her glance darting constantly to the boy. “The attacks have gotten so bad lately and the doctors can’t seem to help. Dr. Greene is our last hope.”

Jordan kept her opinion on that to herself and made mental notes on everyone she met. She’d have Claire run the names through OMEGA’s computers. She couldn’t quite envision any of these people as willing accomplices in Greene’s illegal activities, but he had to get the massive amounts he was suspected of laundering off the island and into various bank accounts somehow. He could well be using his guests as unsuspecting mules.

Signaling to a passing waiter, Greene claimed two cocktails decorated with orchids and fat chunks of pineapple. He handed one to Jordan and lifted the other in salute. After the receptionist’s warning about the institute’s nonalcohol policy, she was prepared for the straight shot of guava juice. She wasn’t prepared, though, when her host’s attention zinged to the door behind her.

“Ah, good. Here’s our Director of Security.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she watched TJ’s all-too-familiar figure stroll into the restaurant. The overhead spots highlighted the sun streaks in his brown hair and cast the strong planes of his face into sharp relief.

Greene’s voice floated above the buzz of cocktail-hour conversation. “TJ! Come and meet our newest guest.”

Jordan stiffened, wondering if Bartholomew was toying with her. Had he watched a tape of her earlier confrontation with TJ? Or somehow learned about their brief affair? If so, no hint of it showed in his eager, open expression.

TJ, on the other hand, looked anything but serene as he cut through the crowd. Without the mirrored sunglasses to shield his gray eyes, they seemed to slice right into Jordan.

“Ms. Colby and I have already met,” he informed his employer. “Here, and in New York.”

“That’s right, you’re both from the Big Apple!”

He said it as if living in a city with a population of more than eight million automatically qualified everyone as friends and neighbors.

“Why don’t you join us. You two can catch up on old times.”

TJ’s glance slid to Jordan. A mocking glint flickered in those granite eyes, but his reply was preempted by the appearance of a woman who’d garnered her own share of sensational publicity.

Blond, much divorced and immensely wealthy, Felicity Dennison Albright Waller-Winston hooked her arm through TJ’s. The fist-size emerald pinned to her left shoulder pressed into his bicep as she cuddled against him.

“Yes, sweetiekins,” she purred, “do join us. We missed you at lunch.”

“Sorry, I can’t.” With a polite smile, TJ disengaged. “I just came by to remind Bartholomew we’re taking perimeter security down to install the new Y-beam system.”

Jordan had to give Scott reluctant marks for staying on top of his profession. The Y-beam was the hottest new infrared sensor. The military had released it for commercial application only a few months ago. Mackenzie had briefed all the OMEGA operatives on the technology. She’d also assured them the new zip-up thermal suits she’d developed would shield them from Y-beams. It was looking as if Jordan would get a chance to test one out.

“How long will the system be down?” Bartholomew wanted to know.

“Less than an hour. I’ve got the new sensors in place and ready to activate.”

With a nod for Jordan and a smile for the blonde, TJ eased his way through the milling guests. Felicity Waller-Winston swiped her tongue over heavily glossed lips and followed his progress across the room.

“That man comes darned close to making me forget I’ve sworn off the male of the species for the rest of my life.”

So much for that right side/left side business, Jordan thought wryly. The divorcée might have her emerald pinned to her feminine, receptive side, but she was sending out decidedly assertive signals. So assertive their host questioned her about them.

“Are you troubled, Felicity?”

“No, Doc. Just horny.”

Apparently that was a common condition for the woman, as her therapist didn’t appear particularly surprised by the announcement.

“You’re making great progress. It’s necessary for you to recognize and acknowledge your feelings.”

“Oh, I recognize them, all right. It’s what I do about them that gets me into so much trouble.”

“Why don’t you try an extra half hour of meditation tonight,” Greene suggested. “We’ll explore your feelings in more depth during the group session tomorrow.”

Jordan almost choked on her guava juice. Oh, great! That’s all she needed. An hour listening to another female explore her carnal feelings for Thomas Jackson Scott.

She soon discovered the much-divorced Waller-Winston wasn’t the only woman at the institute with an interest in Scott. Nudging Jordan in the ribs, the blonde directed her attention to the slender Eurasian who stopped TJ at the door.

“That’s the spa director. Liana Wu. The bitch.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, look at her. She’s got that tiny, porcelain-doll thing going. I refuse to stand anywhere close to the woman. She makes me look like a knob-kneed giraffe.”

If Felicity towered over the spa director, Jordan would dwarf her. The possibility didn’t particularly concern her. She’d long ago learned to use her five-nine height to her advantage.

“Rumor is,” Felicity confided, “Liana baby is hot for our boy TJ.”

No surprise there, Jordan thought in disgust. Scott had snagged her interest at their first meeting. Angry all over again at herself for falling for the crooked cop, she turned away.



Dinner was a long, lingering affair. Afterward, Jordan walked back to her bungalow through a scented night, stopping at a scenic overlook to prop her elbows on the trunk of a palm that curved at waist level.

The surveillance cameras she knew were scattered throughout the grounds would capture the image of a mainlander lost to the majesty of the surf foaming white against black cliffs. The ocean’s roar would serve as a natural sound buffer for her report to OMEGA. Folding her arms, Jordan toyed absently with her earring. One flick activated the transmitter.

“This is Diamond.”

Claire came on within a few seconds. “Cyrene here. I read you, Diamond.”

Lightning chimed in as well. “I’m here, too.”

The fact that her boss was still at the control center despite the late hour D.C. time didn’t surprise Jordan. Not with the kind of political pressure OMEGA was facing on this mission. She gave him the names of the guests she’d met at dinner and a rundown of her earlier encounter with Greene and his financial adviser.

