A Cut Above Read online

  Okay. So he succeeded. But I’m still going. Alone. See?

  And he didn’t scare just me. You got it. He filled Miss Mona’s and Aunt Weeby’s ears with the same sabotaging mumbo-jumbo.

  Max has a way with women, and Miss Mona is a quintessential female, a true southern belle, no less. Have I mentioned how much Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby love Max?

  Uh-huh. I had to take all three of them on.

  Especially when they kept reminding me of his knight-in-shining-armor moments. And there were Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s matchmaking tendencies to battle too. I mean, in their romance-addled brains, nothing is better than to have Max and his overprotective, hunky self at my side while I traverse the wilds of a romantic but dangerous land. Think Harrison Ford and Karen Allen, folks. Or maybe Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner.

  In their eyes, Max the Magnificent ranks right up there with the best of movie heroes, romantic and . . . well, studly heroic, sweeping in to save me just at the right moment.

  Fine. So he did save my sorry hide a time or two. But he didn’t have to do it. I’m sure I could’ve got myself out of those binds all on my own. Pretty sure. Besides, he has studying to do. That GIA Graduate Gemologist certificate isn’t a piece of cake to get. I should know.

  When faced by that reality, he concocted some lame line about needing to come with me because he needs my help studying. What’s up with that? Mr. College Scholarship needs my help with schoolwork?

  Humph!

  In spite of all the pheromonal appeal Max put out, and all the grandmotherly oohing, aahing, and invoking of scary scenarios (which, of course, require Max’s heroic intervention) the Daunting Duo deluged on me, I stand firm—I am woman, hear me bleat. In the end, I make it clear I’ll only be gone for a measly three days, will meet Mr. Cruz, pick up faboo emeralds for our fans, and return refreshed and revived by virtue of time spent in proximity to the spectacular grass-green gems. What girl wouldn’t perk up after handling bling-bling like that?

  I’m glad I’m going alone. Max is way distracting.

  So here I am on Avianca’s flight 605 for the last leg of my multi-stop trip to Bogotá, buckled in and ready to indulge in some heavy-duty nail biting. Although I’d never confess it to another living, breathing being, takeoffs and landings tend to make me just a teensy-weensy bit anxious. All right, all right. So I’m petrified. Goes with the chicken part.

  When the roar of the airliner’s engines erupts, I clutch the armrests, close my eyes, and start to pray. By the time we reach cruising altitude, though, I’m calmer and manage to relax enough to drift off to sleep. After a while, the clatter of the service cart jars me awake.

  A cranberry juice cocktail and a chicken-flavored sawdust something-or-other later, I draw out my laptop and figure it’s as good a time as any to catch up on research I’ve downloaded over the last few super-busy months. An article on the ongoing controversy over finds of yellow labradorite— or is it simply bytownite?—and its kissing cousin andesine/ labradorite—had caught my attention, but I hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. Now that material’s singing my song. Once I start reading, the article holds my attention as it goes into great detail about the recent discovery of a previously unknown treatment that seems to have turned lesser quality yellow stones into magnificent fiery scarlet or bluish green ones with intriguing color-shift tendencies in different light. The most interesting part of the article is the implication of a very large retail organization that invested heavily into the red and green material and sold it as untreated, natural-colored pieces . . .

  Uh-oh.

  You got it. This is a legal no-no.

  I dive back in to read more. The FTC and the FCC have gotten into the mix now, and the dollars invested and then lost on the scam perpetrated by unscrupulous gemstone vendors have reached astronomical heights.

  I drop the magazine onto my lap and sigh. Dishonesty runs rampant in my business.

  But all that doesn’t take anything away from the original stones. I still love the gorgeous yellow feldspar stones found in Mexico when mining for Mexican fire opal. I’d offered some for sale on a show a few weeks ago.

  “I bought one of those yellow labradorites from you, and I love it,” my elderly seatmate murmurs when I look away from the screen to glance out the window. She adds, “To be honest, I love everything I’ve bought from the S.T.U.D.”

