The Diamond Thief: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Suspense

by Annie Winters

  The Diamond Thief

  Annie Winters

  Contemporary Romance Author

  Contents

  Summary

  1. Jacob

  2. Jade

  3. Jacob

  4. Jade

  5. Jacob

  6. Jade

  7. Jacob

  8. Jade

  9. Jacob

  10. Jade

  11. Jacob

  12. Jade

  13. Jacob

  14. Jade

  15. Jacob

  16. Jade

  17. Jacob

  18. Jade

  19. Jacob

  20. Jade

  21. Jacob

  22. Jade

  23. Jacob

  24. Jade

  25. Jacob

  26. Jade

  27. Jacob

  28. Jade

  29. Jacob

  Epilogue: Jacob

  Also by Annie Winters

  About the Author

  Summary

  An experienced jewel thief spends a celebratory night with a call girl only to discover she is actually a rival thief who has stolen his largest heist of all time.

  Copyright © 2019 by Annie Winters. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  eBook version 2.0

  1

  Jacob

  The coarse fabric of the custodian uniform tears unevenly as I rip through the heavy shirt. I’m anxious for it to be gone, so I jerk it off my shoulders and toss it into a nearby bin to be collected with the other trash at dawn.

  My Berluti dress shoes ring on the pavement as I stride along the back alley behind expensive high-rises on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. With a quick yank at the seams of the uniform pants, my costume is no more. I hurl them into another bin and continue on my way.

  The satchel on my back is heavy, the mark of my success. I straighten the crisp white button-down I wore beneath the uniform and whistle lightly as I approach my street.

  A well-planned heist is the ultimate high. The preparation can be intense, but if done well, the execution of a scheme is like caressing a woman — elegant and smooth.

  Which reminds me. I’m due my usual celebratory prize.

  As I turn the corner to the block with my building, I dial the familiar number.

  “Sylvester here. How may I be of assistance?”

  “It’s H.”

  “Very good, sir. Your usual or something new?”

  “Any girls with the old specifications? Red hair, bright green eyes, about twenty-five? Maybe going by Emerald?”

  “Still haven’t seen that one. But I have many lovely women, sir.”

  “All right. Same look as last time, but a different girl.”

  “Usual address?”

  “Yes.”

  “She will be there within the hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  I kill the call, my mind already on the night ahead. I nod at the doorman to the building, carefully ensuring that my face is captured by the camera. The alarm system for the private space that once held the swords will go off in about two hours, well after I was noted to be in my apartment, and after the call to Sylvester, should it be traced.

  If the authorities are called, they will arrive at the scene of my crime while I’m in the arms of a woman who can testify, if needed, that I was quite occupied when the artifacts were stolen.

  But most likely they won’t be. The swords were already stolen goods when I took them.

  It’s a good plan. One of my best.

  I walk toward the elevator bank as if I’m headed up to my apartment. But as I hit the dead spot in the video surveillance just to the left of the water fountain, I abruptly turn and move to the emergency stairs.

  My heels ring again as I hurry down into the bowels of the building. I own much of this block, and only I have access to the hallway that connects this structure to the deli next door. Built below that modest shop is a bunker I’ve used for close to a decade, my private underground space for weapons, machinery, and the spoils of my trade that I’ve kept or still await their buyers.

  I unlock a janitor’s closet and pass between two tall stacks of sad-looking boxes, sagging and torn. Just behind them I slide my hand against the wall to type in a code and press my palm to the scanner. The seemingly empty wall slides aside to reveal a tunnel. On the other end, a separate code and scan leads to a set of descending stairs.

  Lights pop on as I travel underground, and my shoulders relax. I’m most certainly out of danger now. No one will even realize the swords are missing for hours. And by the time the fakes have been examined and falsified, another day will have passed.

  I smile to myself as I approach the bunker door with a third code and scan. A perfect heist.

  All is well inside. The bunker is sufficiently appointed to serve as a modest home if necessary, with a kitchen, living room, and alcove for a bed. I lay out the satchel on a table and remove the felt bundle.

  The fabric unrolls with a clunk of metal. Carefully tucked in individual pockets are seven partial hilts of ancient swords. Each of them contains a rare jewel surrounded by gold work and lesser stones.

  I lift the first. It is known as the Sword of Adventure, or sometimes, the Sword of the Red Hilt. It bears a ruby at its center and is rumored to have belonged to Sir Galahad before being passed on to Percivale.

  The second sword is called Seure and belonged to Sir Lancelot. An enormous sapphire designates it as his.

  The next sword, Galatine, belonged to Sir Gawaine and bears a bright emerald.