“They’re interested. Definitely interested. Myers volunteered to get me in good with his pals in Colombia. He’s going to help me work a deal on an emerald supply.”

“Nice of him.”

“Isn’t it? I suspect he’ll pocket a fat broker’s fee.”

“Or skim more off the top of Greene’s business deals with the Colombians.”

“Speaking of skimming,” she said, scowling at the pinpricks of iridescent green glittering in the dark depths of the sea, “did Cyrene tell you TJ Scott was waiting for me when I arrived?”

“She did.”

Lightning didn’t ask the question, but Jordan answered it anyway.

“Scott still claims he was set up.”

“You were there. What do you think?”

What she thought about Thomas Jackson Scott would blister the airwaves. Reining in her anger, Jordan answered as coolly as she could.

“I’m keeping him in my sights.”

Five thousand miles away, Lightning shared a quick look with Cyrene. Any target Diamond got in her crosshairs was a walking corpse.

“I’m going to do some night work a little later,” she told them. “Pay another visit to Greene’s office. Among other things, I want to see what kind of information he gathered on Scott before hiring him.”

“Keep us posted,” Lightning instructed. “And be careful.”

“Will do.”

Cyrene cut the transmission and added a note in her electronic log, while Nick digested Diamond’s report. He trusted both her skills and her instincts or he wouldn’t have sent her in. As far as he knew, those instincts had failed her only once. Thoughtfully, he met Claire’s glance.

“Pull up everything you can on TJ Scott. I want the names of the officers who busted him. The pimps and dealers he put the squeeze on. The judge who threw out his case. The address of his favorite pizza joint. Where he buys his underwear. Everything.”




Chapter 4


The black thermal suit fit Jordan like a second skin. As thin and supple as Saran, its inner lining was coated with a high-tech polymer that made the body-hugging jumpsuit easy to slither into.

The lining trapped and contained body heat, thus reducing the wearer’s thermal signature and making him or her virtually undetectable by infrared scanners. That was great on missions to Alaska or Antarctica. Not so great in steamy Hawaii. Still, Jordan figured swimming around in her own sweat was a small price to pay for virtual invisibility.

Twisting her hair into a loose knot on top of her head, she dragged up the black hood and worked it around her earrings. The embedded transmitter was so sensitive she could send and receive right through the polymer coating.

Hood in place, she rolled down the attached face mask. The mouth and eye slits were covered with a breathable version of the same heat-containing shield. With every inch of her body encased in skintight black, she felt like a night version of Spider-Man.

She flicked off the bathroom lights and watched herself disappear. The wide mirror above the sink didn’t pick up so much as a shadow when she moved. With the CD player/electronic sweep in hand, she let herself out a side window. She left it open behind her. She’d reenter her bungalow the same way to avoid triggering the iris-recognition system and advertising her late-night expedition.

Velvet darkness surrounded her, ripe with the scent of tropical vegetation and the salty tang of the sea. Avoiding the crushed-lava pathways, Jordan glided across the lush lawns like a silent shadow. The sniffer allowed her to pick her way through the elaborate security grid. The thermal suit deflected TJ’s new Y-beams. Or so she hoped!

She reached the business center a few moments later. From her earlier visit, Jordan knew the location of the intrusion-detection devices at the windows. She zapped one with the sniffer, jimmied the lock, got the window up and was through it in thirty seconds flat. Another zap reset the electronic watchdog. The interruption would appear as a temporary blip on a monitor, if it appeared at all.

All too aware of the cameras mounted at regular intervals, Jordan kept to the shadows as she worked her way to the conference room where she’d met with Greene and Myers. The moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass window illuminated the map depicting Greene’s far-flung empire. The emerald marking the headquarters here in Hawaii gleamed like a giant eye, following her stealthy progress across the conference room and into the private offices beyond.



Two hours later, Jordan reentered her bungalow through the open window. She’d accessed the computer in Greene’s office, rummaged through the files in Myers’s sleek little laptop and poked into every corner of the headquarters.

To her intense disappointment, she’d uncovered nothing. Nada. Zilch-ola. No evidence of offshore bank accounts. No link to the Colombians except through legitimate purchase orders for emeralds. No hidden treasure room containing the Star of the East. She had, however, sweated off at least five pounds.

Dragging up the thermal suit’s face mask, Jordan stopped only long enough to type a code into her laptop and verify no one had entered the bungalow in her absence before making straight for the bathroom. Every pore in her body screamed with relief when she peeled off the jumpsuit and kicked free of the clinging fabric.

In her eagerness to shed the artificial skin, Jordan put a little too much oomph into the kick. Her sweat-slick foot slipped on the tiles and went out from under her. She flung out a hand to break her fall, felt it crunch against the marble counter and landed with a thud that sucked the air from her lungs.

“Dammit!”

She flexed her hand a few times. It didn’t feel as though she’d broken any bones, but she’d sport one heck of a bruise in the morning. Rolling to her feet, she stripped off her sweat-drenched panties and bra and wadded them up with the thermal suit for rinsing out later. Her next priority was a long, hot shower.

Turning the crisscrossing shower jets to full blast, she stepped inside and let the water fog up the glass blocks until a gruff shout shattered her bliss.

“Jordan!”

Cursing, she cut the jets and whipped around. Over the stair-stepping glass blocks, she got a good visual of the male who strode through the door. She swore again, yanked one of the resort’s ultraplush towels from the rack, wrapped it sarong style and rounded the glass block wall.





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