Diamonds in the Dust Read online

  It’s dark when the front door opens. The fire has long since burnt out. A light flicks on in the entrance. Heavy footsteps approach. I turn my head toward the sound. Maxime stops in the frame.

  “What are you doing in the dark?” he asks.

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  He flicks on the light. He’s wearing a black suit and purple shirt. “That you can’t see your hand in front of your face?”

  “I was looking at the fire.”

  He glances at the ashes, and then at the photo book on the coffee table. “What did you do with yourself today?”

  “I arranged the books alphabetically.” A belated thought strikes me. “I hope you don’t mind?”

  He looks at the shelves. “You didn’t strike me as the OCD type.”

  I shrug.

  His steps are purposeful as he walks over and stops in front of the chair. “Come here.”

  I made a promise. I said I wouldn’t give him trouble. Slowly, I rise.

  Approval sparks in his gray eyes. “Take off my tie.”

  Reaching up, I untie the knot and pull the tie from his collar.

  His face is harsh, his features always frightening, but there’s something friendly, playful almost, in his expression when he says, “Go pour me a drink.”

  My first reaction is resistance. It’s like telling a dog to fetch a newspaper. I’m not his damn servant. Yet yesterday’s lesson with the picnic gives me pause. Fine. I’ll trust him on this. I’ll play along.

  I go to the wet bar and pour a few fingers of whiskey the way I saw him do it, then carry the glass back to him. Our fingers brush when he takes it.

  “Thank you,” he says, holding my gaze as he takes a sip.

  The way he looks at me heats my belly. It’s a stare that communicates want, need, shared secrets, and praise. It’s the praise that makes the warmth spread to my chest. I’ve always been a pleaser.

  His lips curve as he hands me the glass. It’s more than offering to share his drink. It’s sharing a private moment and a part of himself with me. He’s opening up, letting me in. He’s making himself vulnerable. That’s what this lesson is. He didn’t order me to fetch his drink to humiliate me. He’s showing me how to be kind to him, and how my kindness will be rewarded in return.

  I turn the glass and put my lips on the spot where his has been. His eyes widen a fraction, surprise thawing their usual coldness. The alcohol burns down my throat when I swallow. Taking the glass back from me, he leaves it on the table and reaches for the zipper of my dress. Without the fire it’s cold, but I let him push the dress over my shoulders and hips. My breasts tighten in the lace cups of my bra. The matching panties grow wet. Now that I’ve had a taste of the forbidden, my body craves it.

  He drags his gaze over me, lingering on the underwear and long boots. “I think I’ll leave those on.”

  The approval of earlier turns into a different kind of approval, something more carnal than appraisal. He likes what he sees, and he doesn’t mind making himself vulnerable by showing me. No. He’s exposing himself on purpose, rewarding my trust by giving me power. The exchange feeds the part inside me that needs approval and above all kindness. I’m starving for this kindness. I need this kindness.

  As he shrugs out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt, a revelation hits me. This is nothing but science, the law of energy. The more he tortures me, the more I need kindness to restore the imbalance in my soul. What he proved yesterday when he forbade me to speak to his brother is that the only person permitted to give me kindness is Maxime himself. The man who torments me is the only man who can make it better.

  The cure for my pain is the cause of the pain.

  It’s confusing. It feels like a mind-fuck. It’s messing with my head as he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper. I need distance from this, to figure out what he’s doing to me, but his cock is hard and huge. I know it’ll hurt a bit, and I need that, too. Maybe it’s to punish myself for giving in to the emotional needs I allow him to fulfill. Maybe I’m flogging myself with physical pain for my weakness.

  He removes his shoes and socks and straightens to stand naked in front of me. He shows me his scars and ugliness, a gift for my kindness. He’s exposed—vulnerable—but so am I, and I can’t tell the difference between manipulation and lessons any longer. Not that it matters, because when he touches me, my mind recedes to a place where thoughts don’t matter. All that matters is the burning desire for him to hurt and please me, to bring me relief from the torment he orchestrates with such clever design in both my body and soul.