  The Sword of the Strange Hangings has a more questionable history, perhaps also being wielded by Galahad, but possibly used by King David when he killed Goliath. It is decorated with a yellow diamond the size of an almond on its hilt.

  The other three swords have no names or lineage, but based on their locations and level of preservation, plus telling engravings by the forgers, they are regarded as additional swords borne by the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table.

  Some would call them priceless.

  Nonsense. Everything has a price.

  And the buyers are still bickering. I’ve already been offered $140 million for all seven swords. That number will likely go up once I prove that I possess them.

  I roll the jeweled hilts back into their felt case and turn to the vault. Even I cannot open the door with a simple passcode, fingerprint, or retinal scan. It requires a series of actions, done in precise order, assessed by a virtual reality monitor.

  And a key.

  I love keys.

  “Begin sequence,” I say to the door and move into place.

  “Sequence in three, two, one.”

  The first is sixteen beats of a tango, followed by four turns in a quickstep. Then American Sign Language fingerspelling the name of my late mother’s lovely sister who died young. Finally, a recitation of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “Love Is Not All.”

  And only my voice will do.

  “Sequence complete,” the voice says, and the vault door light shifts from red to green.

  Even then, if you hurry and open the door too quickly, a delay in the timer will shut the door once you go in and lock you inside. No one has ever gott
en that far, but then, my success has continued to grow. One day, probably not too far off, someone will try to penetrate my bunker.

  If they ever learn it exists.

  I wait the prescribed amount of time and remove the ancient key from my breast pocket. It is made of forged iron and is rumored to have opened the gate to one of the hidden crypts of the Illuminati.

  I love items with a mysterious history.

  It slides in with a satisfying click, and the vault door swings open. I lift the collection of sword hilts and head inside the vault. My gaze falls on some of my favorite objects, those I have been reluctant to sell.

  One of my beloved prizes is a tiara worn by the great Alexandra Romanov, the last Tsarina of Russia and mother to the mysterious Anastasia. Many of her crown jewels were sold at auction in the wake of the revolution.

  I hadn’t bought this one, of course, but stole it during a fox hunt on an estate in Germany. It’s unlikely that the family there, so used to their surroundings littered with great and beautiful objects, even noticed I replaced it with a Disney princess crown.

  I also have an ancient chalice rumored to have been the favorite of King Henry the VIII. I occasionally bring it out for a cup of wine, just for kicks.

  The jeweled swords will reside inside a safe within the vault. Once they are tucked away, I head out of the vault and secure it carefully. My date for the evening will arrive soon, and I would like to be prepared for her upstairs.

  What a fine, fine evening to be alive.

  2

  Jade

  I swear the doorman gives me a knowing look as I head into the building where the text message directed me less than an hour ago.

  By the man’s disapproving expression, I assume my client for the night does this often. I pull out my phone and glance down at the text one more time. Apparently he is known only by an initial. H. I repeat it to myself so I won’t screw up. H.

  I’m amused that this is all he provides. Privacy is hard to come by these days. It’s funny that H is even trying to sustain it. Unless you’re a politician or a preacher, nobody cares if you pay for sex.

  The building is posh, though. I cross the gleaming floor to a bank of elevators. H does not live in the penthouse. Not that they usually do. But the guys who can afford Sylvester’s girls tend to have plenty of money in the bank.

  Sylvester’s escort service is wildly upscale. A night with one of his women will set a client back well into five figures. If a girl becomes a regular, there are perks. Cars. Cash. Jewelry. Perhaps I will get a bonus tonight.

  I almost laugh. Of course I will.

  I step into the elevator. It smells faintly of wildflowers. Not cloyingly so. Classy. Like they care in this building what you think about when you’re riding up to someone’s apartment. I like that.

  I glance up at the security camera inside the elevator. I wonder who’s watching. I try to always be aware of when I’m being recorded. Occupational hazard.

  The back wall of the elevator is a mirror, so I take the opportunity to make sure I fit the description I was provided.

  Long dark hair, preferably curled. Not so much hairspray that he can’t slide his fingers through it. Elegant black dress, above the knee. Stilettos as high as my shoe size will allow. And makeup that won’t rub off on the pillow, in case he wants to keep me for the night and gaze upon me in the morning.

  Good luck with that. I won’t be staying all night.

  I step out on the thirty-second floor, my heels sinking into the thick carpet of the hall.

  Beautiful gold sconces line the walls, softly illuminating the corridor. There are only two doors on this level, which indicates that the homes here are rather large. I stand in front of his, pulling myself together before I push the buzzer.

  This is an important night. I have to make everything work perfectly. Especially this first inspection. It’s the most critical element.

  I’m taken a little by surprise when the door opens before I buzz. Figures someone would know I was outside.

