A Cut Above by Ginny Aiken Page A

quality being equal, an emerald will bring in almost twice as much as a ruby every time . . .”
    As I rattle off facts and details of emerald legend and lore, my excitement bubbles up. I, Andrea Autumn Adams, am going to the Muzo mines. I’m going to get to handle the emeralds most other gemologists settle for dreaming about from a distance. You know. They drool over pictures of them. I get to ditch the picture, since I’m going to touch them and check them out one on one.
    Gladys Bergen and I spend the rest of the flight talking about jewelry, the S.T.U.D.’s many other quality offerings, interior design, and the similarities between air travel these days and root canals—there are more than you’d think. Trust me.
    Once I land, I turn on my cell phone, then head out into the terminal, where I quickly find the immigration booths. One of the natives who are supposed to speak fluent English greets me with a spew of Spanish. See? Only minutes after landing I experience one of those dental trauma similarities.
    A Spanish-speaking government wonk shouldn’t be a problem, since back in the Dark Ages of my youth—translation: high school—I took years of Spanish. But today, my Spanish decides to go A.W.O.L.
    Figures.
    “Sorry.” I cast frantic looks around, hoping to spot someone with the label BILINGUAL stamped on the forehead. No such luck. “No hablo español.”
    The guy behind the glass wall glares. “Necesito ver su pasaporte, señorita.”
    Among those words he’s machine-gunned at me, I think I catch something about a passport. I hand mine over, and before long, I have earned another foreign stamp on the little blue booklet. I smile. Neat.
    “Qué tiene para declarar usted hoy?”
    “I don’t know what you want.” Am I in trouble here or what? Memories of foreign jails dance in my head. “No hablo español.”
    A warm hand drops on my shoulder. “Allow me, señorita .” I glance at the man, and nearly swoon—I’m no Victorian, either, get my drift? Wow! How can anyone be so stunning and not look anything at all like Max the Magnificent?
    “Ah . . . er . . . umm . . .” How sophisticated.
    As my eyes have themselves a feast, the hunk rambles on in melodious Romance language—now I get why those languages are called that. Whoo-ee!
    Anybody have a fan?
    “Excuse me,” he says, his liquid-ink eyes gentle and interested. “He wants to know if you have anything to declare. He has to do the usual customs questionnaire.”
    The stranger’s English is flawless, if spiced with a hint of his native tongue. And it seems to have scrambled my brain. “Do you have anything with you that could be seen as an import?” he says, then winks. “Contraband?”
    Contraband? “No!” I squeal, jolted back to the moment by the thought of another confrontation with foreign authorities. “I have clothes, shoes, my laptop, and that’s it. Well, I do have a new bottle of shampoo. He can have that if it’s a problem.”
    He laughs. “You can keep your shampoo, I’m sure.” Turning to the guy in the booth, he resumes in Spanish, and I just stare some more.
    Less than a minute later, he places a hand at the small of my back and guides me forward. “You’re clear now. I’d like to escort you to the luggage pickup area, if you don’t mind.”
    Mind? What girl wouldn’t give up a pair of Manolos to have this guy at her side? The question’s going to be, can I keep it together enough to put foot in front of foot without tripping in his intriguing presence?
    I’m glad to report that I can. And do. Once we reach the carousel—still empty—he faces me and holds out his hand. “Marcos Rivera, miss . . . ?”
    In my hyperventilative—hey! I think I just made up another new word—condition, an image of the feisty American TV personality by the same last name flashes through my head. Good grief.
    Gotta get it together here. “Ah . . . I’m Andie . . . er . . . Andrea Adams.”
    “Welcome to Colombia,