She retrieved the tray containing the stone, then stepped back a bit, wanting to watch him work.
He used the tweezers and loupe like a pro, his hands looking strong and capable as the emerald shot sparks in a million directions, the stone seeming to glow from the inside like something from a mythological tale.
Oddly enough, she recalled their second night together. After they’d had amazing sex in the shower, they’d sat on the bed wearing bathrobes and eating lobster from room service. Gideon had suddenly jumped up, returning a few moments later with a black cloth, which he’d handed to her.
Inside the folded cloth was a ring, a four-karat, square-cut sapphire with diamonds surrounding it. An exquisite stone, its color deep and mysterious, like the Pacific Ocean, somehow cold and warm at the same time.
The ring had been lost, Gideon had explained, when a man had hocked it in anger after his wife divorced him. The couple had reunited recently, and the man wanted it back. He’d hired Gideon to find the ring, which he had.
But for the first time in his career, Gideon said he’d been tempted to keep a treasure. He’d slid the ring on her finger.
It’s the color of your eyes….
“I want it.”
The sapphire? But you gave it to your client. How—
She blinked away the past and tried to ground herself again in the present. The emerald. He was talking about the emerald. He wasn’t here to see her. He wasn’t here to give her gifts, or tease her with things she’d never have.
“I imagine you do,” she said coolly as she returned the emerald and its tray to the case and locked it. “Along with dozens of other people. Feel free to bid at the auction on Wednesday.”
“You don’t understand. It’s already mine.”
“Yours?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Be serious. Is this some Adventure-Man ploy? The emerald clearly belongs—” She stopped as he handed her a stack of photographs he’d drawn from his back pocket.
For the first time, she felt a tremor of unease—professional unease. The man may have her sweating the personal stuff, but she was confident in her job. Nothing shook her in that area.
Yet, while she’d been dreamily reliving the past, he was all business.
Rolling her shoulders, she shuffled through the pictures. They were in black and white. The first was a doozy, showing a young, beautiful woman wearing an obviously couture gown, long white gloves and a magnificent choker around her neck being presented to the King of England.
Okay, that was…unexpected.
Where had Gideon gotten these pictures? The library? The Internet?
The photos are yellowed and rough at the edges, not recently printed.
She shook away the disturbing thought, as well as the even more unsettling vision of them being pulled from a family album, or from a box in the back of somebody’s closet.
Fighting to keep her hands still, she shuffled through several more, which showed the same woman smiling and posing, dancing and bowing. The constant in all the pictures was the lovely gown and the amazing choker around her neck. The choker that featured a large, emerald-cut gem. Twenty-one karats, if Jacinda had any kind of decent eye.
And she did.
Still, the pictures were old black-and-whites. The stone in the choker could be glass. It could be any color. The pictures could be doctored. In the age of digital technology, anything was possible.
On the other hand…Jacinda was pretty sure she recognized the woman in the photos. Sophia Graystone. A high-society woman who’d been wild in her youth but who had eventually married and become one of the most respected philanthropists in the city. A close friend of Malle Callibro. In the director’s office, there was even a picture of them smoking cigars in a club, laughing as if the world existed to simply amuse them.
“It’s Sophia Graystone,” she said to Gideon, forcing disinterest into her voice. “So?”
“The emerald in the pictures is the same you see in the display case,” Gideon said.
“Oh, please. They’re black-and-white photos and—”
“It’s the same,” he insisted.
She said nothing.
His gaze burned into hers. “Sophia was a close friend of Malle Callibro.”
“So I’ve heard. Look, I—”
“She’s also my grandmother.”
2
GIDEON WATCHED Jacinda’s face pale. Her hands trembled around the pictures she held.
He wanted to comfort and assure her, but there was too much at stake. Hadn’t he come here for shock value? Hadn’t he counted on catching her off guard?
Still, it hurt to watch her hurt.
“Sophia Graystone is my grandmother,” he repeated, concerned that Jacinda needed a jolt.
Jacinda’s gaze jumped to his, back to the pictures, then latched on to his again. “So, you’re…you’re—”
“Incredibly wealthy and privileged.” He smiled gently. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
She laid the pictures on the display case and stepped back. “You lied to me.”
“No, I don’t think I did.” He’d been careful, as always, and given her limited details. To some, his words would have been considered lying; to others, simply self-protection. “I told you I chased treasures for a living. You assumed I was a penniless and unsettled dreamer, and I—” He stopped, knowing even if he hadn’t directly lied before, he needed to come clean now. “And I encouraged you to accept that assumption. I feel like I’ve spent half my life dodging women with their eyes on my trust fund.”
She glared at him, her blue eyes as sharp as a laser. “Oh, gee, how horrible for you.”
He reached for her hands; she shook her head. “Not my best explanation. I am an unsettled dreamer. I’m just not exactly penniless.”
“Not exactly.”
The word billions in conjunction with his family’s wealth was arrogant and ridiculous, even though it was true. He’d purposely kept that truth from the Vegas dancer he’d known so intimately. After only a few hours with her, though, he’d also known she didn’t need protection, that she was a remarkable, amazing woman.
Still, he’d kept silent. He’d always wondered what it would be like to be loved and accepted for what he was and not who he was. With the perfect opportunity dangling in front of him, he’d grabbed it. He’d let her assume his only ambitions were for fame and fortune.
In short, he’d lied in a big way.
Now, he admitted no small amount of shame over that decision. He’d wanted her body, had been intrigued by her mind, but he wouldn’t have presented her in the drawing room of his grandmother’s Park Avenue home. Was he, after all, a hypocrite?
“I’m sorry I lied to you before, though I didn’t hide everything. I do chase down lost treasures for clients. I am fascinated by history and family heirlooms. I just happen to be able to bankroll my searches if I so choose. It’s my way of giving back. My family encourages community service.” He held up his hand. “No, that’s not enough. We’re required to give back. It’s practically a family motto.”
“How generous of you.”
He ignored her sarcasm. He deserved it. But there was so much more at stake than mottos and past liaisons. “It’s what I do.”
Her