"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?"
'Tor 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 bott
om 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. Throne like 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'l
l 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 cafe 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."
Diamonds Can Be Deadly Page 2