“From what I gather,” he went on, “Len Wetherall doesn’t know about Juliana Fall. He assumes you’re really J.J. Pepper.”

“I am really J.J. Pepper.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know about Juliana Fall. Right?”

“Shhh!”

“My, my, Shuji?”

Her eyes shut, then opened, and she shook her head. “He doesn’t know.”

“Aha.”

This time the eyes narrowed, deep and vivid and fierce. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“This is a hell of a story, you know. ‘Internationally acclaimed concert pianist dyes hair purple and bangs out jazz in SoHo nightclub with silk-stockinged toes.’ Wow.”

“It’s not dye, it’s mousse.”

“Mousse, then.”

“And the feet-I’ve never done that before.”

“All the better. Feldie’d love it.”

Feldie would bounce his ass off the paper if he turned in a story like that.

Juliana gripped her glass, and for a second he thought she was going to throw her water at him. Instead she set the glass down hard. He could see her fighting to maintain her composure. He admired the struggle, admired her control. He knew he was giving her a hard time. But, he thought, remembering her fight with Shuji, her ego was strong enough to handle anything he dished out. And if she slipped, even just a little, she might tell him something he could use. Not about J.J. Pepper. If dressing up weird and playing jazz alleviated her boredom, gave her something to worry about besides the morning reviews, that was fine with him. Maybe it was her version of living life on the edge. He wanted to know her connection, however tenuous, to Sam Ryder, to the tiny, tragically dead Rachel Stein, to the Dutchman Hendrik de Geer, to the diamond one or all or none were after.

“Are you going to do the story?” she asked tightly, but the fierceness was still there.

Hell, yes, he thought, that would drive in the last nail on the coffin lid of my reputation. “Maybe.”

“You’re lying. You’re just trying to make me talk about something I’ve already told you I know nothing about. You’re trying to blackmail me, aren’t you?”

“I think of it as a deal.”

“Bullshit,” she said.

Down the bar, Len Wetherall slid to his feet, as graceful and big as Stark remembered him from when he was with the Knicks. Getting slam-dunked by a six-foot-nine, two-hundred-forty-pound ex-basketball superstar not known for his even temper was not Matthew’s idea of a graceful exit. He tried to look a bit less menacing to Juliana, not that his menacing looks were having any discernible effect.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not interested in hurting you. A buddy of mine is in some trouble. To help him, I need your cooperation.”

“Or you’ll do the story-or just give it to someone else on the Gazette who’d do it?”

She gave him an I-dare-you-fucker look, but this time she was the one bluffing. He had her scared. She didn’t want her secret to get out.

He sighed. “No, I won’t do the story, and I won’t give it to anyone who would. I’ve never been one for blackmail. And I frankly don’t care if you can play piano with one hand and one foot tied behind your back. My editor doesn’t care, my readers don’t care, and probably ninety-nine percent of the people in the world don’t care. Ninety-nine percent of the people in your world may care, but they don’t read the Washington Gazette.”

Her mouth drew in in a straight line, and she looked away. This time he didn’t care if she felt bad. If she couldn’t stand the truth, then she’d better get the hell out while she was still young enough to do something else with her life.

“Talk to me, Juliana,” he said.

The softness of his voice surprised him, and her, he would have guessed, but before he could find out for certain, a giant hand clamped down on his shoulder and lifted him up off the stool. Matthew looked up into the deep brown eyes of Len Wetherall. It wasn’t only Wetherall’s size his colleagues had respected, but also his tenacity and his intelligence-not to mention his temper.

“The lady doesn’t want to talk,” the former basketball superstar said, his tone misleadingly mild.

Juliana sipped her water and didn’t bother even glancing around. Matthew considered hinting he’d tell Wetherall what she’d been up to at Lincoln Center on Saturday night if she didn’t help him out, but he doubted that would do any good. First, he’d just told her he’d been bluffing. Second, if he did tell, Wetherall would just toss them both. Third, no matter what he did, he assumed he was out the door anyway.

“You finish your beer?” Wetherall asked.

“All set. I’ll need the check-”

“It’s on the house.”

“Thanks, but I pay my way.”

Matthew pulled out his wallet and dropped a ten on the bar. Len let go, and Stark tried to give Juliana a look that told her what he thought of her chickenshit attitude, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. He gave up and headed for the door.

On his way out, he glanced back and saw that Juliana had swung around on her bar stool and was watching him leave. He expected a look of apology for getting him thrown out, even an indication that she appreciated his not telling her boss how she’d wowed the Lincoln Center crowd on Saturday night without once banging out any notes with her feet and now was willing to talk.

But all she gave him was a cocky little smirk. Even with Len Wetherall hovering over her. Matthew was hard-pressed not to march back in there and haul her ass off the stool.

The little pissant was enjoying herself.

Juliana’s feeling of victory didn’t last. Len leaned back against the bar next to her and said idly, “Dude called you Juliana.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Is one of the Js in J.J. short for Juliana?”

“No. J.J.’s not short for anything.”

“Right.”

She’d finished her water and was anxious to get back to the piano. It would feel good to drop back into another world. Sometimes it felt as if she were parachuting into a new world, just floating, seeing everything around her, never really landing. Other times it felt as if she were freefalling and wouldn’t be able to get her chute open in time, that even if she did, it would be too late. She’d tried a few times to explain this feeling to Shuji, but he couldn’t understand it. His approach was much more matter-of-fact and controlled. He said he never left this world and neither did she, so quit talking nonsense. Maybe that was one reason she liked jazz. It required precision and technique, but not that same level of predictable control.

“Thank you for intervening,” she said. She hated lying to Len. He’d offered her friendship, trust-his stage, for God’s sake. And what had she given him in return? A purple-haired pianist he couldn’t understand. A potential bombshell.

“Anytime. But that’s one mean-looking gentleman, J.J. I’d prefer not to have to mess with him again, myself.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

She left it at that, unsure herself exactly what she meant. She didn’t know what to make of Matthew Stark. Undeniably he had a menacing look about him-the scars contributed, certainly-but she didn’t think he was in fact mean or dangerous. Or was she just being naive? He was sarcastic, yes, but he had a smile that intrigued her, and even if he’d been less than sympathetic toward her dual identities, he hadn’t given her away.

“You want to talk?” Len asked gently.

Reluctantly, she shook her head. But that too was a lie. She did want to talk. About who she was, about who Matthew Stark was, what he wanted. About the Minstrel’s Rough. She remembered the soft, heavily accented words of her uncle as she’d prepared for the second half of her concert in the little Delftshaven church.

“The existence of the Minstrel has never been confirmed. It’s best that way, Juliana. It’s a very, very valuable stone. Once cut, it would be worth many millions of dollars for its size and beauty alone. But its mystery, its status as a diamond legend, adds to that value. People will do terrible things for such riches. I know.”