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  Except she couldn't stop. She was still paying off debts…some financial, some that felt existential. Until she was back where she started, she needed to stay where she didn't want to be.

  And besides, she told herself that she didn't want to not go through this shocking anxiety. It meant she hadn't surrendered to the circumstances completely and that at least some part of her true self still survived.

  Not for much longer, a small voice pointed out.

  The back door to the club swung open and an accented voice said her name in the most beautiful way. “You okay, Marie-Terese?”

  She flipped open her eyes, put her mask on, and strode with calm purpose over to her boss. Trez had no doubt seen her on one of the security cameras; God knew they were everywhere.

  “I'm fine, Trez, thanks.”

  He held the door open for her, and as she walked by him, his dark eyes scanned her. With coffee-colored skin and a face that seemed Ethiopian in its smooth bones and perfectly balanced lips, Trez Latimer was a looker—although his manners were the most attractive thing about him, as far as she was concerned. The guy had gallantry down to a science.

  Although you didn't want to cross him.

  “You do that every night,” he said as he shut the door behind them and cranked the bar bolt in place. “You stand by your car and look at the sky. Every night.”

  “Do I?”

  “Anybody bothering you?”

  “No, but if someone was, I would tell you.”

  “Any thing bothering you?”

  “Nope. I'm good.”

  Trez didn't look convinced as he escorted her down to the ladies' locker room and left her at the door. “Remember, I'm available twenty-four/seven, and you can talk to me anytime.”

  “I know. And thank you.”

  He put his hand to his heart and gave her a little bow. “My pleasure. You take care of yourself.”

  The locker room was walled with long metal compartments and broken up by benches that were screwed down into the floor. Against the far wall, the lighted showgirl mirror had a six-foot-long counter that was littered with makeup, and there were hairpieces and skimpy clothes and stilettos everywhere. The air smelled like girl sweat and shampoo.

  As usual, she had the place to herself. She was always the first to come in and the first to leave, and now that she was in work mode, there were no hesitations, no hiccups in the routine.

  Coat went into her locker. Street shoes were kicked off. Scrunchie was pulled free of her ponytail. Duffel bag was yanked open.

  Her blue jeans and her white turtleneck and her navy blue fleece were traded for a set of clothes she wouldn't be caught dead wearing on Halloween: microscopic Lycra skirt, halter top that came down to the bottom of her ribs, thigh-highs with lace tops, and pimpish pumps that pinched her toes.

  Everything was black. Black was the Iron Mask's signature color, and it had been the other club's as well.

  She never wore black when she was away from work. About a month into this nightmare, she'd thrown away every thread of clothing she had with any black in it—to the point where she'd had to go out and buy something to wear to the last funeral she'd gone to.

  Over at the lighted mirror, she hit her five tons of brunette hair with some spray and then weeded through the palettes of eye shadows and blushers, picking out dark, sparkly colors that were about as girl-next-door as a Penthouse centerfold. Moving quickly, she went Ozzy Osbourne on the eyeliner and glued on some fake eyelashes.

  The last thing she did was go to her bag and take out a tube of lipstick. She never shared lipsticks with the other girls. Everyone was properly screened each month, but she wasn't taking chances: She could control what she did and how scrupulous she was when it came to safety. The other girls might have different standards.

  The red gloss tasted like plastic strawberry, but the lipstick was critical. No kissing. Ever. And most of the men knew that, but with a coating of the grease, she cut short any debate: None of them wanted their wives or girlfriends to know what they were doing on “guys' night out.”

  Refusing to look at her reflection, Marie-Terese turned away from the mirror and headed out to face the noise and the people and the business. As she went down the long, dim hall to the club proper, the bass of the music grew louder and so did the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

  Maybe it was one and the same.

  At the end of the corridor, the club sprawled out before her, its deep purple walls and black floor and bloodred ceiling lit so sparsely it was like walking into a cave. The vibe was all about kinked-out sex, with women dancing in wrought-iron cages and bodies moving in pairs or threesomes and trippy, erotic music filling the thick air.

