THE COLD FIRE-

  “Is it my turn now?” he asked, as she reached his side. She smiled and he was dazzled by the pure joy on her face.

  “Let’s just dance and dance all night!” she exclaimed.

  “You’re enjoying yourself then,” he commented, as she wound her arm through his and dragged him onto the floor.

  Unconsciously, she reached up and touched the diamond around her throat. “Yes.”

  He took her in his arms and the warmth of having her so close hit him like a wave. He pulled her more firmly against him and they swayed to the romantic music. “You see, if I have you close like this and I never let you go, no one can steal the diamond,” he whispered into her dark hair.

  She pulled back a bit with a wicked grin and replied, “But we want the Ghost to try.”

  “Veronica, as you know too well, when the Ghost tries, he usually succeeds.”

  “Not tonight,” she said with a determined look in her eyes before snuggling into his shoulder again, her perfume encircling them like a magic spell blocking out the rest of the world. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the bewitchment.

  Romance Writers of America’s “Heart of the West Writers Contest” Finalist.

  Praise for Lydia Storm

  writing as Nicole Coady…

  “Embrace of the Vampire plays the vampire/victim dynamic to the hilt and packs a substantial erotic punch!”

  ~Entertainment Weekly

  Moonlight on Diamonds

  by

  Lydia Storm

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Moonlight on Diamonds

  COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Nicole Coady

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Daniel DeFabio

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2008

  Print ISBN: 1-60154-496-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Tom

  It was the suspended hour, the hour when the sky has lost its sun but not yet found its stars. Everything in nature is clothed in a blue light.

  - Jacques Guerlain

  The detective by tradition and definition is the seeker after truth.

  - Raymond Chandler

  Prologue

  Amritsar, India—1661

  The temple was dark but for the flicker of tiny candles burning at the feet of the golden goddess. The thief stepped forward, crushing the crimson rose petals that perfumed the pathway to her altar. In the dim light, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier could see the shimmer of the legendary diamond which had called to him all the way in his native France.

  Rumors of the jewel’s magical powers swirled around it until it had taken on the aura of a fairytale talisman in his imagination and the lust to possess the gem had become an obsession. Tavernier had used bribes, trickery, and sometimes brute force to uncover the location of the stone—a diamond so precious only the highest caste of Brahmans had knowledge of its resting place. The humble, whitewashed building he at last discovered at the base of the Himalayan Mountains was the perfect home for one of the great treasures of India. Few would have thought to search for it there. Few would have endured the trials he had to reach it.

  His yellowed flesh hung from his bones, the result of the malaria he had contracted at a lodging house on the shore of the Ganges River. The once snowy linen of his shirt was torn and stained, his strong hands were cracked from sunburn, his nails ragged and dirty, and his fair hair hung in a filthy plait down his back. All this was forgotten now as he gazed spellbound with greed at the massive violet-blue diamond sparkling like a crown in the forehead of the golden idol.

  Confident in the knowledge that the priests who guarded the temple’s treasure had fallen under his sword in the dark jungle outside, Tavernier took a bold step forward and stood before the altar. He would take what he had come for.

  The thief reached through the veil of incense, and with his blood-stained dagger pried the shimmering diamond from the third eye of the goddess. He held the jewel in his hands, felt the weight and viewed the clarity of it up close. This was a stone fit for a king. Joy washed through him. He would sell the diamond to Louis XIV and at last take his place at court. His future was now secure.

  As he stepped outside the temple, Tavernier unclenched his fist. Moonbeams struck the diamond, bringing it to life like a flickering silver flame. It seemed to burn with supernatural brilliance in the hot midnight jungle, a blue star that had fallen to earth from the heavens to illuminate even the darkest shadows of the human soul.

  The cries of feral dogs howling somewhere in the blackness of the strange trees just beyond the temple rose up around him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he saw a pack of emaciated hounds moving ghost-like in the gloomy depths of the tangled undergrowth. Their demented yellow eyes watched him from the shadows, their fangs bared, their paws nervously clawing at the earth.

  He blinked and they disappeared from view, but he brought his tattered handkerchief to his nose as the stench of rotting meat rose up like steam from the jungle floor. He could hear the twigs snapping as the pack limped through the trees. He could feel them creeping closer with every breath he took.

  The Frenchman crossed himself and gaped in superstitious horror at the blue fire in his hand. Had the Indian Brahmans truly bewitched the gem with their curses and devilish spells?

  Barely holding back his panic, Tavernier fought the desire to fling the jewel away as if it were a venomous serpent. Summoning all his will instead, he shoved the diamond into his satchel and leapt onto his mare, sending them both crashing through the overgrown thicket. The branches clawed at his face as his horse thundered through the jungle, but he didn’t care. With his heart pounding and malarial sweat pouring down his face, he rode from the heathen temple with all the fury of a man pursued by the hounds of hell.

