Diamonds in the Dust Page 14

  I study her sassy little stance and saucy mouth. “It sounds as if you were thinking in my absence.”

  She clutches her hands behind her back. “I was.”

  I remain quiet, waiting for her to carry on, because I want to know how she operates. I want to know how she survives. Will she roll over and play dead, biding her time until it’s up? Will she go into denial and pretend this isn’t happening by living out some bullshit fantasy in her mind? Will she surrender? Or will she fight me until the end? What makes her tick? What will her strategy be in our war?

  She blushes a little. “I’m not going to give you any more trouble.”

  I’m guessing the color in her cheeks is due to shame and not shyness. It’s the knock she takes in willingly being the lesser, submitting to a fate she’d otherwise never have chosen. But her shoulders are square, and her head is high. This isn’t surrender. She’s either playing dead or fighting the only way she can, by choosing her battles wisely.

  Uncrossing my arms, I move closer. “Is that what you were doing outside on the balcony? Making important decisions?”

  She takes a step back. “You saw me?”

  “You should’ve dressed warmer. The wind is cold.”

  “You’re one to talk. I saw you jumping off that cliff in nothing but your birthday suit.”

  “Is your concern for the cold, the jump, or the fact that I was naked?”

  “None.” She backtracks when I advance another step. “I’m not concerned about you.”

  “No? Then why do you behave like you are?”

  “The only thing I’m concerned about is what happens to me if you die.”

  Ah. That sours my mood a little, not that I could’ve expected differently. “Right. You should be since I have your passport, not to mention that you’ll be given to Alexis.”

  The pink disappears from her cheeks.

  “You don’t have to worry your pretty little mind over things like that. I’m not planning on dying soon, and I’m glad we can put the fights aside.” I cup her cheek. I’m going to figure her out, this clever little daisy. “I meant what I said. You can be happy here.”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Jokingly, I add, “Seeing me jump off a cliff?” Had I known it would be this easy, I’d have done it sooner.

  She looks away. “The way I behaved reminded me too much of my father.”

  Gripping her chin, I turn her face back to me. “The way you behaved how?”

  She averts her eyes. “When I slapped you.”

  I don’t like where this is going. “What did your father do, Zoe?”

  “He was violent.”

  My back goes rigid. “With you?”

  “Mostly with my mother and Damian, but he broke things, and it scared me.”

  I try to picture Zoe as a child, a little girl, scared and defenseless, and I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it one bit. I admire her for fighting her genes, for wanting to be better. I sure as hell didn’t manage.

  “I see.” I drop my hand. “Do I remind you of your father?”

  She lifts her gaze back to mine. “No.” Just as my spine relaxes, a sliver of fear creeps into her tone. “You’re in a different league. My father wasn’t a tenth of what you are.”

  She fears me more. I both hate and love it. I can’t decide which feeling I want to embrace. Just when I thought I almost had her figured out she confuses me again. Confused isn’t something I’ve ever been. I don’t like it.

  Staring at her big, frightened eyes, I move even closer, my body shadowing hers. I want her. I want her fear and pleasure. I want her happiness and submission. I want to take her right here on the stairs. I barely manage to grit out, “Go to bed.”

  She doesn’t let me tell her twice. She runs up the stairs like a mouse fleeing from a cat. I stand at the bottom, staring after her while mulling over her words and dissecting my feelings. Making sense of thoughts and sensations is a logical process. I don’t trust my heart. I only trust my mind.

  I suppose what she said about being worse than her father is true. I’ve broken a lot more than material things. There’s more blood on my soul than on the hands of a soldier. I suppose I do scare children, and puppies, and pretty little innocent flowers, but I’m neither coward nor fool. Her father was a coward for terrorizing his own daughter and a fool for not seeing the pure, perfect girl right under his eyes.

