by Colt, Elodie
Contents
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Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Nathan
Chapter 2 - Ella
Chapter 3 - Ella
Chapter 4 - Ella
Chapter 5 - Nathan
Chapter 6 - Ella
Chapter 7 - Ella
Chapter 8 - Nathan
Chapter 9 - Ella
Chapter 10 - Ella
Chapter 11 - Nathan
Chapter 12 - Ella
Chapter 13 - Ella
Chapter 14 - Ella
Chapter 15 - Nathan
Chapter 16 - Nathan
Chapter 17 - Nathan
Chapter 18 - Ella
Chapter 19 - Ella
Chapter 20 - Ella
Chapter 21 - Nathan
Chapter 22 - Nathan
Chapter 23 - Ella
Chapter 24 - Nathan
Chapter 25 - Ella
Chapter 26 - Nathan
Chapter 27 - Nathan
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Elodie Colt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Warning:
This book contains explicit sexual content and harsh language.
Recommended age: 18+
Cover Design: Michele Catalano
Editing: Rainy Kaye
Formatting & Editorial Design: Elodie Colt
To NYT bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton, my mentor and friend who pushed me into writing that series.
It’s just a nook.
A square recess cut out of the wall, padded with velvet like everything else in this fancy office.
But it is also the sixth nook. And if there’s one number that has haunted me from the day I was born, it’s the fucking number six.
That nook mocks me every time I step into this room of squeaky leather and shiny glass and sparkling accessories. A tiny hole in this pretty art niche that insults me every day I sit at my father’s neat designer desk. And every day, I stand right here staring into this fucking little nook behind the safety glass as if it held all the answers.
So far, it only gave me a shit-ton of questions.
But only one of these questions matters.
Why the hell is it empty?
Standing in front of the nook, I stuff one hand into my suit pocket and twirl the pendant around my neck with my fingers.
This section of the wall draws your eye as soon as you enter the office. Vincent’s personal shrine. He liked to show off his shiny possessions every chance he got.
A pity the only shiny thing he’s seen for the last decade are the iron bars in his cell.
Seriously, no client gives a shit about the priceless view at the Manhattan skyline up here from the twenty-second floor. No employee gives a shit about the amazing sunsets throwing streaks of red through the floor-to-ceiling window panes on either side. No one gives a shit about the rare paintings on the walls or the crystal figurines on the file cabinets.
Everyone stops right here, drooling over the junks of rocks and ounces of gold strategically positioned at eye level opposite the entrance door.
I swerve my gaze from left to right, scrubbing a hand over my jaw and studying the six identical nooks neatly embedded in the dark, gleaming wooden panel.
Nook number one—Cartier.
An onyx amulet framed with 24-karat pink gold. It’s a simple piece barely the size of a penny but still worth eight thousand dollars.
Nook number two—Tiffany.
A five-row bracelet with a 22-carat brilliant-cut diamond. VS1 clarity, to be exact, which stands for ‘very small inclusions.’ This high-quality item is worth twenty-five thousand dollars. Too extravagant in my opinion, but what can I say? Women get off on that shit.
Yeah, I can read your thoughts. Twenty-five thousand for that? That’s insane!
Not in my business, trust me. For my clientele, a bracelet from Tiffany is like a cheap piece from Claire’s—a nice-to-have but not enough to leave an impression. Not enough to play in the league of the rich and famous.
I let out a sigh, my eyes darting over to nook number three—Piaget.
This is one of my favorites. An 18-karat yellow gold watch emblazoned with a dozen diamonds and lapis lazuli from 1980, designed as a skeletonized chronograph with so many gears, it makes you dizzy. Its value is about thirty thousand dollars. A ridiculous amount of money for most, but still nothing near what we’d classify as ‘upscale.’
Nook number four—Bvlgari.
Ostentatious doesn’t even begin to describe the white gold diamond necklace from the famous Serpenti collection. The 49-carat piece was sold at Sotheby’s for a shocking two hundred thousand dollars. Needless to say, that choker is worth twice as much as my BMW. High-end, you think? Far from it, but we’re getting there.
Nook number five—Harry Winston.
Here sits every girl’s dream in a pair of Colombian, drop-shaped emeralds of 24 carat. An excellent match pair rating, according to the American Gemological Laboratories. You could buy yourself a nice piece of land and a house with the ear clips alone. Estimates lie between 1.8 and 2 million, but I bet I could sell them for more. The two gems are a perfect match, and the emeralds are greener than the shores of Honolulu.
And last, ladies and gentlemen…
Drum-roll for nook number six—
Empty.
Nothing but midnight blue velvet collecting dust under the spotlight. Nothing but a faint memory of Vincent’s most valuable possession.
The pervasive scent of varnish becomes more prominent as I lean in closer, a strand of mocha-brown hair flopping over my eyebrow. There’s still a little round indent in the cushioned pad where the rare piece sat on its throne all those years ago. It’s as if that nook is waiting for its gem to return and take over its rightful place.
Just as I am.
Who stole it? Where the fuck did it go?
