Red-Hot Ruby, page 1
Contents
Copyright
Series
Warning
The Ruby
Him
Her
The Art Gallery
My Ruby
His Place
Her Place
Them
Newsletter
Copyright © 2015 Sandrine Spycher
All rights reserved.
Cover design by S. Rubi.
In the same series, to be released:
Red-Hot Vengeance
Red-Hot Gaze
Red-Hot Pursuit
Red-Hot Treason
This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novella are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Warning:
This book contains swearing and explicit sexual content. It is thus not appropriate for very young readers.
The Ruby
The ruby was lying on a cushion in a corner of the room. Numerous pieces of art were piled in a clumsy way, despite the instructions of great care. People in gray or blue overalls were walking in and out of the room. One of them suddenly hit the ruby by accident. The jewel was saved from a dangerous fall by another workman who caught it just before it hit the floor.
“Fais attention avec ça!” he said angrily to his colleague.
“What?” the other answered.
“Ah c’est toi le type du musée américain?”
“America, yes, I’m from there. Can’t you speak English?”
“The ruby is very frageel,” he said with a strong French accent. “You ‘ave to be carefool.”
“Oh yeah, right…” The American said in an annoyed voice.
The French worker grumbled some more and walked away with the ruby. He placed it on a cotton sheet, carefully wrapping it. While he worked, he kept whispering to himself and shaking his head, shocked by the total lack of care of his American colleague. The ruby, though huge and with an appearance of solidity, was very fragile. With the shape of a rose, it was a unique artistic item carved by a famous French artist.
The worker then took a long sheet of craft paper and tightly enveloped the ruby with it. After that, the gem was wrapped once more, this time in plastic. Then finally, it was placed in a cartoon box, which was fast closed and secured with duct tape.
Workers spent all day loading the precious collections into trucks. The storage room—which was actually a huge garage—was emptying slowly. The art was mainly French, leaving Paris to go either to America or Asia. After exhibitions here and there, all of the pictures, sculptures, and of course the ruby would come back to France.
It was the ruby’s first expedition. The brand new jewel had been presented just a month earlier to French audiences, and it was now ready for the world. But it wasn’t traveling alone. With it were mainly pictures, enclosed in thin but large boxes. Those were piled on top of the heavier boxes, so that they wouldn’t risk being broken or folded. A few sculptures were also part of the trip. Thankfully, none was of a large size. Thus, although they were all made of stone or marble, they were quite light. The most precious of them was the ruby. Workers didn’t know if they had to qualify it as sculpture or jewel, but they all agreed that its flower shape was incredibly beautiful.
The American worker had made his way to Europe especially to look after the ruby, although he did it in a peculiar manner. He didn’t actually care much about art at all. His job was to load and unload boxes of all sorts in trucks of all sorts. Why the museum had sent him was a mystery to everyone. Yet, there he was, getting yelled at in French for his lack of care. He acted as if he didn’t understand, which wasn’t entirely a lie, and kept doing his job.
When the truck was fully loaded with all the precious items, the driver climbed behind his wheel and started the engine. The American sat next to him. He would have preferred to go straight to the airport and back to the USA, but he had to follow the same road as the ruby. They left Paris early in the afternoon and traveled north to Calais. As the American didn’t speak French and the driver didn’t speak English, there obviously wasn’t much talking between them. A monotonous silence was prevented by the music playing out on the radio. That music was commercial and boring, but at least it kept the driver awake.
Towns and cities appeared and disappeared, being hardly even noticed by the occupants of the truck. One was focused on the road, the other kept looking at his watch. The ruby had to be delivered at a precise time on a precise day. His boss would make his life a hell if there were to be any delay. But because the ruby was in the same truck as a number of items going to London, it had to make a little detour. And thus, not a minute could be lost.
In the back of the truck, among pictures and sculptures, the ruby was still wrapped and encased in its cartoon box. Because of its relatively small size and its light weight, it had been put on top of the other boxes. There, it balanced to and fro according to the movement of the truck. It still had a long path to cover, but soon it would be free of plastic, paper, cloth, and only curious and amazed eyes would be greedily wrapping it.
About three hours later, the truck arrived in Calais and made its way straight to the port. They had to show passports and have the cargo sniffed by dogs to make sure they weren’t transporting drugs. Then they embarked on the ferry where cars and trucks were neatly parked just like pencils in a box. The different drivers left their vehicles and walked in a straight line to the bridge. The American tried to argue with a guard, saying his job was to escort the truck, but at last he was forced to go to the bridge as well. He was nervous as one ought to be when in charge of such an expensive item. Yet, right in its little space, squeezed between a large picture and the ceiling of the truck, the ruby was intact and undisturbed.
It would take an hour and a half to cross the British Channel. While the vehicles were lined up inside the ship, their former occupants were lined up outside. Some of them were staring vacantly at the sea, waiting for the arrival. Others were taking family pictures or selfies, and laughing heartily. And others were playing Leo DiCaprio, standing at the end of the bridge and shouting “I’m the king of the world!”
