CHAPTER ONE
HECAMETO with a gasp, the act of inhaling sending a hundred sharp knives stabbing into his chest. He uttered an oath and froze. Gradually the pain subsided. Each breath still burned like the devil, but at least he could sit up.
The room spun. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, waited, then slowly opened them again. The world slowed enough that he was able to evaluate his surroundings, from the plush rug laid atop gleaming mahogany floors to the glittering chandelier hanging above his head. Cautiously, he turned his head. He was sitting on a tufted leather couch. A marble fireplace dominated the wall to his left, the space above the mantel decorated with a painting of Westminster Abbey's Gothic towers. To the right lay a massive bed on a raised dais, the mattress draped in a luxurious midnight comforter and a mound of artfully arranged pillows.
A distant honk made him wince. Whatever he'd been through had left him not only with an aching chest but a monstrous headache. He slid his fingers through his hair, pausing when he located a lump at the base of his skull.
What the hell happened?
He stood and made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands to catch the blessedly cool water and splashed it over his skin.
He raised his head, his eyes flickering to the mirror, then back again as confusion tugged at him. Confusion that quickly morphed into shock.
The face staring back at him was that of a stranger.
His hand came up, his fingertips tracing a long cut that ran from the slight hollow beneath his cheek down into the light beard following the lines of his jaw. The man in the glass mirrored his actions. Brown eyes stared back at him, fatigued and ringed by shadows.
Unfamiliar.
Who am I?
The question skittered through his mind, but encountered only silence. Silence and a gaping void that seemed to stretch on with no end in sight. No memories existed beyond this moment.
Dread pulled at him, fingers tugging, grasping at his consciousness. With a resolve that came to him as naturally as breathing, he stopped it. Panic had no place here.
He filled his lungs with a deep, cleansing breath before walking back into the bedroom. A quick search yielded no wallet or cell phone. The only luggage was a canvas duffel bag with leather straps. The clothes inside were simple yet well made, the tags featuring luxury labels he somehow recognized even though he couldn't even recall his own name. A thick white envelope, concealed in an interior side pocket, yielded nearly ten thousand euros. Whoever he was, it appeared he had money.
Or had taken it from someone who did.
Uncomfortable with the thought, his hand went back up to that cut, his fingers pressing against the wound. The sharp prick of pain centered him, pulled him back from the edge of diving too far into speculation that would get him nowhere.
A glance out the window revealed elegant buildings of brick and white stone stacked side by side. Some were storefronts, while others appeared to be office buildings. But they all carried the unmistakable mark of wealth. Taxis, red double-decker buses and pedestrians hurried to and fro beneath a darkening sky.
London.
He was in London. Something else flitted through his mind, but it darted away before he could grasp it.
One step at a time, he told himself. See if anyone else is here.
He moved away from the window to the double doors of the room. He listened for a full minute before carefully opening the door to a large, airy hallway with several expensive-looking paintings hung on the ivory walls between doors marked with room numbers.
A hotel then. Had he been attacked in the room? No, that didn't make sense. Surely if he had been attacked in here his assailant would have grabbed the duffel or at least searched it.
The headache returned with a vengeance. Twenty minutes later, after taking some pain medication he'd found in the bathroom and resting on the couch, he felt well enough to conduct another search of the room. He surveyed the lavish furnishings with a sharpened gaze. A flash of black caught his eye. On the floor underneath the couch lay an onyx business card. As he knelt, something shifted in his chest. He knew the card, knew the elegant cursive would have a delicate silver filigree style. Threads of apprehension and excitement drifted through him as his fingers closed around it.
The card was heavy, the edges rounded. On one side the card simply read Smythe's. On the other was a street address with a series of numbers in the bottom left corner. Someone had written Saturday, 7:30 in silver ink in the right corner.
A sense of urgency suddenly took him. This card, and the appointment, were important. He glanced at his wrist, only to find the skin pale where a watch should have been. He picked up the phone by the bed.
"Good evening, thank you for calling The Bancroft, Anthony speaking."
He mentally noted the name of the hotel.
"Hello, Anthony. Could you please provide me with the date and time?"
"Certainly, sir. Today is April the fifth, and the time is almost seven in the evening."
"Is today Saturday?"
"Yes, sir."
