Queen of Diamonds

by Cox, Sandra

  Kendall nodded and stepped into the suite. A woman with snow-white hair sat in a rocking chair staring out the window.

  “Hi, Momma.” Kendall walked over to her mother and gave the paper-thin cheek a kiss.

  Her mom looked up and smiled, the green eyes so like her own it hurt her heart. Still smiling, her mom turned her attention back to the window.

  A hard lump formed in Kendall’s chest. To see her vivacious, beautiful mother reduced to this nearly empty shell was almost more than she could bear.

  She cleared her throat and looked around. The living room was light and airy. A water color she’d bought for her, hung on the pale blue wall. Her feet sank into plush, gray carpet as she settled into a cream-colored chair beside her mother. It was all she could do for her: give her the most comfortable surroundings possible and donate bucket loads of money in hopes of finding a cure.

  “How are you today, Momma?” She reached over and took the cool, limp hand. She rubbed it lightly between her own. “Caroline’s growing like a weed. You wouldn’t recognize her. She looks just like James, except around the mouth. She has our smile, Momma, yours and mine. And I think she’s going to have our build, the way she’s shooting up. She’s going to look like a willow tree, just like you.” She lifted the flaccid hand and kissed it. “You know I named her after you. Caroline.”

  Her mother’s head turned and for an instant, Kendall thought she saw recognition in her mother’s beautiful, vacant eyes. Then once again, her mom returned to staring out the window.

  “It doesn’t matter. I know for a moment you were with me, Momma.” She swiped at her eyes impatiently. Crying wouldn’t do one damn bit of good. Instead, she chatted about inconsequential things for another twenty minutes. Finally, she got up to leave. Her legs heavy, she felt more tired than she should. Her visits with her mom always affected her like this. She sighed and inhaled the scent of aerosol overlaying the musky sent of age, powder and urine.

  “I’ll be back soon, Momma.” She bent and kissed her. Her shoulders squared and her back straight, she left the room.

  The nurse she had seen earlier approached her. She must have seen something in Kendall’s face because she patted her arm, compassion in her eyes. “I mentioned you by name, Ms. Theron. I swear her eyes lit up and she smiled.”

  For the second time in less than an hour Kendall fought back tears that threatened to spill over. “Thank you for telling me that,” she whispered. “I treasure that information.”

  “I know somewhere deep inside, she loves you very much.”

  Kendall bit her lips, nodded and hurried out.

  When the taxi she’d called a few minutes before pulled up, she slid into the seat. “Waterfront Pier please.”

  In short order, the cab stopped in front of the long cement pier. She nodded to a couple sitting on one of the benches holding hands and passed a young man leaning against the railing looking out at the ocean.

  She walked to the end of the pier where a gray-haired black man with round glasses sat, feeding the gulls. She sank down beside him. “Hello, Ralph.”

  “Kendall.”

  He glanced at the diamond now on her left hand. “Nice ring,” he remarked and threw a handful of bread crumbs to the gulls, screeching and flapping their wings, before they swooped down, snagged the bread and flew off.

  She handed it to him.

  He pulled a loupe out of his pocket and discreetly examined it. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Sixty.”

  “I’ll give you forty.”

  “It’s a good cut, nearly colorless with a slightly included clarity. Forty-five.”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Done.”

  She opened her handbag and placed it between them. He dropped a brown paper bag inside.

  “What if I hadn’t settled?” She closed the flap on her bag.

  “Then I’d be forty-one K richer and you’d have a beautiful sparkler on your left hand.” He stood up. “See you around.”

  “See you.” She waited until he walked away then got up and left. Once more signaling for a cab, she headed home.

  She was barely through the door when a small body hurdled toward her. “You’re home. You’re home.”

  “I am.” She squeezed her young daughter and buried her face in silken hair that smelled like strawberries. “How’s my honey bear?”

  “Hungry.”