  He steps up against me, letting his cock brush my stomach. “Don’t think so hard, my little flower.”

  No, he wouldn’t want me to think, because thinking leads to the truth. “What do you want me to do?”

  His voice is husky, a foreign accent targeted on seduction. “Just feel.”

  I don’t argue when he lifts me and carries me to the desk. As much as I made a deal, I need this. He made me need this.

  Posing me on the edge, he spreads my legs and steps between them. He reaches over, lifts the lid of an antique silver box, takes out a condom, and hands it to me. As I tear the packet open with my teeth like I saw him do, he rubs a thumb over my clit. My body tightens where he touches me, pleasure already starting to build. My hands shake when I roll the condom over his thick length.

  Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he kisses me softly. “How do you want it?”

  I don’t have to think about it. The tender kiss is sweet, but it makes me inexplicably sad. It’s the pull on my hair that makes me wet. “Hard.”

  He brushes his knuckles over the lace that covers my nipple. “You surprise me, Zoe.” He drags his lips over my neck, planting another sweet kiss on my shoulder. “Rough it’ll be.”

  His hands lock around my waist, yanking me flush against him. Impatiently, he moves aside the elastic of my panties and aligns his cock with my entrance. He doesn’t move slowly this time. He drives in deep, taking me with a single, hard thrust. I’m wet, but it hurts. It burns. I gasp, embracing the pain, wanting the punishment. He doesn’t disappoint. He fucks me like I wanted, so roughly my eyes water and my insides feel raw. He must know I can’t handle this pace for long, because he rolls my clit between his fingers until that pain also turns to pleasure, and I come with a wail as relief floods my body. He slams into me while the aftershocks ebb out, and then he climaxes with a grunt.

  We’re both spent, perspiration beading on our skins. I’m tender when he pulls out, and he’s gentle when he picks me up and carries me to the shower. He’s careful when he washes me, especially with the part that aches between my legs. He dresses in a tracksuit and I in one of his T-shirts and his robe, and then we have dinner in the formal dining room like two normal people, like the sex in the study never happened.

  The following day, Maxime comes home with a tablet on which almost a hundred books are uploaded in English. They range from romance and thrillers to books about clothing design and traveling. I delete the ones about Venice.

  Reading brings a measure of relief, but I’m developing cabin fever. I’m lonely, too, being cooped up in the big old house with no one but Francine who goes out of her way to avoid me. The only person I see and speak to is Maxime. I’m losing my concept of time. I don’t know what day it is, let alone what hour. I look at my face in the library’s antique mirror with a network of cracked spider webs under the glass. I have the odd sensation I’m not real, that life is an illusion slipping through my fingers. The thought scares me. The last thing I can afford is to lose my sanity.

  I’m quiet when Maxime comes home, reflecting on this new state of mind. We fuck where he finds me in the library, have a shower, and eat dinner. Now that my body has grown accustomed to being used, he fucks me more often. When we go to bed, he takes me more gently.

  Draping me over his chest afterward, he drags a hand through my hair. “What did you do today?”

  “Read.”

 
; “What did you read?”

  “Dunno. Can’t remember.”

  He sweeps my hair over my shoulder, caressing the curve of my neck. “You were reading Gone with the Wind. You said it’s a long one. Did you finish it?”

  “Oh.” I rub my cheek over his chest, craving the warmth and contact. “Yes.”

  “Did you like it?”

  I frown. “Mm.” The truth is, I can’t remember. The words registered but the meaning didn’t. I’m filling my brain with empty phrases, with letters and lines that don’t form pictures. I’ll pay better attention tomorrow. Right after I’ve written Damian’s letter. I write to him every week, saying how happy I am but planting clues about the truth via our code language.

  “Zoe?”

  “Mm?”