He decided to take one last leap.
"Thank you, Anthony. My last question: what's the name listed for my room?"
A pause followed. "Sir?"
"Just clarifying what name the reservation was made under."
"Of course, sir. The name we have on file is John Adamos."
A Greek surname. One that didn't feel or sound familiar.
"Thank you."
He hung up the phone.
John Adamos.
He said the name out loud, repeated it several times. Each time it sounded as alien as when he'd first heard it.
His eyes moved back to the card. He had thirty minutes before the appointment time listed on the card. He could call the police or take himself to a hospital. But the hospital could take hours of examinations and scans. While he would need to see a doctor eventually, the medicine made his pain manageable for now. The police would interview him, possibly take a photo and circulate it to the media as they investigated what had happened to him. Something else that would take time.
He tapped the card against his other hand. This route, however, could give him answers within the hour.
He picked up the phone and dialed again.
"Good evening and thank you for—"
"Anthony, it's... John again." The name tasted foreign on his tongue.
"Yes, sir."
"Would you please have a taxi ready for me in ten minutes?"
Fifteen minutes later, John stood on the sidewalk that ran alongside a terrace of elegant town houses. The one listed on the card resembled the others in the row with its white brick, arched windows and elegant pillars guarding the main entrance. But unlike the glossy mahogany doors that graced the other homes, this one's door differed with its midnight black coloring. There was no sign, though, no indication that the house was anything but a residence. He ascended the stairs and pressed the doorbell. Scarcely two seconds passed before the door opened to reveal a man. A very, very tall man who looked as if he'd been stuffed into the black suit he wore and didn't look very happy about it.
"Good evening."
The man said nothing.
"I have an appointment."
One bushy eyebrow raised up toward the man's broad forehead. John pulled the card out of his pocket.
"I—"
The man's face underwent a startling transformation as John held the card up. A smile creased his face as his mountainous shoulders relaxed.
"My apologies, sir. Admittance is only allowed when the card is produced." He stood back and gestured for John to come in. "Welcome to Smythe's."
John hesitated a moment. A flicker of something teased his mind: an image of a chandelier dripping in diamonds. A smoky, feminine voice.
Then it was gone.
He walked inside, careful to keep his face blank even as surprise filtered through him. The entry hall itself was stunning, with a wrought-iron railing curled intimately around a staircase that circled up, gleaming marble floors and paintings displayed on the wall. Not just any paintings, he realized, as information filled his mind. Renoir, Monet, Kahlo and Rembrandt, to name a few. If these were genuine, they would fetch millions at auction.
Yet of all the incredible things in the entry hall, it wasn't the art that froze him in place. It was the gleaming chandelier above his head.
Satisfaction shot through him and eased some of his tension. He had been here before.
"The elevator will take you up."
John turned to see the man, apparently a guard of some sort, gesturing toward a glass column in the center of the staircase. The guard pushed a button on the wall and a door in the column opened to reveal an elevator, the car made of the same black iron as the railing.
"Enjoy your visit."
The elevator ride was short and smooth. The door opened without a sound. John paused, his eyes sweeping and assessing everything that lay before him.
A short set of stairs led down to the tiled floor, the staircase flanked by marble pillars the same pale aqua as the walls. Mirrors trimmed in gold lined the room, making it feel twice as big. Glass cases stood every few feet along the perimeter of the room.
Jewelry cases, John realized as he descended the stairs. Every case contained artfully arranged jewelry, from loose stones to elegantly set necklaces, bracelets, earrings and rings sparkling with rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds, even a crown.
"Hello, again."
The smoky voice from his memory slid over him, a voice designed to tempt and seduce. Yet, he noted as he turned, despite the inherent sexiness in the tones, he experienced nothing more than a casual flicker of interest.
A woman stood at the top of the stairs. A sleeveless black dress clung to her curves. Sleek ebony hair had been cut into a bob, the sharply cut fringe of bangs accentuating her striking cheekbones and large eyes.
"Welcome back, Mr. Adamos."
"Thank you."
She cocked her head to the side. A flirtatious smile flitted about her lips, but her eyes were shrewd.
"Is everything all right?"
He paused. Part of him wanted to dive straight into questioning. But a sixth sense urged him to proceed with caution, to test the waters and work up to his questions.