  An insight hits me. Zoe grew up with violence. However wrong that is, she should be used to it, at least to an extent. What I am should scare her, but it shouldn’t surprise her. She shouldn’t be as innocent as she is. She avoided reality. The only means she had of escaping a traumatic childhood was hiding in herself by going someplace else in her head. That’s why Zoe is a dreamer. That’s why she’s a romantic. Her reality was a shithole, but she desperately held out for cupids and happily-ever-after. That’s why she’s a princess, down to the way she dresses.

  Warfare is an art. It requires a certain finesse. There’s little finesse in slaying your enemy by cutting off his head. It’s much more challenging to turn him into an ally. It’s much more rewarding to have your enemy worship at your feet. This new insight tells me exactly what my strategy with Zoe should be. I’m not going to be her father. I won’t allow her to live in her head where she can hide from me. In the art of warfare, it’s crucial to know your enemy’s vulnerability. Now that I know hers, I’ll fill that gap. I’ll give her what she most wants. Before her time here is up, she’ll be eating out of my hand. When the time comes to set her free, she’ll beg me to stay. Yes, I like this outcome much better than keeping her chained with threats. My chest heats just thinking about it. My cock hardens at the challenge.

  My own daisy, in a vase on my table. I didn’t steal it from someone’s garden. It was growing wild on the pavement, right there for the taking.

  Chapter 17

  Zoe

  * * *

  Persistent shaking pulls me from my sleep. I fight it, but I can’t ignore the deep voice or the French accent. I wake with a gasp when I remember where I am.

  “Easy, Zoe.” Maxime brushes a hand over my shoulder. “You have to wake up. We have an appointment in Marseille.”

  Rubbing my eyes, I turn to face him. He sits on the edge of the bed, dressed in a dark suit. His hair is still damp from his shower. The smell of winter hangs like a faint cloud around him, but it’s pierced with the summery fragrance of roses. A cup of steaming tea stands on the nightstand.

  “I brought you an infusion,” he says. “Fran can make you coffee if you prefer. Breakfast is waiting downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” I say uncertainly, my manners still intact while I’m half asleep.

  “You’re welcome.” He takes my hand and kisses the back, then puts something in my palm.

  I lift my hand and stare at the cellphone.

  “My number is programmed.” He gets to his feet. “Come down when you’re ready. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

  I only get to my senses when he’s gone. Maxime had opened the curtains. The sky outside is still dark, dawn barely breaking through a thick layer of clouds. I look at the telephone screen again. The time says it’s eight o’clock.

  Wait. I have a phone.

  Shooting upright, I type in the number for the correctional service where Damian is held and press dial. A message comes on in English, announcing I don’t have access to the service. I check the settings. Of course. I can only dial Maxime’s number. I didn’t expect anything different, but my shoulders sag in disappointment.

  Dejected, I reach for the tea on the nightstand. Folding my hands around the cup, I inhale the fragrant herbal tea. It smells of roses and raspberries, the same tea Maxime served me in Venice. I take a sip. It’s a delicious blend. The brew warms and somewhat fortifies me.

  Memories of last night’s discussion turn in my head as I shower and change into a pair of slacks and a cashmere sweater with frilly sleeves that have been nea
tly arranged in the dressing room. Maxime must’ve unpacked the suitcase either last night or this morning. I thankfully fell asleep before he came to bed. I wasn’t going to unpack. Putting the clothes he’d bought for me in his closet doesn’t only feel wrong, but also way too final. After putting on a pair of ankle boots, I go downstairs where a breakfast of croissants and orange juice is set out in the dining room. Maxime is seated at the table, reading something on his phone. Judging by the pastry flakes in his plate, he’s already eaten.

  When I enter, he gets up and pulls out a chair for me.

  “Sleep well?” he asks.

  “Yes.” Surprisingly. “Why are we going to Marseille?”

  “You have a doctor’s appointment.”

  Of course. Relief flows through me. The last thing I want is an unplanned pregnancy.

  He checks his watch. “I have a few instructions to give to Fran before we leave. Any meal preferences for this week’s menu?”

