Parisian Affair Read online

  Praise for the novels of Judith Gould

  "[a}] page-turning plot and deliciously evil villains. A delight." PUBLISHER"S WEEKLY

  "A romp…a smash success!" NEWYORK DAILY NEWS

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  Novels by Judith Gould

  Sins

  LOVEMAKERS - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy:

  Texas Born

  LoveMakers

  Second Love

  Meltemi (Greek Winds of Fury)*

  DAZZLE- The Complete Unabridged Trilogy *:

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. I: Senda

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. II: Tamara

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. III: Daliah

  Never Too Rich*

  Forever

  Too Damn Rich

  Second Love

  Till the End of Time

  Rhapsody*

  Time to Say Good-Bye

  A Moment in Time

  The Best Is Yet to Come

  The Greek Villa

  The Parisian Affair

  Dreamboat*

  The Secret Heiress*

  *(Available as an e-book)

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  The Parisian Affair

  A Novel of Romantic Suspense

  By Judith Gould

  Copyright 2004 by Judith Gould.

  Published by Vesuvius Media, LLC at Smashwords

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PROLOGUE

  PARIS, 1970

  She went to him just as dawn broke on a mist-shrouded Sunday morning when most of Paris was still asleep. Her driver let her out on a deserted side street, and she walked quickly, her high heels creating a staccato click-clack on the damp pavement. In the unlikely event that someone should see her, she wore dark tortoiseshell sunglasses to conceal her well-known violet eyes, and a tan Burberry raincoat over her Mainbocher couture dress. Leaving nothing to chance, she'd covered her hair with a large black hat of sheared beaver, its decorative veil pulled down over the brim to cover her famous face.

  She reached the rear entrance of Jules Levant Joaillier, the most exclusive jeweler in the city, passing a faded photograph of Colette taped up in a small window just before his door. A frisson of disgust made her shiver. The famous writer had lived upstairs in the building for years, holding court. The fat shrew, she thought uncharitably, putting the image of the heavily made-up, frizzy-haired writer out of her mind.

  She pursed her lips into a thin carmine line, and raised her custom- made black calfskin-gloved hand to press the tarnished brass doorbell. In no way did it resemble the highly polished one that mirrored customers at the front entrance in the courtyard of the old Palais Royal.

  The door swung open immediately, and Levant himself, a short, plump, immaculately dressed gentleman of sixty-five, ushered her inside with a sweep of his hand. She saw that the hair at his temples had become streaked with a silvery gray and matched the Charvet silk tie he had carefully tied into a Windsor knot. He wore a handsomely tailored dark blue, chalk-striped suit. Savile Row, from the looks of it. His shoes, which gleamed with black polish, were no doubt custom-made by Lobb. These details were of utmost importance to her, for whom appearances were everything. And not for the first time, it reassured her that she was dealing with a man of quality and discretion.

  His business, as exclusive as it was, was riddled with unsavory types, particularly those who loaned money against jewelry or purchased it outright. Some paid pennies on the dollar, then boasted of their feats to talkative colleagues and customers. A few of these woeful tales had reached her own receptive ears over the years, most frequently when they involved a down-at-the-heels friend who was the object of derision.

  That explained why she had come to Jules Levant. Her lawyer, Maitre Blum, as notoriously irascible and tough a legal brain as there was in all of Paris, had recommended him to her several years before. She might despise Blum and find her ugliness repellent, but she always took her advice. And, as usual, she had been right. Levant's reputation for discretion was legendary, and his fairness in negotiation—a quality for which the French were not renowned—had made this aspect of his business a well-guarded secret among the plutocrats who sought him out. His name was passed along in sepulchral whispers, and more often than not these hushed confidences were shared among the same clients who had once come to Levant and lavished a king's ransom on the most sought-after jewelry in the world.

  A good number of his clientele were trust fund recipients who simply needed a small infusion of cash to tide them over until the next check came in, their lavish spending habits having exceeded their monthly stipends. They left their precious trinkets with Monsieur Levant in exchange for cash, then repaid him for their recovery with a generous but fair amount of interest. Others, like his current client, needed a much more serious injection of capital to replenish their dwindling resources.

  In her mind there was no question that the all-important appearances must be maintained to ensure the generous handouts she and her aging, ailing husband received from friends and rich hangers-on. She and her husband were accustomed to living in royal style, and she was determined that would never change.

  She would always be grateful—as much as was possible for a woman of her limited emotional capacities—to Maitre Blum for sending her to the jeweler. Jules Levant had become a lifeline.

