Diamonds in the Dust Page 18

  “Zoe Hart,” she says, not knowing the man looking at her with such kindness is a snake about to strike.

  “Leonardo Zanetti.” He brings Zoe’s hand to his lips, intelligently not making contact with her skin. “It’s an honor, Zoe. However did this brute catch such a beauty?”

  “We met in South Africa during a business trip,” I say quickly. Directing my gaze to where he’s clutching Zoe’s fingers in his paw, I make sure he sees the warning in my eyes.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” he finally drops Zoe’s hand to motion between her and me, “is this casual or serious, because if it’s not serious I’d love to meet up in town before I head back to Italy. I’ve always wanted to go to South Africa, and I could use some travel advice.” He turns to me, all false respect. “Of course, if it’s serious, I’m not going risk your jealousy, Max.”

  Zoe glances at me. There’s no way she can answer that question. If she says it’s not serious, she’s accepting his offer. If she says it’s serious, she’s admitting to something neither she nor I can confess. Something I definitely shouldn’t admit to Leonardo Zanetti.

  He’s pushing me into a corner. Clever motherfucker. I wish I could plant my fist between his troubadour eyes. The only thing preventing me is my strong control, something that has started unraveling earlier tonight. If I’m honest about it, it’s been unraveling ever since I’ve abducted Zoe. I shouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. It’ll kill our business. There’s too much at stake. I’m about to say Zoe isn’t available—indefinitely—when she speaks.

  “We’re kind of, uh, committed.”

  Leonardo gives me a smug smile. “I suppose you have to enjoy it while you can.”

  A tall woman with an athletic build makes her way over with two glasses of champagne. She’s dressed in a black number with a slit that starts on her hip.

  I tilt my head in the direction of the woman who’s heading straight for Leonardo. “Like you are?”

  “Oh.” He straightens his bowtie. “I’m not committed to anyone. She’s just my date for tonight.”

  “Well, hello,” the woman says, shoving a glass in Leonardo’s hand. Her eyes roam over Zoe. “You’re a pretty little thing.”

  I put an arm around Zoe’s waist and pull her against my side. “We’ll go find our table and let you mingle.”

  “We’re at the same table.” Leonardo raises his glass. “Let me show you.”

  Of course, we are. With the newly forged deal, Leonardo is as good as family, part of my clan. Clenching my jaw, I follow them to our table.

  We greet the other people, my cousin, Jerome, as well as an elderly court official and his young fiancée, but I hardly pay them attention. I’m too busy listening in on the conversation between Zoe and Leonardo. They talk about safaris and wine farms, and then about Tuscany. I only relax when Jerome demands Leonardo’s attention and Zoe starts talking to Leonardo’s date.

  My hand wanders to Zoe’s thigh under the table. I need the physical reassurance of her presence as much as I need her to understand who’s in charge. She stiffens at the gesture, her hand tightening on her water glass. The court official, a man called Big Ben for his unusual height and weight, is staring openly at her. It takes everything I have and some to not crush his skull with the bottle of champagne.

  There are speeches about research developments between the courses of salmon terrine, sea bass, and strawberry mousse. I donated handsomely. Ploughing money back into the community keeps doors open for us. It helps make the influential corporate players and government officials turn their heads the other way where our illegal business is concerned.

  Zoe pushes the food around on her plate. During the meal, she downs two glasses of champagne, and when the MC announces the start of the auction, she’s like a rice paper kite in a storm, looking as if her wings are about to be ripped off.

  The sponsors—lovers or spouses—who volunteered the women participating in the auction proudly present their protégés when the MC calls their names. When it’s Zoe’s turn, I stand and offer her my hand.

  She stares up at me with defiant eyes. There’s a moment’s hesitation, a moment of mistrust when her hate for me is written so clearly on her face it spears my unfeeling heart. I narrow my eyes in warning. If she defies me in front of all these people, I’ll make her pay in so many ways she’ll wish she’d never brought that lesson upon herself. My pulse beats in my temples as another second passes and the MC clears his throat. Just when I think Zoe is going to decline, she slips her small hand into mine.

