Diamonds Can Be Deadly

He left Diamond with instructions to check in with him when she’d completed her mission prep.

Jordan’s mission preparation took the rest of the day. Her first session was with Claire Cantwell, code name Cyrene. A noted psychologist in her other life, the slender, delicate blonde had lost her husband in a bungled attempt to free the kidnapped oil executive years ago. She’d buried her grief behind a serene facade that disguised her absolute dedication to stamping out the kind of economic terrorism that had claimed her husband.

Drawing on her training and years of experience as a practicing psychologist, Claire gave a slide presentation attempting to explain Bartholomew Greene’s healing methods.

“Transpersonal psychotherapy offers itself as an interface between traditional psychology and spiritual transcendence.”

“Riiiight.”

Cyrene accepted the underlying sarcasm in the drawled comment with an unruffled smile. She and Jordan had worked together in the field. The two operatives respected each other’s strengths. They also recognized their weaknesses. Claire’s was a certain too-handsome Latin American by the name of Colonel Luis Esteban. Jordan’s was her refusal to allow her past to intrude on her present. Sooner or later, Claire had suggested in her quiet way, Jordan would have to reconcile the two.

“The therapist supplements traditional techniques such as behavior modification or psychoanalysis with practices designed to elevate the patient to a higher level of awareness of self. The ultimate goal is a fusing of the physical and spiritual, thus providing a deeper, broader and more unified sense of identity.”

Jordan forced herself to pay close attention as Claire presented a crash course in meditation therapies, alternative medicine and theories concerning the healing properties of gemstones. When Claire finished, she had to admit to more than a degree of skepticism.

“So you’re telling me I’m going to find a bunch of middle-aged flower children chanting and rubbing colored stones when I get to Hawaii.”

“Something like that.” Claire clicked off her last slide and regarded Jordan thoughtfully. “You understand it isn’t going to be easy getting close to Greene. His Tranquility Institute is supposedly open to anyone willing to fork out the ten grand required for a week-long session with the master, but we know his people screen every applicant closely.”

“I’m not going in as an applicant. I’m going in as a designer of very exclusive, very expensive eyewear that will allow the man to gouge his followers even more.”

“That’s your entrée, of course. But don’t underestimate Greene. He couldn’t have gained such a large following without exercising considerable skill as a therapist. Or developing keen insights into people.”

Jordan stiffened. “What are you saying? That I should pass myself off as a candidate for therapy?”

“What I’m saying,” Claire replied quietly, “is that Greene isn’t going to do business with anyone without without checking their background. He’ll see the holes in yours and wonder about them.”

“Let him wonder.”

Jordan hated the ice that coated her voice. She’d trust Claire with her life. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to talk about her past, even with this cool, composed friend. And she certainly wouldn’t discuss them with a psychobabbler like Bartholomew Greene.

“Just be prepared,” Cyrene advised calmly.

The warning lingered in Jordan’s mind as she met with Mackenzie Blair and her electronic wizards. As always, Mac had come armed with a full bag of tricks.

“This is the latest in sniffers. We’ve souped it up a little for you.”

Her eyes gleaming, the former naval officer palmed what looked like a compact, handheld CD player. It was a CD player, Jordan discovered when Mac grinned and depressed a button.

“You can listen to Travis Tritt while you search for listening devices, hidden cameras or electronic sensors. In receive mode, this little baby will pick up and interpret any and all electronic vibrations. In send mode, it could fuzz those signals temporarily or put them out of operation on a permanent basis.”

After a few bars of “Too Far To Turn Around,” Mac set aside the sniffer and briefed Jordan on an array of other equipment that included a thermal suit designed to contain body heat, thus defeating infrared sensors and night-vision goggles. She saved a pair of slender gold hoop earrings for last. One of the earrings was just what it looked like—a decorative piece of jewelry. The other was Jordan’s primary means of communication while in the field.

