Chapter 7

Where is she? Camille tried Ashanta’s cell phone for what seemed like the hundredth time. She glanced at her watch, noting she only had a couple of hours before Marc would arrive. She would not have time to stop by Ashanta’s house.

Camille entered her condo, laid her keys and phone on the hall table and stopped to look into the wall mirror. She could still feel his finger moving over her freckles. She hated them as a child because they were a source of teasing. As an adult, she had accepted them and since she rarely wore makeup, it meant they were there for all to see.

Kicking off her shoes, she went to her living room closet to remove the pertinent files she needed to take with her. Camille noticed Harold’s file on top. He was an astute businessman. As a result, IJDC garnered the reputation as one of the finest jewel distributors. He expected nothing but the best and Harold fully supported her career at IJDC and for that, he’d gained her respect.

Despite the bureau’s suspicion, she still doubted that he was the internal contact for the trafficking. He was aggressive and he sometimes preferred walking in gray areas versus black and white. That didn’t make him responsible for something as awful as being in cahoots with a rebel group profiting on the backs of children and women.

She was not convinced of Harold’s involvement. Regardless of her personal opinions, Camille had to prove them wrong or find the source.

Moving the files to the hall table, she glanced at the flashing light on her company Blackberry, signaling a new message. She grabbed her IJDC leash and read the text message.

It is with great remorse that we announce that Harold Donovan passed away earlier this morning. Our prayers and condolences are with the Donovan family. Management is asked to report to the main conference room Monday morning at 8:00 am. We will forward details regarding the funeral arrangements once they are made available.

Camille tried Ashanta again. She left a message and went to her room to shower and change. She loosened her ponytail holder as she stepped into her walk-in closet. She tried to decide whether she should wear a suit or something casual. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she scanned her closet.

She heard ringing coming from the front room. She ran to her cell phone hoping it was Ashanta and looked at the display, but didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello.”

“Hey, I wanted to ensure I had the correct number.”

It was Marc. His voice sounds even better on the phone. Camille tapped the heel of her hand on her right temple, chiding herself for allowing her thoughts to go down that path.

“Are you there?”

“Uhm…yeah, I’m here,” she answered, deciding to move this conversation to a safe topic. “Are you calling to cancel, or should I expect you at six?”

“Cancel? Oh no. Now why would I do that?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I should be there a little before six. Oh, and wear something casual ‘cause we’re going to Artista. Our reservation is for 6:30.”

She loved that place. They had the best mashed potatoes in Houston. However, this wasn’t a date. It was business; strictly business.

“Marc, we don’t have to go there. What about something quick like…Papasittos?”

“No, thanks. I haven’t been home in a while and I love their mashed potatoes. It sounds simple but it’s true. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of man. I’ll see you in the next half hour or so.” They had something in common. She wouldn’t tell him though.

“Okay.”

“Goodbye, Camille.”

“Bye.” She stood in the middle of her living room, staring at the phone. She needed to change. She tried Ashanta again, but still no answer.

Camille’s concern was turning into frustration. If she didn’t hear from Ashanta by tonight she’d head over to her house first thing tomorrow morning. With that decided, she got ready.

* * *

What if he died because of me? Unshed tears stung Ashanta’s eyes. She could not rid herself of that haunting voice. She stood in the middle of her living room, bewildered, fists closed at her side. What would she do now?

She walked to her mantel and picked up a picture of her mother. She traced her mother’s face with her index finger. Ashanta smiled at the thought of that day; her father behind the camera while she and her mother smiled so hard her cheeks burned. Her mother was elated knowing she was graduating from college and preparing to attend graduate school in the United States.

Ashanta lifted the picture and placed a gentle kiss on the photo as if kissing it goodbye. She didn’t know if her mother was dead or alive, and learning of Harold’s death made her feel alone. Again.

The tears that threatened to fall began to stream down her face. She had to put her plan into action. She walked to her bedroom and saw the flashing red light on her phone. She would check her messages later. Right now she had to go to IJDC.

She entered her closet and knelt down, searching the far corner for a black lock box. Ashanta searched her keychain for a small silver key. She opened the box and pulled out a stack of papers and a platinum locket. She grabbed the largest shoulder bag she could find and shoved the papers inside then slid the necklace over her head.