  I pull her to her feet, my face decorated with the smile I’ve adopted for the gentry, but the gesture goes no further than my mouth. Behind my tightly stretched lips, my teeth are clenched. Zoe’s hesitation only lasted a moment, but a moment is long enough, especially for the sharp eyes of the predators surrounding us. I thought I’d made better progress with my flower, but it seems I’ve underestimated her. She may need a stronger hand.

  Lifting her arm, I turn her in a circle. The hall breaks out in applause. Men nod enthusiastically while women stare daggers. In the midst of salivating wolves and hateful envy stands an innocent little lamb, my virgin sacrifice.

  “Fifty,” someone calls from the back before the MC has even opened the bidding.

  It’s what I wanted, for everyone to see who owns her, but the over-eager interest makes my hackles rise. Laughter erupts. Someone pats the impatient bidder on the back. Red-hot jealousy burns in my gut.

  “Since the bidding seems to be open,” the MC says with a chuckle, “who’d like—”

  “One hundred,” someone calls.

  I turn around. The actor is a national celebrity.

  Zoe looks at me quickly. One hundred thousand is the highest bid of the evening yet.

  “One hundred and fifty,” a fat parliament member says.

  Zoe’s eyes are burning on my face. I’m not looking at her, but I can feel her stare, her plea.

  “Going once,” the MC calls.

  She lays a hand on my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.

  Don’t worry, my little flower. Be quiet and learn your lesson in trust.

  “Going twice.” The MC lifts his hammer.

  “Two hundred,” I say.

  Zoe’s chest deflates. Her relief is so great her body sags against mine.

  A strong voice with an accent reverberates through the space. “Five hundred.”

  The room goes quiet. All heads turn toward the owner of the voice. I isolate him in my vision like a torpedo homes in on a target. Our eyes meet across the table.

  Leonardo.

  There’s a challenge in his, a deviant intention. I want to squash him like a bug. My body tenses, every muscle preparing to rip him apart when Jerome’s hand falls on my shoulder.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Jerome whispers.

  No. I’m not going to let him get to me. Neither is he getting Zoe. Over my dead body.

  “She’s not worth it,” Jerome continues. “Not the Italian deal.”

  Wrong fucking words. I shake him off. “One million.”

  Gasps sound around the room. Zoe stares at me with big eyes, her lush lips parted.

  “Wow, uh…” The MC gives a high-pitched laugh. “That sets a new record. I have one million euros for Miss Zoe Hart. Do I have one million and one?”

  Leonardo shakes his head at the MC, but his smile is aimed at me. Instead of looking slain, he appears victorious.

  “One million going to Mr. Belshaw.”

  Jerome looks at me as if I’ve lost my marbles. If only he knew. I would’ve paid two million. I would’ve given everything I own to keep another man’s hands off the woman I’ve claimed. Mission accomplished. The message was dealt. Zoe belongs to me. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve just painted a big hands-off sign all over her delectable body. She’ll be mine for all eternity.

  The lights dim and music comes on. A disco ball throws shards of light over the floor. The MC declares the dance floor
open. People stare at us as sponsors lead their protégés to the men who won their bids.

  “I believe this dance is mine,” I say, pulling Zoe with me to the floor.

  She blinks. “Why did you do this?”

  “You preferred Leonardo?” My tone is mocking, but there’s nothing mocking about the notion driving like a splinter under my skin, that a woman like her would want a man like him. I bet he’s the kind of handsome that featured in her dreams, those pretty dreams she exchanged for the cold, hard truth. Me.

  Before she can answer, Leonardo walks into my personal space. “Thank you.” He leans closer. “You showed me what I wanted to know.” Bumping my shoulder, he walks off into the milling crowd.

  My skull pricks when I draw Zoe close.

  “What’s that about?” Zoe asks, her eyes as round as earlier when I had her pushed up against the wall.

  “Nothing.”

  I put my arm around her waist and lead her to the center of the floor where several couples are already dancing. It’s a slow dance. I’m a good dancer, courtesy of my mother who insisted on sending me to dance classes when I dropped out of piano lessons. A refined education has always been important to Maman.