  After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she sifted through the men, applying a data screen she wished she'd never acquired.

  You couldn't tell whether they were prospects by the clothes they wore or who they were with or whether they had a wedding ring on. It wasn't even a case of where they looked at you, because all men did the breast-to-hip sweep. The difference with the prospects was that they stared at you with something more than greed: As they ran their eyes over your body, the deed had already been done as far as they were concerned.

  It didn't bother her, though. There was nothing that any man could do to her that was worse than what had already happened.

  And there were two things she knew for sure: Three a.m. was going to come eventually. And like the end of her shift, this phase of her life wasn't going to last forever.

  In her saner, less depressive moments, she told herself that this rough patch was something she was going to get through and come out of, kind of like her life had the flu: Even though it was hard to have faith in the future, she had to believe that one day she would wake up, turn her face to the sun, and revel in the fact that the sickness was gone and wellness had returned.

  Although that was assuming it was just the flu. If what she was putting herself through was more like a cancer…maybe a part of her would always be gone, lost to the disease forever.

  Marie-Terese shut off her brain and walked forward, into the crowd. Nobody ever said life was fun or easy or even fair, and sometimes you did things to survive that would seem utterly and completely incomprehensible to the home-and-hearth part of your brain.

  But there were no shortcuts in life and you had to pay for your mistakes.

  Always.

  Chapter 2

  Marcus Reinhardt Jewelers, est. 1893, had been housed in the same gracious brick building in downtown Caldwell since the mortar in its deep red walls had been set. The firm had changed hands in the Depression, but the ethos of the business had remained the same and prevailed into the Internet era: high-end, important jewels offered at competitive prices and paired with incomparable personal service.

  “The ice wine is chilling in the private room, sir.”

  “Excellent. We're almost ready.” James Richard Jameson, great-grandson of the man who had bought the store from Mr. Reinhardt, straightened his tie in one of the mirrored displays.

  Satisfied with how he looked, he turned to inspect the three staff members who he'd chosen to stay after hours. They all had on black suits, with William and Terrence sporting gold-and-black club ties marked with the store's logo and Janice wearing a gold-and-onyx necklace from the 1950s. Perfect. His people were as elegant and discreet as everything in the showroom, and each was capable of conversing in English and French.

  For what Reinhardt had to offer, customers were willing to travel up from Manhattan or down from Montreal, and north or south, it was always worth the trip. All around the showroom, sparkling flashes twinkled at the eye, a galaxy come home to roost, and the angles of the direct lighting and the arrangement of the glass cases were calibrated to decimate the distinction between want and need.

  Just before the grandfather clock by the door chimed the tenth hour, James flashed over to a pocket door, whipped out an Oreck, and ran the vacuum across the footprints on the anti
que Oriental rug. On the return to the broom closet, he backed his way over his own path so there was nothing to mar the nap.

  “I think he's here,” William said by one of the barred windows.

  “Oh…my God,” Janice murmured as she leaned in beside her colleague. “He certainly is.”

  James slid the vacuum out of sight and snapped his suit jacket back into place. His heart was alive in his chest, beating fast, but on the outside he was calm as he walked toe-heel, toe-heel over to look into the street.

  Customers were welcome in the store from ten a.m. to six p.m. Monday through Saturday.

  Clients got to come privately after hours. On any day and time that suited them.

  The gentleman who stepped out of the BMW M6 was solidly in client territory: European-cut suit, no overcoat in spite of the chill, stride like an athlete, face like an assassin. This was a very smart, very powerful man who probably had some shady in him, but it wasn't as though Mafia or drug money was discriminated against at Marcus Reinhardt. James was in the business of selling, not judging—so as far as he was concerned, the man coming to his door was a paragon of virtue, upstanding in his pair of Bally loafers.

