The Sapphire Affair (A Jewel Novel Book 1) Page 2

  “It’ll cost you extra.”

  “Yes. I know,” he said drily.

  The light changed, and the cab peeled away, leaving two Irish Stradivarius thieves in his wake on the outskirts of Montmartre. His breath came fast as he settled into the backseat, slinging the backpack around to his front. Blood from the knife cut drizzled along his skin. Tugging at the waistband of his shirt, he wiped away the blood. The cut wasn’t deep; it was merely a superficial wound.

  “You running away from something?” the cab driver asked in French as he tore through side streets toward the Seine.

  “No. I don’t run away. I’m returning something to its rightful owner.”

  That was what he did.

  Several hours later, his forearm was cleaned up, his shirt had been changed, and the seven-figure violin was safe and sound and heading home. He stepped out of the terminal in Florence, greeted by a gleaming black town car and his client, Francesca Rinaldi, with jet-black corkscrew curls and outstretched arms.

  “Do you have it?” she asked, breathless.

  “I told you I did,” he said, because he’d called her on his way to the airport, telling her he’d tracked it down. For a brief moment on the flight from Paris to Florence, he’d wondered what it would sound like to pluck one of the strings on that violin. He was intrigued, simply because it was a damn Stradivarius and he couldn’t help but wonder if it would actually sound like a dull twang after being manhandled by criminals who thought they could get a cool mill for something that everyone knew was missing, or if it would still sound like some kind of siren song, as it was supposed to.

  He didn’t touch it, though. Not his place. Not his job.

  “I want to see it,” Francesca said, her eyes wide and eager, her voice desperate and hungry. She placed her palms together, as if praying.

  He took off his backpack, unzipped it, and removed the precious object from its special transport. He opened the case and showed her what was inside.

  “Oh God, it’s perfect,” she said, relief in her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she reached for the violin. She brought it to her cheek and sighed happily as she cozied up to it. Just as quickly, she tucked it back inside and gripped the case tightly in her arms. Like a mother holding her once-missing baby. Her gaze landed on his wrist. “You have a cut. Did you get in a fight?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a fight exactly. But they seemed keen on testing their knife’s sharpness on my arm,” he said, deadpan.

  “A knife!” she shrieked, covering her mouth. “Are you OK?”

  He waved off her worry.

  Truth be told, the knife had surprised him, given the general level of stupidity the thieves displayed in stealing something that was virtually impossible to fence. That’s probably why it had been chucked in a pile of laundry when the scums who stole it realized there was no true black market for a Stradivarius. The two Irish men had lifted this violin from Francesca’s niece, a world-renowned musician, at a Dublin train station a few months ago, with dollar signs in their eyes. After trying to peddle the violin in the underground market where not even the most stalwart criminal collectors would touch an item whose provenance was so well-documented, they’d turned to Craigslist to try to pawn it off, and that’s how Jake had tracked them down. This hadn’t been an easy gig, but it wasn’t the toughest job either in his years as a retrieval expert. Some called him a private detective, others dubbed him a bounty hunter, and sure, technically, he was that, too. Most of the assignments were to hunt down goods—usually precious objects, and every now and then he’d need to find a person. So, retrieval expert seemed to work as a catchall title.

  Francesca preferred to call him a bounty hunter.

  “Do you need a Band-Aid?”

  Jake shook his head and laughed. “I don’t do Band-Aids.”

  “Why not? Not rugged enough?” she asked with a playful pout.

  “Exactly. No one wants to hire a bounty hunter sporting a Band-Aid.”

  Francesca wrapped a hand around his arm, gently stroking near the cut but careful not to touch. “You’re right. We like you rugged. And I cannot thank you enough for finding this precious object. I’m so very grateful. This means the world to us,” she said, then reached for her phone and tapped it a few times. “There. I just wired you the fee.” He nodded a thanks. “Now, would you like to come and hear Arianna play it tomorrow night? We are setting up a private concert on the veranda of my villa to celebrate the return of the Stradivarius. You will be our guest of honor.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “The weather is much better here than in Paris. Say you’ll stay.”