"Yes." He held up the card. "Saturday at seven thirty, yes?"
She stared at him for a long moment before descending the stairs. Each step was sensual, hips swaying, fingers lingering on the banister. Yet when she met his gaze, he saw a strong, calculating woman behind the theater. Whoever Miss Smythe was, she was certainly no fool.
"Champagne?"
"No, thank you."
She gestured toward a mahogany desk set against one wall, a floor-to-ceiling mirror behind it and a set of tufted leather chairs in front. He waited until she circled the desk and sat before he took his seat. She pulled a drawer out and, judging by the soft ticks, typed in a code. A click sounded, followed by the whooshing of a door swinging open. She reached down below, then set a black box on the desk between them.
"As promised."
John stared at the box. Then, slowly, he opened the lid.
The diamond glittered up at him from a bed of black silk. It was a diamond unlike any he'd ever seen. Black dots peppered the inside of the jewel, some pinpoints of color, others swirling out in tiny patterns that reminded him of a night sky. Tiny drops of pearls and aquamarine stones circled it, the entire arrangement set atop a silver band polished to a perfect shine.
Classic. Elegant. Romantic.
Flame. Red, silky flame spilling across his fingers. A laugh that made his body hard even as it made his chest light to hear it, to know he had made her smile. And then a name, whispered with such affection his chest tightened. "Julius..."
"It's stunning."
A genuine smile flashed on Miss Smythe's ruby-red lips, fleeting but proud.
"Thank you. I don't have many clients who request a salt-and-pepper diamond. It was a challenge I thoroughly enjoyed."
"Salt-and-pepper diamond?"
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched up.
"Yes. As we discussed at your last appointment."
"Remind me again."
She pulled the ring from the bed of silk and held it up. "Also known as galaxy or celestial diamonds, salt-and-pepper diamonds used to be seen as undesirable. Flawed. The black spots you see are bits of carbon or minerals that didn't crystallize during the formation of the diamond. But as the world evolves, they're starting to be appreciated for their uniqueness." She angled the ring so he could stare into the depths of the stone. "Unlike a traditional diamond that reflects light, a salt-and-pepper diamond pulls you in. Encourages a second look. The longer you look, the more you see."
He tried to reach out, to grasp a memory of the faceless red-haired woman. To summon an image of a woman he had apparently considered asking to be his wife.
An endless darkness thwarted his efforts. As if there was nothing beyond the past few hours. Suddenly angry, he tried harder, focused more, demanded his body release whatever it was concealing from him.
Searing pain shot through his head. His eyes scrunched shut as he suppressed a groan.
"Mr. Adamos?"
"A moment," he ground out.
Finally, the pain passed. When it did, he opened his eyes to see a bottle of water in front of him and Miss Smythe watching him.
"Once you're recovered, you have five minutes to tell me what's going on or leave."
He breathed in deeply, took a long drink of water and then sat back.
"A headache, Miss Smythe. Surely, you've heard of them."
Her eyes narrowed as she sat back.
"While I may interact with clients from a variety of backgrounds, if you're indulging in any illicit substance, I'll have you—"
"Strike that thought from your mind."
The authoritative command flowed naturally from his tongue. To her credit, Miss Smythe didn't flinch even as she gave him the tiniest of contrite nods.
"My apologies if I have offended you. But," she countered, leaning forward and crossing her arms so they gently pressed her breasts up, "you're still not telling me the truth."
"You're a beautiful woman, Miss Smythe. But it will take more than a little cleavage to have me reveal my secrets."
She let out a chuckle and leaned back into her chair.
"Worth a try." She sobered. "Mr. Adamos, to date our dealings have been nothing but professional. You paid on time, and in full. Your requests for the ring were obviously well-thought-out and detailed. But I have been in business long enough to know that something has changed since our last parting. Perhaps it is personal, and if so, I will drop the topic. But if it affects your purchase, or my company, I have a right to know."
He stared at her for a long moment. It would be taking a risk, an early one. Revealing his secret went against an instinct imprinted so deeply inside him he didn't question it. But he also recognized that, so far, this was the only link he had.
"I woke up an hour ago with no memory of who I am."
It gave him a small jolt of satisfaction to see her mouth drop open.
"Excuse me?"