  One year later, the diamond rested among the other sparkling baubles in King Louis’ jewel box. Tavernier’s fortune was made, but in his fever dreams the spectral pack hunted him down as he lay paralyzed on silken sheets, the luxury of Versailles’ mirrored walls and crystal chandeliers reflecting his mute terror into infinity. The strange, sickly dogs were always just a heartbeat behind him in the suffocating jungle. He felt their ripping claws at his coattails and the acid fire of their breath down his back, branding him forever with the mark of the Thief.

  Chapter One

  New York City, 2003

  The dusty Greenwich Village church basement was strung with Christmas lights in an attempt to improve the vibe of the Wednesday night meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. It was already March, but that didn’t deter the ex-speed-freak girl with the pixie blond hair from carefully draping lights across the exposed wood beams. Perched on a metal folding chair, she wound the cord around the pre-war metal lamps which lit up the crowd like a cast of characters from an old black-and-white noir.

  John Monroe sat slurping his coffee as the bossy, transvestite meeting secretary attempted to get a pair of giggling teenagers sitting in the corner of the room to shut up. He urged the newcomers in a raspy voice to pay attention to a bald, nervous wreck of a man as he read the Twelve Ste
ps. The poor guy was sweating through it and tripped awkwardly over his words as he recited the core philosophy of the AA program.

  “Step One, we, we admit we are pow-powerless over alc-alcohol…”

  John smiled encouragingly, trying psychically to cheer the poor guy on, feeling his pain every time Baldy misread a word or had to go back and start a sentence over. At last, the ordeal was finished and everyone in the room gave Baldy a round of applause, the clapping dying out almost before it had begun.

  Now came the moment John was dreading—birthday cake time.

  It was a tradition in Alcoholics Anonymous to give birthday cakes on the anniversary dates of each member’s sobriety. The idea was to celebrate another year of living clean and sober and allow the newcomers in the program to see that it was possible to go for many years without taking a drink. John usually had no problem with this scenario. He could sing an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” with the rest of them, but this evening John was not feeling quite as positive about the birthday experience. Tonight, the whole thing gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The secretary cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple contrasting with the matching baby-pink faux-Chanel jacket, lipstick, and mules he sported. “Thank you for reading the steps, Herman. Now, I believe we have one birthday to celebrate tonight.” He stared straight at John and smiled. “John is celebrating one year of continuous sobriety and Simon will be giving him his cake.”

  This was it!

  John stood up as the room burst into a wild rendition of “Happy Birthday” complete with bad harmonies and biker-guy hoots and hollers. Simon, John’s seventy-eight-year-old AA sponsor, came to the front of the room bearing a cupcake with a single candle shoved in its center. As the song came to its crashing end, John closed his eyes and tried to make a wish. His mind went blank. The applause had died down by now and everyone was staring at him expectantly.

  “Make a wish, man!” called out a fifteen-year-old punk-rock kid named Rudy, whom John had taken under his wing over the last few months.

  Okay, what do I really need? John was starting to sweat like Baldy. MONEY.

  He closed his eyes, squished up his face, and wished for money as he blew out the candle. Everyone cheered and Simon gave him a big hug. Even the secretary hugged him. He still wasn’t totally comfortable with all the indiscriminate embracing that went on in AA, but if the program kept him sober, he was willing to put up with it.

  John approached the podium and looked out over the crowd. Simon stood proudly smiling up at him from the front row. There must have been at least two hundred people there and they were all looking at him.

  “Okay,” he said aloud into the microphone and took a deep breath. “Well, I want to thank my sponsor, Simon, for giving me my cake and, um, I want to thank all of you for being here and supporting me…and…”

  Out of the blue, he felt his eyes well up and his face flush. He swallowed hard and tried to get a hold of himself, but as he spoke his voice squeaked with suppressed emotion and a tear trickled down his cheek. “This is for my dad who never got the chance to get sober.” He held up the little cupcake. “He died from alcoholism when I was still a kid and…” He wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve and tried to keep it together. “I just…I’m very grateful. Thanks.”

  John quickly stepped offstage amidst a round of supportive applause.

  Simon clapped him on the back. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled John, as he sank back into a chair next to his sponsor and gratefully became one of the anonymous masses. From all around him in the dark, people whispered their congratulations and patted his shoulder.

  Rudy reached across three people and shook John’s hand. “Congratulations, man, you hooked it up! One year sober!”

  ***

  A light rain sprinkled onto Sixth Avenue as John turned the corner and began to navigate his way through the street vendors selling fake Gucci sunglasses and fluorescent plastic necklaces. He passed NYU students chatting on their cell phones, homeboys hanging out on the corner with their boomboxes, and Wall Street types flooding out of the subway station bound for cozy West Village brownstones. The streetlamps reflected off the wet pavement and the sky was a moody gray as evening fell over Manhattan.