  Her eyes seemed to twinkle with hopefulness and the sliver of a suggestion that perhaps he’d stay for more than the weather, more than the music.

  He blinked, then swallowed.

  Perhaps he was reading too much into the way she’d inched closer. Regardless, Jake didn’t even entertain the possibilities of getting involved with a client. There were lines. Those lines needed to be maintained to run a clean business, and business paid all those bills that he was responsible for. So. Many. Bills.

  Besides, home was calling his name.

  “Ah, I wish I could. But I need to head back. See my family.”

  “You are a good family man.”

  “I do what I can,” he said with an it’s-nothing shrug, even though his sisters and brother were everything to him. He nodded to the instrument. “’Fraid to tell you, the violin might need a Band-Aid. It has a scratch on it.”

  She held up a hand and shook her head. “Do not worry. I have a restorer on standby. We will fix it.”

  “By the way, you might want to tell your niece not to take the train anymore with her million-dollar violin. Maybe opt for a taxi next time she finishes a solo performance at the National Concert Hall in Dublin,” he quipped as he slung his backpack on his shoulder, ready to turn around and head inside to book a flight home. He kept his returns open-ended, preferring to make game-day decisions since he never knew how long a job would take. “Though, honestly, cabs aren’t always a better bet.”

  Francesca laughed deeply. “If only she would listen to me. She is so independent and stubborn.”

  He laughed, too. “Young people are like that.”

  She parked a hand on her hip and wagged a finger at him. “Speaking of stubborn, why didn’t you let me fly you here from Paris? I have a jet, you know. I would have been happy to let you use it.”

  “Nah. Commercial works fine for me.”

  “I insist you take it home, then.”

  He shot her a look that said she was crazy. Home was far away. “All the way to Miami?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I’m sending my plane there anyway. It’s being serviced nearby. Take it. Please. Think of it as a tip. Hazard pay.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. Sometimes the job had its perks. He didn’t mind those at all, especially if the plane was making its way over the Atlantic already . . .

  “It comes with an open bar. And your favorite Scotch,” she said, sweetening the pot. Ah, it was good to have clients like Francesca who liked to reward those who worked for her.

  “I believe you’ve just convinced me,” he said, and took off for the airport where a private plane awaited him.

  Somewhere over Spain, with the jet softly humming in his ears, the blue skies painting the world beyond the windows, and the Scotch tasting like the best medicine there ever was, Jake put up his feet and took a long nap.

  When he touched down in his hometown, he rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, ran a hand through his messy brown hair, and mapped out his day. He wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was, or what time, either. But it was warm and sunny, and that was all he needed to refuel after more than a week on the road. He was looking forward to going for a run on the beach, then taking his nephew, Mason, for a bike ride, then a day of fishing with his little brother, Brandt, when he came home for spring break from his final year of college.

 
As he stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac, his phone buzzed.

  His sister was calling.

  “Jake,” she said as soon as he answered. “Are you back?”

  “Obviously, I just answered the phone. Doesn’t ring in the sky, Kate.”

  He could practically see her roll her eyes. “Ha ha ha. Don’t get too comfy. We have another job.”

  He groaned. Sure, he was grateful for the work. But a little downtime before he caught another flight would be nice.

  “This is easy. All you have to do is find a guy who’s barely trying to hide.”

  But nothing was ever easy. “Tell me more about the job.”

  “It includes one of your favorite things ever.”

  “A day on the boat? Season tickets to the Marlins? A cold beer and barbecue?”

  “Try beaches full of hot women in bikinis all day long.”

  More like his greatest temptation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A school of fish so blue they shimmered like jewels swam past her, stirring up the crystal-clear water with dainty little ripples. One of the fish darted so close that its fins brushed against Steph’s leg, making her laugh silently. With the regulator in her mouth, she turned to her brother and waved to the underwater camera he held.