  I’m still not ready for how chummy my viewers feel through just watching my shows. It catches me unaware at the most unexpected moments. Like now.

  “Have you been a member of the S.T.U.D. family for a long time?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’d bought a set of pans and an outfit here and there since the channel launched, but it wasn’t until you and your boyfriend came on that I . . .”

  Your boyfriend . . . your boyfriend . . . your boyfriend . . . And here I’d hoped to gain some distance from Max during this trip. I need to put it all in perspective, something I’m not good at doing on a regular basis. Constant reminders of the man aren’t going to give me the space I need to get myself off the emotional teeter-totter. And you know I can’t go back and handle my feelings for him without dredging up some balance.

  Especially after his possessive Neanderthal approach to my trip.

  “Andie?” the woman at my side asks, concern in her voice.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. Your comment made me think of something, and then my thoughts just stole away with me.”

  She chuckles. “My darling Howard is a lot like your Max, if I do say. I used to have trouble keeping track of my thoughts, once upon a time too. I don’t mind changing seats with him so you two can sit together for the rest of the flight.”

  I fight the wince with everything I’ve got. “Max isn’t mine. He’s not my boyfriend.” And how do I feel about that? Hmm . . . “He didn’t come on this trip. You don’t have to change seats.”

  “I’m surprised. Don’t you two work together?”

  Do we? Together? Really? Or do we just butt heads? “We do cohost the shows, but we’re not joined at the hip.”

  “He has gone with you to Burma and . . . was that Tibet?” “Close. Kashmir.”

  “That’s right! The old sapphire mines.” She holds out her right hand to admire a stunning and substantial ruby ring. “I wouldn’t have minded a Kashmir sapphire, but I do love this ruby I bought after your trip to the Mogok Valley.”

  I check out the piece. She’s not hurting for funds; the stone’s one of the finest ones we brought back from that ill-fated trip. I remember its price tag for its slew of zeros. “Congratulations. That was one of my favorite pieces.”

  “You know the individual stones?”

  “I picked out the rubies myself at the vendor’s office.”

  “And you remember each stone? I’m impressed.”

  “Many gemstones have thumbprint-like characteristics.

  Rubies fall in that group. Since I handpicked the stones, I spent a good chunk of time studying each one. It’s not hard to remember the best ones, and yours is one of the best we bought.”

  “Oh my. I loved it the minute I saw it, but now I know I have something really special.” She gave me a sly look. “Like you and Max do.”

  “No, really. We’re not . . . not—” What are we? I can’t even say what we’re not, since I have no idea what we are to each other. “Look, he’s not my boyfriend or anything like that. The squabbling you see onscreen? Well, it’s for real. He came to our network knowing nothing about gems. He made me nuts with his ignorance—the arguments were really real.”

  She patted my arm with the hand sporting the spectacular Burmese ruby. “That might have been the case on the surface, but take it from someone who’s been married for fifty-two years. That kind of . . . oh, I guess you young folks call it ‘chemistry’ these days, is rare. Don’t cheat yourself out of a great partnership and a spectacular romance. The boy’s crazy about you, you know.”

  No, I don’t know. And th
at’s why I don’t get to dump my flapping chicken wings and clucking. But I don’t need to share that. I shake my head. “Ah . . . it’s for the camera’s sake—” Her laughter cuts off my protestation. “Keep telling yourself that, Miss Andi-ana Jones. Just remember this: if you let Max Matthews slip through your hands, you’ll spend the rest of your life kicking yourself.”

  Oh, what a pretty picture of foot to butt—not.

  Since she doesn’t get the hint from my drawn-out silence and stare fixed on the screen but instead continues to study me, I shut down my laptop and scrabble around my Max-invaded head for a new topic.

  In my role as super-saleswoman for the S.T.U.D., I remember I’m on a business trip. And this woman is a loyal customer. “How do you feel about emeralds?”

  She shrugs. “I can take them or leave them.”

  Just what I’d hoped for. “Oh nonononono! That’ll never do. Let me tell you about emeralds. Carat for carat, and quality being equal, an emerald will bring in almost twice as much as a ruby every time . . .”

