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‘Listen.’ Becker reaches around me and takes my chin lightly, lifting my head to look at the curator, like he can sense my struggle to snap out of my trance. ‘It’s very interesting.’
The curator coughs, making his intention to begin known, then waits patiently for complete silence. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, nodding politely to us all. ‘And what a wonderful evening it is for us very lucky people.’ He swoops a hand out to the cabinet, and every head in the room follows it, a Mexican wave of turns. ‘The Heart of Hell, named by its discoverer, J.P. Randel, when he discovered it in Burma, June 1939. Until now, that is all we’ve known of the elusive gem. J.P. Randel kept it in his private collection for eighty years, wickedly denying us the pleasure of just a mere peek.’ He laughs, as does the rest of the audience. ‘Which begged the question whether the gem existed at all. There have been tales from his trip companions, as well as some cagey replies from experts in the precious-stone community, but nothing concrete – no sight, no picture, no word. Until now.’ The crowd give a light round of applause, welcoming the gem, before quieting down and letting the curator go on. ‘543.6 carats, raw, rough and unset. The Heart of Hell not only gets its name because of the fire-red beauty and heart-like shape, but because J.P. claimed to have dug so deep, he swore he was only a few more shovels away from the devil himself.’
I listen, fascinated. I’ve never been so rapt by something.
‘There’s a waiter. Would you like a drink, princess?’ Becker whispers, not even the beauty of him pulling my attention from the sparkling gem. I nod, hearing him laugh under his breath a little, amused by my mesmerised state. ‘Don’t move.’ I feel him break away from my body, resulting in a slight shift of position so I can stand on my own two feet.
‘How much is it worth?’ A lady opposite me asks, a coy smile on her face.
The curator laughs, like he fully expected the question. ‘Lady Seagrave,’ he begins, polite and smiley. ‘It is impossible to set a value on such a treasure.’
‘Everything has a value,’ she argues playfully, increasing the curator’s amusement.
‘Its rarity and beauty, not forgetting its story, makes it more desirable, and the more desirable, the more demand there is for it. And we all know that more demand spikes even more demand.’ There are many huffs of agreement. ‘This essentially makes it impossible to value.’
‘I’ll give you ten million,’ Lady Seagrave shouts, spiking laughter in the room.
‘Fifteen!’ A tall man to her side declares.
The curator clenches his belly in amusement. ‘And there we have it.’
I smile and flick my eyes past him when something catches my eye.
And my stomach instantly twists.
Brent smiles cunningly, all kinds of smugness evident on his face, and I quickly look away, rooting my gaze on the precious stone. But I can’t hear the words of the curator any more. All I can hear is my pulse pounding in my ears.
I look over my shoulder, searching for Becker. I spot him lifting two glasses of champagne off a waiter’s tray. My racing hearts calms, relieved to know he’s close by.
Then the room plunges into darkness.
I gasp, blinking repeatedly, momentarily panicked that there’s something wrong with my eyesight, but then the shrill gasps of my fellow observers assure me otherwise.
‘Darn power cut,’ someone says. ‘Did the Masons pay the electricity bill?’
Panicked shrieks are replaced with laughter.
‘Someone get the emergency generators going.’
I force myself to remain still, preventing the risk of bumping into anything or anyone, but it doesn’t stop people from bumping into me. ‘Ouch,’ I hiss when a heel of a stiletto stabs the top of my foot. People scuffle and curse around me, knocking into me, hindering my attempts to remain still until they sort out the generators. ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter, shaking off a hand that grabs me for support.
‘You’re coming with me.’ Brent’s voice is close, and it flattens my plan to remain calm. His cold hand turns my blood to ice, and he starts pulling me from the room. ‘Don’t fight with me,’ he says, increasing his grip. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
My panic flares. It’s dark. No one can see me, most importantly Becker. I’ll be taken with no evidence of where or by who. ‘Let go of me,’ I yell, digging my heels in, making it as difficult as possible for him to move me. I just need to hold on until we have light again. Yet Brent is strong and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop him. So I yell some more, but my desperate cries don’t even dent the noise around me. My stomach has worked its way up to my mouth, and I start to claw at his hand on my arm, fighting and struggling, but my feet continue to stumble forward, my shoulders being barged as I’m hauled through the darkness. All I can hear are Becker’s suspicions of the Wilsons’ involvement in his parents’ deaths. All I can see is Brent’s face when understanding of my deep involvement in Becker’s world descended on him. My breathing becomes short and fast as panic truly grips me.