  His hand stills on my shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  He grips my chin and turns my face toward him. “I said you need exercise.”

  “Oh. Right.” The thought of it alone makes me tired.

  “I’ll have an indoor bike and walker installed.”

  “Don’t waste your money. I’m not the walker-biker type.”

  He frowns. “You’re pale.”

  “I have a pale skin.”

  “Paler than usual. Do you feel sick?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He lets my face go to sweep a hand over my back. “I’ve tired you out. Go to sleep.”

  I close my eyes and do exactly that, because I’ve learned something new.

  Avoidance doesn’t only come with daydreaming.

  The best way to avoid reality is the dreamless state of sleep.

  Chapter 20

  Maxime

  * * *

  She’s bored, my little flower. Isolating her in a house far removed from a city and the bustle of life isn’t ideal, but the Italian negotiations Alexis so graciously started in my absence is complicated. I’m needed at work now more than ever. I don’t trust my brother, and my father is like a fucking child that needs overseeing all the time. Between keeping Alexis in check and making sure my father doesn’t sate his greed by doing something stupid like over-charging our Italian connection, I’ve got my hands full.

  I’ve neglected Zoe. I’ve neglected her needs. She’s shown me she’ll be good. She’s given me trust. I have to reciprocate by giving her leash a little farther reach. I don’t like the idea of my men looking at her, but I’ve agreed to let her outside. She needs the air and the exercise. She’s too pale, too listless. I’m not an idiot. I know what the signs of depression are. I know she’s lonely. She needs human contact. I wasn’t planning on taking her back to my parents’ house, but the lunch on Sunday may be just what she needs.

  It’s lunchtime when I push the doors of the club open. The usual mob is already there—uncle Emile, my father, and a few of his men, the muscles and specialists. Me, I’m the brain. Benoit and Gautier flank me.

  “You’re late,” my father says, clipping a cigar.

  “Traffic.” I adjust my jacket and sit. A topless waitress puts an espresso next to me. I push it away. “Where’s the contract?”

  My father shifts it over the table to me. I flip the pages, scanning over the print to make sure nothing new has been slipped in. I wouldn’t put that past my father. I’m at the second-last page when Paolo Zanetti arrives with an entourage of guards. The Italian is short and stocky with shrewd eyes. Thank God the man’s daughters take after their mother.

  I stand. “Mr. Zanetti.”

  He shakes my father’s hand, then mine.

  Taking the pen, I turn to the last page of the contract, but Zanetti grabs my arm before I can sign. He nods at one of his men who puts a ledger on top of the contract.

  I eye the gleeful man, addressing him in Italian. “What’s this?”

  “The new contract.”

  My father pushes to his feet. “We’ve negotiated terms.”

  “The terms have changed,” Zanetti says. “I want ten percent extra on everything you move through my territory plus free rights to the Riviera.”

  “What?” My father pushes his palms on the table.

  “We’ll take it,” I say.

  That’s a better deal than what I was hoping for. I’ve been bidding low, knowing Zanetti would come with a counteroffer. I’ve done my homework. There’s nothing Zanetti loves better than winning, not even money, and I’ve just made him feel like we’re the biggest fucking losers on the planet. I’ve got him by the balls, and he doesn’t even know it.

  My father clenches his fingers on the edge of the table. He can’t challenge me in front of everyone. We have to appear united. Raphael Belshaw’s sincere anger only makes Zanetti smugger, playing right into my hand.

  Opening the ledger, I read through the contract, and then sign on the dotted line.

  “Wonderful,” Zanetti says, snatching up his copy. “I can’t wait to take the tour.”

  “After lunch.” I indicate the seat next to me. “I’ll show you around. How long are you staying in town?”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Good. We have a family lunch tomorrow. Inviting Zanetti would’ve been obligatory.

  It’s not the kind of trouble I need right now.