  Some instinct made John look up as he passed the crowded newsstand with its glossy fashion magazines and trashy porno rags, which were placed front and center for any five-year-old to see. It wasn’t the pair of fake double D hooters that caught his eye but the headline of the New York Post which stopped him in his tracks:

  GHOST STRIKES AGAIN!

  INTERNATIONAL JEWEL THIEF STEALS PUCK DIAMOND AT ACADEMY AWARDS!

  John felt his heart skip a beat. “Oh shit.”

  ****

  Marguerite Gateaux had a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower from the windows of her seventh arrondissement apartment as it shimmered with lights before vanishing into midnight darkness for the rest of the evening. Now only the warm glow of myrrh-scented candles illuminated the tanned skin and strong limbs of her lover, René. She caressed his dark head absently as she might that of her little King Charles spaniel, Voltaire, and relaxed in the semidarkness. Sighing contentedly, she stretched a pair of long dancer’s legs on the divan where she and René had just made love. Thoughtfully, she pulled a tangle of dark red hair back revealing a wide sensual face that was not quite beautiful, but arresting in the raw sensuality of her knowing smile and laughing feline-green eyes. The radio, which had been throbbing with the slow erotic strain of French trip hop, switched over to a news program, almost destroying the romantic atmosphere of her tastefully appointed apartment.

  Marguerite sipped from a half-empty glass of Chateau Petrus as René yawned and moved his head higher up from her bare belly to nuzzle against her breast and lay there like a sleepy child. The newscaster droned on until he came to a bit of information that made Marguerite perk up.

  “The famous Puck Diamond, belonging to movie star Katherine Park, was stolen in a dramatic scene at this year’s Academy Awards Ceremony in Hollywood, California. While there are no leads yet, Los Angeles police suspect the infamous ‘Ghost’ who once plagued many of Europe’s great cities with a rash of thefts throughout the late 1980s and 90s.”

  Mon Dieu, the Ghost?

  She quickly clicked the stereo remote and the soothing strains of baroque chamber music floated through the apartment.

  So they thought the Ghost was on the loose, eh? That was certainly fascinating news, even if it was impossible. The Ghost couldn’t have struck last night; Marguerite knew why, though apparently the American police hadn’t figured it out. She looked down at René to see if he’d picked up the story, but he seemed so entranced with the soft curve of her breast that he hadn’t heard a word.

  Marguerite smiled. While she had not yet become a woman of a certain age, she had lived enough to know that she adored younger men. Younger men didn’t try to run the show, and if there was one thing Marguerite knew how to do, it was put on a show. As the star of the Ballet de l’Aire, the French acrobatic group that had taken the world by storm, she knew how to create quite a spectacle. She’d also managed to make a splash in her other profession—cat burglar.

  It was in Marguerite’s nature to exceed expectations, and she loved rehearsing for each new act, pushing herself to greater and greater feats of courage and agility. She could master a triple back-flip on the trapeze or fly unnoticed past the police helicopter’s searchlight with a bundle of sizzling white-hot stones clutched in her hands and the wind whipping through her flaming hair. She loved the costumes too, brightly colored, eye-catching ones for the big top and a Parisian femme’s favorite of basic black for those late night prowls and yowls.

  Her upcoming performance at the Diamond Ball, which was to be held in Washington DC’s Smithsonian Museum, would be the triumph of both her careers. Of course, she hadn’t counted on having to deal with the Ghost publicity and all the extra security that came al
ong with it, but she’d manage to accomplish her mission to steal the museum’s most valuable treasure just the same.

  Marguerite almost purred in satisfaction as she pictured the Hope Diamond wrapped around Voltaire’s collar as she paraded her pet through the Luxembourg Gardens on his daily walk. No one would ever guess they were watching the most famous gem in history prancing by on four little legs. How she would laugh!

  She’d have to plan very carefully, she mused as she let her fingers play through Rene’s short but surprisingly soft hair, especially if people believed the Ghost had risen from the dead. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Dornal Zagen, the ruthless Austrian jewel thief whom she had clashed with on more than one high-pitched rooftop. She still recalled with a shudder the look in his frosty gray eyes as he’d placed the revolver against her temple in the moonlit dressing room of the Comtesse De Vigne and slipped the majestic diamond-and-sapphire necklace from Marguerite’s black-gloved hand. She was well aware only his fear of the commotion a gunshot would raise in the well-staffed chateau had kept him from pulling the trigger before he slipped through the air-conditioning vent and she sprang empty-handed out of the third-story window. It had been bad luck running into him like that. Thank God the Americans had had the good sense to lock up the cold-blooded bastard. Hopefully he’d stay behind bars, and out of her luxurious hair, for the next thirty years.

  Of course, there would still be the authorities to contend with. She had always gotten along so well with the Paris police. She had found that the majority of them, and even a few venerable judges, were happy to share her spoils, or her bed, in exchange for turning a blind eye to her late night escapades.