Jade

By Maureen A. Miller

Carolyn Kerr is working on her first major assignment for BLUE-LINK as a marketing manager for the Sacred Stones Tour, a Maori jade exhibition. It doesn't begin well. In the first city, a stranger kisses her and then disappears into the night. On the second stop of the tour, she falls under gunfire.
Running from the spray of bullets, Carrie sees a car pull up to the curb. The passenger door opens, offering her an escape. But the man behind the wheel is no refuge. He is the same man who brashly kissed her in New Zealand. One hot kiss that replayed in her head over and over.
Is the exhibition cursed...or just her?

Ned Barlow is chasing an art thief. Working undercover, he is forced to think fast to preserve his cover in New Zealand. Kissing a beautiful woman prevents detection, but the effect of her kiss lingers.

Now the lines of his mission are blurred. Protect the art or protect Carrie?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen A. Miller
• Release date: Jan 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781005819569

Maureen A. Miller

USA TODAY bestselling author, Maureen A. Miller worked in the software industry for fifteen years. She crawled around plant floors in a hard hat and safety glasses hooking up computers to behemoth manufacturing machines. The job required extensive travel. The best form of escapism during those lengthy airport layovers became writing.Maureen's first novel, WIDOW'S TALE, earned her a Golden Heart nomination in Romantic Suspense. After that she became hooked to the genre. In fact, she was so hooked she is the founder of the JUST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE website.Recently, Maureen branched out into the Young Adult Science Fiction market with the popular BEYOND Series. To her it was still Romantic Suspense...just on another planet!

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Carolyn Kerr halted as a sleek black sports car pulled up to the curb with electric stealth.

Get in.

A quick glimpse up and down Fifth Avenue revealed the nighttime rush of traffic peppered with yellow cabs. She peered in the gap of the open passenger window, but only a dim outline lurked behind the wheel.

Hell, no, she muttered and tripped backward in her heels.

Carolyn, it’s me. Ned. Get in.

Ned.

Ned.

Ned who? she feigned ignorance.

It’s not as if the name had bobbed around inside her head like a lottery ball for the past month.

Get in. Now.

Over the din of New York city traffic, she heard metal strike the car. Such odd discord. In the half-second it took to register the source, Carrie marveled at the reflection of lights against the shiny black paint. Pricey vehicle.

Ping.

Half-second over, the next pop broke through to her brain. She shrieked.

Carolyn, now!

The shadow leaned over and opened the passenger-side door as another bullet struck close to the long lapels of her raincoat.

Launching into the car, she slammed the door shut, half of her coat still stuck outside. As the car merged into traffic with a soft hum, Carrie searched the front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The limestone archway was illuminated, with one red banner like an unfurled tongue hanging to the side. It promoted the exhibit she had just visited.

Pounamu Tapu.

Sacred stones of the Māori.

Did you get hit? The driver fisted his hands around the steering wheel. His head angled for a glimpse of the rearview mirror.

"Hit?"

Was that her voice? She sounded like a pterodactyl.

Bullets, Carolyn. Those were bullets.

Forced to confront what her subconscious so valiantly tried to shield her from, Carrie finally acknowledged she’d been shot at. A seismic tremble sprang from her toes to her chin, and then she drew in a deep breath.

They weren’t shooting at me. It’s New York, and this is a pretty damn expensive car. They were shooting at you.

It’s a rental. And the target doesn’t matter. You were in the way. What are you doing here? I thought Blue-Link was done with their job.

They are. I thought your company decided to hire their own security for the exhibit. Tugging unsuccessfully at her coattails, she added, Clearly, they aren’t doing a good job.

Carolyn—

My friends call me Carrie.

Carrie—

You’re not my friend.

I kissed you, didn’t I? the deep voice rumbled. Doesn’t that qualify as friend status?

Oh, that kiss.

It replayed in her mind over and over. That kiss was there every latent moment—sitting at her desk, standing in line at the grocery store, nodding off in front of the television.

But Ned Barlow wasn’t.

