the treatise on gems by Buddhabhatta (Finot, “Les Lapidaires Indiens,” Paris, 1896) we read: A diamond, a part of which is the color of blood or spotted with red, would quickly bring death to the wearer, even if he were the Master of Death.
—Folklore of Diamonds
Three hours earlier
The flight from San Francisco to Glasgow was a miserable one. Not that there’s any such thing as a good transcontinental flight. They’re always too long, too boring, too cramped and not even the luxury of my own back-of-the-seat movies does much to alleviate the agony of sitting still for that long.
The only decent thing about the whole flight was a guy across the aisle. Dark hair, cut close to his head, a little shadow of beard, a sharply cut mouth with full lips. I pegged him as Continental, and then spent some of the long, boring time trying to figure out why. The sweater, perhaps—a wool turtleneck. His clean, long hands. The shape of his mouth, which looked like it might shape words with long, rolling r’s. French, maybe.
At the end of a flight like that, all you want is to get off the freaking plane. It felt good to just walk down the concourse pulling my bag, stretching out the cramped muscles, shaking off the thickness of over-breathed air. I had checked no luggage, so made straight for the car rental counter, mentally crossing my fingers that my father had come through for me.
When I said my name, “Sylvie Montague,” the buzz-cut, redheaded youth behind the counter blinked.
“Aye,” he said, his eyes widening. “It’s all set up. I’ve got it right here.” With a gesture of reverence, he handed me the keys to an Alfa Romeo Spider.
Great car. Fast, elegant, very European. My father had come through for me. I grinned and slapped the keys in my pocket. “Thanks.”
“Are you related to him?” the youth asked. “To Gordon Montague, I mean.”
“Mmm. My father.”
“He’s the greatest racer ever.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell him.” When I turned around, I nearly slammed into a burly man right behind me. With a balding head of gingery hair and pale freckles across his forehead and nose, his ruddy cheeks made him look as if he were about to have a heart attack on the spot. I forgave him the glare he leveled on me.
“Sorry,” I said.
He grumbled something and shoved by me.
The car was in the parking lot, taut and silver, worthy of the admiring stroke I gave her sleek rear. I opened the driver door and was stripping off my coat when the beautiful—Frenchman?—from the plane walked by.
“Is she yours?” he asked, cocking a brow toward the car.
The accent was not French. It sounded eastern European, not quite Russian, not quite Polish. I couldn’t place it, but it was charming anyway.
I grinned. “For today.”
“Sometimes, that’s all we need, no?”
“Yes.” I nodded and made a show of unlocking the trunk. He walked down the length of her, admiring the curves swooping over the tires, the line of the hood. One hand was loosely tucked in the pocket of his corduroy slacks, and a leather jacket hung in the crook of his elbow. Every inch of him declared a casual Continentalness, that whiff of minor royalty. I liked his very thick, dark, glossy hair, a touch too long, extravagant with ringlets, and his beautiful white hands, long-fingered, artistic-looking.
I tucked my suitcase and coat into the trunk. Or boot, I suppose, since I was now in the UK again. I asked, “Is this your first trip to Scotland?”
“No. I have many friends here. You?”
“I’m here on business, and visiting family.”
“Ah.” He glanced toward the street, appeared to be thinking something over.
When he didn’t speak, I slammed the boot closed and smiled. “Enjoy your trip.”
His eyes were a strong blue when he looked back at me. “Are you in a hurry? Would you like to have a little supper with me?”
I had to shake my head. “Sorry. I have to be somewhere in an hour.”
“Ah,” he said, and cocked an eyebrow, obviously assuming I was going to meet my lover. I didn’t dissuade him, only smiled slightly. His shrug said there was never any harm in trying. “Perhaps we’ll meet again another day.”
I lifted a shoulder.
Several other passengers were picking out their cars from the lot, and I saw the red-faced pit bull from the rental car line. He climbed into a Nissan and slammed the door. He made me think of a cartoon, squished into the little car, and if his expression was anything to go by, he was Not Pleased.
A sudden thought made me wonder if he was paparazzi. They only bugged me now and then, but with my father racing this week and my own visibility on the jewel case—which they were calling the Kingpin’s Crown Jewels—I’d probably have to put up with them.
“Au revoir,” said the Continental.
I’d been distracted by the other man. “Au revoir,” I said and fit my key into the door lock. He slung a slim leather bag over his shoulder and headed for a different section of cars.
Too bad, I thought. I have no illusions about the permanence of holiday love affairs—or, well, love affairs in general—but there was no harm in a little flirtation. He looked as if he’d be one of those very dramatic and passionate sorts, the kind who likes to tuck a woman into his arm and kiss her wildly. It gets old to be smothered like that after a while, but it’s nice for the short term. And really, it had been a while.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if the red-cheeked man had gone, and he was pulling into traffic. Not a danger, then. I dashed after the Continental.
“Um…” We hadn’t exchanged names. “Wait!”
He paused. I held up a finger and tugged my card out of my wallet, scribbled a number on the back and gave it to him. “I’ll be in Ayr for a few days, if you’re in the neighborhood.”
“But I am going to Ayr!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“You are?” I echoed. It’s not a particularly large town, a holiday hamlet favored by Glaswegians in the summertime. But it was not yet quite April, and the weather was too cold and unstable for seaside retreats. “I didn’t think anyone visited Ayr until June.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps not. I have a good friend there.” He looked at the card, raised dark eyes to mine. “Sylvie. That’s French, no?”
“My grandmother’s name.” A Parisian swept off her feet by a Scottish soldier in WWII. “She lives in Ayr. That’s who I’m going to see this afternoon.” I looked at my watch and realized I needed to get moving. Backing away, a palm over the face of the watch as if to hide the time from myself, I said, “I need to be there by tea.”
“Will you be free later, then?” His smile showed slightly uneven, but very white teeth. “Shall we have supper?”
I
