Diamonds in the Rough Read online

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  There are many subjects Maxime doesn’t like to discuss. We don’t mention my jump, but I do feel better for it. Stronger. I did something scary and pushed my boundaries. It reinforced my spirit. It helps me keep my soul intact while I give my body to my captor on a daily basis. It helps me ignore that I come every time, that I crave his touch and sometimes his roughness. It helps me cope with who I’ve become.

  No matter how I look at it, I can’t see myself like Maxime wants me to. He claims he doesn’t see me as a whore. That isn’t real. It’s make-believe, a fantasy he stole from my dream to enact in a castle on the edge of a cliff in France. He treats me like the princess I’ve always wanted to be, showering me with every possible material luxury, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m selling my body or being locked up in his tower.

  However, he still allows me outside at free will, and I walk the grounds frequently, spending long hours looking out at the ocean. I walk in the gardens, the maze, and go down to the beach. It should be nice in summer. His guards never speak to me, not even when I greet them, but they do keep a close eye on me. If Maxime is home when I’m outside, I often see him standing on the terrace, watching me from afar, and from closer whenever I dare it near the cliffs again. I’m not going to jump a second time. Once was enough.

  We go out often, eating in restaurants in town or visiting the sights. We walk around hand in hand like a couple in love while Maxime buys me treats at ice cream and strawberry stalls. He dresses and feeds me, and I say thank you with a smile. I don’t like being the eye candy on his arm, but he insists the outings are good for me. Maybe they are. Maybe they keep me from going insane.

  Francine comes in every weekday and every second weekend, but she avoids me. I keep out of the kitchen. I don’t have any friends. I have no one to confide in. All I have are my letters to Damian, which I write faithfully every week.

  A tutor arrives and I take up learning French. The course is intensive, four hours of classes a day plus two hours of homework. It’s a good distraction for my mind. I’ve always enjoyed languages, and I’m a fast learner. It amuses Maxime to no end. He enjoys holding me on his lap in front of the fire in the evenings, making me repeat phrases and testing my vocabulary. He says my accent is adorable. It makes him smile. When I’m not working in the library with my tutor—an elderly man Maxime no doubt appointed only because of his age—I’m doing homework in the tower. I’ve pulled the desk to the window, using the window seat as a chair, and now that the weather is changing it’s not so cold up there.

  My life takes on a routine, a predictable one that makes it easier to cope, and when the jasmine starts to bloom and poppies bleed all over the wild grass near the cliffs, I can hold a basic conversation in French and understand most of what’s spoken. My reading isn’t bad, either.

  On a sunny afternoon when the birds are loud in the garden Maxime comes home with a big box. His granite eyes are unusually bright with excitement. He installs the box on the table in the dining room and takes my hand to pull me closer.

  “For you,” he says, watching me with eager attention.

  “Me?” There’s nothing printed on the outside, no clue as to what’s inside.

  “Open it.”

  I pull at the masking tape, but I don’t manage to break the seal.

  “Fran,” he calls toward the kitchen. “Bring a pair of scissors.”

  We’re still speaking English when we’re together, a habit from when we met that stuck.

  Francine enters with a pair of scissors, eyeing the box with curiosity.

  “What is it?” I ask, taking the scissors. I can’t help my smile. Maxime’s excitement is contagious. I’ve never seen him like this before.

  “A gift,” he says.

  “A gift?” Francine looks at him. “That’s a first.”

  He shrugs. “Are you going to open it today, still?”

  I laugh. “Maybe you should open it.”

  “I’m tempted, but that’s not how it works with gifts.” Stepping closer, he cups my cheek, giving me a look so tender the foundations of the fortress around my heart shake a little.

  Remembering Francine is watching us, I step back to escape the intimate touch. “What?”

  Maxime smiles, soft and genuine. “I like it when you laugh. I should buy you gifts more often.”

  “You do,” I say. “All the time.” I’m not going to tell him I still feel like the extravagant clothes and jewelry are payments for my obedience and payoffs for my body. I don’t think I can handle a repeat of what I went through on the night of the auction.