Ned disappeared a few seconds after that kiss ended and was never seen or heard from again. Not to mention that she met him precisely three minutes before that kiss occurred.

Yeah.

I don’t even know you, and someone just shot at me. Her voice was going Jurassic mode again. Can you pull over? I need to call 9-1-1. The Police. Someone.

Shock crept under her skin, making it cold and clammy. Her hands trembled atop her lap. She swore another hand hovered over them, but when she blinked, she found it locked around the leather wheel.

Easy. You’re okay. We’re going to the police now. I can’t return a rental car with bullet holes in it.

Ned Barlow was British. She’d spent enough time in London to identify accents, and his had a hint of West End to it. Life of international travel diffused it, though—knowledge she came by in those bizarre three minutes before his kiss.

How did you know? She searched for gaps along the sidewalk. Empty curb real estate was hard to come by. There was nowhere to pull over this ultra-posh car. You just happened to be driving by when someone shot at me? I must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and being with you is not the right place.

Fair enough. I get that you’re pissed at me for New Zealand. I can explain—

The way his voice faded hinted that any explanation would be inadequate.

I don’t care about that, so not true, I want to get to the police. I want to report a shooting, of which I know very few details, and then I want to go home, pour a glass of wine, and put on some Johnny Cash.

A snort from the driver snatched her eyes. She had adjusted to the ambient light enough to see the hook of a grin form a dimple. Everything else was dark, just as she had remembered. Chestnut hair, nearly black. Soulful brown eyes. Dark stubble hugged a square jaw. The last time she had seen him, he was clean-shaven—wearing an expensive suit.

Yeah, Ned Barlow was all tall, dark, and handsome material.

Which album?

None of your business.

Is that one of his more recent ones? I never heard of it.

Carrie glared out the passenger window.

Loser, her reflection mouthed. I like kick-ass country music.

Maybe he snorted out a chuckle. Maybe he had bad sinuses.

You live in New York and like country music?

How do you know where I live?

You told me in New Zealand.

Oh. She turned to glance at his face silhouetted by flashing advertisements outside. I didn’t realize we chatted for so long. What was it? Two—three minutes?

A deft finger tapped the illuminated console, expanding the map.

There’s a station two blocks ahead.

Okay.

I can ignore the elephant in the car too.

Good.

Keeping her focus out the window, she was still aware of Ned’s presence—each rustle of his coat as he controlled the sports car with confidence. Each glimpse of the muscular thigh straining against his dark pants. A waft of soap mingled with a steamy musk as if he had been standing over one of New York's smoking manholes. Appropriate. Everything about him screamed masculinity.

She fisted her hands into her coat to still them.

The soft metronome of the blinker sounded. Carrie saw the sign for the NYPD 29th Precinct. All the spots on the narrow street were occupied by blue and whites, but there was a tight space in front of a Panda Express at the corner. Ned handled the parallel parking skillfully, and they sat silently for a moment.

I guess— she hesitated, —I guess I should thank you. Whatever reason placed you on the street at that moment—you probably saved my life. I don’t think they were shooting at me—or even you. It’s the city. Things happen—

Things happen, his husky voice echoed.

Sturdy hands slipped from the wheel, landing on the thighs of his black jeans. Come to think of it, all of him was dressed in black. A black jacket—and as he leaned forward, she caught a glimpse of a black t-shirt. He wasn’t dressed to attend the exhibit. Not like the gala in New Zealand, where she first met him. And kissed him.

She cringed at the recollection.

At the circumstances.

At the effects.

Let’s go do this.

I wish I could go in alone.

Carolyn—

Something in his voice arrested her.

For the first time, she turned to look at him full-on. Neon lights from the restaurant flooded the car, scoring the sharp planes of his face with yellow and white stripes. Perhaps it was the lighting, but his eyes weren’t as deep brown as she remembered. There was a shot of whiskey in each of them, and that affecting gaze dug into her, rooted around, and left her reeling.

I’m worried about you.

Worried? Carrie’s voice cracked. You don’t even know me.

Deep breath. In through the nose—out through the mouth.