  Kendall let the small, warm body slide down her waist and legs. They joined hands and Caroline skipped into the kitchen beside her. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, hon.” He stood at the stove, a white towel wrapped around his waist, flipping burgers that hissed and popped in the skillet.

  “You shouldn’t have waited for me.” She walked over and kissed his cheek.

  “As you can see, we didn’t. Just put it back a bit and hoped.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.” She moved toward the refrigerator that hummed in the background. “I’ll get the drinks.”

  “I’m setting the table,” Caroline chimed in.

  “Such a good girl.” Caroline’s hair crackled with electricity as her mother ran her hand over it.

  “Yes, I am,” Caroline agreed.

  “And modest too.” Kendall reached for the plates and handed them to her daughter.

  “What’s modest?” Caroline carefully set the plates on the table, her tongue stuck out in concentration.

  “Someone who doesn’t toot her own horn.” Ice clinked as Kendall filled the glasses.

  “If you had a horn why wouldn’t you toot it?”

  “She’s got you there.” Her dad added cheese to the burgers.

  Kendall shook her head at her daughter’s impeccable logic.

  Chapter Three

  Kendall stepped off her big Harley and started up the steps of Logan’s townhouse. Monday had rolled around way too fast.

  She tried the door. Locked. “Damn.” She’d hoped to ditch her leather jacket and helmet before she went to the study. It didn’t go with the image she’d groomed. She was normally more cautious but she’d been so restless and edgy lately, that she’d given in to the impulse to feel the powerful bike between her legs and the wind on her face, even if it was just for the short ride to work.

  “Idiot.” It came from having a zero social life. She hadn’t been with a man since Caroline’s daddy. And now that Logan was turning those hot bedroom eyes her way, her juices were starting to flow. Well, she’d just have to find a way to tamp them down.

  He must not be up yet. Bottom line, she couldn’t wait on the porch ’til he woke up. I hope he’s still not in bed with some bimbo. She pressed the doorbell and straightened her shoulders.

  It took a few minutes before Logan opened it, his hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned and a cup of coffee in his hand. “Overslept. Sorry, I didn’t get the door unlocked before you got here.”

  She looked over his shoulder, wondering if some half-dressed groupie was behind him.

  Correctly interrupting the look, he grinned. “No company.” For the first time, he noticed the helmet she carried and the black leather jacket. One thick, winged-shaped eyebrow shot up. He craned his head and his gaze fastened on her bike. “You own a Harley, Ms. Theron? You’ve never mentioned that. Somehow it just doesn’t fit the image.”

  “It’s Mrs. Theron. Yeah, I ride.” Silently, she cursed herself, then heaved in a lungful of air. So what if he knows I ride a bike. It’s no big deal. Other than the fact it was way out of character for the sedate Mrs. Theron. Oh well, the illusion of a husband should offset it.

  “I knew there was more to you than meets the eye.” His own brightened speculatively.

  Crap. “So I ride? So what?”

  “It’s just not in keeping with a staid, demure publicist who sits with her back straight, her hands clasped and her knees locked together.”

  “So because I ride a Harley, that means I’m not supposed to be demure or have good posture?” She stepped past him and caught a whiff of m
ale musk and coffee.

  “Most women who ride motorcycles are adventurous, risktakers.”

  “Have you been researching female motorcyclists, Mr. Hunter?” She had the greatest desire to shake out her hair after wearing a helmet but was stymied by the bun.

  “I don’t need to research. That’s a no brainer. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He motioned toward the back of the house. She walked down the narrow hall into a spacious kitchen, painted sage with sparkling appliances, cherry russet cabinets and a dark granite counter top. Nice kitchen, though she doubted if he used it for more than making coffee.

  He walked over pulled out a cup, poured coffee into it and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She set her helmet on the counter for a moment, held the coffee in both hands and buried her face in it, sniffing before she took a sip. “This coffee is wonderful.”

  “New imported beans. Ready to get started?”

