"Ann Maxwell - Risk Unlimited 01 - The Ruby" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxwell Ann)

Laurel Swann touched the gleaming pebble with the tip of her index finger. The stone was as smooth and cool as the
ocean. She wished that all of life were half as pleasing to her senses.
But it wasnтАЩt. Even the agate reminded her of past unhappiness and present uncertainty; there was a single band
of pale amber in the stone that was the exact color of her fatherтАЩs eyes, and her own. Seeing the color made her wonder
where Jamie Swann was, if he was well or sick, thin or well fed, free or captive in some country whose name changed
with every headline.
тАЮDonтАЩt think about it,тАЬ Laurel told herself, speaking aloud in the manner of someone who spends much of the time
alone. тАЮThereтАЩs nothing you can do. HeтАЩs old enough to know better. Hell, heтАЩs old enough to retire, get a cat, and
write his memoirs.тАЬ
The thought of it made Laurel smile. Like her dead mother, Laurel couldnтАЩt stop caring about the man whose
cheerful grin and guarded eyes had shaped her life.
Still smiling, Laurel picked up the agate and turned it slowly. Light from the north window of her weathered A-frame
cottage spilled over her workbench, making the stone glow as if it held all the sunshine it had gathered during
countless years of being tumbled by surf on a California beach.
As a professional jewelry designer, Laurel had much more valuable stones тАУ diamonds and opals, rubies and
sapphires and citrine тАУ in the safe in her workshop. But she still took real pleasure in finding a clear agate on the beach
in front of her house.
To Laurel, a good beach agate was a small gift from God, a memento of the forces that shaped the earth, the
mingling of enduring rock and restless ocean.
The stone on LaurelтАЩs palm was a good agate. Looking into its clear depths was like looking through a window into
another world. The agateтАЩs radiant golden amber color gave way to a lightly marbled transparence at one end. The
stone was flecked with dark inclusions, tiny bits of the agateтАЩs history preserved in a crystalline frame.
The flaws made the stone more interesting to Laurel than mere perfection would have been. Turning the pebble
slowly in the light, she automatically began creating a design in her mind, a simple, flowing framework of gold that
would show off the agate to its best advantage. Stones were as unique and individual as people; a setting could
enhance the natural beauty of a stone or all but destroy it.
For Laurel, that was the endless fascination of making jewelry. Each design was her own answer to the silent
challenge of the stones that she create a frame for them which was as unusual and enduring as their beauty.
The rattle of a truck turning into LaurelтАЩs steep driveway broke her concentration. Frowning, she set aside the
agate and looked out the ground floor window of her small house. A delivery van was idling just outside. The driver
had thoughtfully driven down to the garage, saving Laurel a trip upstairs to the street level. Even so, she wasnтАЩt
happy to see the truck.
тАЮDamn,тАЬ Laurel muttered. тАЮWhatтАЩs this? IтАЩm not expecting any new orders. IтАЩm not expecting any back, either, but
that doesnтАЩt mean I wonтАЩt get some.тАЬ
Laurel headed from her workroom and opened the small door that connected to the garage. The living area of the
house was overhead, on the same level as the street. It was an odd, cramped arrangement common to Cambria houses
that had begun life as weekend cabins and been transformed into full-time residences when land prices soared.
Outside, the driver hopped down from the van and headed toward the open garage door. He had a clipboard
gripped in his right hand. Under his left arm he carried a rectangular box. The box was big enough to be awkward, but it
wasnтАЩt particularly heavy.
тАЮHi, Tom,тАЬ Laurel said as he approached.
тАЮHello, Miss Swann.тАЬ
Though Tom tried to be casual, he spent too long looking at Laurel. He started at her cap of shiny black hair, took
in the loose manтАЩs shirt she wore knotted to one side, and lingered on the jeans, whose snug fit was the result of
countless washings.
Though Laurel had spent no time trying to catch a manтАЩs eye, there was an essential sensual femininity to her that
was more alluring than the overproduced blondes that California turned out with numbing regularity.
тАЮIs it your birthday. 7 тАЬ Tom asked.
тАЮNope.тАЬ
тАЮThis week, maybe?тАЬ