by Erica Orloff
“Jack…” he said hoarsely. “It’s true.”
Jack stood and embraced him, fiercely, overcome with uncharacteristic emotion. The two of them stood there for several long minutes. Then everyone sat down and Madison said, “Troy, what’s going on?”
Troy and William smiled, while her fatherperhaps for the first time in his lifelooked understandably shaken.
“Well…while you were laid up, Madison, we went through Bing’s and Katherine’s apartments with fine-tooth combs. But even before that, something was…well, as the expression goes, ‘sticking in my craw.’ Remember how Katherine, when confronted, pretty much admitted everything?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well…one thing she wouldn’t admit, didn’t admit, was her father’s guilt in the murder. She said he had kidnapped the baby, but the child was supposed to go to his nursemaid who loved him like a son.”
“I assumed it was a woman who refused to believe her father was capable of the ultimate evil.”
Troy shook his head. “I don’t know. It seemed like more than that to me. So I started digging. And digging. Madison, Jack…I am telling you that I never worked so hard on anything in my life. Dead ends, false leads…but eventually, I found him. With my boss,” he looked at Madison meaningfully, “pulling some strings.”
Troy looked over at the man next to him.
“Are you…sure?” Jack asked hesitantly.
“Yes. Despite him being a dead ringer, we ran some DNA tests using Madison’s blood from the hospital. He’s your brother.”
Jack covered his mouth with his hand and started weeping. “I’m sorry…this isn’t like me. It’s just that…”
“I know,” Troy said calmly. “It’s a little overwhelming. I’ll let William tell you what he knows.”
William cleared his throat and fiddled with his linen napkin. “I was too young to remember anything, of course. I only knew that my mother loved me dearlymy adoptive mother. My nursemaid did take me in, but whether from fear or guilt, after just a month or two, she allowed me to be adopted by a wonderful familya college professor and his wife in Vermont. Lovely people, who had no idea who I was or where I was from. The adoption was handled privately. The nursemaid had a fake birth certificate claiming I was hers. She said she was a single mother whose parents disowned her and she felt I would be better off with two parents.”
“And you had no idea?”
“None. I knew I was adopted. Mom told me when I was seven. They never had any more children, and to be honest, they doted on me so much that I didn’t feel like I was overly curious. When my father passed awayI idolized him, such a wonderful man, so revered at the University of Vermont, taught historyI started thinking about it some more. My mother and I tried to find my birth mother. But some things didn’t add up. The birth certificate, we discovered early on, was fake. So it seemed like we were at a dead end. I just…let it be. I assumed it was just the way it was.”
“Then, when I showed up,” Troy said, “it all fit together.”
Madison and Jack began peppering William with questions. Was he married? Did Madison have cousins? Was his childhood happy? What did he do for a living?
Madison was delighted to discover her uncle was a professor at New York Universityin the history department like his father before him. He specialized in the history of Europe in the twentieth century. He had, he said, a very happy life, other than occasionally looking at the starry sky and asking those big questions, like who am I and where did I come from?
His wife was also a professorshe taught English, and specialized in medieval literature and Chaucer. He had a daughter Madison’s age who was a schoolteacher like John, and a daughter three years older than Madison who was a stay-at-home mother of a little boy.
“What do they think of all this?” Madison asked.
“They’re so grateful I’m at least getting the opportunity to meet…you all.”
Then he looked down, suddenly somber.
“What?” Jack asked. “We didn’t scare you off with all our questions, did we?”
“No…I just…well, it’s important to me that you know I’m not interested in the Pruitt fortune. Money’s not important to me. I just wanted the opportunity to know where I came from. Honestly.”
Madison’s father waved his hands. “Look, William, after all I’ve been through watching Madison in that hospital bed…I’m determined that we build a relationship. I’m still stunned. Still…overwhelmed, frankly. But I’m also telling you that your daughters will want for nothing in life. Your grandson will have a trust. They can do nothing with the money, or they can donate it, or they can enjoy the good life for a while. You and your wife can continue teaching…or she can go to England and spend the rest of her life haunting medieval monasteries researching old manuscripts. The money is yours. It’s your birthright. But we’ll let the lawyers figure all that out. For tonight” he raised his glass “we celebrate.”