  The Miami sun from high above them was like a faint spotlight, offering flickers of bright little rays off the coast of South Beach. Steph resumed her path through the sunset-pink reef, darting by plants that danced and swayed in the sea, tranquil and gorgeously silent.

  She kicked her legs and swam alongside the blue tang fish as they cut past the living rock. Their scales glittered like sapphires. Breathing in through the regulator, she bobbed near the fish, enjoying the calm sensation of being at one with the natural world. Playing in it. But leaving it as it was.

  Perfect advertisement for her business . . . which still needed the help.

  About the only thing that would sell better than fish would be if she found a pirate’s buried treasure beneath the sea. She imagined uncovering a rusty old wooden box, bursting with hidden gems. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of uncovering such a find in the sea. Hunting through shipwrecks in search of long-lost gold. Absently, she fingered the chain around her neck with its mini treasure chest on it.

  As she skimmed near the sandy bottom of this shallow ledge, a dazzling pair of purple parrot fish shot past her, racing into an underground cavern too narrow for humans. Her eyes lit up, and her excitement was surely visible as she glanced back at the camera pointing to the neon fish, one of the most coveted sights on a dive.

  They were, quite simply, stunning.

  The ocean’s true treasure chest—the beautiful creatures that called it home. After the parrot fish disappeared in the cavern, her work was done. She made a circular sign with her hand. It’s a wrap.

  Soon she and her brother, Robert, shot up through the water. The moment of reentry was always thrilling, shifting from surviving underwater for thirty minutes to breathing that fabulous concoction known as air.

  As she broke the surface, it was as if hearing had been restored. A pelican squawked as it soared from out of nowhere and dipped into the ocean, hunting for fish. The gentle sound of waves pulsing toward the shore landed on her ears. The sun beat down, and the world was bright again, replacing the dark serenity of the underwater realm. Steph adored both worlds—the air and the sea, loving that she could live in one and at least exist in the other, thanks to all this awesome gear.

  Robert surfaced next, tugged off his mask, and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Great footage,” he said. “The parrot fish rocked it.”

  “Thanks. I rehearsed them in advance.”

  “Excellent. You’ve got them on payroll now?”

  She swam to the boat, shouting, “Yup. Blue tang and parrot fish do my bidding. Dolphins next. They drive a harder bargain, but they’ll be jumping above the water later, like Flipper. I promised them tuna,” she said in a pretend whisper.

  “Just let me know when their call time is and I’ll be here, Ariel.”

  She laughed as he used her childhood nickname, the one her mom had bestowed on her on an island vacation long ago. The one she gave to her business when she changed its name last year. Because she had to.

  Steph reached for a hand at the edge of the boat. Locking fingers with Lance, her longtime friend who ran day fishing tours, she hoisted herself onto the vessel. Robert followed. Never leave a private boat alone or unmoored while diving. You might become shark bait or just have to swim for a really long time to land. Steph was a water girl through and through, but neither option sounded appealing, especially the one that involved becoming lunch, so Lance had manned the boat as they filmed underwater videos to advertise Ariel’s Island Eco-Adventure Tours. All part of the rebuilding process, and she was grateful to have their help. They quickly removed their dive gear and stowed it away. Robert, a professional photographer, set down his camera.

  “Get what you wanted?” Lance asked. He held up a hand and flashed his sparkling grin that made his smile catnip for many women. “Wait. That was a dumb question. You always get what you want.”

  “Hardly,” Steph said with a scoff because she worked her butt off for everything she had.

  “Let me amend that. The new Steph gets what she wants”—he pointed at her—“because she takes no prisoners.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s the new me. Merciless,” she said, adopting a tough glower.

  “More like determined,” Robert weighed in. As Lance turned the key in the ignition, they sped toward land, the skyline of South Beach in their crosshairs.

