Chapter 3 Amber

Amber had no idea if Jackson had stolen the diamonds or had obtained them legitimately. One thing was certain, however. She had to be cautious about who she showed them to, and thanks to good old Bunny, Amber knew just who to call.

Bunny Nichols was a woman Amber had met when Amber had wormed her way onto Daphne's charity committee a few years back. The third wife of a repugnant eighty-five-year-old multimillionaire, Bunny was the embodiment of every cliché about the trophy wife. Despite her ditzy vibe, she was actually quite cunning. She had turned Amber on to Stefan Becker, a jeweler with impeccable discretion, who was not only willing to help turn gems into cash but was also a master craftsman, an artist really, in making flawless replicas of the jewels being sold. The ever-resourceful Bunny had found Becker when her husband, March, slashed her budget after discovering she'd been cheating. It was ironic, really, since Amber was the one who'd sent March the compromising pictures of Bunny and her lover way back when Amber had first befriended Daphne and needed Bunny out of the way so she could take her place as cochairman on Daphne's charity gala committee. Of course, no one found out. Amber had availed herself of Becker's services a few months back when their bank account had begun to dwindle. She'd sold her Blue Nile tennis bracelet and the ruby and diamond ring Jackson had given her for their one-year anniversary—as if that were a milestone she wanted to celebrate—but the money was running out. She'd worn the fake the last time she visited Jackson in prison, and he'd been none the wiser. It gave her a little thrill to fool him.

The two thirty-foot streetlights with their diamond motif at the crosswalk of Fifth Avenue and Forty-seventh Street never failed to amuse Amber as she entered New York's Diamond District—a mere city block through which 90 percent of diamonds entering the United States passed. She walked a short distance on Forty-seventh Street and entered the thirty-four-story Gem Tower.

"ID, please," a uniformed man at the reception counter barked.

Amber handed him her driver's license, placed her index finger on the automated fingerprint identification system, and then proceeded through the scanner and onto the elevator. It seemed only seconds before the elevator reached the twenty-eighth floor and the doors silently opened. She unconsciously clutched her handbag more tightly, strode to the suite, and rang the bell. There was a buzz as the door opened and then quickly shut behind her. She now stood in a small space between two locked doors—the so-called mantrap. She heard another buzz and when the door in front of her opened, Amber entered a tranquil space. A striking young woman with coal black hair and skin so white that it looked almost translucent greeted her. The sleek black turtleneck dress she wore highlighted the elegance of her tall slender frame.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Parrish. If you'll follow me, Mr. Becker is expecting you." Amber's eyes focused on the bright red lipstick as she spoke, so startling against the woman's pale skin.

"Thank you."

"Ah, Mrs. Parrish." Stefan Becker extended his hand to Amber when they reached his office. "So nice to see you again."

"And you," she replied, shaking his hand.

"Please have a seat." He placed a hand on one of the gray leather chairs in front of his desk. "Would you care for something to drink?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you," Amber said, sitting down.

Becker went to his desk and sat, and Amber saw him give a slight nod to the young woman who then left the room and closed the door. She wondered if something was going on between them. There was no wedding ring on Becker's tanned finger, and even though he was probably a good fifteen years older than Miss Red Lips and had streaks of silver through his hair, he was extremely attractive in a buttoned-up sort of way.

Becker fingered the gold cuff link on his sleeve and leaned slightly forward. "You said on the phone that you had some stones you wished to have appraised and possibly sell."

"Yes." Amber withdrew a small drawstring pouch from her purse and handed it to Becker across the desk. She hadn't brought the whole cache, only one of the diamonds and one each of the pink and red stones she couldn't identify.

Becker opened the bag and carefully emptied the three stones onto a velvet-lined tray, picking up one after another with his tweezers and looking at them with his naked eyes. Then, picking up his loupe, he brought the first pink stone nearer, holding it with a diamond plunger and examining it more closely from all angles, then did the same with the red one. After a few minutes he looked up at her, frowning. "Where did you get these?"

"Why does that matter?"

He fixed her with an icy stare. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding up the red stone.

It was safer to say nothing, she realized, and she remained silent so that he would continue.

"This is a red diamond, one of the rarest and most valuable of all diamonds. Red diamonds come from the Argyle mine in Australia. The mine's been closed since 2020."

Amber felt her pulse quicken. "How much is it worth?" she asked breathlessly.

"A fancy red diamond can go for eighty thousand to one million dollars per carat. This stone is over one carat."

She moved to the edge of her seat, excitement coursing through her. "I have more stones. And what about the regular diamond? Is it valuable?"

