Christmas Male

Over the years, the legendary diamond had attracted as many thieves as lovers. The article in the Washington Post had even mentioned the name of master thief Arthur Franks as having once had possession of the stone. While the female members of D.C.’s family had oohed and aahed over the diamond, he’d been wondering how a good thief might work a successful heist. And the fact that his mind had wandered down that path was pathetic proof of the level of his boredom.

Then he’d glanced up and looked into his mystery woman’s eyes. And for those next few seconds, he’d been unaware of anything but her. He couldn’t recall ever being that intensely aware of anyone before.

When his cell phone rang, D.C. glanced at the ID and grinned. Jase had been checking in with him once a week since he’d been assigned to Fort McNair. A classic case of big-brotheritis.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” D.C. asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. But Maddie wanted me to call and remind you that you’re joining us for Christmas in the Big Apple.”

“And you don’t think I’m getting daily reminders of that from Mom?”

Jase laughed. “Okay. I’ll have to think up better excuses for calling. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” D.C said. “Really.” And he realized it was the truth. He was okay with the fact that his life after January 15 was a clean slate—something he had plenty of time to write on. It would be an adventure. And after all, wasn’t that what he was craving?

“You’ll figure something out.”

“I will,” D.C. said. He would.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas…

The song poured out of the speakers as D.C. pocketed his cell phone. His smile widened. The music seemed louder, the lights brighter, the evening merrier. He was still grinning and watching the skaters when he caught a movement in his peripheral vision. Turning, he spotted a figure at the far end of the garden just inside one of the entrance gates. The lights were focused on the ice rink, but he could still make out the white fur trim on the Santa hat as the person dodged behind one of the trees.

Earlier, when they’d arrived at the National Gallery, there’d been a couple of young people wearing red scarves and Santa hats in the museum. ‘Twas the season, D.C. supposed.

He kept his eyes on the festive figure as he darted to the next tree. Intrigued by the furtiveness of the movement, D.C. stepped onto the grass using trees and sculptures for cover as he zigged and zagged away from the ice rink.

Suddenly, the person ducked down along one side of the largest sculpture—the four-sided pyramid. Hiding, D.C. decided. But from what? The question had barely formed in his mind when a second figure suddenly appeared on another side of the sculpture and moved stealthily toward the first. Both figures were dressed alike—dark clothing, a Santa hat and a scarf.

In spite of the dim lighting, D.C. caught the glint of light on metal and watched. The second one raised his arm and springing forward, brought a gun down hard on the other one’s head.

D.C. pulled out his revolver as he broke into a run. “Stop. Police.”

The person holding the gun whirled and raised his weapon just as uneven ground made D.C. stumble and fall. He landed hard on his bad leg. Dispassionately, he heard a whiny thud and watched a chunk of bark hit the grass inches in front of him. Close, D.C. thought as he rolled to the other side of a tree. Very close.

Still on the ground, he ignored the pain in his thigh and took aim with his own weapon. But the figure was already racing away. The sidewalks on either side of the garden were still filled with tourists, and firing a shot would be too risky.

Hauling himself to his feet, D.C. dialed 911 and relayed his situation as he ran haltingly in the direction the armed man had taken. He exited the gate in time to see a figure wearing a Santa hat disappear into the backseat of an unmarked van. The Mall was lit brightly enough for him to see that there were two other people in the vehicle, one behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat.

The engine roared and tires squealed as the van raced away toward Fourth Street and peeled around the corner. It would be useless to give chase, D.C. thought. Even if his leg had been at one hundred percent, the van was moving too fast. He rubbed his thigh. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the sharpness of the pain was coming through. Loud and clear.

He turned back, and as he limped across the ground toward the fallen figure, he caught a few glimpses of the ice rink. Thanks to the volume of the music and the fact that the person with the gun had used a silencer, the skaters seemed blissfully unaware of the little shoot-out. He leaned down to retrieve his cane and then continued toward the figure on the ground.

The man was lying on his side, one arm flung out, a red scarf obscuring his features. D.C. knelt down beside the body. It was the hand that caught his attention first. The fingers were long, slender and delicate-looking. He checked for a pulse, found it steady. Carefully drawing the scarf aside, he confirmed his suspicion—this was a woman.

And he knew her.

Lying before him was Private Amanda Hemmings, General Eddinger’s administrative assistant at Fort McNair. Small world, D.C. thought.

Examining the fallen woman more closely, he noted the gash on the back of her head oozing blood. And the bruise on her forehead told him she’d hit it, as well, when she fell. He took her hand and patted it. “Private Hemmings?”

No response.

“Amanda?”

Silence again. She’d obviously been hit hard. Above the music from the rink, D.C. caught the faint sound of a siren.

What was Private Amanda Hemmings doing here wearing a Santa hat and red scarf? And why had someone attacked her?

It was a puzzle—and D.C. loved them. He was taking out his notebook and pen when he saw it—just two or three links of gold sticking out of one of the pockets in her jacket. But he’d seen those chain links before. Very carefully, he drew them out.

Excitement surged through him. There hanging at the end of the necklace was the Rubinov diamond.

BAH! HUMBUG!

Though she didn’t utter them aloud, the words blinked on and off like a neon sign in Fiona’s mind. Impatient and annoyed, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel of her car while she waited for a group of tourists to climb aboard the bus she’d been following down Constitution Avenue.

Even though it was nearly five forty-five and the sky had darkened over half an hour ago, the traffic around the National Mall hadn’t let up. She shouldn’t have taken this route. But she hadn’t quite been able to put that officer out of her mind. What was even more annoying was that each time she thought about him, the feelings she’d experienced returned—the shortness of breath, the rapid pulse. How could she be so intensely attracted to a total stranger?

She’d succeeded in coming up with a rational explanation for the…unsettling experience. It had been a combination of all the media hype around the diamond together with the Christmas season with its promises of wishes coming true. Add to that the fact that she was at loose ends because she wasn’t in the middle of a case, and it made sense that her imagination would react in such a strange way to the diamond…and the army officer.

And damn it, while she’d been thinking of him, her car had somehow found its way to the National Mall. Again.

She spared a glance for the tourists who had formed a line on the sidewalk that ran behind the sculpture garden next to the National Gallery. She seemed to be the only one in a hurry to get somewhere. She stared at them, willing them to pick up the pace as they slowly boarded their bus. It didn’t work.

Great! Fiona clamped down on the urge to lean on her horn. It wasn’t the bus driver’s fault that she was late. Nor could she blame him for the traffic snarl or because she was on her way to an obligatory Christmas party that she’d done her best to get out of.

Her boss, Natalie Gibbs-Mitchell, had refused to take no for an answer. And the fact that her captain was expecting a baby any day added what Fiona felt was a lot of unfair pressure.

When her cell phone rang, Fiona glanced at the caller ID. Speak of the devil…

“Don’t even think of chickening out on me,” Natalie said.

“I swear I’m on my way. I’m running late because I stopped by the National Gallery earlier today and saw the diamond.”

“And?”

“You’re right. It’s beautiful.” But it wasn’t an image of the necklace that filled her mind. It was the face of the stranger she’d seen over the display glass—that lean face with the ruggedly handsome features.

“And now that you’ve seen it, what do you think of the legend?”

When she felt the little flutter of panic, Fiona ruthlessly shoved it down. “I think the legend is making this one of the most popular exhibitions ever.”

Then she changed the subject. “I’m also running late because my meeting at Walter Reed hospital took longer than I expected.”

There was a beat of silence. “And that would be my fault?”

Fiona could picture Natalie on the other end of the call, her expression cool, her brows raised. The image made Fiona smile. “If the shoe fits…”