Chapter 1 - The Weight of Diamonds
Mrs. Ashford stood near the center ice sculpture, holding a fluted glass of vintage champagne.
Her silver hair was coiled into an elaborate chignon, and her emerald satin gown shimmered beneath the central chandelier.
When she spotted me approaching, her wrinkled face broke into a broad, satisfied smile.
"Iris, darling! There you are!" Mrs. Ashford proclaimed, holding both hands out toward me.
"Look at the light catching those stones. You truly outdid yourself on this commission."
I smiled, feeling the cold, platinum prongs of the necklace resting securely against my collarbone.
"Thank you, Mrs. Ashford. Nine months of hand-cutting each facet was worth every sleepless night."
Beside me, Rafe took up a position half a step behind my right shoulder.
He didn't slouch, fidget, or look around nervously like most hired guards on four-hundred-dollar day rates.
He stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, radiating an aura of immovable, granite-hard presence.
Mrs. Ashford’s keen eyes flicked from my face to the tall man at my side.
Her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, her gaze lingering on the cut of his charcoal suit.
"And who is this handsome young man?" she asked, tilting her head with practiced high-society curiosity.
"This is Rafe, Mrs. Ashford," I answered smoothly. "Sentinel Security provided him for the evening to ensure your masterpiece stays safe."
Rafe offered a slow, courteous nod, but said nothing.
Mrs. Ashford chuckled, taking a sip of her champagne.
"Sentinel is providing men of remarkable caliber these days, Iris. He looks more like he buys art galleries than guards them."
"He's very professional," I laughed softly, feeling a sudden warmth creeping up my neck.
Just then, a sleek, sharp voice cut through the background music of the string quartet.
"Well, well. If it isn't the starving jeweler playing dress-up."
Preston Vance stepped into our circle, holding a glass of bourbon with an arrogant sneer.
Preston was thirty-two, the son of a major bank director, and on the board of the Hartwell Gallery.
He was also the man I had dated for two miserable years before discovering he had been funneling gallery funds to pay off his gambling debts.
When I refused to falsify appraisal certificates for his counterfeit gems, he had dumped me in a public cafe and vowed to ruin my career.
"Good evening, Preston," I replied, keeping my spine completely straight.
Preston’s cold blue eyes raked over my curves, lingering on the plunging neckline of my dark navy velvet gown.
"You managed to convince Mrs. Ashford to let you wear the necklace out of the vault?" Preston mocked, stepping an inch closer.
"Quite an ambitious stunt for a girl working out of a rented basement in Queens."
"Perhaps you're hoping an actual collector mistakes you for someone who belongs in this room."
Before I could form a sharp retort, Rafe shifted his weight.
He didn't draw a weapon, and he didn't raise his voice.
He simply stepped directly into Preston’s personal space, towering over the arrogant board member by four inches.
The sheer, suffocating gravity of Rafe's posture caused Preston's voice to hitch mid-breath.
"Step back, sir," Rafe said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated with unmistakable menace.
Preston scoffed, trying to regain his manufactured swagger.
"Excuse me? Do you know who I am? I sit on the executive board of this foundation!"
"I don't care if you sit on the throne of England," Rafe replied, his dark eyes freezing into unyielding flint.
"You are crowding the lady."
"Step back three paces, or I will remove you from this circle myself."
Preston’s face flushed an ugly shade of crimson, but as his eyes locked onto Rafe's unblinking stare, his bravado vanished.
A bead of nervous sweat broke out on Preston’s temple.
"You're a hired servant," Preston hissed under his breath, taking two hasty steps backward.
"I’ll have Sentinel fire you by tomorrow morning."
Rafe’s mouth curved into the faintest, most dangerous shadow of a smile.
"I look forward to that phone call, Mr. Vance."
Preston turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, muttering furiously into his phone.
Mrs. Ashford let out a delighted, theatrical laugh behind her silk fan.
"Good heavens, Iris! Where did you find him? That boy Preston has needed that lesson for three seasons!"
I turned to Rafe, letting out a long, breathless sigh of relief.
"Thank you, Rafe," I whispered, reaching out and gently touching his sleeve. "You did that perfectly."
Rafe looked down at my hand resting against his expensive wool coat.
A curious, dark flame ignited deep within his eyes, warm and completely unreadable.
May you like
"Just doing my job, Miss Dunn," he said softly.
"Stay close to me. The room is getting crowded."
