The Goddaughter's Revenge by Melodie Campbell

CHAPTER ONE
    Okay, I admit it. I would rather be the proud possessor of a rare gemstone than a lakefront condo with parking. Yes, I know this makes me weird. Young women today are supposed to crave the security of owning their own home.
    But I say, Real estate, shmeel estate. You can’t hold an address in your hand. It doesn’t flash and sparkle with the intensity of a thousand night stars. It will never lure you away from the straight and narrow like a siren from some Greek odyssey.
    Let’s face it. Nobody has ever gone to jail for smuggling a one-bedroom-plus-den out of the country.
    However, make that a ten-carat cyan-blue topaz with a past as long as your arm, and I’d do almost anything to possess it.
    But don’t tell the police.
    * * *
    Pete was sitting in my back office at Ricci Jewelers, poring over a tray of diamonds. Really nice diamonds. You could buy a whole condo building with those rocks.
    â€œI like the big pear-shaped one. How much does that cost?”
    â€œToo much,” I said. “I’d be afraid to wear it. Might get mugged, you know?”
    Pete looked over at me and raised one eyebrow. “By your own family?”
    I grimaced. He had me on that one. Who was likely to mug the goddaughter of the local crime boss?
    I sighed. “It’s still too much.” I swished a stray lock of hair behind my shoulder.
    Pete pushed back from the table. He leaned back in the chair. His big hands went behind his head and linked there. I felt the familiar zing as his hazel eyes met mine.
    â€œYou know, this is rather like taking coals to Newcastle. You can buy any ring you want in your own store. Maybe I should buy you a car as an engagement gift.”
    I smiled at the quaint expression, then shook my head. “No sir, you’re not getting out of this. Aunt Miriam always says you’re not engaged until you’ve got the ring. So choose something, buster.”
    He smiled back and his eyes twinkled. “You choose something, gorgeous. We should do this together. Your budget is thirty thousand.”
    My jaw dropped. “Holy cannoli, Pete—how much do newspaper reporters make?”
    A faint knock at the door made us both turn. It was Tiffany, my shop assistant. Her goth getup was somewhat alarming to many customers. Her face right now was even more alarming, and I don’t mean from the piercings.
    I signaled to her. She used her key to unlock the door.
    â€œSorry to interrupt,” she said, “but you really need to see this.”
    She motioned toward the retail end of the store.
    I stood up, grabbed my keys and walked around the desk. “Come see me in action,” I said with a smile.
    â€œI’d like to, but I really have to get back. Got a deadline.” Pete sprang easily from the chair to his full six-foot-two height. I love to watch him move. He used to be a quarterback and has that perfect combination of strength and grace. Unusual in a big guy.
    Pete turned around at the door. “You like the pear shape, right?”
    â€œOh yeah,” I said. Who doesn’t?
    â€œHow much is the big pear-shaped one?”
    I met his eyes. They were smiling, just like his mouth.
    â€œTwenty-four thousand,” I said.
    â€œSold,” he said. Then he grabbed me before I could pass through the door.
    * * *
    A minute or so later, Pete put me down. I was breathless. He waited for me to pass through the doorway and then shut the door behind us. It locked automatically. Then he continued out the store to the street beyond. I had to stop myself from running to the window to watch as he sauntered out of sight.
    Instead, I drew my eyes back to the waiting customer.
    An ultra-slim woman with shellacked red hair stood at the counter.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Harris. How can I help you?” I said.
    She smiled nervously. “The stone in my ring is a little loose. Can you fix it?”
    â€œOf course,” I said. A perfectly normal