  As I rattle off facts and details of emerald legend and lore, my excitement bubbles up. I, Andrea Autumn Adams, am going to the Muzo mines. I’m going to get to handle the emeralds most other gemologists settle for dreaming about from a distance. You know. They drool over pictures of them. I get to ditch the picture, since I’m going to touch them and check them out one on one.

  Gladys Bergen and I spend the rest of the flight talking about jewelry, the S.T.U.D.’s many other quality offerings, interior design, and the similarities between air travel these days and root canals—there are more than you’d think. Trust me.

  Once I land, I turn on my cell phone, then head out into the terminal, where I quickly find the immigration booths. One of the natives who are supposed to speak fluent English greets me with a spew of Spanish. See? Only minutes after landing I experience one of those dental trauma similarities.

  A Spanish-speaking government wonk shouldn’t be a problem, since back in the Dark Ages of my youth—translation: high school—I took years of Spanish. But today, my Spanish decides to go A.W.O.L.

  Figures.

  “Sorry.” I cast frantic looks around, hoping to spot someone with the label BILINGUAL stamped on the forehead. No such luck. “No hablo español.”

  The guy behind the glass wall glares. “Necesito ver su pasaporte, señorita.”

  Among those words he’s machine-gunned at me, I think I catch something about a passport. I hand mine over, and before long, I have earned another foreign stamp on the little blue booklet. I smile. Neat.

  “Qué tiene para declarar usted hoy?”

  “I don’t know what you want.” Am I in trouble here or what? Memories of foreign jails dance in my head. “No hablo español.”

  A warm hand drops on my shoulder. “Allow me, señorita.” I glance at the man, and nearly swoon—I’m no Victorian, either, get my drift? Wow! How can anyone be so stunning and not look anything at all like Max the Magnificent?

  “Ah . . . er . . . umm . . .” How sophisticated.

  As my eyes have themselves a feast, the hunk rambles on in melodious Romance language—now I get why those languages are called that. Whoo-ee!

  Anybody have a fan?

  “Excuse me,” he says, his liquid-ink eyes gentle and interested. “He wants to know if you have anything to declare. He has to do the usual customs questionnaire.”

  The stranger’s English is flawless, if spiced with a hint of his native tongue. And it seems to have scrambled my brain. “Do you have anything with you that could be seen as an import?” he says, then winks. “Contraband?”

  Contraband? “No!” I squeal, jolted back to the moment by the thought of another confrontation with foreign authorities. “I have clothes, shoes, my laptop, and that’s it. Well, I do have a new bottle of shampoo. He can have that if it’s a problem.”

  He laughs. “You can keep your shampoo, I’m sure.” Turning to the guy in the booth, he resumes in Spanish, and I just stare some more.

  Less than a minute later, he places a hand at the small of my back and guides me forward. “You’re clear now. I’d like to escort you to the luggage pickup area, if you don’t mind.”

  Mind? What girl wouldn’t give up a pair of Manolos to have this guy at her side? The question’s going to be, can I keep it together enough to put foot in front of foot without tripping in his intriguing presence?

  I’m glad to report that I can. And do. Once we reach the carousel—still empty—he faces me and holds out his hand. “Marcos Rivera, miss . . . ?”

  In my hyperventilative—hey! I think I just made up another new word—condition, an image of the feisty American TV personality by the same last name flashes through my head. Good grief.

  Gotta get it together here. “Ah . . . I’m Andie . . . er . . . Andrea Adams.”

  “Welcome to Colombia, Andrea.”

  Be still, my heart! The way he rolls the r in my name makes it sound like poetry . . . a symphony . . . something far more exotic than a common, everyday name.

  Then I realize I have to corral my bucket of mush for a brain again. “Thank you, Mr. Rivera. I’m looking forward to my time here.”

  “Marcos. Please call me Marcos.” When I nod, he goes on. “Are you on vacation in our country?”

  “No. Not this time.”

  He arches a jet-black brow. “What kind of business brings you here?”