  They walked down the short, thickly carpeted hallway. Her head was held high as he indicated a door on the right. He opened it, and she stepped into a small room. There was a magnificent ormolu-mounted, inlaid bureau plat in the center of the room. On each of its long sides stood two Louis XV gilt-wood chairs, upholstered in pale beige pink suede. The walls were covered in the same material and completely unadorned with the exception of a large baroque, gilt-framed mirror. The floors were carpeted in identical color. She knew that the pinkish beige color, along with the pale pink lightbulbs in the carefully concealed indirect lighting, was important. It flattered the skin tone and made the jewelry stand out.

  Levant pulled a chair out for her, and she sat down. 'Merci,' she said in her tight, clipped voice. Stationed at one end of the bureau plat was the familiar two-sided, revolving mirror, one side for magnification and the other for a normal perspective. Directly opposite it was a large rock crystal vase filled with dozens of long-stemmed red roses, a jarring note in this largely monochromatic space. How wrong these ridiculous hothouse roses are in this room, she thought. But t
hen, most people never get it right.

  He took a seat opposite her and folded his hands on the table. His fingernails were perfectly manicured and painted with a clear, nongloss varnish, and on one plump pinkie, he wore a gold signet ring. His discreet Patek Philippe wristwatch was barely visible inside his French-cuffed shirt, with its gold and enameled cuff links made to resemble a globe. Fulco di Verdura's design, she thought. Levant either shops at the competition or makes clever copies for himself. She made a mental note to tell the Sicilian count about this the next time she visited his shop in New York City or saw him in Palm Beach.

  'How may I help you, madame?' Levant asked, careful to maintain the pretense of not knowing her exalted name.

  She lifted the stiff short veil and gently pushed it up onto the brim of her hat. 'I have a few pieces of jewelry to sell,' she said decisively. She took off her gloves and placed them on the bureau plat, then opened the black calfskin Hermes pocketbook that she held in her lap. She extracted a large red leather pouch lined in the softest suede. Placing it on the bureau plat, she looked over at Levant with steely eyes.

  'These pieces must be reset,' she stated emphatically. 'Otherwise I cannot leave them. They must also be sold separately, broken up in some way, rather than as a matching set.' She watched him for a reaction.

  'But of course, madame,' he replied without hesitation. He opened a drawer on his side of the desk and withdrew a large piece of pinkish beige suede, which he placed on the desk and straightened. 'I understand perfectly.'

  He realized that the jewelry—no matter what she'd brought him this time—might very well be recognized by many of his clientele, or even by the occasional fashionista or celebrity hound who decided to have a look around his premises. The lady might have been photographed wearing them, or a few of his customers might have actually seen the pieces on her at a party or dinner.

  Pulling open the drawstring pouch, she began removing its treasures and placing them with careful precision on the suede. She handled them delicately, her red-varnished nails glistening in the light. Levant observed her with a carefully cultivated neutral expression, the merest shadow of a smile on his lips. As she continued to position the jewels, however, he was unable to contain the gleam that came into his eyes. At first it was a spark of mounting curiosity, but then it became a gleam of awestruck wonder. He felt an unfamiliar tremor in his hands and had to refrain from gasping aloud.

  Before him lay a magnificent emerald necklace, its setting of ornately wrought yellow gold, its enormous stones of the same size, color, and cut. In and of itself, the necklace was extraordinarily beautiful, but she placed a matching bracelet, earrings, and finally a brooch next to it. Seldom, if ever, had he seen emeralds more closely matched by size and, in this case, the most desirable and valuable dark green color. Yet their magnificence alone, rare though it was, was not what took his breath away. It was their provenance that stunned him into speechlessness.

  So it's true, he thought excitedly. What they've been saying for decades is true. This is proof of it at last!

  If his assumption was correct, he was looking at jewels that, until this moment, he had been uncertain even existed. They had sparked vicious rumors and whispered debates the world over, elicited discreet and disparaging comments from members of royal families in all of Europe, caused quarrels and rifts among the cognoscenti of international high society.

  'Oh,' she said, training her heartless gaze on him, 'I forgot to mention one other detail. The emerald pendant on the necklace must be sold separately. It mustn't be reset with any of the other stones.' Although her statement was delivered in a flat monotone, there was no mistaking that she was giving an order.

  'Of course, madame,' he said again. 'We'll be glad to oblige your wishes as always.'

  He never wore his jeweler's loupe around his neck, thinking the practice common and beneath a professional of his status, but now he wished he did. He would like nothing more than to immediately snatch it up to begin a quick examination of the emeralds, particularly the pendant on the necklace. Instead, he took a deep breath and calmly slid open the desk drawer and slowly took out the loupe as if performing a rite.

  She was watching him, seemingly serene and composed, her head held high, as if these were nothing more than ordinary jewels that she'd brought in. She's a very good actress, he thought. Frightfully good. I would hate to be her enemy.