Madison, John, Troy, William and Jack all lifted their water glasses or wineglasses and clinked.
Madison looked around the table. Pruitt-family secrets very nearly killed her.
But now…now she believed that Pruitt-family secrets just may have opened up a whole new world to her.
One she couldn’t wait to start exploring. She couldn’t believe the twists and turns her life had taken recently. As her father and William tried to catch up on lost years, Madison’s cell phone chimed. She kissed John on the cheek and excused herself to take the call in the hotel lobby.
“Madison?”
“Renee?”
“Do you like your surprise?”
“I don’t even know what to say. I can’t believe it.”
“The Governess pushed hard to find him. Sheand Iare delighted with your hard work and this was one way to say thank you. You’re an asset to the organization and we’ll use your skills again, you can be sure. Until the Duke is locked away, the Roses aren’t safe.”
“Count me in. Only next time I could do without the gunshot wound,” Madison said wryly.
“Ah, that Type A personality. Somehow, Madison, I knew you’d want to work with us again.”
“Never challenge a Pruitt. We don’t like to lose.”
“And neither do the Roses. Take care, Madison. Go enjoy your dinner.”
Madison said goodbye and closed her cell phone. Renee was New York City’s keeper of secrets, and Madison was certain of one thing: the Dukeand anyone on the wrong side of the lawhad better not underestimate the power of the Roses.
Turn the page for an exclusive excerpt from the next book
in the exciting THE IT GIRLS miniseries from Silhouette Bombshell.
FLAWLESS
by Michele Hauf
On sale October 2005
at your favorite retail outlet.
Chapter 1
LondonScotland Yard
Green and crimson fire escaped myriad facets of the diamond. Cut in the asscher stylea stepped square cut with cropped cornerseach slight tilt or turn of the jeweler’s tweezers released another scintillating wink of color. Even beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of Scotland Yard’s interrogation room, the rock put on a show.
There must be a flaw. Nothing in this world was perfect.
At the back of her thoughts Becca Whitmore heard whistling. Symphony No. 8 in B minor? That one of the Scotland Yard inspectors would cruise down the hallway whistling Schubert made her smile. Someone must have stepped out on the town last night for a bit of culture.
“Miss Whitmore, I am told?”
Thoroughly startled by the male voice, Becca dropped the diamond. It clinked onto the Formica table and then jumped onto the creased ultrawhite card she always used to lay out gemstones.
A whistle acknowledged her jumpiness. “Sorry,” the man offered. “Will dropping it damage the thing?”
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Becca resumed her composure. “No.”
Why then had she been so ju
mpy about dropping the gem? It was too early, and she was still on New York time, which should find her snuggled in bed.
“Diamond is one of the hardest substances found in nature, Mr….”
“Agent Dane.”
A slender, six-foot-tall advertisement for laid-back leaned in the doorway to the interrogation room, wearing a presumptuous smile and a pale blue turtleneck sweater. Tufted blond hair warred for one direction on his scalp, and lost. Right hand cocked at his hip flared back a black tailored suit coat to reveal sculpted pecs beneath the snug sweater. The Brits had a thing for close-to-body tailoring, as if they still clung to the 60s-era style.
Swank, Becca thought.
He tugged out a leather badge wallet from inside his coat pocket and flashed it quickly. “Agent Aston Dane. MI-6.”
The wallet snapped shut as Becca stood and offered her hand. “Becca Whitmore.”
Grasping her hand with both of his, he pumped twice. A simple band circled his right thumb. Silver? Cool, relaxed. Thumb? Open. She had a knack for judging a person by the jewelry they wore. Men, most particularly, offered intriguing analysis merely for the subtleties their choices uncovered.
