Page 35 of Diamond In The Rough

I snort. “The owner of the trunk. He was a Mongolian warrior who left his lover behind to fight another man’s war. His wife did get pregnant, like I said. But the baby was his. They were, by all reports, in love. And if not for dying in battle, I doubt he intended to leave her.”

“And the woman?” he asks. “The child?”

“Perished soon after.”

And that thought, the tragedy, hurts me on a soul-deep level. It seems foolish to feel that way; the couple lived hundreds of years before I did. Many hundreds. But their love makes my heart ache anyway.

“She passed away giving birth. And the trunk, I think, has become a very special part of history because of it. Or at least,” I give the plant another spritz, “that’s how I feel. If I could buy it for myself, I would.”

“For the insurance claim?” Smug, he starts forward. One step. Two. “You’d torch it and make your money back three-fold?”

“No. I would put it in my bedroom, and hide all my most special treasures inside. If my home was burning, it’s the first thing I’d make sure to save.”

I gently wipe a hand-sized leaf and exhale. I hate that he so easily tricks me into relaxing. “Can you please make a decision on your purchase?” Releasing the leaf, I glance across to the man who stares. “I can’t leave until you leave.”

“So maybe I’ll stay all night.” He gently pulls a captain’s chair closer to him, a fifteen-thousand-dollar piece that not even I have sat in. Lowering into it, he fixes his pants and settles his left ankle on his right knee. “I’m not done spending time with you, and you’re trapped for as long as my ass is sitting here.”

“Or,” I counter solemnly, “until I call the cops—which is probably the wrong thing to say to a man who carries the last name you do. But I’m not staying here all night, and if you think you can hold me here, Malone, then I’ll call your bluff and ring the police. I doubt you’ll still be here by the time they arrive.”

“What happened to the child?”

“The…” Confused, I meet his eyes. “What?”

“The Mongolian infant whose father went to war and whose mother died.”

“Um…” I bring my hand up and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Went on to live a full life, I believe. He, too, became a warrior, but eventually married and made a family, which is how the chest came down through time.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“The stuff about the owner of the chest? I read about it.” I set my things down and step to the door, flipping the Open sign to Closed, and dropping the blinds to dissuade anyone else from coming in. “I make it a point to research the pieces that come through this shop. I would look stupid if I attempted to sell a box for seventy thousand dollars but had no clue why it was so valuable.”

“Sixty-nine thousand.” He counters. “And I get the plant too.”

“You said you would pay full price only moments ago. But sure.” Exhausted, I shake my head. “I doubt Jakeline will miss it. So you’ve decided?” I turn and press my back to the door. “We have a deal? I can ring you up, and you can write a check. Or pay by bank transfer, but you can’t take your purchase until the transaction has cleared.”

“What’s your story?” He reclines in the chair and watches me the way wealthy men watch women circling a stripper pole. There’s a certain elegance to both parties; a level of class that doesn’t seem to exist in lower socioeconomic areas. “Who are you, Tiia? Where are you from?”

“I’ve already told you. Tiia Hale. Not your enemy. Can we skip to the part where you don’t believe me, and just get it over with?”

“Parents?”

“I told you that, too. Hawaiian mother, Latin father. I was born and raised in the Bronx.”

“No…” He bounces his foot. Gently. Slowly. “I mean are they alive? Both of them? One of them?”

“Still alive. Happily married. And if I get even a whiff that you’ve gone anywhere near them, then you’ll have been right all along—I’ll kill you.”

His lips curl, sexy and savage. “Siblings?”

“One brother. And yes, he’s also still alive.”

“What about your?—”

“What happened to your hand?”

Startled by my non sequitur, the man snaps his mouth closed and fists his left hand in his lap.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I taunt. “Are we not supposed to ask private questions? I thought prying was the theme of the night, and your hand still looks sore.”

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