The Diamond Secret. Lenora Worth

“While I love this sweet Remington, I think I’m gonna need to use my 9 mm SIG-Sauer. It’s fully loaded.”

      The man had two guns? She supposed that was a good thing. Or maybe that confirmed that he was truly a bad person.

      Cullen put a finger to his mouth to warn her and then he placed the Remington back in its case and set it out of the way. She watched as he pulled out another gun and did a few clicks and loads. What all did he have in that travel bag?

      Because she had no one else to turn to right now, Esther stayed there beside him, her gaze hitting on the banana-leaf fronds swaying in the humid air, her nostrils taking in the sweet scents of jasmine and wisteria, mingled with the faint scent of perspiration. She heard the steady trickle of water coming out of the twisted metal fountain sculpture she’d made three years ago. Her courtyard had always been her haven.

      Now she’d never look at it in the same way again.

      The men kept coming until they’d reached the glass-paned doors of the studio. One of them, looking like a hulking giant, pressed his big nose to the door and stared in. Esther hissed, but Cullen held her tightly against him behind the big sturdy work bench, as if his body would keep her invisible. She found that rather endearing in spite of her wobbly heart and weak knees.

      “Hey, Murphy, you in there?”

      “They speak,” she said on a low, trembling whisper. “And, surprise, they know you.”

      “Yes, they know me,” he said, bobbing his head. “They want the diamond. Must have followed me across the globe. As if I’d hand it over to Hogan and his men.”

      Hogan. Why did that name sound familiar? Esther closed her eyes, wishing for her hot tea. Wishing this hot diamond hunter shielding her would go away. But not until he made those bad guys go away, too.

      Tugging at his shirt, she asked, “Who is Hogan?”

      He shoved the Remington case at her. “I’ll explain later.”

      When the other man rushed to the door and shook the knob, Cullen turned toward her and opened the case. “Remember, this might buy you some time. Where is the street entrance?”

      She motioned with her head, then whispered, “Behind us to the left.”

      “It’s locked?”

      “Of course.”

      “We need a distraction.”

      He glanced around and saw her blow torch.

      Esther’s gaze followed him. “Oh, no. You can’t do that.”

      “I can and I will, to save your life.”

      And then, he was up and like a gunslinger, swinging around in a poetic kind of warrior way to grab her blow torch and wield it high in front of him.

      While the doors to her studio burst apart and fell away like shattered memories.

      * * *

      Cullen knew she was scared, but he needed Esther to help him get them out of this situation. “Run for the door,” he shouted at the same time he started firing.

      The two men broke apart and dropped down with guns blazing, but Cullen kept advancing, zigzagging behind tables and half-finished sculpture pieces. Somehow through the haze of darkness and with the blessing of surprise on his side, he managed to stay out of the line of fire.

      He had the SIG-Sauer in one hand and the blow torch in the other. He triggered the gun, marveling at the way it hissed in his right hand. The blow torch did the same in his left, sending a white-hot heat toward the two bumbling thugs. He wasn’t really aiming for anyone in particular. He mainly wanted to scare these two so Esther could get away. Which was probably what she’d been hoping for all along. She’d be gone in a flash, but at least she’d be safe. Or she might use his unusable, unloaded Remington six-shooter on him—hitting him over the head.

      “Go, Esther!”

      But prim little Esther surprised him.

      “Not without you,” she shouted, the big gun in her tiny hand.

      She headed for the locked door, but instead of testing the six-shooter, she managed to find a few ceramic pots and other interesting weapons along the way. And in spite of being a little spit of a thing, the woman had an impressive aim. She heaved a pot, followed by a crude-looking knife that could only be some sort of sculpture tool. While neither made a direct hit, her projectiles did stop the two attackers from advancing. Then she lifted the Remington with both hands, as if she actually knew what she was doing. It didn’t fire, of course.

      This might turn out to be fun, if he didn’t die.

      More importantly, all fun and frolic aside, he couldn’t let Esther Carlisle die. He’d made a promise to her father that he’d protect her. Cullen wasn’t known for keeping promises, but this one was important to the tune of millions of dollars. It had taken him several months and a whole lot of territory to finally make it here to fulfill that promise. He wasn’t about to give in so easily now.

      So he shot one last flare from the blow torch and glanced back to see Esther standing at the open door, her hands frozen in place on the Remington. Then he dropped the torch and used both hands to hold the gun steady as he went after the two men.

      And this time, he aimed to kill.

      * * *

      Esther’s heart seemed to hit with all the velocity of those zinging bullets. She heard the sound of traffic and people, heard that sweet saxophone playing up near the café. She sent out a prayer that they would all be safe.

      “Cullen, hurry,” she called, wanting with every fiber of her being to run. The exquisite gun she held was useless, but it gave her a sense of security. Besides, she was pretty sure it could still be dangerous, even with an empty chamber.

      No matter, she couldn’t leave him.

      And that made her more angry than frightened. Why was she willing to stand here and be killed for a man who’d crashed into her world without explanation and changed it without any apparent qualms? Because, he brought her father’s letters with him. That meant for some strange reason her father had reached out to this man, had trusted him. Maybe Cullen had some answers. Answers she needed, since her father hadn’t confided in her about much of anything.

      Cringing as he ducked, Esther watched Cullen shooting his way across her studio. So far, so good. Then she heard sirens.

      “Cullen, someone must have called the police.” Mr. Reynolds, obviously. His hearing was remarkable for a seventy-year-old. And his wife, Helen, was spry and sharp and interested in the things going on around her. Esther hoped neither of them decided to pop over and investigate.

      Cullen hurried to the door, then turned to fire a couple more shots. At least the two men were pinned down at the front of the studio. Probably with singed eyebrows and burning skin.

      Cullen rushed her out the door and closed it tight, locking it to be double sure. Then he slipped the pistol back in the shoulder bag he’d managed to hang on to and handed her back her phone. “I think you had a call.”

      Shocked at how efficiently the man multitasked during a shoot-out, she gave him the extra gun and took the phone. “It’s Ted. He’s my bookkeeper and sales associate. He was sick today so he’s probably calling to see how my day went.”

      Cullen did a quick scan of the nearby buildings as they headed east up St. Peter toward the Mississippi River. Off to the left the St. Louis Cathedral was bathed in the golden light of dusk. And directly across, Jackson Square teemed with tourists and locals alike. Nobody seemed to care that shots had been fired and sirens were wailing.

      “What are you going to tell him?”

      Esther lifted her brows, took a deep breath, then punched numbers. “That everything is fine, thank you.”

      But in her heart, she had a funny feeling that everything wasn’t