Chapter 3
I Still Think About You
Gemma
DISBELIEF WASHES THROUGH me from head to toe.
As I run in his direction with my heart in my throat, I consider screaming for security to help him, but I know they won’t. They’re hunting him. They want to hurt him. Maybe even kill him.
He is dangerous.
A myriad of voices yell from a distance. “The intruder went this way, hurry, over here, that way.”
Their tones are sharp, harsh, cold.
Panic explodes in my veins. I’m just about to switch direction when I see his fingers grasping the ledge, holding onto it for dear life. The voices grow louder; I can’t help him. Not physically anyway. The only thing I can do is to start running away from him instead of toward him.
Lead them away.
Maybe I can cause a distraction.
What am I thinking?
I should notify security that I know exactly where he is.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Within moments, the six-man security team surrounds me. Even quicker all guns are pointed right at me. “Freeze!”
Feeling uneasy and very unsafe, I slowly raise my hands. My heart pounds wildly in my chest with fear.
The man hanging from the cliff might be dangerous, but something tells me these men are even more so. “I’m not a threat. I’m from the museum,” I tell them. “Remember?”
They stare at me without an ounce of recognition.
“I was the woman in the car. You all saw me there not even thirty minutes ago.”
They’re like robots set upon a task. I could be their sister, and they’d still be doing what they’ve been told to do.
I step forward, and they put pressure on the triggers of their weapons. Nervousness overtakes me in a single bound. They could kill me right here.
I clench and unclench my fists, blood whooshing in my ears like a roar. This is not the way I saw the evening going. I open my mouth to try to convince them I am who I say I am, but I’m cut off.
“Lower your weapons,” a thick Spanish accent directs in the harshest of tones, and just like that they do.
I jerk my head around.
The man walking my way is tall, but not as tall as the man who just slipped away. He’s lean, but more in a thin way. A runner perhaps. He too is good looking—handsome, actually. His hair is an inky jet black and perfectly styled to look messy. He is clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, and wearing a very expensive suit. Custom-made is my guess.
Distinguished.
Wealthy.
A tycoon.
A king.
His walk oozes confidence and control. It’s in the way he strides, the way he speaks, and the way he commands attention.
All you have to do is look at him to know he’s a man of distinguishment, of great wealth.
It’s crazy how the closer he gets, the more still the air becomes. Everyone is afraid to move in his presence, including myself.
He stops before me and smiles. His dark eyes appraise me like I’m a piece of art. He’s a wolf. A lion. A predator of the most vicious nature.
It’s unnerving, and I cross my arms over my chest as a way to protect myself, to shield myself from becoming his prey.
“Gemma Hart,” he finally says, almost tsking it.
“How, how . . . do you know my name?” I sputter to the Latin man before me.
A strange kind of amusement dances across his lips. “I make it my business to know the face and name of every single person who sets foot on my property.”
I swallow, a strange, uneasy feeling coursing through me. He’s not a king—he’s something darker—he’s a tyrant, a regent, a baron.
He averts his eyes and raises his hand. The large blue stone in his ring sparkles in the moonlight as he circles his finger. Then, just like that, at his silent command, the security team scatters. “Oh, and Smith,” he calls.
“Yes sir,” answers someone who is already a fair distance from us.
The man before me cocks his head to the side. “Cancel the event and find the perpetrator, now.”
Anger and frustration rip through me. I want to shout, “No, your perpetrator is right here! Don’t cancel,” but then I steal a sideways glance and silence myself.
From where I stand, I can see long fingers clinging to the rocks, clinging to life. My heart gallops out of my chest.
Perhaps he’s good.
Perhaps he’s not.
Since I can’t be certain, I find myself saying nothing.
Stupid, stupid, girl.
I know if I reveal his location, something bad will happen to him. What? I don’t know for certain, and honestly, I don’t want to know, either.
I quickly jerk my gaze toward the man who is without a doubt Enrique Cruz.
I’ve researched this man. I know everything public there is to learn about him. At thirty-one, he’s only seven years older than me, but the air of sophistication his presence holds makes me feel like a child.
The man has a wife and two young children, and that also makes him seem older than he is. The idea of having a family seems so far out of my reach. That entails love and a stable relationship, neither of which I have time for. I have a career to build. A family to help out of bankruptcy. A name to make for myself.
Mr. Cruz stares at me for a long moment, as if waiting for me to balk, to argue, to stamp my feet and have a fit.
I know better.
He is not a man who will stand for anything but obedience.
Under these circumstances, I should be scared for myself, and yet, all I can think about is the other man. The one hanging on to the edge of the cliff. The one I didn’t hesitate to put in his place. The one with the bewitching eyes.
What he’s doing here, I haven’t a clue. There was a time I thought Mr. Cruz’s security measures seemed so unnecessary. That he might be paranoid. It is even rumored that he never leaves the house without a decoy or his six-man team. Now, standing here, in this situation, I’m not so sure it isn’t necessary.