  I shake my head. I don’t care what I eat. I hate that I have to eat Maxime’s food at all.

  “Maybe later,” he says with a stiff smile.

  I eat quickly, and when he returns, I’m ready.

  Like yesterday, Maxime drives us while two men follow in their own car. I stare at the scenery outside, at the cliffs, the beach, and the city that comes into view forty minutes later. From afar, the buildings aren’t impressive. The only piece of architecture that stands out is the church on the top of the hill. As we enter the center of town, the buildings change from white concrete blocks to beautiful old ones with French windows, blue shutters, and ornate balcony rails. He parks in front of a building with a sculptured entrance, each top corner supported on a marble angel’s shoulders.

  “Wow,” I say as I look up at the carved wooden door.

  Putting a hand on my back, he buzzes us in and leads me up a stone staircase to the third floor. A middle-aged man with mousy hair and glasses opens the door when Maxime rings.

  “Max.” He pats Max on the back before extending a hand toward me. “Mademoiselle Hart. I’m Dr. Olivier.”

  I accept the handshake automatically. From the fact that he speaks English, Maxime must’ve briefed him about me before we arrived. What did he tell the doctor? That I’m his willing lover? Or does the doctor know the truth?

  “Come through,” the doctor says, showing us into an examination room.

  The far end next to the fireplace serves as a sitting area. Maxime takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. He pulls me down next to him, not letting go of my hand but arranging it on his thigh instead. It’s an intimate act, a loving one almost, and the doctor’s gaze slips to our intertwined fingers as he takes the chair. It’s acting, all part of the role Maxime plays. That means the doctor doesn’t know the circumstances of why I’m here.

  “So.” The doctor adjusts his glasses and gives me a curious look. “You’re here for birth control.”

  My cheeks heat at the implication. My fingers involuntarily clench on Maxime’s thigh. He rubs a thumb over my knuckles in a soothing gesture as he replies, “We want what’s least invasive for Zoe.”

  “The injection is very efficient with minimal hormonal side effects. It also eliminates the possibility of forgetting to take the pill, which makes it more effective.”

  “The shot, then,” Maxime says.

  “I’ve prepared everything.” Dr. Oliver clears his throat. “Do you have any questions, Zoe?”

  I glance at Maxime.

  “Go on,” he says with a smile. It’s a practiced smile, one he puts up for show.

  “How long before it’s safe?” I ask.

  “Seven days,” the doctor replies, “so use additional protection for the next week or two.” He stands. “You can sit over there in the examination chair.”

  While the doctor prepares the shot, Maxime takes me to the chair and rubs a finger over my pulse.

  “This won’t hurt,” Dr. Oliver says, approaching with a hypodermic needle.

  I’ve never liked needles or blood. I get queasy at the sight of both, so I turn my head away while he works. It doesn’t hurt much, just a small prick, but I jump nevertheless when he inserts the needle.

  Maxime brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just not good with sharp things being stabbed into my skin.”

  Maxime’s smile is genuine this time—amused—and the usual frost in his eyes a few degrees warmer. “Do you have a low pain threshold?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Never,” he says, but his smile doesn’t fade.

  A short while later, the doctor has also taken a blood sample. Maxime thanks Dr. Olivier and writes out a check. They shake hands, and we’re on our way.

  In the car, Maxime takes my hand as he steers the automatic into the traffic. “You look pale.”

  “It’s the blood. It makes me feel like fainting.”

  He squeezes my fingers. “You need a hearty lunch. Have you tried bouillabaisse?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a local specialty. I’ll take you to a place. I just have to take care of some business first.”

  We drive through the old town to the hilly part until we’re on the outskirts of town. A property twice the size of Maxime’s comes into view. The mansion is built in the same style with wooden shutters and a balcony that runs around the first floor.

  “This is my parents’ place,” he says. “You’ll wait here.”

  I sit up straighter. “With your mother?”