“Just thumb the slight indentation at the back of the hoop,” Mackenzie instructed. “You’ll be able to receive and send clear voice-stream signals off a secure satellite. We’ll monitor for transmissions around the clock.”

Nodding, Jordan traded her diamond studs for the lightweight gold hoops. She was testing the astonishing clarity of the transmissions when word came that Lightning wanted to see her and Claire.

Mackenzie decided to accompany the two operatives downstairs to her husband’s office. A specially shielded elevator zipped the three women to the first floor. The titanium doors wouldn’t open unless the Special Envoy’s executive assistant activated a silent release.

Trim, silver-haired Elizabeth Wells manned the ornate Louis XV executive assistant’s desk. She’d worked for several of OMEGA’s directors including Adam Ridgeway, his wife, Maggie Sinclair, and now Maggie’s handpicked successor, Nick Jensen. Her cheerful efficiency was matched only by her skill with the .9mm Sig Sauer concealed in a special compartment in her desk drawer.

Jordan greeted the grandmotherly assistant with a smile. “Hi, Elizabeth. What’s up?”

“I don’t know, dear. Lightning just said he wanted to see you. Let me tell him the three of you are here.”

Mackenzie winked at the two operatives. “That’s Elizabeth’s polite way of saying not even the Special Envoy’s loving wife gets access to his office without clearance.”

Her wicked grin said that restriction extended only to his office.

Once Elizabeth had cleared them, the three women entered the inner sanctum. It was furnished to suit the Special Envoy’s exalted status. An acre or so of polished mahogany served as a conference table. His double pedestal desk was wide and long enough to serve as a landing pad for the space shuttle. Tall, wingback leather chairs stood in a window alcove, grouped around an antique map chest containing priceless charts Nick had collected over the years.

Rounding his desk, Lightning shared a quick smile with his wife. “Do you have Diamond all rigged out?”

“Right up to her ears.”

“I’m good to go,” Jordan confirmed, flicking back her hair to display the gold hoops. “Or I will be, once I work up designs for a whole new line of glasses, fire off a proposal and arrange an appointment to discuss the line with Greene in person.”

“Yes, well, we’ve run into a slight complication.” Nick smoothed a hand down his Italian-silk tie. “I had our folks run another screen of all guests and employees at Bartholomew Greene’s Tranquility Institute. Seems he recently hired a new chief of security. TJ Scott.”

Jordan’s heart stopped, then restarted a second or two later with a painful kick.

Thomas Jackson Scott. The man she’d once tumbled so quickly, so stupidly in love with. The bastard who’d hurt her far worse than her heavy-handed stepfather ever had.

His face grave, Lightning gave her the option. “Do you still want to go in?”

“Oh, yeah.” Jordan’s lips curved in a feral smile. “No way I’d pass up a chance to nail a crooked faith healer and a dirty cop.”

Chapter 2

“There’s a Jordan Colby at the gates of the compound, boss. I have her on screen six.”

TJ Scott’s muscles went tight under the green-knit polo shirt that constituted his duty uniform these days. He’d spotted Jordan’s name on the access list, knew she had an appointment with Bartholomew Greene this afternoon. He’d had plenty of time to prepare himself for this moment. Yet it took a conscious effort of will not to drop the report he was reviewing and whip around.

He forced himself to scrawl his initials on the report before he lifted his gaze to the bank of monitors that took up almost an entire wall of the Tranquility Institute’s security operations center. The new, state-of-the-art digital cameras he’d had installed after his arrival a few weeks ago captured the driver who sat behind the wheel of the rented Mustang in excruciating detail.

She hadn’t changed. Not outwardly. The hair only half confined by a designer silk scarf was the same shoulder-length waterfall of red. Those high cheekbones and full, sensual lips might have leaped right off one of the dozens of glossy magazine covers she’d graced over the years. She wore a minimum of jewelry, only gold hoops at her ears and designer sunglasses with the tiny diamond butterfly logo that had become her signature.

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.