  “Those things are utile,” he says. “It’s not the same.”

  It makes me all the more curious. Attacking the box with the scissors, I make both of us laugh. It’s easy and carefree. It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed like this.

  Finally, I manage to pry the edges of the box open and peer inside. It’s filled with shredded paper. I glance at him.

  “Go on,” he says, waving me on.

  I brush the paper aside and catch a glimpse of white metal. I still, then scoop the paper aside faster, making it fall over the table and floor.

  Oh, my God. I lift the owner’s manual from the box. A Singer Quantum Stylist computerized portable sewing machine.

  I gape at him. “Maxime.”

  “Do you like it?” There’s uncertainty in his tone.

  Emotions clog up my throat. I’ve had only one true gift in my life—a book of fairytales. The clothes Maxime buys are to make me look pretty for him and to be a showpiece worth looking at on his arm. The flowers he bought in Venice were a pre-consolation price for locking me up in a cell. This? This is different. This is not for him or the benefit of outside onlookers. This isn’t a prelude to a lesson. This is for me. This is the first thing he’s given me with no strings attached. It serves no other purpose than making me happy. I don’t know what makes me sadder, that he’s the first person other than my late mom to gift me anything or that he’s the only one who’s paid enough attention to me to know what I love. No matter that I hate it, he understands my dreams. No matter that I hate myself for it, his gesture moves me. Tears well in my eyes, unbidden and unwelcome but very sincere as I digest the enormity of his offering.

  He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  He looks so dejected I can’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around him and leaning my cheek on his chest. His gift is a beautiful gesture, a pure one, and I’m not going to twist it into something ugly by throwing it back into his face. It will kill any shred of kindness left in his dark heart, proving to him kind acts are rewarded with cruelty. I refuse to be the teacher of such an inhumane lesson.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, hugging him tightly.

  He folds his arms around me. “You’re welcome.”

  Francine stands stiffly with a downturned mouth. With all the emotions coursing through me, I’ve all but forgotten about her. We’ve shut her out in our private moment. When she catches my eye, she turns on her heel and heads back to the kitchen.

  Maxime kisses the top of my head. “I didn’t want to give it to you before you’ve finished your French exams. I was afraid you wouldn’t focus.”

  He’s right. I can hardly focus on anything other than the designs already running through my head. “I haven’t written my exams yet.” It’s only in two days.

  “Knowing what a nerd you are, I’m sure you’ve already mastered everything.”

  “Almost.”

  “You’ll have to go shopping for fabric and thread and whatever else a clothing designer needs.”

  Sniffing away my tears, I pull back to look at him. “You mean a seamstress.”

  “No.” He wipes a thumb under my eye, catching a tear. “I think you should go to a design school.”

  I stare at him. “What?”

  “It’s a good school, one of the most prestigious in the country right here in Marseille. I’ve already looked into it. You can start after the summer
break.”

  I’m battling to process the information. “Don’t you have to pass very strict tests to be admitted?” They only take the best of the best, and I know how selective places are.

  “Of course, but I have no doubt you’ll pass. I’ve seen your drawings.”

  “You think they have merit?”

  He smiles. “Without a doubt.”

  Excitement surges through me, but confusion, too. “Why would you do something like that for me?” I also know how much designing schools cost. I can’t even begin to think how much he’d have to fork out to send me to a prestigious French one.

  “It’s good to have a purpose in life. I don’t believe in wasting talents. Hard work is rewarding. All the more if said work is your passion.”

  He wants me to have purpose, to live my passion? To make me happy or to prevent me from jumping off cliffs? I’m not clear about his motivations. I’ve never understood them. There’s still so much I don’t know about the man who both holds me captive and protects me from people like his brother. I know nothing about his passion or purpose.

  “Do you live your passion?” I ask.

  “I was born to do what I’m doing.”

  “Dealing in diamonds?” I don’t even know if he’s a broker or the owner of a jewelry chain.

  “That’s just a part of the business.” Taking my hand, he says, “We’ll unpack your sewing machine later. Walk with me to the beach.”