Ashanta sat on the bed and put on her sneakers. She was startled by her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her worn denim jeans and basic tank were far from the glamour girl everyone knew.

She walked to the mirror and rubbed away the traces of her tears. She had to get going. She grabbed her purse and headed to her car.

Ashanta opened the door and sat behind the wheel of her luxury vehicle. She’d worked hard and come a long way. She thought of Harold and felt the tears coming again. She told him only part of her story because she thought she had time to fix the mess she had created, but time apparently was not on her side. Happiness seemed to evade her once again.

Ashanta drove to IJDC. She had begun saving copies of financial reports that showed large deposits to several international bank accounts. As president of international accounts, Saul was charged with handling all international matters. To a perusing eye, everything seemed legit, but upon close examination, she noticed discrepancies. About a year ago, she started noting recurring account numbers, inconsistent shipments, and bogus company names.

Her plan was to sit down with Harold and share the information with him but her plan crumbled before her eyes.

Ashanta only had one other option. She would gather everything from her office and talk with Camille. Satisfied with her new plan, she made her way across Houston to IJDC.

* * *

Marc glanced up and down Camille’s street. The subdivision was a newly constructed area outside downtown Houston. It was a nice complex. He climbed the stairs leading to her front door. He knew he was a few minutes early, but he wanted to allow time for parking, if needed.

He rang the doorbell and waited. Marc could hear the clicking of heels on the other side of the door. He braced himself. The other night she wore casual jeans and a blouse and earlier that day she looked like she was auditioning for a role in Men in Black.

The chuckle fighting to escape lodged in his throat as he stared at Camille in the doorway. She had on what a basic black dress revealing a small amount of cleavage and hugging her womanly curves. And her halo was not obstructed in that nun-like bun. The light from the corridor made her appear almost angelic.

He stared at the top of her head and took his time scanning her body ending with a simple black heel. They added a couple of inches to her height, but stepping closer he noticed she still only reached his shoulders. He leaned in and placed a quick peck on her check before she could protest.

He lingered a little longer than anticipated, imprisoned by the soft sweet scent coming from her body. His groin tightened with awareness. He stood back, trying to calm his physical reaction to her.

“Are you ready?” He sounded as if he had chewed on frogs all evening. Clearing his throat, he tried to read her expression.

“Yes, let me grab my shawl,” she said, turning as she walked further into the house giving him a full view of her backside. It would take everything in him to keep his distance. Everything from her cute freckles and uncontrollable blushing to her seductive body beckoned him.

She stopped with a questioning look on her face and he realized he wasn’t paying attention to what she said.

“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” he asked.

“I asked whether you’d like a drink,” she responded.

Marc mustered all his strength to focus on what she was saying because her entire presentation was causing his senses to blow a fuse. He looked at his watch. “No, I think we should head to the restaurant. I’m not sure about the parking situation there.”

“Oh, they have valet, but I understand. I’ll be right back.”

He remained standing in the walkway by the front door. He could see her living room was decorated in warm hues. It appeared cozy, but it was missing something. He scanned the area and noticed that he didn’t see any pictures or personal touches to the décor, which he expected since she was technically undercover.

As if hitting him for the first time, he let that thought settle over him. Camille was an FBI agent. He didn’t know if he liked it or not. He had made it a rule not to date agents. The life was hard; hence his single status.

As she sauntered toward him, he noticed her soft pink lips and the absence of her freckles.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Marc placed his hand on her lower back and guided her out of the house. Camille locked the door and Marc shook the handle to ensure it was locked as she waited on the sidewalk with her small black attaché.

He led her to the car, opening the door and waited as she adjusted the seat. He dipped into the car and grabbed the seat belt, and crossed her body to fasten it. He froze upon hearing her sharp intake as his shoulder brushed across her breast, now nearly eye level. Her chest rose and fell at a speed that matched his racing heartbeat.

“Thanks.” Camille said. He felt the warmth and the minty scent of her breathe.

Marc was a gentleman, letting Camille in the car and shutting her door. He needed to be on his best behavior. He reached for his handle and inhaled the fresh air counting to ten to calm his senses before sitting in the driver’s seat. He placed one hand on the steering wheel and the other behind her seat.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a low husky tone.