The ring went missing a few days before they hauled Vincent off to spend the next decade and a half in a cell that’s maybe a tenth of what was once his office here.
But hey, how am I supposed to know? I did a good job showing him the middle finger and not gracing him with the sight of my handsome face for the last fourteen years. My brother paid him occasional visits and put him through the wringer. He says Vincent has no clue what happened with the ring, but I wouldn’t take his words for granted. I stopped trusting my so-called father the moment he chose to cross all moral lines. He can rot in his cell, for all I care.
My gaze flickers over to the golden nameplate with its laser-engraved letters on my desk as I continue to rotate the pendant around my finger.
Vincent Crawford.
The name alone makes journalists click their pens and thieves bow their heads. Frankly, it only makes me think about choking him with his precious stones when the state makes him a free man again.
I glance at the antique letter opener lying on the desk. Maybe I should put it to use and carve my own name into that fucking plate. After all, I’m the reason the company is still in the top five of the world’s most successful j
ewel galleries. If it weren’t for me, Crawford Crescent would be nothing more than a fading headline on the front page of the New York Times. And I’d bet Harry Winston’s emeralds in nook number five that Vincent stole that letter opener from a lawyer’s office or something...
“Still trying to solve the Crawford family mystery?”
I jolt my gaze away from the desk as my brother waltzes into my office with a smirk on his face. His polished shoes click on the hardwood as he crosses the room to halt next to me.
“Just appreciating the view.” I nod to the backdrop of the city, the skyscrapers reflecting the afternoon sun like a multi-faceted diamond. The perfect weather to go for a run and enjoy the last summer days.
Or to ramble in my office and beat myself up about my shitty life.
Nick chuckles, raking his hand through his black hair and slicking it back. You can’t deny he’s his father’s son. Vincent wore his hair exactly the same, but I doubt it’s still as black as it was fourteen years ago.
Nick flashes a glance at the open laptop on my desk. “You watched the recordings again, didn’t you?”
I just click my tongue in response. Of course, I did. I watched that recording more times than Brooke watched soap operas, and I’m still not any wiser about who stole the ring from nook number six.
Nick scratches his sideburns, and my eyes latch onto the engagement ring on his finger. Well, at least one of us is wearing a jewel that means more than the number of zeroes on the price tag.
“You know who took it,” Nick grunts as he ambles over to the gargantuan, L-shaped sofa in the corner. Folding his frame onto the black leather, he loosens his tie and stretches both arms over the back.
I tear my gaze away from the nook. “It wasn’t Aiko.”
“Your ex-wife was a gold-digger,” Nick counters with a scoff.
And a cheater, I add mentally as my gaze flicks to a picture on the shelf, one of Aiko and me.
“Exactly.” I perch against my desk, adjusting the sleeves of my navy blue Armani suit. “Aiko only ever desired diamonds. There are more valuable gems in this office than the one that was embedded in that ring.”
And that gem was a perfectly cut alexandrite—a rare stone with unusual light absorbing abilities. It was Vincent’s favorite.
“She hated Dad,” he says with a shrug. “She knew he loved that ring. And she wasn’t as stupid as to try and steal from the gallery.”
True. Vincent shelled out a fortune for the gallery’s security system. You can’t even take a piss without a camera or motion sensor tracking your every move.
“Remember the fight you had when she asked Dad for that promotion?” he goes on.
Oh, I remember. Aiko had been Brooke’s assistant for a few months, but she wasn’t happy with her job. Vincent declined when she asked for a promotion, and she was pissed that I didn’t support her cause.
“Maybe she wanted payback for you, too,” he muses, smacking his lips. “She took something from the sixth nook. Not the fourth, not the fifth. The sixth.”
I scratch the back of my neck, then push to my feet and pace the room.
“You don’t have many weaknesses, Nathan,” Nick says. “You love your job, and you love the shiny things, but you never craved them. Not like Dad did. One or two diamonds missing from your gallery would have been a mere inconvenience for you, but playing with your unlucky number…”
He lets the sentence linger in the air as I heave a heavy sigh.
Yes, Aiko knew how fate cursed me with the number six. I wonder if that’s why she fucked her client on our six-month wedding day.
“No one broke into this office, Nathan,” he continues. “We watched the recordings a hundred times. The NYPD turned the entire building upside down. They frisked everyone who set foot in here. Every client, every employee, every cleaner. Aiko was the only one with a motive.”
I walk over to the bar in the corner and open a bottle of Single Malt to fill a glass. Our marriage was a ruse from the beginning. The day I tied the knot with Aiko, she vowed to love the company, not me. I was just too blind to see it.
“Nathan,” Nick says with a hint of warning.
“Relax. It’s just one drink,” I say, watching the amber liquid swirling in the glass.
Nick has always looked up to me. Respected me and loved me even though I was the more successful brother. Covered for me when Brooke raked me over the coals. Rooted for me even when it became clear that he got the raw deal because Vincent favored me.
What kind of father shows his adopted son more love than his biological one?
