Family Jewels

by Rita Sable

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Family Jewels

  ISBN # 9781419909009

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Family Jewels Copyright© 2007 Rita Sable

  Edited by Helen Woodall.

  Photography and cover art by Les Byerley.

  Electronic book Publication: January 2007

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Content Advisory:

  S – ENSUOUS

  E – ROTIC

  X – TREME

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic.

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Family Jewels

  Rita Sable

  Acknowledgements

  This is for everyone—my friends and critique partners (Barbara, Shay, Jeanine, Anna, Lynda and Pat)—Thank you. Without your enthusiastic guidance and support this book would never have been possible. Thanks also to my editor, Helen, for her cheeky humor and advice. And most of all, thank you to my loving, long-suffering husband who gave me his support and the time alone to pour my heart and soul into writing. You’ll always be my hero. I love you.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Beretta: Fabbrica D’Armi P. Beretta

  Big Bertha: Callaway Golf Company

  Burberry: Burberry of London

  Diet Coke: The Coca-Cola Bottling Company

  Estée Lauder: Estée Lauder, Inc.

  FedEx/FedEx Priority: Federal Express Corporation

  Ford Taurus: Ford Motor Company

  Grolsch beer: Koninklijke Grolsch N.V. Corporation

  Hampton Hotel: Hilton Hospitality Inc.

  Humane Society: The Humane Society of The United States

  Lexus: Toyota Motor Corporation JPN

  Lycra: Invista North America S.A.R.L Corporation

  Le Parker Meridien Hotel: Jack Parker Corporation

  Porsche Cayenne SUV: F. Porsche AG Corporation

  Rabbit Vibrator: Ann Summers Limited Company UK

  Renault Mégane: Renault

  Selfridges: Selfridges Retail Limited UK

  The Sex Pistols song, “Submission”: The Sex Pistols/Virgin Records

  Sig Sauer: Swiss Arms Technology AG Corporation

  Smith & Wesson: Smith & Wesson Corporation

  Starbucks: Starbucks Coffee US Brands

  Superman: DC Comics Inc.

  U.P.S.: United Parcel Service

  Wonder Woman: DC Comics Inc.

  Chapter One

  A bone-chilling January mist settled over Damstraat. Pure white halos danced like ghosts around streetlamps, deep in the seedy core of Amsterdam’s Rosse Buurt. Tourists and locals alike knew this small, crowded and wildly popular area by its nickname—the red-light district.

  Trevor St. James parked his rental car at the curb near the canal and got out. He used the electronic key fob to lock the sporty Renault Mégane and tested the door handle to make sure before shoving the keys into his pants pockets. The cold night air was thick with brine. Inky-black water moved slowly through the canal, situated well below street level.

  Amsterdam was riddled with these famous waterways. During daylight sightseers crammed onto barges snapping photos of the historic places and tall, stately homes that passed by.

  He turned away from the fathomless ribbon of water and crossed the street. Hunching his shoulders against the damp midnight air, he headed toward the neon-pink sign that blinked on and off like a beating heart in the hazy distance. The man he pursued would be in the Küshi Club, one of many bar and dance establishments that catered to the sexually uninhibited. He’d tracked this man through countless cities, from Frankfurt into Barcelona, from Zurich out to Copenhagen. But always one frustrating step behind.

  Tonight he’d finally landed within reach. Months of dogged persistence were about to be paid off in full.

  People of all nationalities hurried past him on the sidewalk, in pairs or groups, laughing and jostling each other as they contemplated the barely dressed women in the windows. A discordant mix of disco, rock and pop music poured from inside every other dance club and sex parlor he passed.

  He approached the Küshi Club and moved back when the door swung open, sending out a mind-numbing blast of punk music. A silver-haired man dressed in suit and tie walked out, holding the hand of a woman wearing a short fur jacket, tight miniskirt and thigh-high vinyl boots. The woman’s lips curled into a lopsided, drunken grin when she passed Trevor. He held the door open for the departing couple and then stepped inside.

  Stale air enveloped him and sucked the breath from his lungs. He struggled against coughing at the smell of cigarettes, liquor and body odor. Multicolored neon signs on the walls advertised Dutch beers and liquors and created the only source of lighting inside the crowded interior.

  From the murky corner near the entrance a large, moving shadow materialized into the figure of the man Trevor knew worked here as a bouncer. A retired Dutch police officer, Jorgen Vaneer’s massive chest and biceps bulged against the fabric of his black t-shirt. Interpol Intelligence had used him before. Trevor lifted his chin in a quick nod of recognition.

  Without saying a single word or giving any indication he knew Trevor at all, Jorgen jerked his shiny bald head in the direction of the bar and then melted back into the shadows.

  If things got ugly in here the burly Dutchman would be excellent backup.

  Trevor angled toward the patrons packed tight around the bar. He passed through a hazy wall of cigarette smoke mixed with the sharper musk of burning hashish.

