Hidden Gems. Carrie Alexander

“For a smart man, Paul sure is dumb,” he said cheerfully. “You’re a treasure.”

      Marissa shook her head. “I’m a woman in need of a giant Cubano sandwich.” Suddenly she was starving.

      “Then let’s get out of here so I can feed you,” Jamie said, reverting to the reliable friend she recognized. They’d reached the head of the line and he’d stashed her suitcase in their taxi’s trunk. He held the door open, smiling at her, adorably rumpled in a tee layered over a white cotton shirt with frayed edges. No fashion plate, her friend, Jamie. Nothing like Paul, who spent more on his wardrobe than many women.

      Marissa climbed into the taxi. After she was settled, she took a moment to thank her lucky stars for the Frisbee she’d mistakenly aimed at Jamie’s nose the day they’d met. She was certain that he’d never once thought of her as an accessory, even though she’d been his plus one at a number of the events that he attended in his career as an arts writer for the Village Observer, a smallish daily newspaper targeted at the city’s trendy, upscale culture vultures.

      No. To Jamie, she really was a treasure.

      The surprise for her was in realizing how mutual the sentiment had become.

      JEAN LUC ALLARD had given the officials the slip. Child’s play, he thought as he slithered through the throng near the airport exit, though in fact he’d narrowly escaped the wide net cast by the cops and security guards that had swarmed the JFK terminal.

      He’d skipped out of the boarding area in the nick of time, then taken the long detour through Arrivals to avoid crossing under their noses. But they’d also covered that area.

      An unpleasant surprise. One that had forced him into ditching the goods despite the huge risk that entailed.

      After making his move, he’d managed to reach a rest room, where he’d switched his dark glasses and leather jacket with the Patriots jersey and baseball cap stowed in his bag. The fake French passport he’d booked his tickets under was lodged in the crevice behind one of the sinks, replaced with an American one that claimed he was Joe Martin from Stonington, Massachusetts.

      The risk made Allard’s gut churn. Fortunately he’d planned for all eventualities. But how had the bastards known where to find him in the first place?

      A lucky tip from an informant…or a double cross?

      Unlikely. He’d had contact with no one except his employer, a wealthy European with a large bank account and a larger ego. Allard had a number to call when he reached the rendezvous point, and no more.

      He was on his own. As he preferred. His father had taught him to trust no one.

      Even in the innocuous getup, passersby gave the Frenchman’s black scowl a wide berth. He paid them little heed, consumed by his racing thoughts. There would be no mercy with a fortune at stake. He would cut the throat of any person who dared stop him.

      Already he had left one body behind. He’d coldcocked an interloper outside the ransacked safe of Stanhope’s Auction House, snatching the prize from the man’s hands even as he’d crumpled to the floor. Naturally, the theft of late heiress Zoey Zander’s vast collection of jewels had made the news. Every thief of international repute was reported to be a suspect.

      While the New York police had paddled in place, squabbling with Interpol like ducks on the Seine, Allard had bided his time in a nondescript Brooklyn hotel room. Once he’d believed the stateside situation had cooled down, he’d booked a ticket to the Buenos Aires drop point.

      To be thwarted now made his blood thin with displeasure. Merde! He’d been one boarding pass away from his escape.

      That he’d become the security agent’s quarry was not in question. What remained to be seen was if they’d realized that the heist had been arranged solely to acquire the White Star, an ivory amulet so rare and revered that few had known of its existence until the auction house had publicized the contents of the Zander estate.

      For these past weeks, he—and he alone—had owned the White Star. Caressed her. Held her to his lips in defiance of the legend she carried, which prophesied love for the pure of heart, a cursed future for all else.

      And now she was gone.

      Though Allard’s face betrayed no emotion, his tongue was bitter with frustration.

      He spat. Pah.

      The anxious officials’ presence had prevented him from boarding the flight to South America. He’d been cornered like a rodent, forced to take an incredible risk. Getting caught with the amulet was not an option. Therefore, regrettably, the White Star was no longer in his possession.

      An extreme nuisance, that, but a necessity under the circumstances.

      Carefully positioned out of the bustle, but close enough to move fast when need be, Allard cupped his hand to light a cigarette. He leaned against the building, dragging on the stinging taste of tobacco. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes zipped back and forth between the herds of American travelers, most of them waiting patiently in line like cows.

      Ah, there she was.

      Marissa Suarez. Stunning girl, with silken black hair and legs that went forever. It might be amusing to prolong his surveillance and seduce his way into her apartment rather than resort to the usual break-in. His employer would not approve of the indiscretion, but the man seemed to have a talent for buffing his nails while subordinates accomplished his dirty work.

      Allard didn’t mind. He excelled in living on the fly, taking advantage of opportunities that presented themselves.

      Smoke curled from his nostrils. Covertly he studied the girl. She was smart, aware of her surroundings, holding her straw bag close to her body while she waited at the curb. The man who had met her inside kept a firm grip on the other bag.

      Allard saw he had no choice. An immediate recovery attempt was too risky. Not only were there authorities in the vicinity, but the girl could identify his face, particularly if he attracted more attention to himself.

      He should have chosen a less observant mark, one of the weary tourists with their heaps of mismatched baggage. All too stupid to realize what he’d planted on them. But this one had literally fallen at his feet.

      The boyfriend put his hand at her back, guiding her into a cab. The vital suitcase had gone into the trunk.

      Allard ground the cigarette beneath his heel. He smiled to himself, pleased by his maneuvers. The unfortunate situation was under control. While his employer would be enraged if he knew the treasure had been out of Allard’s hands for even a minute, the man need only be told of the unavoidable delay of their rendezvous. Let him sputter and squawk. In the end, he would wait.

      As would Allard. For a million euros, he could put up with any annoyance, any delay. He was beholden only to the White Star.

      A sharp whistle summoned one of the gypsy cabs. He slid inside and mumbled a directive to the driver around the fresh cigarette he’d inserted in his mouth. As the vehicle pulled away, two of the security guards emerged from the terminal, their frustration as evident as their empty hands.

      Smirking, Allard slunk low in the back seat while the car neatly whisked him away from beneath the officials’ noses. He’d escaped unscathed once more.

      2

      MARISSA YAWNED and leaned her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “How come we’ve never had sex?” she said with a throaty giggle, snuggling up to him in their favorite carved wooden booth at Havana Eva de Cuba, where he’d been plying her with carbohydrates instead of alcohol.

      Jamie dragged in a deep breath before draping an arm around her. He was too nice for his own good. Definitely too nice.

      “I mean, it would be so easy,” she continued, her voice muffled by his chest. He had to lean his head closer to hear her over the din of the busy and colorful restaurant, a frequent hangout only two blocks from their apartment