“Frankly, yes. I always check out a coincidence. And there’s nothing more I can tell you about him. What about your mother, think she might know him?”

“My mother?”

“Sure. She’s Dutch, too.”

Juliana stared at him, unable to believe he was serious, but nothing in his gentle-tough face, in the unreadable dark eyes and earthy grin, suggested he was-or wasn’t. “My mother left The Netherlands more than thirty years ago,” she told him, “before I was born. She has a sister in Rotterdam, but they don’t get along, and a brother in Antwerp whom she rarely sees. No Hendrik de Geers, I’m afraid, not that I know of.” Which, she thought, remembering tea with Rachel Stein, wasn’t saying a hell of a lot.

“Okay. Sam Ryder attended the concert with an older woman, very tiny, dark, well-dressed. You wouldn’t know her, would you?”

Juliana tried not to react, tried to keep her face as unreadable as his. Rachel Stein-it had to be! But she shook her head automatically, her instincts telling her to deny she knew anyone of that description. She should talk to her mother before bandying about Rachel Stein’s name and their relationship to a reporter. They were both Dutch, like this Hendrik de Geer. But what did any of them have to do with Senator Ryder-or with each other, for that matter?

“No,” she said, shaking her head for added emphasis, “I don’t think so.”

“Know anything about diamonds?”

Juliana felt herself go numb. “Diamonds? No, how would I? I’m a pianist.”

“Then you don’t know anything about the world’s largest uncut diamond?”

Oh, Jesus. Could he mean the Minstrel’s Rough? No, impossible. Juliana resisted the impulse to jump up and pace. Matthew Stark didn’t even know about the Peperkamp diamond tradition. How could he know about the Minstrel?

Her mother, Rachel Stein, the Dutchman Hendrik de Geer, Senator Ryder-was this the connection among them? The mysterious, legendary Minstrel’s Rough? When cut, it would be worth millions.

No, don’t be silly, she told herself, annoyed. She’d never really believed her uncle’s tale. What he’d handed her seven years ago was simply a rock with an interesting story behind it. If a diamond, one of only moderate value.

But what if?

Her heart thudded and her hands had gone clammy, but she called on her training and years of experience as a performer to maintain an outward air of self-control. Matthew Stark hadn’t lifted his perceptive eyes from her. She could feel them probing as he waited for her to give herself away. Well, she thought, I won’t.

“I told you,” she said calmly, “I don’t know anything about diamonds. I don’t even like them.”

Stark climbed slowly to his feet, his black eyes never leaving her. He walked over and fingered the diamonds in her ears, first the left, then the right. They were simple posts that she wore nearly every day, just so she wouldn’t have to fool with picking out earrings. Stark’s touch was very light, but not quite delicate. “What about these?”

“They’re different.”

“Why?”

“They’re blue diamonds. Colored diamonds are the rage now. Once they were considered practically worthless.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about diamonds.”

She smiled haughtily. “Obviously I know about the ones I wear.”

The particular two in her ears had been cut by her great-grandfather Peperkamp, who’d been around during the wild early days when the South African diamond mines were discovered and the De Beers empire founded. But she didn’t think she should tell Matthew Stark that.

He pulled back, and she looked up at him, carefully controlling her breathing like she did when she had the preconcert jitters and didn’t want anyone to know. She was more aware of Matthew Stark, his earthiness and obvious maleness, than she felt she ought to be. “Any more questions?” she asked coolly.

“Juliana.” He spoke her name without anger, but his gaze was dark and distant, and she knew there would be no middle ground between them. “I’ll let it go for now, but lies don’t work with me. Remember that.”

“I’m not-”

“Just remember.”

He walked past her to the foyer, and she was surprised at how softly the door closed behind him. For a minute she didn’t move. She took a huge gulp of air and flopped back in the chair, exhaling at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “Jesus. Next time-well, the hell there’ll be a next time!”

But something told her there would be. Whatever was between her and Matthew Stark felt very unfinished. And he was the kind of man who finished things. He was also the kind of man, she thought uncomfortably, who would push and dig and ask questions until he learned that the world’s largest and most mysterious uncut diamond was the Minstrel’s Rough…that the Peperkamps had been in the diamond business for four hundred years…that she was the last of the Peperkamps-and hadn’t given him straight answers to his questions. He’d put all the pieces together.

He’d figure out she had the Minstrel.

Which, of course, she did.

Could someone else put those same pieces together and arrive at the same conclusion? Was someone else after the Minstrel?

Who?

She catapulted herself-not to the piano to escape this time-but to J.J.’s room, J.J.’s closet. She had to get out. She had to be someone else for a while, to be with people, to sort this mess out.

Her eyes fell on a midcalf black wool skirt with a slit up the back and a low-cut red silk blouse that had been very, very daring fifty years ago. She immediately saw it dressed up with lots of rhinestones, black seamed stockings, red shoes…and lavender-tinted hair.

She pushed the Washington reporter’s dark gaze from her mind and got started.

Juliana Fall was a liar, and she didn’t know Rachel Stein was dead. She was also one very attractive woman, and as he hung around the glittering Beresford lobby, Matthew thought more about her vibrant eyes than her skirting of the truth. He’d expected the Juliana Fall he’d met Saturday night to live in a building like the Beresford. The one he’d met this afternoon could have lived anywhere, the Beresford or some hole in the Bronx. The dust, the clutter, the sassy ponytail had surprised him. They didn’t fit his stereotype of the world-class pianist. Hell, he thought, she was probably up there sharpening her pencils or playing some piece written while Napoleon was trouncing Europe.

Napoleon, she’d say, who’s he?

Maybe he wasn’t being fair. Whatever she knew or didn’t know, it was plain enough to Matthew that Ms. Pianist wasn’t in any funk, as her eminent teacher had suggested.

The lady was just flat-out bored.

For the first time in years, Stark felt like having a cigarette. He’d quit smoking after Vietnam, figuring he had a full quota of poisons in his system, but right now he just didn’t give a damn. The tough, cynical, scarred, smart, heroic, tarnished Matthew Stark. He’d had his picture on the covers of Time and Newsweek; he’d appeared on network television and PBS specials. He was supposed to know more than your average Joe Six-Pack. Be more.

What a lot of bullshit that was. He was trying to coax information out of a gorgeous space cadet of a piano player whose big excitement for the day probably was feeding her goldfish. Who the hell wouldn’t be bored banging on a piano all day in that great, fancy, lonely apartment? Concerts added a little interest, he supposed, but she couldn’t give one every day, and they too had to get old after a while. Things like that generally did. Preserving a reputation was damn tedious. Making one was the fun part.

The uniformed doorman came over and asked if he could help. Matthew said no thanks. The doorman then politely suggested he be on his way. Matthew shrugged and didn’t argue. The guy had his job to do.

He went and stood outside, across the street at the bus stop in front of the Museum of Natural History. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but his instincts told him-damn reliable instincts they’d been too, once-that he’d just given Juliana Fall something to nibble on besides some piece written by a guy in a white wig.