“Do you already have a date for your wedding?” I ask to steer the conversation to safer ground—away from the epic clusterfuck that is our family.
Nick heaves a sigh. “I promised Mom to wait.”
To wait until Daddy dearest comes out of prison so he can see that his son found a beautiful wife.
And who can blame Brooke for wanting only the best for Nick? Blood is thicker than water. He’s her biological son, soon getting a degree in history of arts, marrying a talented jewelry designer, and becoming Crawford Crescent’s gallery manager.
There’s a knock on the door followed by the confident click of heels. I’d recognize the staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor anywhere.
Enter Brooke Crawford.
Glamorous and flamboyant as usual in a macaroon white, body-hugging Ralph Lauren dress that hits just below the knee. The 18-karat gold Cartier piece around her neck compliments her wheat blonde, shoulder-long hair. Fifty plus, and she still looks like a woman in her late thirties. Yeah, she’s flawless on the outside but scarred on the inside…
Huh, could be our next family slogan.
“Nathan,” she says in her signature friendly but distant tone, her smoky gray eyes locking on me. You’d think I got my eye color from her but alas, we don’t share the same bloodline. “The brochure for the upcoming Russian exhibition is ready. Let me know if you want to change anything before we go into print.”
Flicking her wrist, she presses a brochure into my hands, and I set down my drink.
“Thanks, Brooke. I’ll have a look at it.”
Her lips flatline, and I don’t miss Nick’s gaze ping-ponging between us. I stopped calling her Mom the day the shackles clicked around Vincent’s wrists. Needless to say, it was the same day I stopped calling him Dad. Two more reasons for Brooke to regret my adoption, I suppose.
Nick rises to his feet, and she turns to him, her face brightening with a smile.
“Hugo Boss suits you, my boy,” she says in a silky voice, her eyes raking over his fancy three-piece in black.
Nick grins. “Thanks, Mom.”
“By the way, Janice’ bracelet designs for the new contemporary collection are amazing,” she gushes. “Your fiancée really has an eye for the detail.”
“She’ll be happy to hear that,” Nick replies with a nod while I flip through the brochure.
There was a time when Janice Lane—soon to be Janice Crawford—was nothing more than a cockroach Brooke wanted to crush with her Louboutin’s. No degree. No status. No name to wear as a crown.
Aiko had it all.
Except for a backbone.
A tentative knock on the door resounds before a girl with a too-tight ponytail steps in.
“Mr. Crawford,” Brooke’s assistant, Valerie, directs at me, rubbing her hands down her cheap business skirt. “Excuse me, but Mr. Kelly is downstairs, asking for a few minutes of your time.”
“Carl?” Brooke asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, Mrs. Crawford.”
“I’ll squeeze him in,” I say. “My call with France won’t start before six. You can send him up.”
“I’ll go get him,” Brooke says with a hand on my shoulder. “Valerie, I want the financial report from the Celtic Art exhibition on my desk by the end of the day. And we still need to finish the press release for the fashion website. Get back to work.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crawford,” Valerie mum
bles with a stiff nod and then scoots off with Brooke on her heels.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, I turn to Nick with a smirk. “How about a bet?”
He arcs an eyebrow. “Five hundred bucks that Carl is looking for an engagement ring.”
“No way. He just filed for his third divorce a few months ago.” He brushes a finger over his clean-shaven chin. “Alright, I’m in. Five hundred bucks that he’s looking for a watch from the latest Chopard collection.”
“Done.”
We shake hands to seal the deal, and Nick clears out.
A minute later, Brooke opens the door to lead a man in his mid-fifties inside, his groomed, gray hair matching his silk suit.
Carl Kelly is one of our most loyal clients. A notorious playboy, passionate jewelry collector, and the owner of eNtimacy—the world’s most successful online dating agency. Every year, his name lands on Forbes’ list of wealthiest billionaires, but the nine figures on his bank account didn’t change his easy-going attitude.
In fact, Carl is one of the most modest people I’ve ever met. Never bragging, never causing a scandal, never showing his face in public. His company’s reputation lies in the hands of a nerdy PR manager with frizzy Mark Zuckerberg locks and shabby Steve Jobs sweaters.
His handsome face lights up with a smile when he steps into my office. Pulling his hand from his suit pocket, he offers me a handshake.
“Carl, my friend,” I greet him. “You haven’t aged a day.”
He utters a throaty chuckle. “Always the charmer, just like your father. It’s good to see you, Nathan.”
He pulls me in for a man-hug and gives my shoulder a firm clasp. Brooke waits patiently until we break apart, hands folded in front of her.
“Can I get you any refreshments, Carl?” she asks, smiling. “Coffee? Tea?”
“No, beautiful. I’m good,” he answers in a polite tone.
Brooke sends him a flirtatious wink. “I’ll leave you to your business then.”
As graceful as a ballerina, she turns on her heels, and I don’t miss Carl’s gaze lingering on her behind as she floats from the office. I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my grin. Carl had the hots for the Crawford queen ever since he first laid eyes on her. A pity she’s still in love with a man counting his days in a prison cell.