“Nice to meet you. Could I see that badge again?”
Still holding her hand, Dane winked. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
Becca tugged her hand from his grip. A lift of her eyebrow challenged. “I don’t need a little slice of plastic to prove my credentials.”
“Oh? And yet, who the bloody hell is Becca Whitmore?”
“I’m the gemologist.”
“Ah! Yes, the expert in gems imported from the good old US of A. I was told an American was making the trek. From the JAG?”
He referred to the FBI’s Jewelry and Gem program. They only worked thefts in the United States, and so had handed the case on to the CIA. The CIA had been the one to contact Becca’s superior, Renee Dalton-Sinclair.
This case had begun in New York, but had quickly gone international with today’s theft in London.
Yesterday’s attempted theft involved a request for a very specific ten-carat diamondthe very diamond sitting on the white card, Becca presumed. The New York gems dealer had told the thief she’d sold the stone, and then he’d shot her in the head.
The victim? One MaryEllen Sommerfield. Becca knew the woman from the occasional purchase or meeting at a gems convention. MaryEllen was still alive, a bullet lodged in her frontal lobe as if a ticking time bomb. Surprisingly, she remained coherent, and had been able to give the details to the questioning officers.
She’d also told the officers she’d sold one ten-carat stone to a London jeweler who had plans to create a necklace for a Transylvanian countess, and another to a Paris dealer. Had the thief been aware there were two stones? He hadn’t made such knowledge apparent to MaryEllen.
Becca’s cover was more than a story; she actually was a gemologist. But she was so much more. Recruited into the Gotham Roses four years earlier by Renee Dalton-Sinclair, Becca served as an agent in an undercover operation that concentrated on crimes committed by the rich and untouchable. Those “good ole boys” who lived above the law and could get by with nearly anythingyes, even murdermerely by flashing their cash or the incredible power of political connections.
On the surface, the Roses were made up of young socialites who focused on charity and giving back to the community. Nary a crime fighter in the bunch. Hardly the sort the criminals would expect to come beating a path in their wake.
Less than two dozen of those exceptional young women were aware of and worked for the covert branch of the Gotham Roses, which cooperated with the CIA, FBI and other crime-fighting agencies.
Fate had placed Becca in the path of a fleeing purse snatcher several years earlier. Reacting to instincts she’d never known she possessed, she’d swung her Fendi bag, catching the thief in the face and laying him out flat. Renee Dalton-Sinclair had witnessed this scene from the back seat of her limo.
Renee Dalton-Sinclair was a gorgeous and powerful woman married to Preston Sinclair, a noted businessman who had been incarcerated for embezzlement. The scandal had been the motivating force behind Renee’s creating the Gotham Roses. Renee answered to a mysterious woman the Roses knew only as the Governess. Becca often wondered if she were CIA or FBI, or someone higher.
No matter, the Governess had made it clear she wanted intel on this caseand hard evidence. Suspicions from unnamed sources suggested there was something different about these two diamonds.
What had Agent Dane asked? Ah, was she with JAG.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my orders,” she finally said. The usual excuse. Scotland Yard knew the CIA had sent her here. “You said you’re with MI-6?”
“We’re the obvious match for this case” His pause ended in a forced smile. He smoothed his palm down the front of his thin blue sweater. Summoning the truth or concocting a lie? It was the kind of pause Becca was familiar with, and used herself, when needed.
“So what makes you believe this case is organized crime?”
Agent Dane stepped backward and slapped a hand over the wall next to a large picture window. The expanse of glass changed from a light-blocking white to reveal it was actually a two-way window.
“Exhibit A,” he offered, crossing his arms and ankles to pose beside the scene.
Inside the room sat a thin man in black sweats. Blood trickled down his stubble-darkened jaw. A vivid purple bruise marred the left side of his forehead. Hands secured behind his back, his head hung, and his shaved scalp revealed a scar that curved around his ear.
“Is that the thief?”