  Strategically placed speakers hung from the high, pitched ceiling overhead. Music blasted through the air when The Sex Pistols began to belt out their classic song, “Submission”. Men and women in various states of undress gyrated and humped each other on the teeming dance floor. Trevor assumed the nonchalance of a club patron looking for a good time. He needed to blend in, not draw attention to himself.

  A few grainy photos taken with a telescopic lens and burned into his memory were all he had to ID his man. He unzipped his leather jacket careful not to expose the straps of his gun harness. His weapon of choice, a regulation-issue 9mm semiautomatic Sig Sauer, rested against his left rib cage with a welcome and familiar weight. He hadn’t had to use the smaller Beretta strapped to the inside of his lower left leg in a long time and planned to keep it that way. He let his shoulders droop and his knees bob a little with each step, moving as if he had all the time in the world rath
er than a direct path and set purpose.

  At the bar a waitress approached him, dressed in a white cutout blouse and skimpy shorts that barely covered her ample, pale thighs. Her delft-blue eyes were heavily lined with kohl and terribly bloodshot, her plump lips painted frosty pink. He ordered a beer and smiled at the way her nipples poked through the slits in her blouse when she moved. She noticed his attention and thrust her chest out further, giving him a knowing smile. Was she inviting him to reach out and tweak her nipples, or give both round globes a squeeze? She pouted her lower lip when he ogled her breasts without touching.

  Time for fun and games later. Right now he had a job to do.

  The repetitive pulse of music flowed through his body. He wandered toward a corner of the square-shaped bar and leaned against the polished wood, waiting for the sexy waitress to return with his drink. Without looking too obvious or curious about his fellow bar mates he scanned them one at a time, searching for his target. Businessmen out for an evening of leisure with their clients, wide-eyed tourists from many different countries and bored-looking young locals. None of the men fit the description.

  Except one.

  That man sat sideways on a barstool. His thin build and spiky platinum-blond hair fit the photo Trevor had memorized. At the moment he was locked in a deep-throated kiss with a woman wearing nothing but a transparent body stocking. She hiked a sinuous long leg over the man’s hip. Trevor watched as the man slipped his hand down the woman’s belly and stroked her exposed pussy. Moisture glistened on his fingers while he probed and teased her flesh.

  None of the other bar patrons paid any attention while the man finger-fucked her in their presence. A few were involved in similar, though not quite so explicit, situations.

  Despite the tight rein Trevor held on his lust, watching the raw sexual act sent heat surging into his cock. Pure reflex, he told himself. He gritted his teeth and forced his eyes elsewhere for a moment, using only his peripheral vision to monitor the man he sought to ID.

  When it came to completely open and accepted sexuality Amsterdam reigned supreme. The Dutch government had a valid rationale for sanctioning prostitution. Their reasoning was quite simple. Since no government had ever been able to completely rid itself of the world’s oldest profession why not regulate it? There were public health considerations to monitor, labor conditions, civic order and of course, another valuable and easy source of government revenue. This same mindset had long been ingrained in the general public. If Trevor wanted to fuck the little waitress on the bar top while everyone watched, for the right amount of money he didn’t doubt she’d welcome it.

  She showed up at his elbow as if on cue and slid his Grolsch beer into his hand. He paid her with a generous tip and another wide smile at her perky breasts.

  Damn nice breasts they were, too. Dusky pink and tender-looking. He could practically imagine how that soft, sweet flesh would feel in his hands and on his tongue.

  Shit!

  He gave himself a mental slap. Sometimes he hated his job. How long had it been since he’d spent a normal night eating a quiet meal at home or in a family-owned restaurant?

  Too long to remember. He took a long draught of the icy beer. Hopefully the liquid malt would soothe the hot ache in his groin. How long had it been since he’d had a woman in a relationship for more than just a quick fuck?

  Once again, too long. His last serious girlfriend—correction, his fiancée–-had married another man while he’d been on assignment in Istanbul. After three years that memory still burned like battery acid inside his gut.

  He tipped his beer up again and turned his attention back to the thin blond man who fit the photo profile. The woman that man entertained threw her head back when she climaxed. Her hips bucked. Trevor was amazed she could do that and remain standing in her tall, platform sandals. Practice, he guessed. The man laughed heartily while she writhed and moaned in front of him. A couple of Japanese businessmen standing nearby chuckled in enthusiastic approval.

  Trevor stood up. He needed to see his quarry’s face, in particular his throat. Ulrich Schulz had a distinctive tattoo on his Adam’s apple depicting a snake swallowing a sword.