  “Of course.” She followed him upstairs to the study. Three walls, lined with books, gave the room a lived-in feel. Two desks sat in opposite corners. A large screen TV was mounted on the wall that wasn’t covered with floor to ceiling bookcases. It reflected her boss’s personality, male and focused. She scooted into her chair and rolled toward the desk. Sipping her coffee, she booted up the computer.

  The news was on. The local anchorman looked into the camera. “The Queen of Diamonds, who’s been quiet for several months, struck in Asheville. She walked into a local jewelry store, boldly as only the queen can, and walked out sporting a five-carat ring.”

  Logan who’d started typing, stopped and swiveled to face the television as a perky young reporter stuck a microphone under the nose of the clerk Kendall had stolen from. The clerk shook his head, his expression sorrowful. “I can’t believe she stole from us. She was so beautiful and so nice. Why she even helped me pick out a ring for my wife.”

  Admiration on his face, Logan tipped his chin and raised his eyebrows. “That is one gutsy broad.” He looked at her and teased. “I bet she rides a Harley.”

  Kendall’s pulse jumped, but she schooled her face to indifference. “I guess we’ll never know.” She felt a twinge of guilt at having conned the poor clerk. He was just a working stiff, the same as her…then she thought of why she was doing it. Her muscles stiffened along with her resolve. She’d do whatever she needed to, regardless of the number of clerks in this world she had to con.

  She changed the subject. “How much are you planning on donating to the children’s wing? The charity dance is this weekend. Do you want me to order flowers for your date?”

  “As far as the donation, prepare a check for a thousand. Flowers. I don’t know. Do you like flowers?”

  “Excuse me?” She sat the cup she’d just brought to her lips down.

  “Bambi’s got a shoot out of town. Would you go with me?”

  “I’m afraid my husband would frown on that,” she said primly about her nonexistent husband.

  “Seriously? It’s business.”

  “He’s jealous of you.”

  “Really?”

  If his expression was anything to go by, he liked the idea.

  “You have the reputation of a playboy.” With her index finger, she pressed her oversized glasses back up on her nose. “And he thinks every man who meets me immediately falls in love with me.” She gave a little self-depreciating laugh.

  “So he’s the jealous type, huh?”

  “Very.” She pulled up her emails.

  “Bring him too.”

  “What?” Her fingers slipped and she deleted an unread message.

  “Bring him too.”

  “Thank you but we’ve got plans.” She kept her voice polite, and willed her hand to be steady as she picked up her coffee cup.

  “I thought you might enjoy it. It’s one of the social events of the season.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. Maybe next year.”

  “Maybe.”

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed. She tightened her jaw and forced herself not to squirm. “What? Do I have crumbs on my face?”

  “No, color. You usually look more washed out.”

  She made a point not to wear any makeup, except a powder lighter than her normal complexion. The wind must have brought the blood to her cheeks. Either that or the talk of her supposed husband. Nothing I can do about it now.

  He turned back to his computer and his fingers were soon clicking on the keyboard.

  She started working on the several hundred emails in her box that had come in today. Most were from fans, but several were requesting book signings and speaking engagements. She worked her way through the messages, first dealing with the speaking engagements and book signings then the fan mail.

  “Will you order us some sandwiches?”

  She glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was after one.

  “Of course.” She called in an order to a deli that delivered then went back to work. Keeping up with Logan Hunter’s fan mail was a full time job.

  When the bell rang, she went downstairs, paid the delivery boy and set Logan’s sandwich and drink on his desk before sitting at her own. She continued to work on the computer while taking occasional bites of her egg salad.

  “Queenie must be a fan.”

  The statement broke her preoccupation. “Excuse me?”

  “Queenie must be a fan.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Remember Jewels of Heaven?”

  “Of course, it was a runaway bestseller.”

  “It’s the same M.O. She walks in dressed to the nines but not looking like the woman who struck before. Different hair, different style. Ten years younger or older. Totally different appearance. She must have some kind of glue on her fingers because her prints are always fuzzy, and she waltzes out with a hot rock on her finger. Ballsy.” He swiveled his chair around, his legs splayed, facing her.