Becker frowned again and cocked his head. "I have to ask again how they were acquired, Mrs. Parrish."

She pressed her lips together and decided to wing it. "They've been in my husband's family a long time. With my husband in prison, our financial situation has become precarious. He's asked me to sell the gems."

"And there is proof that these gems were lawfully procured?"

"I don't have any paperwork if that's what you mean, but as I said, they've been in the family forever."

Becker wrapped the stones in paper, handing them back to her and shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but without proof of their provenance, I can do nothing with these." He picked up a pen and began to write on a notepad.

"Wait—"

He put a hand up to stop her from speaking and slid a paper across the desk on which he'd written a name and phone number. "This man can help you. I'll let him know you'll be calling."

Amber grabbed the note, reading the name he'd written. She looked up from the paper, her eyes flashing. "Mr. Stones? Is this some kind of joke?"

"I assure you he is no joke." Becker rose from his chair and extended his hand once again. "I hope to do business with you another time."

Fat chance,Amber thought, ignoring the outstretched hand. She stuffed the note in her handbag and without a word marched from the room in fury.

She stood outside the building and leaned against the wall, trying to decide what to do next as traffic growled and people hurried past.

"Hey, lady. You buyin' or sellin'? What are you lookin' for?" a hawker yelled as he walked toward Amber.

She shook her head and waved him away. It was ridiculous to keep standing here. She had no choice, and pulling the piece of paper from her bag, she began walking as she tapped the number into her phone.

"Hello," a gruff voice said, answering on the second ring.

"Mr. Stones?"

"Who can I say is calling?"

Amber closed her eyes and inhaled. "Mrs. Amber Parrish."

"Hold on." The flat New York accent had an impatient edge.

She watched the traffic light change while she held, and when finally a deep voice said hello, it startled her. "Mr. Stones?"

"Yes."

"This is Amber Parrish. Stefan Becker gave me your name and number. He said you might be able to help me."

"Mr. Becker contacted me. If you'd like to discuss the items you have, come to my office."

Amber hesitated. She didn't know jack shit about this guy. "Well, what I'm wondering is if you can give me an appraisal and then sell some—"

"Mrs. Parrish," he interrupted her. "Any business you wish to conduct must be done in person. Do you understand?"

Amber was the last one to let impropriety stand in the way of what she wanted, but this seemed a little dangerous. "I understand. How soon can we meet?"

"Right away if you'd like. My office is just two buildings from Mr. Becker's," he said, and gave her the address.

The building wasn't as grand or as new as Stefan Becker's, and when Amber reached Mr. Stones's suite on the sixteenth floor, her eyes swept across the room. She was struck by its cold minimalist feel, the gray walls and carpet a backdrop to geometric furnishings that looked stiff and unyielding.

"You Amber Parrish?" an older man sitting at the desk asked.

"Yes, I'm here to see Mr. Stones."

"Mrs. Parrish, welcome." She turned toward the voice. He looked as if he'd been spawned from this very room, a six-foot figure dressed in a stark three-piece gray suit that was tailored to his exact measurements. A starched white shirt and gray silk tie, expertly knotted, completed the ensemble. His white-blond hair was closely cropped and his eyes, an icy blue, were without warmth. A slight aroma of fresh citrus met her as she approached him.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," she said, ready to shake his hand, but Stones put no hand forward, instead giving a slight nod in acknowledgment.

"Certainly. Why don't we go into my office where we'll have privacy."

She followed him into a room that looked much the same as the outer one, and they sat opposite each other at a slim metal table.

"Mr. Stones. Is that your real name?" Amber said.

"The less you know about me, the better it is for both of us, Mrs. Parrish." He looked at her and smiled. "Now let's get down to business. I understand you have some gems you'd like me to look at."

Amber didn't like this guy. He was too full of himself, so superior and acting like he was in some kind of jewel heist movie. She said nothing as she took the folded paper from the pouch and placed it on the table, watching as he unwrapped the stones and with his tweezers picked up each one to examine through his eyeglass.

When he finished, he sat back in his chair and, rubbing his chin with an index finger, said. "The red diamond is superb. The pink too. And the white diamond is excellent quality—perfect color and clarity. As Stefan Becker told you, they are extremely valuable. And sellable. I will have no trouble moving these for you if you wish."

"How valuable? How much will I get?" Amber was already counting the zeros.

"That's an interesting question. The value varies, depending upon where you are in the chain."

She was really getting irritated now. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"To a buyer at full price, your one carat red diamond could easily fetch over two million dollars. The value for you would be 25 to 30percent of its wholesale value, considerably less than two million. Somewhere between $500,000 and $600,000."