  Zoe misses the first step. She trips, bracing herself with her palms on my chest. I catch her around the waist to straighten her and lower my head to whisper in her ear, “Relax. Just follow.”

  Uncertainly, she places her palm in mine and lays a hand on my shoulder. I lead us into the two-step, enjoying the closeness of her body and the familiar smell of roses in her hair. A few tendrils still fall around her face from our earlier fight. She’s always pretty, but she’s stunning when she’s disheveled.

  She pulls back to look at me. “Why did you do that?”

  “You know why.”

  “You could’ve just told me you were going to bid on me. You made me stress all night. Why be so cruel?”

  “You know why, Zoe.”

  “To teach me to trust you?”

  Cupping her head, I press her cheek to my chest. “Always.”

  Our bodies sway to the rhythm, the curves of her small one fitting to the hollows of mine. She fills the emptiness and brings light to my darkness, but when she doesn’t trust me, she creates that gaping emptiness that brings out the monster in me.

  I’m hard for her. Too hard. I’m not myself, not one hundred percent in control. It’s a combination of factors. It’s my jealousy. It’s our fight. What Leonardo said is pulsing in my brain. Zoe’s hesitation needs to be punished. I can’t let her relapse go unanswered. Actions have consequences. She said so herself. What respect will she have for me if I’m not a man of my word? Most of all, it’s how she sees herself, as nothing but my whore.

  When the dance is over, I take her arm and lead her across the hall. The other couples are dispersing, some moving in the same direction as us—to the bedrooms upstairs.

  Before we reach the door, Jerome stops me. “You’ve made a mistake, cousin,” he says in French.

  I raise a brow. “Have I?”

  Zoe looks between us with a frown marring her beautiful features.

  “You’ve just showed everyone the woman means something to you.”

  Something may be a bit of an understatement. “Good night, Jerome. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  He shakes his head as we walk off, clearly not impressed with me.

  “Where are we going?” Zoe asks when I usher her into the elevator.

  We could’ve just gone home, but I don’t want her to have negative connotations to the place I want her to consider as her safe haven.

  She follows me out on the top floor, blindly this time. Too little, too late. Blind obedience won’t serve her now.

  At the presidential suite, I swipe the access card and step aside to let her in. She looks around much like she had that first night in South Africa. The view over the city is stunning.

  Turning to me, she asks with a shaky voice, “Why are we here?”

  I turn the lock. “Strip.”

  “You’re going to fuck me?”

  “I paid a million euros for your pussy. I’m going to make sure I get my money’s worth.”

  Hurt contorts her features. “Why are you doing this, Maxime?”

  Advancing on her, I grab a fistful of her hair and pull her head back. “To show you what it’s like to be treated like a whore.”

  “Please.” She grips my forearms, her neck straining from my hold on her hair. “Don’t do this.”

  “I’m done talking.”

  She stumbles as I let her go. Before she falls on her ass, I catch her arm and fling her around. She cries out as I walk her to the window and plaster her body against it. She fights me, but I easily grab her wrists in one hand behind her back and pin her to the pane with my hips while I use my free hand to pull the zipper of her dress down. I shove it over her hips to pool around her feet. With the low back of the dress, she couldn’t wear a bra. Her bare breasts press flat against the glass. I rip away the flimsy thong and let it fall on top of the dress. Then I work a knee between her legs, spreading them apart.

  “Maxime, please.”

  I don’t listen to the tremor in her voice. I unzip my pants, not bothering to push it over my hips. My cock is ready. Her body isn’t, but that’s the point of this lesson. That’s how whores are treated, without consideration for their pain or pleasure. Taking the base of my cock in my hand, I press the head against her tight opening and thrust inside. She cries out, her face scrunching up and her eyes pinching closed.

  She’s warm and almost unbearably tight. A hiss leaves her lips as I pull back, bend my knees, and slam my hips up again, claiming my million-euro pussy, showing her the difference between being my lover and my whore. She thought she’d seen that side of me? Not even close.

  I fuck her hard, knowing she’s dry. My lust mounts, feeding the dark cravings I usually keep in check for her. My breathing is heavy when I unfasten my buckle and pull my belt through the loops. Excitement courses through my veins when I fold the leather double in one hand and pin her wrists hard against her lower back.

