Diamonds Can Be Deadly

And there, just above the left eyebrow, was the small, leaf-shaped scar. The only flaw in an otherwise perfect face. She’d shrugged aside TJ’s question about how she’d gotten it, giving only a vague reference to a childhood accident. He’d always thought it made her human.

It was one of his favorite spots to drop a kiss. Right up there with the slope of her breasts and the smooth curve at the base of her spine. The memory of her taste and scent drilled into him. For a moment, he could almost smell the unique blend of Chanel and warm, musky female that was burned into his senses.

Christ, he thought in disgust. All this time, and the woman could still put him in a sweat.

“She’s on the access list,” he growled to the on-duty security officer. “Run her through the drill.”

Nodding, the officer keyed his mike. “May I see some identification, Ms. Colby?”

She fished a driver’s license out of her wallet.

“Hold it up a little higher, please.”

The camera captured the number and fed it to the institute’s computers. They in turn would run it through a half-dozen databases, most of them legit.

“Thank you. Now remove your sunglasses.”

“Excuse me?”

“For the security of our guests, we perform an iris scan of all personnel entering the institute’s grounds. Please remove your sunglasses.”

Frowning, she slid the glasses to the top of her head. The camera mounted at eye level whirred a few inches closer to capture an image of her left iris. A second later, it shot the right.

TJ had insisted on this very sophisticated, very expensive scanning system as one of his first upgrades to the institute’s security. The iris was the most individually distinctive feature of the human body. No two persons had the same iris pattern, even identical twins. Cameras could scan that pattern in real time, unlike the minutes or hours or sometimes days required for DNA or fingerprint sampling and matching.

“Thank you, Ms. Colby. You may proceed to the main reception center. Just follow the signs to Kauna Cove. One of our staff will issue a welcome packet and show you to your bungalow.”

Jordan dutifully followed the signs through acre after acre of gorgeously landscaped grounds. Graceful, swaying palms climbed to impossible heights. Hibiscus, sweet-smelling ginger and stately birds of paradise blossomed everywhere, adding a heavy fragrance to the salty tang of the sea.

Set on a bend of Kauai’s rugged coast, the Tranquility Institute encompassed sweeping vistas of nature at its most elemental. Jagged volcanic peaks covered with dense vegetation stood like silent green sentinels against an achingly blue sky. Their steep slopes cut straight down to the waters they’d thrust out of so many millennia ago. Waves rolled in, foamed against the black volcanic rock at their base, and sent lacy spumes leaping high in the air.

The views were so incredible Jordan slowed at one turn to drink them in. Even as her soul responded to the raw, untamed beauty, her mind was imprinting the layout of the grounds, noting various facilities, and plotting escape routes.

There didn’t appear to be many. The steep cliffs surrounding the institute dropped straight to the sea. Where not covered by vegetation, their slopes showed razor-edged creases of black volcanic rock, made even more slick and dangerous by the spume. The only descent was a set of wooden stairs that led to a small, protected beach fringed with palms.

On the landward side, the gate Jordan had driven through appeared to be the single egress point in the twelve-foot-high iron fence almost hidden by the lush tropical foliage. The fence was topped by pointed spikes that would be a bitch to scramble over.

Jordan eyed the iron barrier thoughtfully. She could go under it, of course. Or through it. She had a special pneumatic tool tucked at the bottom of her carryall that would pry the bars apart. She suspected, however, either of those alternatives would set off a half-dozen different alarms, silent and otherwise. TJ Scott was nothing if not thorough.

Her stomach twisting at the thought, she shoved the rented Mustang convertible into gear and followed the curving drive to the main reception center. The plantation-style building featured a high-pitched roof, fanciful white trim and a wraparound porch designed to protect the interior from Kauai’s frequent showers. Thronelike rattan chairs invited guests to laze in the shade of the veranda, while swirling fans stirred the perfume of the orchids spilling from a series of hanging baskets.

Jordan parked beside a golf cart painted a deep emerald color with a green-and-white-striped awning. Skirting the cart, she started for the veranda. Only then did she spot the figure shaded by the deep overhang. He was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses.

Waiting for her.