  Chapter 21

  Zoe

  * * *

  The house where Maxime parks is not as big as his parents’ place, but it’s just as imposing. A table with champagne is set out in the foyer. Maxime hangs my coat in the closet next to an array of expensive labels before handing me a glass. I drink it all. I’m nervous about being here, especially after how the last visit with his family went.

  He places a palm on my back and lowers his head to whisper in my ear, “We’re going to get separated. Men in the lounge, women in the kitchen. Yell if you need me.”

  I stare up at his face. There’s a spark of humor in his gray eyes, an easiness that’s unusual for him.

  “You look happy with yourself.”

  “I signed off on a deal. It was a trying negotiation.”

  “In gemstones?”

  He smiles. “No.”

  “What then?”

  He takes my empty glass and puts it back on the table. “Come.”

  Putting an arm around my waist, he leads me through the foyer to the lounge, which is packed with people. I recognize Cecile and Hadrienne, but none of the others.

  His arm tightens around me as we stop in front of a thickset man with a drooping eye. “Zoe, this is my father, Raphael.”

  Raphael holds out a hand. His expression is neutral, but I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.

  “My father doesn’t speak much English,” Maxime says.

  “Isn’t Belshaw an English surname?” I ask.

  “Very French, in fact. One of the oldest.”

  “Max!” Two women storm up to us, throwing their arms simultaneously around Maxime.

  Sandwiched in the middle, he chuckles. “And these are my cousins, Noelle and Sylvie.”

  The young women turn to me. They both have dark hair and green eyes. They look so much alike, they could’ve been twins. The only difference between them is that Sylvie is a little taller. They’re both wearing Dior, matching vintage dresses with a cinched waist. Noelle’s gaze moves over my off-shoulder jersey and jeans. I’m underdressed. This isn’t the laid-back Sunday barbecues I’m used to being invited to back home.

  Sylvie takes Maxime’s arm. “I have to talk to you about something.”

  She drags him away, leaving me stranded with Noelle. The silence is uncomfortable.

  “I’m going to help in the kitchen,” Noelle says after a strained moment, slipping past me.

  I look over to the terrace where Maxime and Sylvie are talking outside. It looks serious.

  Hadrienne approaches me with a stiff back and places her hand on the shoulder of the man who’s chatting to Raphael to catch his attention. “This is my husband, Emile.”

  Emile turns sideways to look at me. He nod
s but doesn’t shake my hand.

  “Well,” Cecile says, joining our circle. “Look who’s here.” Pushing past me, she says, “I smell something burning in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, dear,” Hadrienne exclaims, following on her heels.

  Emile turns back to his conversation with Raphael. I stand awkwardly, feeling out of place. After another few moments, I don’t have a choice but to offer my help in the kitchen.

  I go back through the foyer and follow the smell of rosemary and garlic to the kitchen where the women are gathered, talking in French.

  I stop in the door. “Can I help with anything?”

  They fall quiet. Cecile and Hadrienne exchange a look. Noelle glares at me.

  “I suppose you could prepare the coffee tray,” Hadrienne says, waving a hand at a coffee maker on the shelf.

  The atmosphere is toxic. What have I done? They don’t know Maxime is keeping me against my will. As far as they know, we met in South Africa, and now we’re together. Why would they hold that against me?

  Unable to take the tension any longer, I ask, “Why are you acting like this?”

  Cecile tilts her head. “What makes you think we’re acting in any way? You’re not that important. In fact, you’re nothing, neither family nor friend.”

  My lips part in shock at her blatant hostility. Before I can say anything, the three women carry on with their conversation in French, acting as if I don’t exist. I’m tempted to run away, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, I go through the cupboards like I own them until I find the ground coffee and filters. A nasty part of me notices Hadrienne’s displeasure with ugly satisfaction. It only spurs me on. I open and close the cupboards loud enough to disturb their talking. Since I don’t see any mugs, I take the small espresso cups and place them on a tray with teaspoons and the pot of sugar. I arrange everything just so. There. Only then do I walk from the room.