  James released the lock and opened the way before the bell was rung. “Good evening, Mr. diPietro.”

  The handshake was firm and short, the voice deep and sharp, the eyes cold and gray. “Are we ready?”

  “Yes.” James hesitated. “Will your intended be joining us?”

  “No.”

  James shut the door and indicated the way to the back, studiously ignoring how Janice's eyes clung to the man. “May we offer you a libation?”

  “You can start showing me diamonds, how about that.”

  “As you wish.”

  The private viewing room had oil paintings on the walls, a large antique desk, and four gold chairs. There was also a microscope, a black velvet exhibition pad, the chilling ice wine, and two crystal glasses. James nodded at his staff and Terrence came forward to remove the silver bucket while Janice took away the globlets with a bit of a fluster. William remained in the doorway, at the ready for any requests.

  Mr. diPietro took a seat and put his hands on the desk, a platinum Chopard watch flashing from beneath his cuff. Those eyes of his, which were the same color as the watch, didn't so much as focus on James as bore right through to the back of his skull.

  James cleared his throat as he sat opposite the man. “Pursuant to our conversation, I have pulled a selection of stones from our collection as well as called in a number of diamonds from Antwerp directly.”

  James took out a gold key and inserted it into a lock in the top drawer of the desk. When he dealt with a client who had yet to do a viewing or purchase, as he was now, he had to make a call whether they were the type who wanted to see the top range of their options first or build up to the most expensive choices.

  It was clear which category Mr. diPietro fit into.

  There were ten rings in the tray that James put out on the blotter, all of which had been steam-cleaned for presentation. The one he plucked from the black velvet crease was not the largest, although only by a fraction of a carat. It was, however, by far the best.

  “This is a seven-point-seven-carat emerald-cut, D in color, internally flawless. I have both the GIA and EGL certifications for your perusal.”

  James stayed silent as Mr. diPietro took the ring and bent down to inspect it. There was no reason to mention that the polish and the symmetry of the stone were exceptional or that the platinum setting had been handmade for the diamond or that it was the kind of thing that came onto the market very infrequently. The reflected light and fire spoke for themselves, the flashes radiating upward so brilliantly one had to wonder if the stone itself weren't magical.

  “How much?” Mr. diPietro demanded.

  James put the certificates on the desk. “Two million, three hundred thousand.”

  With men like Mr. diPietro, the more expensive the better, but the truth was, it was a good deal. For Reinhardt to stay in business, one had to balance volume and margin: too much margin, not enough volume. Besides, assuming Mr. diPietro stayed out of jail and/or bankruptcy, this was the kind of man James wanted to have a long relationship with.

  Mr. diPietro handed the ring back and studied the certs. “Tell me about the others.”

  James swallowed his surprise. “Of course. Yes, of course.”

  He proceeded from right to left through the tray and described the attributes of each ring, all the while wondering whether he had misread his client. He also had Terrence bring in six more, all over five carats.

  An hour later, Mr. diPietro sat back in the chair. The man had not stretched or wavered in his attention and there had been no quick checks of his BlackBerry or jokes to break the tension. He hadn't even glanced in passing at Janice, who was lovely.

  Total and complete absorption.

  James had to wonder about the woman whose finger would bear the ring. She'd be beautiful, naturally, but she'd have to be very independent and not very emotional. Generally speaking, even the most logical and successful man got a glint in his eye when he bought a ring like one of these for his woman—whether it was the thrill of surprising her with something over the top or the pride that came with being able to afford something that only.01 percent of the population could, the men usually showed some emotion.

  Mr. diPietro was as cold and hard as the stones he regarded.

  “Is there something else I might show you?” James said, deflating. “Some rubies or sapphires, perhaps?”

  The client reached inside his suit jacket and brought out a thin black wallet. “I'll take the first one you showed me for two million even.” As James blinked, Mr. diPietro put a credit card on the desktop. “If I'm giving you my money, I want you to work for it. And you will be discounting the stone, because your business needs repeat clients like myself.”

