I do.’
‘The biggest danger I face there is being bored to death, closely followed by the effects of a rogue margarita or a cheeky cosmopolitan.’ Morgan pushed her cup away.
‘Listen—and don’t shoot the messenger—I need to go as your date,’ Noah stated. He lifted a shoulder at the annoyed look on her face. ‘Yes, I know what I said...we now have a completely professional relationship. But somehow, miraculously, the kidnapping attempt hasn’t hit the papers and the MI PR person and the police want to keep it that way. James has a bodyguard occasionally but you don’t. You having one now is going to raise questions that they’d prefer not to answer. So they want us to...pretend. James called me this morning and issued the directive.’
Morgan looked at him, caught completely off guard. ‘What? You’ve got to be joking.’
‘Trust me, I’d rather just be the bodyguard,’ Noah muttered.
Morgan held up her hand. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right. We were about to make love, because you weren’t—quite—working for MI and I wasn’t going to have anything to do with the ball. A one-night deal that worked for both of us which didn’t happen because you volunteered your close protection services and told me that I am categorically off-limits. And now we have to pretend that we are lovers? Is this a sick joke?’
‘Either that or someone has concocted a great way to torture us,’ Noah agreed.
Morgan held her head between her hands and closed her eyes. ‘This is going to drive me crazy.’
‘We can share the padded cell,’ Noah agreed.
‘Any chance of you resigning?’ Morgan lifted her head and looked at him, hope on her face.
‘Sorry, Duchess. Not a chance. I’d rather go mad with you than go out of my mind worrying about you if I were off the job. Burying you would also suck.’
Ah, nuts... That was a hard point to argue.
In her studio Morgan squinted at her computer screen and groaned audibly. She was stuck on the first page of the computerised file that detailed all the steps for organising the Moreau Charity Ball and she was already frustrated. Irritated. And, worse, shaking with fear in her designer shoes.
Date of event determined?
Liaise with banqueting manager at F-G.
Determine specific target audience for personal invites.
Objectives set in accordance to mission statement and vision of MI Foundation.
Complete risk assessment; not only to security of gemstone collection but also to brand and customer perception.
Dear Lord, she thought fifteen minutes later, couldn’t they use plain English—and why was it so vague? Where was the ‘how to do’ part of the list? She hadn’t even been aware that the MI Foundation had a mission statement, and she’d thought the vision was simple: raise and donate money.
Dammit, this was why she shouldn’t be in charge of anything more complicated than See Jane Run.
Her mother had to be taking a new hormone pill to think that she could organise the ball—never mind her crazy idea of joining MI as Brand and Image Director.
Morgan swallowed the tears that had gathered in the back of her throat. ‘I am not stupid,’ she whispered under her breath, glaring at the screen. ‘I am not stupid. I am not stupid.’
Okay, then, why do I feel so stupid?
Morgan heard the rap on her door and looked up to see Noah through the glass window. She tapped the tip of one index finger with the other, indicating that he should use the finger scanner to enter. Two seconds later the door was opening and Noah, sans jacket and tie, entered her studio. She hastily slammed the lid of her laptop closed and inwardly cringed. What could be more mortifying than Noah finding out the scope of her learning problems? There wasn’t a lot, she decided as he held the door open and looked at the finger scanner.
‘Nifty. A retina scanner would be better, but the fingerprint scanner isn’t bad.’
Morgan leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘If the scanner worked then I presume that Security gave you everything you needed to negotiate your way through this super-secure building?’
‘Yep.’ Noah looked around her studio and she winced at the mess.
On the wooden benches across one wall sat her presses and pliers, mandrels and blocks. Hammers, files, more presses. The wall above it was covered in sketches, some finished, of ring and necklace designs, all of which held the name of the client scribbled across it and the price quoted.
She bit her lip and wondered what he’d think of her studio, with its plants and cosy seating, battered bench and industrial lighting. Yeah, it was eclectic and messy, colourful, but it worked for her. She could sit down at the bench and fall into a creative space that exhilarated her and made time fly. Sometimes the designs changed from the original sketch she’d been working to, but she’d yet to have a client complain of the changes made since they were all, invariably, better for it.
She sighed. Designing jewellery was probably the only aspect of her life that she felt completely confident about.
Noah walked over to the bench and squinted at her sketches. She saw his head pull back and presumed that he was reacting to the prices.
‘Can I ask you something jewellery-related?’
Morgan’s head shot up—not so much at the question but at the note of tension in his voice.
‘Sure.’ Oh, yeah, his body was coiled tight, and she narrowed her eyes as he pulled his wallet out from the back pocket of his black pants. He flipped it open, dug in a tight fold and pulled out a silver ring with a red stone. He tossed it to her and she snatched it out of the air.
‘What’s the stone?’
Before looking at the gem, Morgan looked at the setting. The band was old silver, a delicate swirl of filigree, feminine but with strong lines. Lovely, she thought. Really lovely. Whoever had made the ring was a superb craftsman, she decided as she picked up her loupe and walked over to the window. Holding the ring between two fingers, she lifted the loupe to her eye, angled the ring to the light and the breath caught in her throat. Red beryl, one of her favourite stones; very gorgeous and very rare.
‘Bixbite or red beryl. Very rare. Very valuable.’
Noah walked over to her, stared down at the ring and frowned. ‘Nah, can’t be.’
Morgan arched an eyebrow at him. ‘You a gemmologist now, soldier? Trust me on this: it’s red beryl, my favourite stone...probably set around nineteen-twenty. It would’ve been mined from the Wah Wah mountain range in Utah.’
‘Huh.’
Morgan frowned when Noah reached out, plucked the ring out of her grip with