  “Maxime.” Her voice is panicked. “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet.”

  I pull out of her body and take a step away. The head of my cock is slick with pre-cum. I’ve already gone too far. With any other woman, I would’ve put a condom on before I started. Zoe is my exception. She’s the only woman I’ve ever fucked bareback. Taking a rubber from my pocket, I sheathe my cock and drop the packet on the carpet, not caring where it falls.

  She knows what’s going to happen. Still, she deserves a fair warning. I drag the belt over her ass, following the line of the enticing curve. She’s toned and round, an ass made for spanking and fucking.

  Taking aim, I swing my arm back. The leather makes a hissing sound as it cuts through the air. It falls with a sharp crack on her skin. She sucks air in loudly, her globes clenching and her body flattening against the glass to escape the pain. I don’t spare her. I pull back and lash her again, carefully controlling my strength. Red welts mar her porcelain skin. I don’t like to see them there. I don’t like spoiling what’s perfect, but she left me no choice. I have to prove that I’m trustworthy, that I make good on my promises. I can be as cruel as I can be kind. She must learn this lesson about choice.

  She’s fighting me, twisting and bucking, but it doesn’t take much to keep her pinned to the window.

  “Keep still,” I say against her ear, “and this will be over quicker.”

  “Please.” Her breath catches on a hitch. “Please, stop.”

  “I’m afraid not yet, ma belle.”

  With the next lash, I hit her like I mean it. It makes me harder. It’s the depraved part of me that enjoys inflicting pain when I torture my enemies. It’s the twisted excitement I feel at killing.

  Tears roll over her cheeks, but she’s brave. She doesn’t give in. She remains on her feet. I dip my fingers between her legs. She’s still dry. It does
n’t stop me from entering her with three fingers. Stretching her with my hand is the only mercy I give her before I shove my cock back into her tight little cunt, greedily taking everything I’ve paid for. If she’s my whore, this is how it is. This is about me. I don’t owe her anything other than the price we agreed on. I honored my end of the bargain. She’ll honor hers.

  My lust is burning white-hot. The violence brings that out in me. I fuck her so hard the breath leaves her lungs in a feminine whimper with every thrust. It’s a grueling pace, and it’s not enough. Yet she’s growing slicker.

  Brushing away the tendrils of hair that stick to the sweaty skin of her neck, I nip the soft flesh where her shoulder starts. “Such a naughty little slut. You’re getting wet. You like it when I’m rough.”

  Her nails dig into my skin of my hands where I’m restraining her. “Don’t do this.”

  I gather her arousal and spread it to her asshole. “You’re a dirty little whore, and I’m going to fuck every hole I paid for.”

  She gasps. “Maxime, please.”

  I slap her ass hard. “Don’t you dare say my name. Whores call me Mr. Belshaw.”

  Pulling her globes apart, I admire the rosebud pucker of her ass, the forbidden entrance I have every right to take. Using her arousal as a lubricant is more than what I would’ve given any other whore. Still, she’s a virgin, so I spit in my palm and coat her well before sinking a finger through the tight ring of muscle. Her inner muscles grip me like fist. When I start pumping, she whimpers. It’s when I add a second finger that she fights. She only wiggles and twists until I remove my fingers and press my cock on her dark entrance. Then she stills. I use the moment to press forward, applying pressure until her muscles relent and her ass swallows the head of my cock.

  It’s a beautiful sight. Her globes are glowing red and her asshole stretching to take my cock. Her pussy is dripping wet. Arousal glistens on her clit. The bud is dark pink and engorged. I could easily slam all the way up, hurt her and get off on her screams. But this is her first time, and I don’t want her to keep bad connotations.

  Instead, I pull out of her ass, spin her around, and push her down to her knees. I bury one hand in her hair while I use the other to get rid of the rubber. Then I spear through her lips and down her throat. I don’t deep-throat her like the first time. I just use her mouth to come. I do it fast, relief surging through me as I shoot my load on her tongue and mess up her face with my cum, but I don’t find calm. The anger and darkness linger.