The American did none of these things. He stood near the entrance of the parking lot and simply waited for its doors to open again. He’d seen so many movies that he couldn’t help imagining finding the truck with its back door slung open and the art scattered on the floor.
Of course, none of that happened. When he and the driver went back to the truck, everything was just the way they had left it. They slowly drove out of the ferry and were instantly stuck in the traffic jam. Again they had to show their passports. And after long minutes they finally drove into Dover where they were to meet the person who would take them to London. Although they arrived quite quickly, the driver had spent his time swearing; it was difficult to drive on the left side of the road with his French truck, that’s to say with the wheel on the left.
It was around seven in the evening when they were welcomed by a man wearing a brown coat over a dirty white t-shirt and red trousers. He helped the driver park in the backyard of a big storing house. The American asked when they would go to London.
“Tomorrow, first thing in the morning,” the man with the coat answered.
“Tomorrow? Why not tonight?”
“Well, we have to transfer the items in my truck, which might take some time. We’ll do that tonight. And the flight is scheduled tomorrow afternoon, so there’s no need to hurry.”
The American growled some answer, but wasn’t paid any attention. He helped unload one truck and load the other. The action was horribly repetitive and boring; it seemed endless. However, they eventually finished the task, putting the ruby back on top of the boxes.
Early in the morning on the next day, they were ready to leave after a quick breakfast. The French driver went back to the port as he was going back to Paris. The American and his new colleague drove to London. The box containing the ruby was again moving back and forth in the back of the truck. Some of the pieces were left in Dover, and others would stay in London. But for now, the boxes were being scratched one against the other. The movements of the truck made them bump into each other, and the ruby was constantly pushed against the door. Fortunately, and thanks to the French worker’s care, it was wrapped well enough and would not be spoiled before reaching its destination.
When they arrived in London, they went straight to the airport. A little plane was waiting for them. They loaded the boxes marked “NY” into the plane and left the others in the truck. The ruby found a place on the top once more, although this time there was a lot more space and it probably wouldn’t stay in that place for long.
The driver said goodbye to the American and left the airport. As his plane wouldn’t take off before a few hours, the American went to get something to eat. He didn’t have to wait long, but time seemed to stop as there was nothing to do. He finally boarded, fastened his belt, and looked out of the window. The cities and fields looked tiny and peaceful from above. He gazed at them for some time and then fell asleep, the effort of lifting boxes weighing on him. When he woke up, about eight hours later, the plane was landing in a familiar place. He smiled at the thought that he would soon be home.
The art was loaded one last time into a truck. But the ruby was carried by the American worker to his own car. He still had a few miles to drive before reaching the museum. While driving he wondered why that French artist hadn’t chosen to display his ruby-flower-sculpt
The ruby arrived early in the evening and was locked in Mr Spears’ office for the night. A specialist of jewelry came in the next morning. She met Spears who took the ruby out of its corner. After having cut the duct tape, he delicately lifted the gem. The cartoon box was thrown away. Spears then removed first the plastic with caution. It was difficult to unwrap the ruby because it was so tightly encased in the different materials. It was only after about twenty minutes that Spears was able to hold the ruby in his hands.
“Well, miss Taylor, what do you think?” he asked the specialist who was intensely gazing at the jewel.
“A very nice stone indeed,” she said. “If I may?” Spears handed her the ruby and she turned it between her fingers, looking carefully at every crevice of the gem. “It is remarkable how the imperfections blend with the cuts made by Mr Duval. We can hardly tell the ones from the others.”
“That’s what makes the ruby such a beautiful and unique piece of art,” Spears said, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “And it’s also what makes Mr Duval such a good artist. He was able to take advantage of the numerous imperfections of that ruby.”
“Yes, and the shape’s been very nicely carved. We could almost think it’s a real flower.”
“Yes, yes. Now, what do you think of its value? How much is it worth?”
“Hm. As a jewel, I’d say that it’s not worth more than a few hundred dollars, at most one thousand.” She saw Spears look suddenly disappointed. “But,” she added, “carved as it is, it becomes unique and gains a huge value. And because of Mr Duval’s renown, the ruby goes from affordable by anyone to absolutely priceless.”
Spears’ face lightened. “How much, miss Taylor, how much?” he asked.
“Well…” She looked one last time at the ruby. “Between one and three million, I’m not sure. I’m a specialist of jewels, not art.”
“Very well. Let’s say three million then, it’ll attract more people.” Spears joyfully said. He took the ruby from Taylor’s hands and put it in a transparent plastic box whose bottom was covered with dark blue velvet. Walking toward the main hall of the gallery, he motioned Taylor to follow him.
