“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 that’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 longer. 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.”
The policeman tips his head, and in fractured English, directs me to a kiosk in the center of the luggage area. Hopefully, whoever’s manning that location can fish up enough English so that we can communicate. And she can—hallelujah!
“I have a
mensaje
for you, Miss Adams.” She hands me an envelope, my name front and center.
Not good.
An envelope is not a car.
And I don’t even ask for air-conditioning. Just a means by which to get to my hotel, whichever and wherever that might be, since Mr. Cruz handled all the arrangements for my stay in Colombia’s capital, Bogotá.
My fingernail tears open the heavy paper, and I scan the typed words. “Lovely. A ‘scheduling complication.’ At least he’s arranged a cab for me.”
From her perch behind the counter, the pretty girl with the olive complexion waves, and a thin, balding man trots up to us. The two of them fire Spanish at each other, and then the girl smiles at me. “Pedro will take you to the Hotel de la Opera. I’m sure you will like it. It’s a beautiful old building made into a hotel.
Muy elegante.
I think it’s our nicest.”
Since we’d found some—ahem—undesirable aspects at our lodgings in both Burma and Kashmir, I hope the info desk clerk is right. Believe me, I want to like the Hotel de la Opera. And I’m looking forward to a peaceful, relaxing evening. Can’t wait, actually.
“Is it far from here?”
“Not really. Maybe twenty minutes, in the historical colonial part of Bogotá. Follow Pedro to his cab. I’m sure he’ll get you there soon.”
Ready for something to go especially well, I follow Pedro out of the terminal. That’s where I hit the heat face-first. Wow! This place really is equatorial. I start to “dew” immediately. By the time we get to Pedro’s yellow taxicab, the “dew” has become a downpour. Ladylike or not, I’m sweating.
Then I slip into the cab’s backseat—vinyl. You know I’m gonna “dew” a whole lot more and maybe even stick. Oh joy. My enthusiasm for the trip begins to wilt—like me.
Pedro starts the car, and we pull away from the curb at the El Dorado International Airport. Easy, right? Well, let me tell you. Leaving the area is something else. The street is cram-packed with vehicles dropping off travelers, and picking up arrivals, dozens of taxicabs, vans, a handful of buses, and masses of people who see nothing wrong with jumping out in front of our cab.
Pedro maneuvers through all this, one arm out the window, gesturing wildly, bellowing what I’m sure are insults to those who don’t cooperate with his wishes, other hand on the steering wheel, and one foot down on the gas pedal—
hard
.
That should’ve been my first warning. You see, when Pedro gets out on real roads, he only pushes harder on the gas. He zips in and out of traffic at warp speed, ignores universal red STOP signs, dashes under amber-to-red traffic lights, and gets me so turned around, I have no idea whether we’re coming or going.
Not that I know anything about the El Dorado International Airport and its surroundings. But I usually can tell from which direction I’ve come. Not this time. Not with Pedro at the wheel.