  Her wet hair whipped behind her as they cut through the waves, and this was heaven for Steph. Working outdoors. If she never spent a night inside, she’d be the happiest woman alive. The sun, the sand, the surf. The mountains, the hikes, the trails. Bliss—all of it. She’d almost lost her business more than a year ago, but thanks to her mother’s help, she’d started anew.

  As they reached the marina, Lance slowed the motor, navigating through other sailors returning to the beach.

  “When do you leave for your next adventure tour?” Robert asked.

  She rubbed her hands together. “I’m so excited for this one. I’m running a rock climbing and dive gig in the Caymans.”

  “Nice. First job there in a while, right?”

  Nodding, she twisted her index and middle finger together. “Took me months to get this one,” she said, letting out a long breath, because it felt like she’d been holding it forever as she waited for the tour to come through. The Caymans were hit the hardest in her ex-boyfriend Duke’s slash-and-burn. “Then I head to Turks and Caicos for a private tour there. And that gives you plenty of time to cut the video and post it on the site before I leave,” she said, batting her eyes and adopting a wide smile, even though Robert was well aware that she wanted to use the footage to advertise her tour company’s growing work in vacation spots around the equator, starting with her home base of Miami and spanning across the Caribbean from the Caymans to Aruba to the Bahamas. “And I can book some Miami dives for when I return.”

  Robert rolled his light-blue eyes and ran a hand through his hair, golden from years in the sun, like hers. “Always working.”

  “When work is play, it’s hardly work,” she tossed back. “Besides, it sure beats not working, and I had enough of that in the past year to last a lifetime.”

  He raised a closed fist and knocked it against hers. “Here’s to keeping busy and saying fuck you to the asshole who tried to tank you,” he said as he parked a foot on the dash. “And anytime you need me to shoot something for you, I’ll gladly do it.”

  “I’ll second that. Well, when it comes to driving the boat,” Lance called out, then did a double take, narrowing his dark eyes at Robert. “Hey, get your stinky foot off my dashboard.”

  Steph leaned forward to pretend to wipe the dash. “Don’t worry, Lance. I’ll clean it up for you. I want Sally to look pretty, too,”
she said, patting the boat as she used the name he’d given it long ago—the shaggy mutt he’d had as a kid. “See you in a couple hours, Captain,” she said with a salute, then helped moor Sally to the dock.

  “Amen to that,” Lance said.

  When they were done, she said good-bye to her brother and her friend, then hopped into her red car, lowered the top, and headed up the road to the South Beach main drag. Once in town, she parked a block away from her mom’s favorite fish taco restaurant and met her mother, Shelly, for a cocktail at the street-side bar. Well, mocktails for Steph, since she had more work to do—leading a sunset snorkel trip off Key Biscayne in a few hours—and she’d made sure to hire Lance as her crew for that one. One way of saying thanks for how he’d helped her, she made sure she sent all her new business in Miami to her buddy.

  “You’re too tan, sweetheart. You need to wear sunscreen. Or a hat,” her mother said, gesturing to her own wide-brimmed hat that was large enough to provide a landing pad for creatures from outer space. She wore yoga pants, a sports bra, and a silvery necklace she’d made herself. It matched the one Steph wore.

  “The tan is kind of an occupational hazard,” Steph said, gesturing to her getup—green bikini covered by blue swim shorts and a loose tank. “I can slather myself with the stuff, but even then, the sun leaves its mark,” she added as the waiter brought the drinks—virgin piña colada for Steph and a mojito for her mom.

  They had a standing afternoon get-together every Monday and Thursday. Her mother was strong and didn’t like to let on how lonely she’d been since her divorce from Steph’s stepfather two years ago after nearly two decades of marriage and raising her two kids with him. But the twice-a-week meetings told Steph that yoga classes and a return to work hadn’t filled the void yet. Steph felt that void, too, though she’d never admit that to her mom. She missed the now-defunct holiday get-togethers, the occasional picnics at the beach, and especially the times when the three of them would grab lunch together at an outdoor café and she’d share stories from her adventure trips.