  She shrugged.

  “The woman fascinates me.”

  Nerves skittered under her skin. “Why?”

  “Her audacity I guess.”

  “Is that what attracts you, audacity?”

  “My dear, Ms. Theron, are you interested in what attracts me?” He gave her the intimate smile she’d seen him turn on countless others. Still it did have a way of picking up her pulse.

  “Since I’m a married woman, no.”

  “And if you weren’t?” He leaned forward in his chair, a lazy smile on his face, waiting, like a cat at a mouse hole.

  “Mr. Hunter, I find this conversation in poor taste at best.” Her spine already locked in place, managed to stiffen more.

  “Do you, my dear Ms. Theron, and at worst?”

  “Offensive.” Her shoulders tightened but she refused to allow herself any show of discomfort.

  “Well, I certainly don’t want to offend the woman who single-handedly keeps my writing life running smoothly.”

  “Don’t you mean your agent?”

  He laughed. “Joyce is responsible for keeping me one of the best paid writers in the country,” he conceded, rubbing his chin. “But you keep me from derailing myself.”

  “I believe your accountant keeps your finances on track and handles your financial details.”

  “Details,” he latched onto the word. “That is what you handle so beautifully. But back to my original question.”

  She shook her head. “You just can’t help yourself can you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Flirting with anyone who wears a skirt.”

  “You aren’t in a skirt,” he pointed out.

  The literal response reminded her of her semantically correct daughter. “I believe you know what I mean.”

  “Working for a novelist you should show greater care in your choice of words.”

  “All right.” She splayed her fingers on her desk. “Forget the term skirt. Let me rephrase. Anyone, any woman,” she corrected hastily “who doesn’t re
spond to you in a sexual manner you see as a challenge.”

  Hoping to end the conversation, she stood, picked up her trash, and headed for the wastebasket. As she passed him, Logan rose and reached for his trash.

  They collided, body against body, heat against heat. Boxes and cups clattered to the floor. Her head jerked up. Before she could move, his lips found hers with an expertise that loosened her belly muscles then had them tightening in a hard knot of desire. She tasted sweet tea and dill, and found the combination irresistible.

  She wrapped around him wanting more, needing to feel the texture of his hot skin under her fingers, unable to get close enough to the heat. Her breath came out in a scalding rush. His hands were everywhere sending sharp currents of electricity crackling through her.

  Somehow they were on his desk and he was flipping off her glasses, still not breaking a kiss that made her brain explode and common sense fly out the window. She was dimly aware of the pins being pulled from her hair and ruthlessly flung helter-skelter as they clattered against his laptop then bounced to the floor. His grip on her firmed as he moved his lips to her neck. Scalding heat rose to the surface of her skin. His heart pounded wildly in the same mad rhythm as hers. “Perhaps, we should move this to the bedroom,” he whispered close to her ear, his breath hot, his voice raspy.

  The words shocked her back to reality.

  “Let me go.” Not waiting for him to comply she pushed him back and scrambled to her feet. For a moment they stared wild-eyed at each other. Taking a shuddering breath, she tore past him, slipping on a melting ice cube.

  He grabbed her arm to steady her. She jerked away and swore she left skin behind before she raced into the corridor and trotted down the stairs.

  “Kendall, wait.”

  She put on a burst of speed as she heard the quick clop of his loafers behind her.

  He'd nearly caught her when she reached the porch and went crashing through the door.

  "Kendall, dammit wait!"

  "Why hello, Kendall." Joyce, Logan's agent, stood on the porch, gaping as Kendall bulleted through. "Is Logan around?"

  "Inside."

  Thud.

  She glanced over her shoulder as Joyce and Logan collided in a tangle of arms and legs. Trusting they were okay, she kept going. Hopping on the bike, she jumped on the starter, revved the motor and took off. She glanced once in the rearview mirror to see Logan staring after her, and Joyce dusting off her blouse and straightening her slacks.