Look— She grabbed the door handle, watching two uniformed men walk out of the precinct. They stopped before a white car, chatted, and then headed separate ways. I just want to say—what happened in Auckland—that’s not me. I don’t do that. I don’t kiss strangers. And no, I hadn’t even had a glass of wine yet, so I can’t blame that. It was an odd circumstance—much like now.

She gave him a lingering look but tried like hell not to glance at his lips.

Odd circumstances seem to follow you everywhere, Mr. Barlow, she added.

There was enough light to see regret in his eyes. That mesmeric gaze lingered on hers, pinning her to the leather seat.

Listen to me, he said with a soft British accent that was as captivating as his eyes. Be careful. Just—just—try to distance yourself from the Māori exhibit.

Carrie swallowed but felt heat inch into her cheeks.

My, aren't you cryptic? She reached for the door handle, ready to open and launch, but turned back. "Listen to me. I don’t know you. I don’t need to heed your advice. And I am assigned to the Māori exhibit. Where it goes—I go."

Blue-Link’s contract is over, he ground out.

"Blue-Link’s contract is paid for. We don’t just walk away after collecting the check."

Carolyn, please—trust me on this. The exhibit is—it’s a target.

Carrie let loose a soft grunt. It was nice to see you again, Ned. She glanced at her watch. This one’s a record. Over five minutes.

This time she opened the car door, and the sounds of the city assailed her.

Sirens. Horns. Laughter. A jackhammer in the distance.

A touch on her arm made her pause.

Just wait. I’ll come around.

I don’t need a chauffeur.

She caught his hand twitch.

I know you hate me, he said in a throaty tone. I wish I could have handled the situation in New Zealand better. Just—just know something. I kissed you for all the wrong reasons. His face was still cloaked in shadow. But once I did—it was real, and it felt so right.

The husky declaration played with her stomach. A breeze brushed her hair against her lips, evoking memories of his kiss.

I don’t hate you, she murmured. Forcing shaky legs out onto the curb, she stooped over and looked back into the open door. I don’t even know you.

Carrie closed the door and speed-walked to the police station entrance, ignoring Ned Barlow’s footsteps behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

Why does she want to see me? Carrie paced a tight circle, her heels clicking against the marble parquet of the Madison Avenue office tower.

Every few minutes, the clatter of her shoes was echoed by the ding of the nearby bank of elevators as a new flux of pedestrian traffic flooded the lobby.

You were shot at while on Blue-Link’s time. Sophie Barber’s dark eyebrows formed a V. Of course, she wants to see you.

Carrie winced.

She.

Amanda Newton. The CEO of Blue-Link. Some called her the Ice Queen, but Carrie just found her to be a shrewd businesswoman. No nonsense. Very British.

Blue-Link was based in London but had satellite offices across the globe. It occupied floors 11 and 12 in this swank New York office building.

Tipping her head up at the illuminated number over the brass-plated elevator, Carrie sliced a look at her best friend, who had encouraged her to come work for Blue-Link.

Will you hold my hand?

Sophie rolled her eyes. She doesn’t bite.

Just my luck that she’s working in the New York office this week.

Sophie reached forward to press the elevator button. It’s not just her. Ray is here too.

Her husband? Carrie’s stomach clenched. "Great. The power couple. The head of the company and the head of security. I should have stayed in teaching. Why did you persuade me to take this job?"

They moved against the elevator’s back wall to accommodate the men and women in suits filing in.

"Maybe you crying, can you get me a job at Blue-Link might have had something to do with it."

Well, I didn’t intend to be an IT instructor, if you recall.

I recall. Sophie leaned in close to Carrie’s shoulder to be heard. "The teaching job was just something to bring in money. This. This is your destiny."

Not for long. I've been shot at, and now I have to visit the principal.

The brunette woman in front of them angled her head curiously.

Carrie’s lips clamped shut until 12 lit up on the monitor. She shouldered her way through the crowd, feeling Sophie in tow. They had been best friends since college—the age-old case of opposites attracting. Sophie was sedate, whereas Carrie was the prankster—always talking and always joking. It was a defense mechanism. Very few people knew what made Carrie Kerr tick. They saw her as flighty or sometimes bitchy. Not many took the time to delve beyond that.