In the gallery hall, Spears and Taylor met with a TV team, ready to shoot the show which would advertise the ruby exhibition taking place a few days later. A tall man with a gray shirt, a blue jacket, and an odd tie with cats on it walked to meet them.
“Hello!” he said with great gestures. “I guess you are Richard Spears, the owner?”
“Yes, yes, that’s me. You can call me Dick,” Spears said, putting out his hand.
“Oh it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dick. I’m Pete Harvey. We’re all set for shooting, you just need to go see the make-up artist, she’ll make you irresistible. You too, miss…”
“Taylor,” she quickly answered. “Amy Taylor, the jewelry specialist. I was asked to estimate the value of the ruby.”
Spears and Taylor were shown the way to the make-up artist. They hurried because everyone else was ready to start. When they were ready as well, they joined Harvey who was already sitting next to Duval. Microphones were clipped to their clothes and everyone else in the gallery—people working there to make the museum ready for the day—was asked to remain silent. The ruby, still in the plastic box, was placed on table in front of Duval.
The show started with Harvey introducing Spears Art Gallery, its history, the few past exhibitions, and the owner’s ambition of making it the most famous gallery in New York. Then he addressed Duval who was asked to say more about the ruby.
“Well, the story of the ruby is quite extraordinary,” Duval said in very good English despite his slight French accent. “It was extracted in a mine in Australia, which is usually not the most famous place to extract rubies. We think rather of Burma or Mong Hsu when we speak of rubies. Anyway, this one is Australian. The people who first saw it were impressed by its huge size, but it was soon deemed worthless because of the imperfections. They were giving it away when I put my hands on it. I immediately saw the flower hidden in those imperfections. All I had to do was to cut bits here and there, and it slowly took the shape it has now.”
“The shape of a rose, very beautiful indeed,” Harvey said. “How long did it take to carve it like that?”
“About three years.”
“Three years! Wow!” Harvey sounded falsely impressed. He faced the camera and continued to speak with his TV voice. “Ladies and gents, if you are joining us now, we’re here with Adrien Duval, the one and only, and with his ruby which is probably the most beautiful in the world because of its wonderful flower shape.”
Him
Reese Carter was slumped in his couch. Eyes half closed, feet on the tea table, remote in hand, Carter was watching TV in his own way—that’s to say watching about ten seconds on a channel before skipping to the next. The images changed so fast that one couldn’t possibly understand anything on any channel. Yet Carter didn’t stop his finger from pushing the button with a disconcerting regularity. He had about two hundred channels, but they mingled together in a surprising way. Spanish melted into English as bright costumes turned into green landscapes. The result was a sort of unending song, now soft, now rhythmical, both classical and electronic, amplifying and diminishing in an odd harmony of shattered sentences.
“… the sun will not come back until next Friday…”
“… Patrick! How could you do this to me?”
“… las playas de Lanzarote conocen un gran succeso…”
“… and with his ruby which is probably the most beautiful in the world because…”
Carter jumped up. He suddenly stopped changing channel to admire the precious stone. He cursed himself for having missed the beginning of the show. The animator was speaking about a huge ruby. At the same time, the jewel was exposed on every angle. It was, indeed, beautiful. Both a piece of precious jewelry and a work of art, the ruby glowed under the artificial lighting. It cast a blood red gloom on the white display. Carter didn’t pay much attention to the animator’s speech. He was absorbed by the beauty of the red-hot ruby.
He sat back on the couch, spread his legs in front of him, and started dreaming. He imagined what he could do after selling it. Surely that ruby was worth millions of dollars. Carter could see himself snatching the ruby from its place, and running away right before the police was even told there was a ruby in town.
Then he would take pictures and make sketches of the jewel, and eventually sell it at a good price. With the money he would buy a private jet along with its pilot—something he had always wanted—and he would go to a desert and paradisaic island. Well, maybe not desert. It could only be a paradise if filled with a number of sexy young women. The jet pilot would have to be a woman too. And then he would relax on the island, doing nothing else than having sex with the women and gazing at the pictures of the ruby.
Maybe selling the ruby wasn’t such a good idea after all. Why should he be content with pictures if he could have the solid stone. That, for sure, would make all the women crazy about him. However, he wouldn’t be able to get to them on the paradise island aboard his private jet.
Carter opened his eyes. He sat up to fully come back from his senseless fantasy. The ruby was still on TV, but more people were talking now. A middle-aged man with a mad look on his face was smiling stupidly at the animator and nodding ridiculously as the latter complimented his genius. Carter figured that the madman must be the artist who carved the ruby into a flower. Next to him was a young woman wearing a tight white shirt which momentarily sent Carter back to his fantasy.
Carter got up and started walking from the couch to the door and back again. The space he covered was no bigger than a few square feet, his flat being extraordinarily small. The apartment used to be a garage and was then transformed into a livable space of one bathroom, one bedroom, and a big living room with a fridge, an oven and an electric cooker stuck in a corner.