  James took a moment to catch up with the fact that a transaction might actually occur. “I…I appreciate your discerning eye, but the price is two million, three hundred thousand.”

  Mr. diPietro tapped the card. “That's debit. Two million. Right now.”

  James quickly did some math in his head. At that price he was still making about three hundred and fifty thousand on the piece.

  “I believe I can do that,” he said.

  Mr. diPietro did not sound surprised. “Smart of you.”

  “What about sizing? Do you know what size your—”

  “The seven-point-seven carats is the only size she's going to care about. We'll take care of the rest later.”

  “As you wish.”

  James typically encouraged the staff to engage with a client as he went back to set a purchase into its box and print out the valuation for insurance purposes. Tonight, though, he shook his head at them as Mr. diPietro palmed a cell phone and started dialing.

  As James worked in the back office, he heard Mr. diPietro talking on the phone. There was no teasing, “Darling, I have something for you,” or suggestive, “I'm coming to see you.” No, Mr. diPietro was not calling his soon-to-be fiancé, but rather someone named Tom about some kind of land issue.

  James swiped the card. As he waited for authorization, he steam-cleaned the ring again, periodically checking the green digital readout on the card machine. When he was told to call the bank's twenty-four-hour line directly, he was not surprised given the purchase amount, and as soon as he got on with them, the representative requested to speak to Mr. diPietro.

  Transferring the call to the phone on the desk in the viewing room, James put his head through the door. “Mr. diPietro—”

  “They want to talk to me?” The man extended his right hand, flashing that watch, and picked up the receiver. Before James could come and take the line off hold, Mr. diPietro did it himself and started talking.

  “Yes, it is. Yes, I am. Yes. Yes. My mother's maiden name is O'Brian. Yes. Thanks.” He looked up at James as he put the call on hold again and the phone back in
its seat. “They have an authorization code for you.”

  James bowed and went back to the office. When he reappeared, he was carrying a sleek red bag with satin handles and an envelope with the receipt in it.

  “I hope you will call on us again if we may be of service.”

  Mr. diPietro took what he now owned. “I plan on getting engaged only once, but there will be anniversaries. Plenty of them.”

  The staff stepped back to get out of his way and James had to hustle to open the store's door before Mr. diPietro came to it. After the man breezed through, James relocked the thing and looked out the window.

  The man's car was gorgeous as it took off, its engine growling, the bright lights of the street lamps reflecting off black paint as glossy as still water.

  As James turned away, he caught Janice leaning into another window, her eyes sharp. One could be quite sure she wasn't measuring the car as he had, but focusing on the driver instead.

  Odd, wasn't it. That which you could not have always seemed more valuable than what you did, and maybe that was why diPietro was so removed: He could afford all of what had been shown, so to him the transaction was no different from buying a newspaper or a can of Coke to the average person.

  There was nothing that the truly wealthy could not have, and how lucky they were.

  * * *

  “No offense, but I think I'm going to take off.”

  Jim put down his empty and grabbed for his leather jacket. He'd had his two Buds, and one more was going to put him into DUI territory, so it was time to pull out.

  “I can't believe you're leaving alone,” Adrian drawled, his eyes going over to Blue Dress.

  She was still standing beneath that ceiling light. And still staring. And still breathtaking. “Yup, just me, myself, and I.”

  “Most men don't have your kind of self-control.” Adrian smiled, the hoop in his lower lip glinting. “Kind of impressive actually.”

  “Yeah, I'm a saint, all right.”

  “Well, drive home safe so you can keep polishing that halo. We'll see you tomorrow at the site.”

  There was a round of palm slapping and then Jim was making his way through the crowd. As he went, he drew looks from the black-chained and spike-collared, probably in the same way all these Goths did when they were out at a mall: What the hell are you doing here?