Personalities aside, there were physical contrasts between her and her best friend. Carrie was a tall, cinnamon blonde with green eyes and a pale face that turned into a maraschino cherry at the slightest touch of sun. On the other hand, Sophie was average in height, with brown hair and sloe-shaped brown eyes that Carrie envied. Carrie’s hair wasn’t long and glossy like Sophie’s. It was shoulder-length with wispy layers that took flight with any exposure to humidity. At least the reflection in the mirror of the 12th-floor lobby revealed that her hair was tame for the moment. And her pencil skirt and white blouse looked professional enough to meet the power couple.

Wow. She searched the length of the corridor, knowing Amanda Newton’s office was at the far end. It’s like a march to the gallows.

Oh, will you stop? Sophie chided.

I’m sure the police report made it to Amanda’s desk. She doesn’t have patience for any bad press—even if I was the victim.

Carrie, are you crazy? Amanda would throw herself in front of a train for an employee.

Carrie took a deep breath. She rambled when she was nervous.

They approached a wide circular desk with a young woman with deep brown skin seated behind it. Her black hair was in a chic chignon glistening under the overhead lights. Her posture in the swivel chair was graceful—just another woman to make Carrie feel gangly.

Amanda is expecting us, Sophie told the receptionist as Carrie gawked instead of identifying herself.

Of course. The woman smiled and pressed a button on her phone console. Go on in.

Amanda Newton sat behind the chrome and glass desk, her hand resting on an ergonomic keyboard. The beveled edges of a blue diamond sparkled atop the right ring finger. Pale hair was pulled back in a tight knot, and intelligent blue eyes studied Carrie long enough to make her shuffle her feet.

To make matters worse, the daunting figure of her husband, the Chief Security Officer of Blue-Link, stood behind her. Between Ray Gordon and Amanda, it was questionable which position held more power.

Are you all right? Amanda asked with a soft accent.

Yes. Carrie nodded and managed an awkward smile.

Amanda’s fingers dusted over a piece of paper next to her keyboard.

Ned Barlow, she delved straight to the point. From Dixon’s. It was fortunate he was there.

I guess so. Carrie cleared her throat.

Dixon’s. Synonymous with Christie’s and Sotheby’s. An international art auction entity three generations old, making it the youngster in the crowd. A company with a chip on its shoulder against its staid competitors.

A lawyer, more or less, Ray pointed out. I met him.

A lawyer? Seriously?

Leaning over his wife’s shoulder, Ray typed on the keyboard.

Whoa. No one leaned over Amanda Newton, Carrie thought. And yet the woman tilted her head as if she was taking a quick whiff of her husband.

"Ned Barlow is a consultant for Dixon's. He runs his own company, Universal Art Aid. It specializes in recovering stolen artwork. Not all guns and force—just a meticulous resolution process. It's a non-profit. Dixon's must be keeping him on staff because he's good at negotiating with would-be thieves."

Doesn’t sound like any lawyer I’ve ever met.

Anyway, Ned was an advocate for hiring Blue-Link security services on the Māori tour, which wins him some big brownie points with me, Ray commended. But even with his good word, Dixon’s went with another outfit.

Which would explain the theft in New Zealand and New York, Amanda glanced up at him.

Theft? Carrie’s eyes flared. What theft? I was at both events. I don’t remember hearing anything. I should know this. I am in charge of marketing for this tour.

Two sets of stoic eyes stared back at her.

Errr, I was.

"Oddly, the stolen piece in Auckland was returned several hours later. The thief was able to gain access to the exhibit twice," Amanda explained.

What? Carrie lost her nerves and frowned. Really? And here, in New York, another theft?

Yes, a weapon. A paddle—

"The Mere Pounamu!" Carrie exclaimed.

Amanda Newton cocked a slim golden eyebrow.

I—I don’t think there’s a piece in the exhibit I’m unfamiliar with, Carrie rushed to add. I probably chronicle the items in my sleep.