"I woke up in a suite in The Bancroft an hour ago. I had a splitting headache and my chest felt like it was on fire. I have no memory of who I am, no wallet, no phone," he held up his left hand, "and no watch. All I could find, besides some very expensive luggage and an envelope full of euros, was your business card."
Her eyes darted between him and the ring box, now closed and pushed off to the side. "No memories at all? Not of your initial appointment five days ago?"
He waited a moment, let his eyes roam around the room. It felt familiar, but aside from the brief flashes he'd experienced outside when he'd first arrived, nothing else appeared.
"A flash here and there. Nothing substantial."
"Why not go to the police? The hospital?"
"Those routes will take time. When I confirmed today's date and time, I decided that coming here would offer me the quickest route to the question of who I am."
She tapped a manicured finger on the desk. Once, then once again, the sound echoing in the room. He maintained her gaze, accepting her assessment yet not backing down.
At last, she leaned back into her chair.
"The name you provided was John Adamos."
"A name I don't recognize."
She shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was a fake. Smythe's has been in business for generations. We thrive on exclusivity and mystery. Part of that includes not asking details of our clients. If they have a card, they get admitted. If they have money, we accept their order. Beyond that, we know very little about the people we work for."
He stood and began to pace. "When did I make the appointment?"
"Three weeks ago, when you submitted a request and the deposit."
"Deposit?"
"I require half, but you paid in full. One million euros."
He stared at her. "A million?"
"Yes." She shrugged a bare shoulder. "We're the best."
"And I said nothing about the woman this ring is for?"
Something wistful passed across Miss Smythe's face, so quickly John would have missed it if he hadn't been watching her carefully.
"No." She leaned forward. "But I've been in this showroom since I was a child. First watching my father, then learning, then leading. I know the difference between clients who want to impress someone, clients who are desperate, clients who are here simply for the thrill."
"The thrill?"
"Smythe's is by referral only to the world's elite. The art you saw on the ground floor serves as an excuse for the people who come to our door should anyone ask questions. A private collection that only the most esteemed art lovers are granted access to." The same proud smile he'd glimpsed earlier returned. "Without the black card you had in your possession, probably given to you by a former client, you would have either been turned away by Henry or one of the other guards." She smirked. "It's incredible how many politicians, movie stars and royals will pay hundreds of thousands just so they can engage in a clandestine appointment and own a piece of jewelry from my shop."
His lips quirked. "Did I present as a spoiled bastard?"
The smirk faded. "No." Miss Smythe opened the box and gazed at the ring. This time there was no mistaking the sadness in her eyes. "No, whoever you purchased this for is a fortunate woman to have someone who cares about her so deeply. You declined champagne. You booked an hour and took great care in examining the jewels. Many come to me wanting the most expensive or exclusive. You wanted something that, as you told me, would be beautiful but unique, enigmatic." Another smile flashed, genuine and nostalgic. "This ring was one I greatly enjoyed working on."
That sense of urgency invaded once more.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"You set your appointment for two weeks out. You came in last week, picked out this diamond," she said with a nod to the box, "and arranged to come back today to pick up the ring."
"And I left no contact information? No phone, no email?"
Her fingers danced across the screen of her computer.
"You left an address." She rattled off the numbers and name of a street. "It's on the island of Grenada in the Caribbean Sea, care of Esmerelda Clark."
Esmerelda. The name rushed through him. He knew the name. Could see full lips turned up in a rare smile, green eyes dotted with gold and sparkling with laughter, red curls framing a freckled face.
"Do you know who she is?"
"No. As I mentioned, we honor our clients' wishes for privacy and do not conduct any background checks."
He steeled himself against the sudden frenetic energy that urged him to get up, to find Esmerelda Clark, to do something. He would find her. He had to find her. Surely, he wouldn't have put down the name of some random woman for such an important transaction. At the very least, she would probably have some answers about who he was.
But something innate told him that Esmerelda Clark wasn't just a resource. No, she was important. Perhaps even the woman he had planned to present this ring to.
"Will you write down the address for me?"
"Yes."
Miss Smythe jotted down the address on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
"I do have a request, Mr. Adamos."
"You've given me answers." He picked up the box. "And an invaluable ring. Name it and it's done."
Her lips tilted up.
"Call and tell me how the story ends."