Despite being forewarned, despite the hours Jordan had spent steeling herself for this meeting, her heart started to pound. Sweat dampened her palms and the perfumed air she dragged into tight lungs was suddenly too sweet, too cloying.

She was damned if she’d let the bastard see his impact on her, though. Pretending a nonchalance she wasn’t anywhere near feeling, she mounted the veranda steps.

“Aloha, Jordan.”

She went still, knowing he would expect her to recognize the deep Bronx baritone. Turning, she slid her sunglasses to the end of her nose.

“Well, well,” she drawled. “Look who’s here….”

“Welcome to Hawaii.”

He strolled over to where she stood and draped a lei of white orchids over her head. Somehow Jordan managed to resist the urge to rip off the garland, toss it onto the porch and grind the delicate blossoms under her heel. She didn’t bother to disguise her scorn, however, as she let her gaze travel over his tanned face.

Every feature was seared in her memory. The strong, square jaw. The nose with the irregular bump on the bridge. The tobacco-brown hair cut military short. The mouth that had driven her so wild.

Infuriated by the memory, she aimed a pointed glance at the logo on his emerald green polo shirt and pretended ignorance of his position at the institute.

“So this is what happens to cops who go bad,” she observed with a lift of her brow. “They wind up working as bellmen at tropical resorts for a living.”

“It’s worse than that,” he drawled. “I’m in charge of security here. I don’t even rake in any tips.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to skim off some cream.”

He didn’t rise to the bait, but Jordan spotted a small twitch at the side of his jaw. Deliberately, she slid the knife in deeper.

“Tell me, Scott. Does your present employer know the reason for your abrupt departure from the NYPD?”

“He does.”

“And he trusts you with his security? Bartholomew Greene must be a forgiving man. Or very, very foolish.”

Or so deeply involved in the same seamy underworld that had entangled TJ Scott, he’d jumped at the chance to bring the disgraced cop into his fold.

“Isn’t Greene worried you’ll betray his trust? The way you did your badge?”

“I didn’t betray my badge, Red.”

The pet name brought her chin up. She raked him with a withering look, not bothering to disguise her scorn.

“I suppose some people might not consider accepting bribes from petty criminals a betrayal. The squad from the anticorruption task force voiced another opinion when they kicked in your apartment door and found a suitcase stuffed with cash in your closet.”

The shame of that night came rushing back. She and TJ had been asleep when a splintering crash jerked them awake. He’d lunged for his service pistol and rolled naked from the bed. Jordan had dived for the neat little .38 she carried when not in the field. She could still hear the shouts and bellowed warnings, still remember the chaotic confusion of those first few seconds. Even now her cheeks burned with fury when she recalled how two members of the squad had stood watch while she and TJ dragged on their clothes.

That scene had been bad enough. The worst came a few moments later. To this day Jordan carried with her the absolute mortification of discovering that a highly trained and otherwise perceptive OMEGA agent had fallen for a dirty cop. A cop who still claimed he was set up.

“I said it then. I’ll say it again. That wasn’t my suitcase.”

The rough edge to his voice told Jordan he was fighting for control. The knowledge gave her a vicious sense of satisfaction.

“Tell it to the judge, Scott. Oh, wait! You already did, didn’t you?”

“And he dismissed the case against me.”

“Because of a technicality,” she shot back. “Some low-level clerk at the NYPD put the wrong apartment number on the search warrant.”

Fury bubbled to the surface, scorching away the hurt. She snatched off her glasses and let him have the full force of her contempt.

“It didn’t matter what the witness said. That whole chorus of pimps and street pushers who swore they paid you to stay off their backs. I would have believed you, TJ. I did believe you until the police report came back and confirmed your fingerprints were all over those bills.”

She’d kicked herself over and over for missing the small signs that, in retrospect, were so damn obvious. The gold Rolex. The Italian loafers. The weekend at that ritzy Connecticut resort.

Her only excuse was that it had all happened so fast. They’d met at a charity event to benefit children of NYPD officers who’d died in the line of duty. The next afternoon they’d shared a blanket at an open-air concert in Central Park. The following Saturday they’d zipped up to Connecticut for the wildest, most heart-pounding forty-eight hours of Jordan’s life.