  'Lovely,' he said at last, looking down at the emeralds.

  She nodded slightly. 'Yes.'

  Still betraying no excitement, he carefully picked up the necklace and began examining its stones one by one, deliberately beginning at the clasp rather than with the pendant. He knew that if his suspicions about the jewelry's provenance were correct, then it was the pendant where he would find his answer. He took his time, looking at each of the stones through the loupe, amazed by their perfection. There were no inclusions, cracks, or other flaws, a rarity in emeralds, and the stones had not been treated with oil, or otherwise, to enhance their color.

  'Colombian,' he muttered as if to himself, then looked up at her. 'The finest.'

  She nodded again, a tight hint of a smile on her darkly painted lips.

  He focused on the necklace again, patiently looking at the next stone. 'Important emeralds,' he said casually, peering through the loupe, 'those of any historical importance, I should say, came from Cleopatra's mines in Egypt.' He looked up at her again and smiled. 'But of course you knew that.'

  She nodded again, her expression unchanged. Why doesn't the fool get on with it? she thought. Why must he drag out this tedious process with his inane comments? But it was part of the game, of course, and she knew that, too.

  At last he moved the loupe to the pendant. When he saw the one imperfection in the stone, his hands began to quiver involuntarily, and he laid the loupe and the necklace down on the desk hastily, hoping she hadn't seen his reaction. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he dabbed at them with a crisp white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit.

  It is true, he thought, almost faint with expectation. They do exist, and here they are. With their one defining stone. In my possession.

  Levant was tempted to negotiate the purchase price immediately. He knew without looking that the rest of the emeralds would be flawless like these, but he also knew that he should examine them regardless. The charade must be carried on till the finish. Picking up his loupe, he forced himself to methodically examine the bracelet, then each of the earrings, and finally the brooch before setting it down on the bureau plat once more and looking over at the woman.

  Her large violet eyes returned his gaze unflinchingly, as flinty a regard as he'd ever seen. Perhaps they were once beautiful, he thought, but living has made them hard.

  'The stones are beautiful,' he said, smiling. 'Of that there is no doubt.' He cleared his throat. 'Did you have a figure in mind?'

  'Yes,' she replied. She opened the pocketbook in her lap and drew out a folded piece of heavy ecru paper and handed it to him.

  Levant unfolded the piece of paper and looked down at the figure. She must have a mind like a calculator, he thought, and she also knows her stones. She's even taken into account the fact that they will be sold with no provenance whatsoever. But then, he reminded himself, this is not her first trip to me. He looked back up at her. 'I think this is acceptable,' he said. 'Shall we proceed as in the past?'

  'That would be fine,' she said.

  'Good,' he replied. 'I'll see to it first thing in the morning. You should have the cash tomorrow afternoon at the latest.'

  'Very well,' she said. She closed her pocketbook and shifted in her chair as she put her gloves back on.

  Levant quickly got up and went around to her side of the bureau plat, then slid her chair out for her. She rose to her feet and turned to him. 'Merci, Monsieur Levant,' she said, extending a gloved hand.

  He took her fingertips in his, and in the continental manner leaned over and made as if to kiss
her hand, careful not to touch it with his lips. 'It was a pleasure,' he said. 'Anytime I can be of service.'

  She withdrew her hand. 'I appreciate that,' she said. 'Now I must go.'

  She turned to the door, and he hurriedly opened it for her. Then they walked down the hallway to the rear exit.

  'Au revoir,' he said, opening the steel door for her.

  She put her dark glasses on and pulled the stiff little veil down over her face. 'Au revoir, Monsieur Levant,' she responded, for she knew, as did he, that they were saying their good-byes only for the present. They would meet again. The world-famous lady went through the doorway and, heels click-clacking on the cobbles once again, walked quickly away from the shop.

  Levant locked the door and for a moment stood staring down the hallway without seeing anything. If only I could sell the emeralds as they are, he thought sadly, and if only I could provide the provenance. They would be worth millions of dollars.

  Ram hurried from the basement room where the video monitors were housed, and closed and locked the door behind him. Forgoing the elevator— Levant must not know he'd been down there—Ram headed up the staircase to the ground floor. Leaping up the steps two at a time, he rushed up the next flight to his workroom. He sat down on the high stool at his worktable and tried to look relaxed despite his excitement and wildly beating heart. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

  I can't believe it! he thought. He had heard the gossip about the jewels— everybody had, hadn't they?—but he hadn't known what to believe. So many rumors swirled around the departed woman that it was hard to separate truth from fiction. But from what Ram had seen through the monitors, he was certain that these were indeed the emeralds of legend.