  “I’m a gemologist. I’m on a buying trip for my employer.” “Ah . . . our emeralds.”

  “Exactly.” I figure the fewer words I utter, the less stupid my fascination with the old Hollywood-handsome one-man welcoming committee will make me sound.

  My cell phone rings.

  Marcos glances at my handbag, then steps toward the luggage carousel.

  I nearly swoon at his polite sensitivity, but get a grip and burrow in my purse to open the chirping gadget. “Hello?”

  “Andie?” Max says. “Is everything okay?”

  What’s up with him? “Of course, everything’s okay. Why would you think it isn’t?”

  “Remember? I’ve traveled with you before.”

  “That is so not fair! Your lack of faith in me is the reason I insisted on coming alone. And it’s the reason it’s going to stay that way. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  As I go to close the phone, I hear him squawk something about what I think. I know where he’s going, and I’m not joining him. I can so take care of myself. I even find people willing to help me along the way. Mr. Rivera is a case in point. Too bad Max isn’t a little more like the Colombian.

  Men!

  Then the oddity of my current situation dawns on me. Since when do I, Andie Adams, have men like Max and Mr. Rivera flocking to my side? I’m still using the same vanilla-scented body lotion and spray, not some exotic come-hither elixir. So what’s the deal here?

  I ponder the conundrum—but not for long. The luggage carousel coughs to life, and suitcases and duffels belch out of a black maw onto the rubber surface. Round and round other people’s bags go, and that dreaded lurching starts in my gut. Will I have more than the clean pair of underwear I always stash in my briefcase?

  “There it is!” I yell in ecstasy when the glaring orange suitcase bounces out. Thank you, Jesus. Damp, hand-washed underwear in a foreign land does not a happy me make.

  “I’m happy for you,” my companion says, humor in his eyes. “Can I take you somewhere?”

  CRASH-BAM-BOOM!

  Reality clunks me down from that flattery-flavored cloud I’ve been floating on. Am I nuts? I don’t know this guy from a rat in a New York alley. And here he’s offering to take me “somewhere.” I’ll bet.

  In spite of his killer looks he could be a . . . well, a serial killer. “No, thank you. Everything’s been arranged for me.”

  Oh, he’s good. There’s that touch of disappointment in his expression . . . I almost fall for it. Almost.

  “Well, Andrea. I suppose I shouldn’t be keeping you any longe
r. Here.” He holds out a business card. “If you should need anything during your stay, please call. I’ll be honored to help you.”

  Is he laying it on too thick now? Or is paranoia my new middle name? In either case, my alarms have gone off, and I refuse to put myself in danger. I don’t even agree to call for help, should I need it. That’s what boring but safe embassies are for.

  I sigh. And take the card.

  “Thank you for your help back there,” I dip my head toward the customs and immigration booths. “And adiós.”

  As Mr. Rivera strolls away, I wonder what he’d been doing in the airport. No normal being hangs out in an airport for the sake of hanging out in an airport. I glance at his card, and my eyes nearly drop out of their sockets. If I can believe what

  I’m seeing, the hunk in a white silk shirt and finely tailored black linen pants is a Colombian lawmaker. A senator.

  Maybe I should have trusted him.

  Then again, word has it the government of Colombia has a small problem with internal corruption. Small. Yeah. And I’m a flying squirrel.

  I slip the card into my jacket pocket, yank out the telescoping handle of my garish suitcase—easy to spot, so there is a method to my madness—and head . . . where is that information center Mr. Cruz told me about on our last phone conversation? That’s where my ride is supposed to meet me.

  Should’ve asked the senator before I sent him away.

  Bottom lip between my teeth, I scour the crowd. A woman with three kids, the youngest bawling at the top of his lungs . . . three men with golf bags over their shoulders . . . an elderly couple holding each other upright . . . a couple billing and cooing and kissing as they bump into innocent bystanders . . . teens . . . and more. Then I spot what I’d hoped to find. “All right!”

  I make my way toward the uniformed gentleman by the door. My pathetic Spanish at least manages a decisive “In-formación, por favor.”