She could almost—almost!—forgive herself for missing the signs that the cop with the linebacker’s shoulders and sexy grin was on the take. What she couldn’t excuse was how she’d fallen for the man so fast and so hard.

She knew better, dammit! All those years when she’d lived from hand to mouth, lying about her age, taking any job she could, she’d never let any male get close to her. The bone-deep wariness her stepfather had instilled with his fists had colored her every relationship with adult males. And despite the sultry image she projected on the runway, she’d never promised more than she intended to deliver. Until TJ.

Disgusted all over again at her acute lapse in judgment, Jordan angled her chin. “We’ve had this conversation before. Several times. Is there any point to continuing it?”

He opened his mouth, bit back whatever he was going to say and shook his head. “I guess there isn’t. See you around, Red.”

“That’s right,” she muttered, her eyes on the broad shoulders covered in green-and-white jungle print. “You most certainly will.”

TJ moved with the same lazy grace that had always characterized him. Even in those awful days after his arrest, his shoulders had stayed square and his long legs ate up the ground in an arrogant, self-confident stride.

Wrenching her gaze away, Jordan yanked open the door and approached the receptionist. Dark-haired, dark-eyed and lovely in a ruffled muumuu, the woman greeted her with a warm smile.

“Aloha. Welcome to the Tranquility Institute.”

“Aloha. I’m Jordan Colby. I have a reservation.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Colby. I have your welcome package waiting for you.”

Reaching under a counter made of a solid slab of gnarled wood, she produced a slim folder.

“This contains a map of the grounds and a schedule of daily activities. There’s also a note from Mr. Greene’s personal assistant, confirming your appointment with him later this afternoon.”

“I don’t see a key to my cottage,” Jordan commented, shifting through the packet.

“You don’t need a key. Entry to all facilities is by visual recognition. All you have to do is look into the blinking red light beside the door. Are your bags in your car?”

“Just a briefcase and carryall.”

“If you’ll give Danny your car keys, he’ll fetch them and transport you to your bungalow.”

Jordan eyed the map and saw her cottage was one of a half dozen scattered along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. The route looked simple and uncomplicated.

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Shaking her head, the receptionist signaled to a native Hawaiian the size and shape of a sumo wrestler. “We don’t allow private vehicles beyond this point. To maintain tranquility, the guest cottages and activity center are also telephone and television free. We ask that you leave your cell phone here at the desk to avoid disturbing the other guests.”

She smiled prettily, her teeth white against her skin.

“There’s a communications room here in the reception center with TV, phone, fax and Internet services if you need to keep in touch with the outside world.”

The tiny transmitter/receiver embedded in the gold earring would keep Jordan in touch with the outside world. She didn’t really require her cell phone and wouldn’t use it in any case to communicate with OMEGA, but decided to make the point that she hadn’t come as a guest.

“I’m here to see Mr. Greene on business,” she said firmly. “I need to retrieve messages and maintain contact with my employees. I won’t carry my cell phone with me when I leave my cottage, but I will be using it and my laptop computer while I’m here.”

The receptionist looked doubtful but was too well trained to argue with a guest.

“Very well. Danny, will you take Ms. Colby to her cottage, please?”

Big, bulky and exuberantly cheerful, Danny steered the golf cart along a path of crushed lava rock and pointed out the institute’s facilities. All the buildings were constructed in the same turn-of-the-century territorial style as the reception center, with steep, hipped roofs, green shutters and wide verandas.

“That’s the Lotus Spa,” Danny said, indicating a structure surrounded by swaying royal palms. “The spa café serves light breakfasts and lunches. Carrot juice and macadamia-nut salads and stuff like that,” he said with a shrug that suggested full-figured males like him needed heartier fare. “Regular meals are served from 6:00 a.m. to midnight at the Jade Buddha Restaurant. It’s over there, beside the waterfall.”

Jordan followed his pointing finger to a sparkling cascade that splashed downward from a bank of ferns into a three-tiered pool. At the upper lever was what appeared to be an elegant, open-air restaurant. At the lower level, water escaped in another silvery stream and plunged a hundred feet straight down into the sea.