She said yes, but in her mind, Camille knew she was not ready for a man like him. He exuded sexuality and danger. Her instincts told her that she was physically safe, but was unsure about those unexpressed emotions dancing in his eyes. No, she was not ready; not for what he wanted, especially if it was anywhere near the lustful and longing gaze he was directing toward her. His handsome face was a woman magnet and she had been there and done that. Hell, she had the honorary t-shirt and she did not plan to be another woman running behind him. No, thank you. Her experience with men was limited, however, she knew without a doubt that he would change her life.

They arrived at Artista, allowing small talk to fill the sexually charged space that lingered between them during the drive to the restaurant. He gave the valet the keys to park the car and once inside they were shown to a booth, which made their dinner seem more like a date. It was intimate and the low lighting only added to the ambiance.

Camille scanned the room as she held a water goblet noticing a slight shake in her hand. They were surrounded by couples. She let the cool ice water settle her anxiety since he seemed content with ogling.

She reached for her attaché on the seat beside her. She had brought the pertinent files for them to discuss. Focusing their conversation on the case would help relieve the anxiety she felt.

“What all do you know about the case?” she asked, unzipping the attaché.

Marc settled back in the plush booth, giving her his full attention. It made her uncomfortable. He casually rested his right forearm on the edge of the table.

“We have all night. How about we talk business after we eat? I’ve had a long day and I’d like to enjoy my meal and your company. Is that all right with you?”

She had a feeling that her response would not dissuade him from whatever he had set his mind to. The smug look on his face challenged her to object. Camille knew how to pick her battles and she had a feeling that there would be one coming. Their chemistry ensured it. She nodded her approval, closing the attaché and settled into the booth, mimicking his relaxed posture. He chuckled and lifted his glass in a mock salute. She tilted her head in recognition and grabbed the menu.

As she read the menu the words before her began to blur. Her thoughts lingered on the man sitting within arm’s length of her. The last time she had dinner with a man in such an intimate setting was nearly two years ago. She came back to reality with that realization. Her nerves were on edge due to her being a little rusty.

She looked up to find a question painted on his face. “What?”

“You look like your mind is running a mile a minute. Would you like to talk about it?”

Sitting next to him made her wonder what she would discover about him given the appropriate amount of time. Camille knew Derek well enough to trust his judgment, but Marc made every inch of her body tingle, and that was not good. She found him attractive and she was curious. She wanted to learn more about what she saw in his smoky eyes. She wanted to know if he tasted as good as he smelled. She waited for the waiter to take their orders then began her inquiry.

“So, tell me about Marc Fulton.”

He exhaled and leaned forward, closing the gap between them. Every inch that he came closer made it harder for her to breathe. His graceful movements made her wonder…what if he delivered on all of the secrets hidden in the depths of his brown eyes? She was in trouble.

“What do you want to know?” He smiled confidently. His choice of black slacks and jacket paired with simple pinstriped shirt made him appear harmless, but the double earrings made her doubt whether he was as harmless as he seemed.

She picked up her linen napkin and placed it on her lap, using the moment to break his hypnotizing stare. She ran her hand over it several times before looking into his eyes again.

“I’m not sure.” Camille decided to be honest with him. “Something about you has me thrown off. So start at the top and maybe I can figure it out.”

He leaned back, giving the waiter room to refill her water glass and his red wine. He waited for the waiter to leave before he took a sip of his wine as if he wasn’t pressed for time. When he finally answered, she was rewarded with a traffic-stopping smile. She had noticed the transformation of his face earlier, but this time she was facing him directly. The corners of his eyes pinched and he had slight laugh lines. Her natural reaction was to return the warmth she saw in his face.

“I throw you off, huh? How’s that?”

“No, you can’t answer a question with a question.” She loosened up and leaned against the table, closing the distance between them.

“Okay…okay… I was born in...“

“Not that far back.”

They laughed and she knew the ice had been officially broken. With humor lingering over the table, their conversation flowed. Camille learned he was born and raised in Houston and she shared that her family was originally from Virginia.