“You’d bloody better believe it. Picked him up as a lovely bonus prize along with the diamond. Sergei the Dog, a middle-tier thief.”
“Middle-tier?”
“Sure. You’ve got your scummy low-class blokes who do smash-and-grabs and tilt over little old ladies on street corners.” He ticked off his fingers as he explained. “You’ve got your upper tiers who do exquisitely planned heists. And then there’s the middle, who are basically all the rest. They work in groups or are hired by the big blokes who haven’t the time or motivation to delegate the upper-tier heists.”
“I see.”
“Good on you, Miss Whitmore. I like a woman who picks up the ball without fumbling. There’s also a notation on Sergei’s record that he’s snitched for the SVR. Er, that’s the”
“I know what the SVR is.”
“Stupid Violent Russians.”
Becca compressed her lips and crossed her arms. “What is it about the Russians you don’t like?”
“Besides the Cold War?” He shrugged. “It’s a joke. You know, humor?” He sighed and punched a fist into his opposite palm. “Tough room. SVR, Russian intelligence,” he said. “But isn’t that an oxymoron? Russian. Intelligent?”
Despite her reservations, Becca had to smile at that one. Ah, hell, she let out a chuckle.
“Whew. The room is finally starting to warm up.” Dane’s smile was easy and it piqued Becca’s attention. Yes, definitely an open man. Direct opposition to her need to keep things close. “So the CIA has flown you all the way over to London for that pretty little rock?”
Nodding and exhaling a sigh, she said, “Don’t remind me of the flight.”
“Don’t like to fly in airplanes?”
“I fly well enough, it’s over water that makes me, mmm” she tilted her palm up and down “nervous.”
“Hydrophobic?”
“Yes.” And, far too much information to reveal to a perfect stranger.
He gestured to the diamond. “A nice piece. Ten carats, I believe. Snatched earlier this morning from a gems dealer over in Liverpool. But I don’t understand why the entire store was not ransacked. There were other gems of equal size, yet this bit of sparkle was the only thing taken.”
“It is curious nothing else was stolen,” she agreed. “There was no sign of forced break-in at the New York store. The dealer said the t
hief specifically asked for this stone. As if he knew she had it. And yet, she had only purchased it five days earlier.”
Picking up the diamond, she redirected her focus. Hefty. Solid. The asscher-cut was rather ugly. Herself, she preferred the classic round brilliant-cut stones.
Either way, it was an extraordinary showpiece. A stone this size would likely be utilized as the key setting in a necklace or brooch. Only the wealthiest of wealthy could touch such a fine piece, a social set with which she was familiar.
What troubled Becca was that someone had tried to kill for this diamond. Murder didn’t seem necessary. Had the London theft been foiled by the arrival of Scotland Yard? No time for murder? Or had the thief’s MO changed? Was this even the same thief who had struck in New York? Or had that man alerted another in his gang to the sale?
If it was organized crime, as Agent Dane had alluded, the scenario seemed likely.
She fished out a disk light from her valise. It was a little larger than a quarter; a snappy little device Alan Burke had designed for her. A squeeze of the rubber case produced UV light on one side and white light on the other side. Alan was the gadget guru for the Gotham Roses, who operated out of the brownstone on Sixty-eighthAvenue. Alan never met a challenge he couldn’t fill or a foreign movie he didn’t like.
Leaning over the table to block some of the unnatural overhead light, Becca beamed the ultraviolet light across the diamond. As expected, the diamond fluoresced. But wow, it fluoresced…pink! Most diamonds fluoresced blue, and fluorescence wasn’t necessarily favorable when pricing a stone. More fluorescence tended to make the diamond murky, sometimes oily in color when viewed in natural daylight. As an attribute it was prized only if the fluorescence cut the yellow in the stone to produce a blue-white color.
But this stone wasn’t yellow; in fact, it was quite clear.
“That’s odd.” Flipping the light disk to white light, Becca then tilted the diamond to redirect the blocks of prismatic color beamed across the white card. There was something…