“Room service is available twenty-four hours a day,” Danny assured her. “Best thing on the menu is the poke baked in seaweed.”

“Po-keh. Got it.”

“That’s the Meditation Center.” He hooked a thumb at a structure surrounded by flowering hibiscus. “Dr. Greene conducts all group sessions there. Private sessions are held either there or at his office.”

“Which is where?”

“His office? It’s in our corporate-headquarters building.”

Jordan consulted the printed map and saw that the central headquarters was set apart from the rest of the resort, along with several smaller administrative buildings and quarters for the staff.

“I understand you have an appointment with Dr. Greene at four,” Danny said as he pulled up at a cottage perched at the edge of the bluff. Rolling his bulk out of the golf cart, he retrieved her briefcase and bag. “I’ll swing back by and pick you up a few minutes before four.”

He stood aside for Jordan to activate the iris-recognition system. Stooping a little, she looked into the tiny camera eye mounted beside the door. A second eye, she noted, was positioned almost at waist level. For children, she surmised, or wheel-chair-bound guests.

“How do the maids get in to clean?” she asked when the door clicked open.

“They knock,” Danny replied, following her inside, “and if they get no answer, security authorizes an override.”

Jordan didn’t particularly care for the fact that TJ Scott controlled access to her bungalow. She knew it was standard operating procedure. All hotels required room entry for maintenance, servicing and the safety of their guests in emergency situations. Still, she’d make sure to set a few intrusion-detection devices so she could ascertain who went in and out of her rooms.

“This is your sitting room,” Danny said. “The bedroom and bathroom are through that louvered door.”

Given the exorbitant fees guests paid to stay at the resort, Jordan had anticipated sybaritic luxury. These rooms lived up to her expectations and then some. Exquisite Oriental art hung on walls painted a delicate coral. The furniture was an eclectic mix of rattan and dark, heavy antiques. Floral prints in mint green and coral provided splashes of bright color, while plantation shutters, overhead fans and potted palms added a distinctly tropical flavor.

But it was the view that stopped Jordan in her tracks. The plantation shutters framing the east wall of the sitting room were folded back, so that the interior of the cottage seemed to flow out onto the covered lanai. Beyond the lanai was a stunning vista of jungle-covered peaks saw-toothing up from a turquoise sea. Transfixed, Jordan could only gape at what looked like a Hollywood creation of paradise.

“This cottage has the best view of Ma’aona,” Danny commented as he deposited her briefcase on the sitting-room desk.

“Ma’aona?”

He directed her attention to a needle-sharp peak spearing high above the others.

“It’s a holy mountain, sacred to ancient Hawaiians. They threw people who broke tapu—the old laws—from the top of Ma’aona onto the rocks below.”

Tough bunch, the ancient Hawaiians.

“The burial site at the base of the mountain is off limits,” Danny advised, “but you can drive up to the state park near the peak.”

Jordan didn’t figure she’d have much time for visiting ancient archeological sites. With another glance at the jagged peak, she dug her wallet out of her shoulder bag.

Her driver refused the bill with a merry smile. “There’s no tipping anywhere on the grounds of the institute. It’s our pleasure to serve you. I hope you find peace and tranquility during your stay.”

Jordan hoped she found the 900-carat Star of the East and sufficient evidence of money laundering to hang Bartholomew Greene out to dry. The possibility she might hang his director of security alongside him was an added bonus.

A glance at her watch showed she had an hour yet before her meeting with the guru of green. Plenty of time to conduct an electronic sweep, advise headquarters she was in place and scrub away the effects of her long flight.

Plugging in the earpiece of Mackenzie’s high-tech sniffer, she hummed along with Travis while she ambled through the luxurious cottage. The sweep didn’t detect any devices inside the bungalow, only standard motion sensors at the windows and a security camera tucked up under the eaves of the lanai. At least Greene allowed his guests privacy inside their quarters, Jordan thought as she fought the urge to flip the bird in the direction of the camera lens.

No point in alerting TJ to the fact that she’d detected his silent sentinel. She knew where it was and could disable it when necessary. Leaning her elbows on the railing, she gazed in seeming absorption at the sea for a few moments before going into the bathroom.