  Taking his beer with him, Trevor ambled around the corners of the bar, threading a path through men and women with open sexual hunger in their eyes. The pungent odor of smoldering hashish assaulted his nostrils. He glanced sideways at a young man with the glowing tip of a roach clamped between lipstick-blackened lips. Barely eighteen, his wild black and purple hair most likely hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. A slinky velvet jacket hung open over his skinny bare chest and his tight black pants were tucked into knee-high military boots. Trevor’s quick, analytical assessment must have been mistaken as interest because the young man rubbed his crotch and winked in a blatant invitation for homosexual fun.

  Trevor shook his head and moved on, trying not to breathe too deeply. Fortunately, his six-foot two-inch height allowed him to keep his eye on his target.

  The woman in the body stocking gave the blond man a quick parting kiss on the lips and wiggled away. She passed right by Trevor and disappeared into the throng of bodies on the dance floor. His quarry swiveled around on his barstool. Instant recognition slammed into Trevor’s brain. That tattoo was unmistakable.

  Ulrich Schulz. The spoiled rich grandson of deceased Nazi SS officer, Heinrich Schulz. He went by the nickname Uli. The tip to Interpol on the grandson’s presence in Amsterdam had come from a clerk working inside the diamond buyers’ market. Uli had recently sold a packet of twelve flawless white diamonds to an affluent American man. The clerk overheard Uli brag about having more if the American buyer wanted them.

  The diamonds were Russian whites, not something readily available on the open market these days. Stones like that raised dangerous red flags. The gems Trevor was charged with finding had been stolen from wealthy Jewish families during the Nazi occupation more than sixty years ago. One of those diamonds had been micro-engraved with the numbers of the family’s Swiss bank account—worth millions of euros today.

  The heirs of that Jewish family wanted the diamonds recovered. In particular the one with the big secret. The problem was they didn’t know which gem had the mark.

  Fortunately Uli didn’t know about it. He’d sold those diamonds at market value for a few hundred thousand at most, when he could have had access to so much more. Not that he needed the cash. The short file provided with those grainy photos profiled the sale of those diamonds as “sport” for him.

  Trevor’s job was simple. Find the flighty German punk and discover who the American buyer had been.

  A rush of adrenaline powered the predatory thrill inside Trevor. He inched closer, pretending to be drunk. When he bumped into the bar, he turned and unceremoniously spilled his beer into Uli’s lap.

  Just as Trevor predicted, the younger man reacted violently. Uli jumped off his barstool, a vicious snarl twisting his pale angular face. He shouted a string of obscenities loud enough to be heard over the music. Trevor shoved him back against the bar, sliding the business end of his gun beneath the German’s long skinny nose. Uli’s eyes popped open and his pupils dilated until just a thin line of pale blue circled their black centers.

  “Halt den mund! Shut your mouth,” Trevor growled his best German into Uli’s face.

  The younger man froze, his mouth formed a surprised “o”. No doubt the gun made enough of an impression to scare the shit out of him. People standing nearby moved away and calmly took their drinks with them, wisely finding another part of the bar more attractive. Undercover police routinely raided the clubs and public arrests weren’t uncommon.

  Trevor cuffed Uli’s hands behind his back while people stared and murmured to each other. Then he searched, found and took control of the small-caliber handgun hidden inside the waistband of Uli’s jeans. Highly illegal in this country and that alone was enough to arrest him for carrying it into a public place. But there were more important things he needed to question Uli about. He tu
cked the weapon into his own jacket pocket and then pointed toward the door.

  “Draussen, Herr Schulz.Ganz ruhig.” Outside. Nice and quiet.

  Disarmed and overpowered, Uli nodded. Trevor wrapped a tight arm around the younger man’s bony shoulders and snuggled the gun against his ribs to encourage good behavior. They walked through the crowded bar together. The blast of music never ceased.

  Jorgen waited at the door, eyes narrowed and watchful, thickly muscled arms flexed at his sides. No doubt the burly bouncer had been ready to jump in and defend Trevor’s back. He pushed the door open as they approached. When they passed through, Jorgen clapped a big hand on Trevor’s shoulder.

  “Good job,” he said in stilted English. “And goodbye.”

  Trevor nodded and without glancing back he escorted his calm but unpredictable captive out into the cold misty night.

  Chapter Two

  The tiny blue-flamed torch in Cynthia’s hand reached well above two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, more than enough to solder the links of an eighteen-karat gold necklace together. She teased the flame over the chain, coaxing the precious metal to the delicate point between solid and liquid. In an instant the gold blazed white-hot then bonded.

  The phone rang. She jerked out of her intense focus and shut off the soldering torch.

  Without the constant hissing sound of the acetylene gas her studio fell into sudden, unnatural silence. Only the phone’s ring punctuated the quiet. The button on her business line flashed with each ring. If it had been her personal line she would let it go to voicemail. Nick wouldn’t be calling anyway. She flipped the protective visor off her face and set it aside to answer the phone.

  “Hello, Lyons’ Jewelry Creations.”

  “Ah, hello,” a man’s voice said. “I’m looking at your ad in the yellow pages. It says that you’re GIA certified?”