“Really? I have a home there.”

She asked about his relationship with Derek.

“Derek and I were basically raised together. He and my older brother were best friends. I wanted to tag along, but I was an annoyance to them. I was picked on and kicked around, but I still wanted to hang.”

She laughed at the picture he painted. She couldn’t image him as a small, scrawny kid. He paused just as their waiter returned with their plates.

“Let’s bless our food.” His statement nearly caused her to choke on the water she was drinking. She could not recall the last time she’d been asked by a man to say grace before they ate.

He grasped her hands and a shock of awareness cursed through her body. She knew he felt it too because his nose flared. He recovered quickly and said a brief blessing over their dinner. They ate in silence. But it wasn’t awkward nor did she feel a need to fill the silence with talking. It was comfortable.

Once their plates were removed, he was ready to hear about the case. She was certain his relaxed posture meant he was in thinking mode. He leaned back and crossed his long legs. His face was intent and Camille knew she had his undivided attention.

“I started working at International Jewelry Distribution Company two years ago.” That must have shocked him because his eyebrows shot up. She continued, “…as an assistant jewelry buyer. The bureau wanted me to go in and learn as much as I could about the company’s operation. The goal was to identify as many contacts as we could.”

“Did you select this case?”

She nodded her head. “Yes, I did. I have experience in jewelry merchandising. This helped my movement within the company go unquestioned. However, once I read the details of the allegations I couldn’t see myself sleeping at night without helping the many people affected by this case.

“You see, we have reason to believe IJDC has a relationship with an illegal source for its diamond supply. The numbers just don’t add up. Initial attempts to disclose the information turned up empty, which meant it would be difficult to uncover. I knew it could mean that I would have to make this case my life, and I have for two years now.” She paused.

“What do you suspect is happening?”

“I think they’re working directly with someone in South Africa. However, until recently I had no way to prove my theory. With my new promotion to VP of International Accounts, I believe I should have more access to internal records for our distributors.”

He nodded. Derek did not share a lot of information with him, but Marc understood the severity of the situation.

“What is it you think I can do to help you?”

“I’m not sure. What did you do with the CIA?”

“I worked with international terrorist organizations. I can’t promise anything because it is difficult to clear information across agencies.” He seemed to say the last sentence with concern.

She knew of the rift between the agencies, but Derek had to believe he would be valuable in solving this case.

They both sat in silence, their minds deep in thought.

“How many of the organizations that you’ve dealt with have been known to deal with conflict diamonds?”

He seemed to sit up straighter. “Conflict diamonds?” he asked, frowning.

“Yes, how else would they have access?” She gave him time to digest what she was implying.

“Let me get this straight, you think they’re trafficking conflict diamonds?” The weight of his statement hit them both; such allegations were dangerous.

“Basically, yes…” she finally answered him.

“Are you crazy?” he replied.

His question caused her to stiffen with offense. He continued before she could respond. “Those groups are deadly. They won’t just idly sit by while you expose a billion dollar illegal business. They’re called blood diamonds for a reason, and they will not hesitate to kill you or anyone else that stands in their way.”

Camille felt the small bond between them dissipate before her eyes. He all but made her sound incapable of handling the case.

“I know what I’m doing, and I am fully aware of the reputation of these groups. But, at this time, it’s only a suspicion.”

“What will you do if your suspicion is true? What if they are responsible for Harold’s death?” His relax posture was gone. He was an octave away from yelling.

Camille refused to think about why he cared. She did not like the direction of their conversation. She had let the thought pass through her mind, but there was no time to explore the consequences. She had a case to solve and she would do it…with or without him.

She leaned forward and in a potent hiss, warned him “I don’t appreciate you questioning my competence as an agent. Now, either you help or you don’t.”

It was now his turn to stiffen in response to the gauntlet she laid at his feet. She would have laughed at the surprised look on his face if he hadn’t just provoked her. She’d dealt with men always questioning her skills as an agent because she was a woman. She would not sit still and let him insult her.

 “So blushing Camille is now the big bad agent. Ha!”

“You know what, Marc,” she stood and threw her napkin on the table. “If you’re trying to piss me off, it worked.”