It was every bit as sumptuous as the rest of the bungalow. The counters were marble, the Jacuzzi tub was big enough to sleep four, and the open, glass-block shower was fitted with cross jets that promised a decadent water massage.

Although she hadn’t found any interior bugs, training and experience had Jordan turning the taps of the Jacuzzi to full blast. With the gushing water to muffle the sound of her voice, she thumbed the transmitter in her earring. The signal bounced off a secure satellite straight into OMEGA’s control center.

Claire responded within seconds, her voice soft and musical but clear enough to carry over the gurgling water.

“Cyrene here. Go ahead, Diamond.”

“Just wanted to let you know I’m in place.”

“Roger that. We saw there was some weather off the coast of California. How was your flight?”

“Long. Bumpy. Tiring.”

“What’s your status vis-à-vis the target?”

“We’re still on for our first face-to-face at four o’clock local.” Jordan hesitated for a moment. “I’ve made contact with Scott.”

“Anything to report?”

“No.”

She saw no need to advise Clair that the handsome bastard could still put a hitch in her step. After confirming the time frame for her next transmission, she dumped a generous helping of the resort’s frangipani bath salts into the tub, stripped off and indulged in a long hot soak.

Refreshed and revived, she pulled on ecru lace briefs and a matching half-cup bra. Strappy sandals, linen slacks and a short-sleeved silk jacket in an eye-popping red gave her just the right mix of casual and professional.

Once dressed, she peeled the adhesive backing off a flat disc the size of a dime and stuck it to the underside of an Oriental ginger jar. The device was simple, an off-the-shelf bug that Mackenzie had beefed up to detect both noise and movement. It transmitted signals to Jordan’s laptop, which required a special code to view. With the device in place, she used the short wait for Danny to gather her thoughts and prepare for the upcoming meeting.

The Hawaiian chattered cheerfully during the drive to the Tranquility Institute’s global headquarters. Jordan listened with half an ear while checking out the approach. Manicured lawns surrounded the low, two-story building. Scattered palms rustled gently in the late-afternoon breeze. Even the roar of the sea was muted, as if in deference to the master’s desire for serenity and peace.

The interior reflected the same simplicity. Potted banyans and rubber-tree plants with glossy green leaves added the only color to an airy vestibule with glass walls and a cream-colored tile floor. A receptionist greeted Jordan cheerfully and summoned the institute’s business manager.

The trim, bald individual who appeared a moment later introduced himself as Duncan Myers. “I’m Mr. Greene’s financial adviser. Since you’ve come with what sounds like an intriguing business proposal, Bartholomew asked me to sit in on your meeting.”

That was fine with Jordan. The more she could learn about Greene’s operation, the better. She followed Myers to a large conference room fronted by a glass wall that encompassed an endless expanse of sea and sky.

The opposite wall, she noted with deliberately casual interest, displayed a world map. Glowing round emeralds depicted each of the Tranquility Institute’s far-flung satellite cells. Home base here in Hawaii got what looked like at least fifty carats.

The sound of footsteps signaled Bartholomew Greene’s arrival. Sandy haired and medium sized, the man appeared even younger than his PR photos. He wore all white—white shoes, white slacks, white safari-style shirt, probably to showcase the pendant dangling around his neck. Its gold bezel featured a square-cut emerald with a color and clarity that took Jordan’s breath away.

Wrenching her gaze from the pendant, she looked into eyes almost as bright and green as the dazzling stone. Tinted contacts, she guessed as the target came forward with both hands outstretched.

“Ms. Colby. Welcome to the Tranquility Institute.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope you—”

Greene broke off. His welcoming smile faded. Frowning, he glanced down at their clasped hands. When he raised those startling eyes again, they held a gentle concern.

“How fortunate that you’ve come to me. I sense a deep hurt in you. Or is it anger?”

He squeezed her hands, his tone modulating to one of soothing assurance.

“We’ll work together while you’re here, shall we, and draw out your pain.”

Chapter 3

Jordan managed to keep from snatching her hands free of Greene’s—barely. For a startled moment she wondered if this man did indeed possess the extraordinary faculties his PR machine hyped.