  I’m expecting a butler, but it’s the man himself.

  H is rather intense-looking, with penetrating blue eyes. He has a head full of hair that, like mine, per his order, you can run your hands through.

  He wears a suit, mostly—the shirt is unbuttoned and open at the throat. He smells freshly showered with an expensive cologne, lightly applied. In any other circumstance, I might have been smitten.

  He looks me over. “Perfect,” he says. “Want to come in?”

  I hold back my sigh of relief. “I think I’m expected to,” I say. “I believe that’s my job.”

  “Ah, a saucy one.”

  I can’t tell from his tone if he likes that or not.

  He leads me through a rather impressive foyer for an apartment. It’s gray and silvery, with marble floors and elegant metal side tables. Everything gleams like the housekeeper just walked out.

  The living room is completely different. Leather sofas, wallpaper, and random vases and other pieces of art are all shades of red. It’s a little unnerving, like a serial killer’s den. I turn back to look at the man, a little less certain than I was when I walked in.

  “You want something less colorful?” he asks.

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “It’s not everyone who decorates with the blood of their enemies.”

  He laughs, then catches himself, and looks me square in the face. “No one makes me laugh.”

  “Welcome to tonight’s bonus feature.” I give a small curtsy.

  He laughs again. “I like you.”

  He won’t tomorrow, but that’s not a concern at the moment. I drop my tiny black clutch on a side table. “Are you a drinking man?”

  “I am. I take it you’re a drinking girl?”

  “You got a decent whiskey in there?” I flick my eyes over to the full bar occupying one corner of the room.

  “I’m sure I can come up with something,” he says.

  I follow him over. The man walks like he’s on the prowl, tense in the shoulders, his hands almost in fists at his side. I sense that if he felt the need, he could easily break me in two.

  He makes me a little nervous, truth be told. Watching him knocks me a little off center, like maybe I have the wrong plan.

  Stay the course, I tell myself.

  He reaches for a crystal decanter filled with something amber and lifts a glass from the sidebar. “Neat? On the rocks?”

  “Neat,” I say.

  As he pours, I ask, “So what should I call you? The only thing Sylvester gave me was H.”

  He passes me the glass. “Jacob. And you go by?” he asks.

  He doesn’t even pretend I will give him my actual name.

  “Jade.”

  “I love the name Jade.”

  “Thank you, Jacob,” I say, lifting the glass. I wait for him to pour one for himself. I like that he’s drinking what I am. We will taste like each other.

  We clink our crystal together like a bride and groom at their wedding. “Cheers,” he says.

  “Cheers.”

  We sip at the same time, and his lips catch my attention. I swallow involuntarily at the sight of them and take in a bigger gulp than I intend. I cough lightly, trying to cover my gaffe. I don’t want him to think that I can’t handle my liquor.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Perfectly so.”

  I glance around the room. My eye catches something sparkly, and I walk toward it. It’s a lighted case, backed in velvet. Resting inside on a simple black pedestal is a Scandinavian nuptial tiara. My knees feel weak just gazing on it.

  “Like it?” Jacob asks.

  I sip my drink to hide my awe. “It’s lovely.”

  “Did you know some are broken down into broaches and worn casually?”

  “Are they?” God. That’s like Royal Jewels 101. But I can’t let on.

  He comes up beside me. “When governments fall, the crown jewels are often sold at auction.”

  “Like the Roma
novs.” I can’t help myself.

  His eyebrow kicks up. “Yes, like that.”

  He watches me a moment, then holds out his hand.

  I take it. He leads me onto a balcony overlooking the city. Lights twinkle both near and far as the late-night streets seem almost at rest. A lone taxi idles near the intersection.

  “Have you lived here long?” I ask.

  “A few years,” he says. “It’s quiet. Away from the bustle of Fifth Avenue.”

  “It is,” I say, not adding that it’s mainly quiet because it’s almost one in the morning.

  “Did you travel far to get here?” he asks.

  “Not overly,” I say.

  We look out on the night, seeming to be out of things to talk about already. That’s fine. I’ve already said more than I should have.

  “Shall we go inside?” he asks. He downs the rest of his drink.

  I follow suit, trying to make sure it’s clear that I can actually drink with any man.

  “Absolutely,” I say, letting my voice go husky.

  Jacob gives me a half grin, his eyes skimming my body. That’s what the voice was for. It’s the hurry up and get this show on the road voice.

  Jacob takes my glass and leaves them both on the edge of the bar as we pass by. We cross through the red room and down a dimly lit hall. Two doors are bedrooms with a Jack-and-Jill bath in between.

  One is a bathroom for guests to access from the living room. And the last room will be his. Everything is as I expected it to be. This night will go smoothly.