Page 120 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
What the fuck?
I pull the glass nearer and stick my finger in it. I can’t get all the way to the bottom, so I take my spoon and dip it in. It hits something hard.
There’s something in the bottom of the glass.
Something that sparkles.
I jolt out of my chair so abruptly, it topples over backward with a crash. Ignoring the gasps and disapproving mutters arising around me, I stare at that glass of milk like it’s a bomb. Like it’s going to explode any second, the same way my heart is going to explode inside my chest.
With a shaking hand, I reach out and tip over the glass.
Milk sloshes out, spreading over the white linen, pooling around my dinner plate, dripping off the edge of the table until the glass is empty except for the large chunk of blue ice left behind.
It’s the Hope Diamond.
“Mariana!” I holler at the top of my lungs, spinning a wild circle, staggering, arms failing as I look for her, for any glimpse. “Angel!”
Everyone in the restaurant has stopped to stare at me. All conversation has ceased. The only sound is the traffic on the street beyond the patio and the wind gently rustling through the trees.
I grab the diamond and run into the restaurant, knocking aside everyone in my path. There are shouts, curses, the crash of plates against the floor. When I find my waitress taking an order from an elderly couple at a table near the front window, I fall on her like a pilgrim at the end of a thousand-mile journey through the desert when he catches his first glimpse of the holy city.
“Where is he? The person who ordered the milk! Who is he, and which way did he GO?” I grip her arm so hard, she lets out a little scream of panic.
“I don’t know! I didn’t see who ordered it! My manager told me—”
She jerks her head toward the squat, black-haired man with a beak of a nose steaming toward us from the kitchen. He obviously is not happy with me right now.
“Monsieur!” he shouts, wagging his finger as all the restaurant patrons look on, agog. “Monsieur, we have had enough of you! Get out! I can no longer tolerate this kind of—”
I grab him by his lapels and drag him against me so we’re nose to nose. Then I thunder into his face. “WHO ORDERED THAT FUCKING GLASS OF MILK?”
He blinks, once, exhaling a terrified breath, then blurts, “A woman, a woman in a black veil. She came in and ordered it, she said to send it to your table, she said you would know what it meant, she tipped me one hundred euro—”
I shake him so hard his eyes roll around in his head like marbles. Pounding through my veins is a drumbeat of a woman, a woman, a woman.
“WHERE DID SHE GO?”
The manager points to the front door. “Sh-she disappeared! I don’t know anything else! She didn’t say anything else!”
I shove him aside and sprint out the door. On the sidewalk, I turn in every direction, frantically hunting for any glimpse of black. Everything is spinning and I can’t see straight. My heart is a firecracker, my pulse is wildfire, and electricity blisters my skin.
Then, around the corner of a building half a block away, I see something dark billow and snap like a sail in a breeze before disappearing from sight.
The hem of a long black veil.
I run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. I’m a bolt of lightning crackling over the sidewalk. I’m a supersonic sound wave.
I’m Lazarus, risen from the dead.
When I round the corner, panting and out of my mind, I see a figure draped in black far ahead on the crowded avenue. The figure walks briskly, looking straight ahead, her gait purposeful as she weaves through the throng of strolling pedestrians. She ducks into an alleyway just as I break into a run.
When I reach the alley, I find it deserted except for a pair of reeking Dumpsters and scattered trash. Windows in the tall brick buildings on either side stare down like blank eyes. A lone pigeon pecks at the ground, wings beating in a panic when I run past it with a bellow of frustration.
But in my rush, I’ve missed something. There’s a door halfway up the alley, a door cracked open so light from inside spills out onto the cobblestones in an inviting yellow slice.
My heart in my throat, I slowly backtrack and push open the door.
I step into an art gallery. It’s bright and airy, filled with stylish couples mingling and chatting, drinking chardonnay. I move like a dream walker through the gallery, gazing in cold shock at all the colorful framed oils hanging on the bright-white walls.