  He glances at me. “Is that a problem?”

  “She doesn’t like me.” It was clear in every part of her body language.

  He presses a button on an intercom at the gate. “My mother is old-fashioned. She doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”

  “Then she won’t want me here,” I say as he pulls up to the house and parks in a circular driveway.

  He pats my hand that still rests on his thigh. “She’ll get used to the idea.”

  I doubt that very much, but he’s already coming around to get my door. Taking my hand, he pulls me toward the main entrance. The wind is freezing. It penetrates my very bones. A woman in a maid’s uniform opens the door. She’s young and pretty with chestnut hair.

  Maxime greets her in French and exchanges a few words while she takes our coats before leading me through the lobby to a sitting room that overlooks the garden.

  “We’re lucky,” he says. “Maman is having a friend over for tea.”

  I pull back. “I hate to impose.”

  He stops to look down at me. “You’re with me, Zoe. That makes you a guest. Guests don’t impose.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that, but before I can find my words, we enter the lounge where Cecile Belshaw sits with another woman. The remnants of a tea party are spread out on the coffee table. In the middle of the teacups and saucers stands a pink mousse cake with a couple of slices missing.

  “Max?” Cecile’s tone is friendly, but her eyes tighten as she puts down her teacup.

  She says something in French. The other woman, who’s around the same age as Cecile, looks between Maxime and me. I don’t know what they’re saying or if it’s about me, but her spine stiffens as she takes me in. Her smile is so fake it looks painted on her face. Cecile addresses her son in a pleasant voice that’s no less fake.

  Maxime switches to English. “This is my aunt, Hadrienne. She’s my mother’s sister-in-law.” He bends down and kisses her cheeks. “How are you, Hadrienne? This is Zoe.”

  She nods and says with a heavy accent, “How do you do?”

  “Pleased to meet you.” What else can I say?

  “I’ll be back before lunch.” Maxime kisses my forehead and then turns to his mother. “Take good care of her.”

  I watch his back as he strides away. The door shuts behind him with a click. Silence prevails. I turn back at the two women who are looking at me as if I’m garbage that blew in from the str
eet.

  Cecile sighs. “You better sit, Zoe.”

  The only free space is the seat next to Hadrienne, unless I’m to take one of the chairs standing on the other side of the room. She scoots up when I sit, putting as much distance between us as the couch allows.

  “Tea?” Cecile asks in an icy tone.

  A drink to warm me up will be welcome, but that’s not why I accept. I agree because I need something to do with my hands. If not, I’ll fidget. “I’ll get it.”

  She gives me a startled look. “I’ll remind you this is my house.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. I only wanted to save you the trouble.”

  “I can pour my tea in my home, thank you very much.” She exchanges a look with Hadrienne. “Foreign customs.”

  Hadrienne raises a brow.

  I let Cecile pour my tea, and thank her as I take the cup, but decline a slice of cake.

  An uncomfortable silence falls over the room again.

  “Where were we?” Cecile asks after a few beats. “Oh, yes. We were talking about gooseberry tart for dessert on Sunday. It’s so complicated to think and speak in English.”

  Fine. I understand her irritation. I’m an uninvited guest, disrupting their tea party, but does she have to be so rude? I’m not Maxime’s girlfriend. I owe them nothing. I don’t have to take this.

  “You don’t have to speak English on my behalf.” I wave a hand. “Just carry on in French. Your chatter will most probably bore me, anyway.”

  Cecile’s cheeks light up, two red apples on a pale background. “I beg your pardon?”

  Leaving the cup on the table, I stand. “I’ll have a walk in the garden, if you don’t mind. It’s stopped raining, and I can do with some exercise.”

  Hadrienne laughs. “Oh, do sit down, girl.” To Cecile she says, “You have to admit, she’s got some backbone.”

  Cecile clenches her jaw. “Maybe you should have some cake, Zoe. I think eating is a better occupation for your mouth than speaking.”