by LYDIA STORM
When Marguerite had snatched the Mogul Emerald from Senator Hayes’ DC townhouse, she had known it was inscribed with powerful Islamic prayers. However, it was only after the near fatal fall at the Diamond Ball that she realized just how powerful that magic was. She had worn the gem that night carefully concealed beneath her costume, hoping its fabled good luck would enable her to make off with the Hope. Instead of assisting her theft, she now credited the emerald with saving her life. As skillful as she was, she knew it was not her acrobatic genius that had kept her from smashing her bones apart on the marble Smithsonian floor. It had been some kind of supernatural intervention.
It wasn’t too hard to understand why Zagen had tried to kill her that night. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to get rid of the competition. After all, wasn’t she guilty of the same thing? Of course, she hadn’t resorted to attempted murder, but she had seen to it that a few notes were slipped under Veronica Rossmore’s door to frighten the spirits away. It wasn’t that she disliked Veronica. Quite the contrary. She had admired her ever since she spotted the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl sporting the very hot Fire of the Maharaja along with tons of costume jewelry and a trendy, punked-out mini dress at the Hippodrome, a fashionable London nightclub, ten years earlier. No one else had guessed the massive ruby was real, but Maggie’s trained eye had picked it up in an instant. That was a girl after her own heart, Maggie had thought at the time. Being territorial by nature, as her cat name implied, Marguerite had decided to stake out her claim this time around in the hope Veronica would stay away.
As it turned out, Maggie and her notes were nothing for Veronica to be afraid of compared to Dornal Zagen. Fortunately for everyone, the Austrian would never be a problem again.
“What are you thinking about now?” asked Placido peevishly, his darkly handsome face looking like a cranky schoolboy’s.
Maggie smiled. “I’m thinking that when I get you back to my apartment…,” she leaned over to whisper in his ear.
The petulant expression changed to an excited grin. Maggie thought her feisty bullfighter might be ready to charge before she even got him in a taxi. That was just fine. The dark alleys of Les Halles had witnessed the more sordid, urgent side of romance for several centuries. When it came to l’amour, nothing fazed the French.
****
Veronica, clad in a pair of worn Levis and a vintage, white lace top, trotted in with a bottle of fresh milk and warm scones that she’d picked up at the little bakery in the medieval town half a mile down the mountain. The summer breeze carried the smell of wild flowers through the open door and John turned to give her a kiss as he finished brewing coffee in the little chalet’s kitchen.
“I spoke to your father this morning,” he told her, lingering over her ripe lips.
Veronica snuggled into his arms so that the cold milk bottle pressed against his back. “Really, what did he have to say?”
“He said it looks like Dick Spencer is going to lose the election in November. He’s way down in the polls.”
“Karma,” quipped Veronica, pressing her nose against John’s neck and breathing in the fresh smell of soap. “What else did he say? Does he want me to call him back?”
John did not reply. Instead, he unwound her arms and led her out to the front steps where the clear blue sky rose up from mountains still capped with snow. Lower down, the hillsides were covered in a riot of white Edelweiss, purple Gentians, and maroon Lady’s Slippers with bees buzzing good-naturedly around and clean fresh streams gushing icy water along their slopes. It was the most magnificent view he had ever seen, but it couldn’t quite compare to the beauty of Veronica’s face smiling up at him with open, trusting eyes. It had taken a while for John to win that trust. Slowly, he had seen the change come over her during the months they had ensconced themselves in their alpine Shangri-La.
Every evening they lit a fire and, one by one, revealed their secrets, their stories and deepest scars. Finally, one night, there was nothing left but the love that had grown up between them and he knew it was time. With no more secrets to keep, maybe love could finally work.
John inhaled a deep breath of fresh mountain air and took the plunge. “I’ve had an interesting day today.”
Veronica nestled in closer, “Really?”
“I called Simon and had a little chat with him. Then, after that, I called my mom and had a little chat with her, and then I called your father because, I had to ask him…,” and John, still gripping her hand in his, sank down onto one knee, “I wanted to ask him for permission to ask you to marry me.”
Veronica, the ice princess, gasped, covered her face with one trembling hand and started sobbing.
“Oh wait, wait before you answer,” he slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out a very small diamond ring. It was less than a carat, but it had a pretty antique setting. “This, I can promise you, is not hot. It belonged to my grandmother. I had to explain to my poor mother how to FedEx it to me last week. It’s not the Hope…”
Before he could finish, she had taken the ring and slipped it on her finger. Though her cheeks glistened with tears, he had never seen her smile so bright.
“Johnnie, this is one diamond I’m never going to let slip through my fingers!” and she collapsed into his arms, sending them both rolling across the dew-covered grass in a kiss that felt like it might just last forever.
A word about the author…
Lydia Storm was raised in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village and went on to receive her Bachelor of Arts from Vassar College in Dramatic Writing.
Currently, she resides in Saratoga Springs, NY, and is the author of two produced screenplays: “Desperate But Not Serious” and “Embrace of the Vampire.” “Moonlight on Diamonds,” which finaled in The Heart of the West Writer’s Contest, is her first novel.
Lydia would love to hear from her readers at [email protected].
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