Marc watched Camille march away from the table. His mouth hung open in shock. He would have laughed if she wasn’t so upset. Her name was fitting—she was like a chameleon. She went from blushing, freckled face, and innocent to a hellion on wheels…and he liked it!

Marc signaled the waiter. He would have to hurry to catch her. Thankfully, in Houston taxicabs didn’t hang around. She would have to wait for him or call a cab. He paid their bill leaving a generous tip for the waiter.

He retraced Camille’s steps. Marc glided through the restaurant, not aware of the appreciative eyes that followed his full stride, his arms gracefully propelling him closer to his desire. He wanted her. If he doubted it before he was sure of it now. He was determined to do three things: beg her forgiveness, help her find this group, and get her in his bed.

Artista was on the second floor, he took the stairs in haste. He could see her through the glass-paneled doors, sitting on a bench watching cars pass by. Her back was erect and her hands rested on her knees. Her left fingers were gently tapping, as if she was playing piano scales. He approached with deliberate steps.

Camille must have heard him approach because her head turned in his direction. Her soft features hardened, brows wrinkled and her kissable lips pouted in disapproval. The street light illuminated the anger beaming from her beautiful eyes.

He knew female agents had a hard time. They did not receive the same respect as their male counterparts. Usually, they compromised their entire lives to pursue their careers. Whereas many men have wives at home caring for their children them the facade of a normal life.

He held her stare long enough to see the hurt expression that softened her gaze before she turned back toward the street. He took a step closer toward the bench. She slid over as if trying to distance herself from his presence. He felt his heart drop.

Marc’s gaze lifted toward the sky as he tried to gather his thoughts. He could not mess this up. He had to apologize but he wasn’t good at that.

He took several deep breathes before refocusing on her stern face. Just moments earlier, the flutter of her laughter had warmed him. He wanted to know more about her, but getting to know her would be impossible without first apologizing.

He took another step. She slid to the very end of the bench. One more inch and she would hit the concrete. Damn, she was mad, he thought to himself before he let out a chuckle. Her lethal glaze froze him. He cleared his throat, trying to hide the rest of his laughter behind his hand.

Marc lowered to sit on the bench next to Camille. She did not move. He decided to test her resolve by moving closer. He saw her look toward the edge of the bench assessing whether she could move another inch but he knew she couldn’t. She didn’t move.

He reached up and played with one of her ringlets. She flinched, but did not pull away. The glow from the street lamp made her highlights appear like beams of radiant light surrounding her latte-colored face.

“Camille…” She stiffened, and he could see her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Humph…”

This would be harder than he thought. He released the ringlet and reached for her hand. She did not snatch away. That was a good sign.

“I’m…sorry,” he whispered.

She pulled her hand away and folded her arms across her stomach. His nearness gave him access to the hollow of her neck. He let his eyes do the things he’d dare not do. His eyes swept her from the crown of her glorious head and down the length of her neck. The fullness of her breast on her petite body made him release a slight groan.

Their eyes met.

She whispered, “Please, take me home.”

He stood and extended his hand to assist her. She looked at it, but didn’t reach for it.

“Camille, I know your job as an agent is filled with people doubting you because of your gender and I’m sure you have it worse since you’re a black woman working in a profession full of white men. I apologize that I let my concern for your safety cause me to overreact.”

He sat back down.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try my best to control my outbursts. Please think about it from my position. I have worked with the agency for twenty years. I know these groups. I’ve seen these people rape and kill in the name of greed and money. You cannot fault me for my apprehension. I had no right to question your choice, but I will not apologize for my concern.”

He waited. He would sit there the entire night if need be. The longer they sat, the more he felt himself drawn to her. Her anger showed him a lot. She loved her job and she was no pushover. He usually controlled situations with women, but he’d have to tread lightly with Camille if he planned to get to know her.

They sat in a silent standoff for nearly ten minutes before she said, “Marc, I accept your apology, but don’t you ever insult my intelligence or my commitment to my job. You will respect me or you can drop me off at home and forget you ever met me.”

Oh, he would not forget. Nevertheless, he would stand by his assessment. She could not underestimate the power of the people she was hunting, because he knew, all too well, that pursuing them could turn the hunter into the prey.