Is he being targeted for something?
By the man over the cliff?
Perhaps.
Is it warranted?
Again, perhaps.
He’s very wealthy and a member of The Powers of the Higher Mind, which is cult-like in its own right.
It’s also rumored he has illegal ties to the drug cartel. However, that accusation has never been proven.
Again, just a rumor.
Who Mr. Cruz is and what he does is irrelevant right now. What matters most to me at this moment is that I draw him away from the man he is looking for—and I don’t know why.
I shouldn’t.
It will cost me this night and the upward movement I hoped to gain from it. I should stop all of this right now and tell him where the perpetrator is.
Yet, I don’t. Instead, I start walking toward the tent and away from the man hanging from the cliff. I get about ten feet before a hand grasps my shoulder. “Ms. Hart, where are you going?”
I pivot around on my toes so as to keep his back to the cliff. “To arrange for the return of the collection to the museum, Mr. Cruz.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll take care of that.”
My jaw clenches at his audacity. “No, I will. It’s my job.”
“Ms. Hart,” his smile is big, wicked, terrifying. “I never have to tell anyone anything twice.”
“But—”
He silences me with a finger to my lips and shakes his head no.
A silent warning. It’s a bit frightening, and I find myself nodding. “Of course. I’ll leave it to you, Mr. Cruz. I’m certain the art will be delivered safely to the museum.”
He extends his hand. “Enrique, please, and yes, you have my word.”
I extend mine. “Gemma, but you already know that.”
He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it, and then he lifts his head, and I feel his eyes burn through me. “Yes, Gemma. Now, tell me, have you seen anyone on the grounds?”
Common sense tells me I should point in the mysterious stranger’s direction. But something in that moment when his skin touched mine, the spark I felt, makes me want to protect him. I inhale and exhale the way I know I’m supposed to. Trying to keep my composure, I lie, “No, just your security team.”
Under the lights that perimeter his compound, his eyes sweep me in the most assessing manner, and it somehow seems impure. It makes me feel like he can see right through my silver silk dress to my lace bra and panties, maybe even to my bare flesh. And once his gaze lands on my necklace—the four-carat pink diamond heart, all thoughts of an intruder seem to vanish from his mind.
His fingers reach out and graze my skin. As he fondles the stone, I don’t react with excitement like I did just a few minutes ago. Instead, I find myself shrinking back for fear he wants to rip it from my neck and own it. Own me. Unnerved, I glance down at his hand.
He lifts my chin. “It’s exquisite. Like the woman wearing it,” he comments.
“It’s my mother’s.”
“Where did she get something so flawless?”
I hesitate.
“I must know.”
I answer, “It was a gift from my father when she wed him. He purchased it from a driller in Australia just before they married.”
“From the Argyle Mines?” he asks.
“Yes, how did you know that?”
“Diamonds are like art, Gemma, something I make a habit of knowing and knowing well. Your father must have been a man of great power to secure this.
“Once, he was—” I start to tell him my father was once a great gemologist who traveled the world before his accident put him a wheelchair, but he cuts me off.
“I must have this.”
“It’s not for sale,” I say sternly, knowing no matter how desperate my family is for money, my mother would never part with this. It is for the future, she tells me. And I know she means my future. I’ve argued with her, tried to reason with her, but she refuses to listen.
Mr. Cruz stares at me for a long while. “Well, of course not. Come with me. I want to see it under the lights of the tent.”
I nod, knowing I don’t have a choice.
“Did you know that pink diamonds were made famous throughout the world thanks to the popular Pink Panther films?”
I shake my head no and wait for him to move forward. When he does, his hand moves to my waist. With color flush across my face, my heart pounds and my eyes fall to the ground.
Feeling out of my element, I follow the lead of this all-powerful man to the place where the fundraiser should have been about ready to begin.
However, its cancelation is not what has my pulse racing.
It’s something else.
Someone else.
Still, I never look behind me for fear the all-knowing man in front of me will catch me, and then send his team back. So, instead, I move quickly. When his breath, sweet and warm, caresses my neck it sends a cold shiver running down my spine.
“Yes, the bumbling Inspector Clouseau tried to thwart off the expert thief’s attempts. The object of the thief was the priceless Pink Panther diamond, in which the shape of a panther could be seen when it was held up to the light . . .”
Enrique Cruz continues to educate me on the movies in which the highly sought-after pink diamond was stolen and recovered time after time.
Eventually, I tune him out. I’m too busy listening for signs of life from the man I left behind to pay him any attention. Yet, no matter how hard I strain my ears, the only thing I can hear is the wild beating of my own heart.
It won’t stop.
I can’t make it stop, but if I try hard enough, maybe I can fool myself into thinking it has.
It’s not like I have any other choice.