Precious Gems - Sierra Hill Page 0,48

onto my tiptoes, managing just enough leverage to see over his shoulder. And when I do, I gasp.

“Holy shit! My house…someone’s ransacked it.” I cover my mouth with my hand, staring wide-eyed at the disastrous mess that’s been made in the living room.

Dempsey tries to block my entry, but I give him a hard shove to his side and barge through the entry. But I don’t get very far when I find myself stalled in the middle of the room, turning side-to-side with all the contents strewn about like a tornado hit the house with a mighty force.

“Miss Gemma, I can’t have you here. Mr. Blake would definitely not approve. It’s not safe.”

He backs me up with a gesture of his arm, withdrawing a gun from his pants that I hadn’t noticed until now.

I try to rationalize with him, because I need to find that diamond. Or at least the trail that leads to the diamond.

“Listen, Demps. I know your job is to protect me, and I really appreciate that. But we don’t know who was here or even when. The police could’ve tossed this place during the investigation. And if it was someone else, they’re long gone. So, I’m sure we’re fine. Plus, I have to find that diamond for Faron.”

Dempsey gives me a wary look, considering the validity of my assertions. He keeps the gun in his hand but inclines his head in approval.

“Let me check around first. Stay put.” He gestures toward the couch, which is missing several cushions, and I go take a seat.

As he meanders through the empty rooms, checking for intruders and marauders, I wring my hands together in worry, trying to decide where, if Mudd did hide it, could possibly be? Ticking off in my head all his old favorite hiding spots, where he’d hide wads of cash and contraband, I think of two possibilities. The floorboards under his dresser and behind the log pile in the back yard.

I jump to my feet, spinning around to run out the back door to check it out when I’m halted by the site of Dempsey being held at gunpoint, a gloved hand covering his mouth, blood spilling down his cheek from the gash in his temple, his wide eyes expressing dread and remorse.

“Oh my God!” I scream, ready to help, but the sound is muffled when a hand clamps down on my open mouth and my arms are pinned to my sides from someone behind me.

I thrash and kick to no avail, this guy’s hold on me too strong to escape. From behind me I hear the dainty sound of clickety-clacks against the wood floor, a pair of high heels echo to signal we have a new visitor in our midst.

Twisting my head with all my might, I drag my gaze to the finely dressed woman now standing in my entryway of my completely trashed house.

It takes me a moment for it to register in my foggy brain. She looks so familiar. How do I know her? Where have I seen her before?

My eyes squint and brows knit together as it finally dawns on me why I recognize her.

The expensive perfume and heels are the same as they were in Belgium. It’s the same woman I met at the airport and who gave me a ride to the club.

“Hello, darling. Good to see you again, Gemma.”

Dorian.

What the hell is she doing here?

Chapter 25

What the hell is going on right now?

Confusion wraps its long tentacles inside my brain like an octopus, and dizziness bleeds into corners of my vision as I fear I may actually pass out.

“Darling, you look so shocked to see me again. You’re white as a ghost. Come, sit down.”

Dorian gestures widely to the couch, giving the man holding me a signal to let me go. I’m honestly too stunned to try and escape, and I think she knows this. I flick a look at Dempsey, as she sees the direction of my gaze.

Her voice is steely venom. “Take care of him.”

“Wait, what? No!” I yell, beseeching her not to do what I think she’s going to do. “Please, let him go.”

She pulls off a pair of fancy, Italian gloves, one finger at a time, and examines her manicure as if she’s trying to decide whether to change her nail polish color. Completely disinterested in my protest to save Dempsey’s life.

She tsks through a saccharine smile, her head cocked to the side in a patronizing tilt.

“Oh darling, aren’t you just the sweetest,” she