Amber shot up from her chair. "Excuse me? That's ridiculous. Who's making all that damn money? You? I'm the one with the diamonds."

"Quite true. But I'm the one with the connections. If you can prove where these diamonds were legitimately obtained, you are perfectly welcome to sell them directly."

She glared at him and sat down again, then reached into her handbag and took out her phone. "I have more. Three pink. One large blue, and several yellow and white. Here," she said thrusting the phone toward him. "Here are photos of the others. Can you up my percentage since there are so many?" If Amber hadn't been watching him carefully, she would have missed the quick flash of excitement cross his face when he looked at the first picture of the blue diamond.

He handed the phone back to her, his face expressionless once again. "We can certainly discuss that when I examine the other stones."

"How soon would I get paid? Do I have to wait until you sell them?" Amber needed that money in her hands and safely tucked away before Jackson was released. Her careful planning in landing Jackson as her husband and overthrowing Daphne as the reigning queen of Bishops Harbor wasn't going to be for nothing. All those months of pretending to be Daphne's friend, researching cystic fibrosis, working her ass off on Daphne's charity for her dead sister. It took a toll, having to act so sweet and obsequious, posing as a loyal friend who loved Daphne and her little brats. She thought back to all those boring evenings at Daphne's house, pretending to understand Daphne's grief over losing her sainted sister. The hours they spent talking about the illness that had claimed their sisters' lives, even though Amber's three sisters were very much alive and well—not that it would have bothered her much if one of them had died. After a while, Amber almost believed the lie herself.

And then her fawning over the powerful Jackson Parrish. Making him feel like he was a god. Reading the books he read, schooling herself in art and music masters so that she could hold her own with the most erudite. She'd worked her ass off at Parrish Industries, spending her off-hours learning the ins and outs of the business and becoming indispensable to Jackson, until one day he also started to notice how good her legs looked in short skirts. She'd stroked his ego and made herself into the perfect younger replacement for his wife. He'd fallen hard for Amber and given her everything she thought she wanted. But now she no longer held Jackson in her thrall, and she wasn't about to let him move back in and control the purse strings again. Amber was finally rich, the kind of rich she'd envied and coveted from the sidelines, but only as long as she was with Jackson, because all the money belonged to him. Amber had come from nothing, had clawed her way to the top, and now a golden opportunity had been dropped in her lap like a gift from the gods. Finally, the money would be all hers and hers alone. No way was she ever going back.

"No. As soon as I take possession, you will be paid. A wire transfer will be sent to your bank immediately. If you would like, I can take these three stones and wire the money to your account while you're here. Did you by any chance bring your bank information with you?"

She had opened an account in a Barbados bank, one recommended to her by a lawyer referred by her friend Remi Whitlock. He'd advised Amber to open the account in her son's name, and Amber, as his mother, would be custodian with power of attorney. The lawyer took care of providing the bank with certified copies of Jackson Junior's birth certificate and the other required documents. For all intents and purposes, the money would be at her complete disposal, but there was less likelihood of too much scrutiny or too many questions asked if it looked as though it was just a mother putting money away for her son. The key, Amber was told, was that first step of opening the account and getting the money into the banking system. Once in, she could transfer money from there to anywhere in the world and to as many banks as she wished without any questions being asked.

She thought a moment. "I have the bank information for you, but I'd also like some of the money in cash. Can you do that today?"

"I can, but that would cost you a bit more."

She appraised him coolly, remembering the look of hunger in his eyes when he saw the photos of what was to come. Amber understood greed well. "I can understand how that might apply if I were selling one diamond, but let's be honest, Mr. Stones. You stand to make an extremely handsome profit once you've sold all I have. And since you take a larger share for those without provenance, in a way, my lack of proof of their origin works to your advantage. I believe you can well afford to give me cash for the three I've brought without any sort of markdown, don't you agree?" Amber's eyes locked with his.

He seemed to consider her for a second. "I think I'm able to give you some accommodation, Mrs. Parrish."

"Wonderful. In the meantime, I'll leave these with you and take the cash for them now."

"I'll calculate your earnings and have my assistant get your money ready." He put his hand out to Amber and they shook. "By the way," he said with a slight smile as they rose from their seats, "an interesting fact you might enjoy…a briefcase of two million dollars in $100 bills weighs twenty-two pounds. Fill it with euros in denominations of 500 and you can fit 8 million in that same briefcase. Unfortunately, the U.S. mint stopped issuing $500 bills in 1969."

Twenty minutes later, Amber left with a dark brown leather briefcase weighing fourteen and a half pounds. Next stop was the safe-deposit box she'd opened yesterday.