  I’m eager to please him, not because he gave me a gift or is willing to let me study at his expense, but because he showed me he’s capable of true kindness, that not everything in his heart is dark.

  We take the path, using the steep steps to climb down. I’m wearing a summer dress and sandals, even if the days are not yet warm. Maxime is still wearing his business suit. On the sandy part, the cliffs shelter us from the wind. Nevertheless, he removes his jacket and hangs it over my shoulders before taking off his shoes and socks. We sit down close to the edge of the water. The sun sparkles on the turquoise surface. A seagull calls from close by.

  The smell of salt is stronger here, and the sun is warm on my back. It’s nice. Peaceful. Pleasant. But the weather and the view aren’t alone in creating this feeling of contentedness. It’s sitting beside him in silent harmony. It’s being something other than an object, someone with a purpose in life that doesn’t revolve around my brother and Maxime’s mysterious reasons for keeping me.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks in his sensual accent.

  I turn my face toward him. His features are as sharp and unattractive as the day we met, but after all these months, I look at him differently. There’s a term for that. It’s called sex appeal.

  “Zoe?”

  I look away from the face I shouldn’t find handsome in the slightest, digging my fingers into the soft sand. “I was thinking about Damian.”

  He covers my hand with his. “What about him?”

  “I miss him.”

  “He’s doing fine. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  I turn my head back to him quickly. “You have news?”

  “I’m keeping tabs on him.”

  I frown. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “It goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

  I search the gray depth of his eyes, the secrets he keeps from me. He still hasn’t answered the question I posed on the night I jumped into the sea. “Why are you keeping me, Maxime? Why are you threatening me with Damian’s life?”

  His gaze turns flat. My heart sinks. He’s not going to let me in.

  Letting go of my hand, he drags his fingers through his hair. “Stop asking questions I can’t answer.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  He rises. “It’s time to head back. I have work to do.”

  Not yet. I don’t want this to end so soon. If there’s one lesson captivity has taught me, it’s to make the most of the good moments. You never know when there will be another one, if ever.

  Reaching up, I close my fingers around his to hold him back. His eyebrows snap together as he looks at me. I think back to our picnic, to how he pushed me down onto the blanket in the open, and how it aroused me.

  “Oh, my little flower.” His voice is deeper, his gaze sharper. “You’re taking a risk showing your lust so openly.”

  Yes, it must be showing on my face. I yearn for him to stretch and fill me. Pulling on his hand, I drag him back down beside me. Every time he takes me, I open up my body, making myself vulnerable, but he makes himself vulnerable, too. That’s why he keeps on pushing me as hard as he’s pulling. He’s scared. Just like me. The revelation filters intuitively into my mind as our gazes remain locked in a heated stare.

  This time it’s me who shoves him down with my hands on his shoulders. His pupils widen. He resists a little, as if he’s uncertain about submitting to me, but then lets me push him flat onto the sand.

  I unbuckle his belt and pull down his zipper. He’s hard already, his cock bulging in his underwear. I don’t look up to see if there are guards on the perimeter of the cliff. I’m too scared to break our fragile eye contact, too afraid he’ll reject me. This is different. He’s always done the taking and set the rules. With the exception of the night of the auction, he’s always taken care of my pleasure, but sex happens on his terms. Even the times I’ve craved release, he’s given it by using the signals of my body to predict and fulfill my needs. I’ve never asked for it, not like this, and it’s so damn scary because deep inside, in a hidden part of me, I hunger for more.

  I crave affection.

  True affection.

  My body is sated, but my heart is so empty. I have no one else to turn to but him. He’s made sure of that. He’s the only man who can give me anything as long as I’m locked up in his house and he owns my life.

  “Maxime.” His name is a broken whisper.

  Until this moment, I never would’ve clutched this knife of hope in my hands, ready to shred my own heart with the betrayal of my emotions, but he showed me kindness. He put that knife in my hands when he gave me hope. The rest is science. I’ve been open and vulnerable for too long. I’m a receptive reservoir. I’m a romantic. It’s just who I am. I’m desperate for a few crumbs of affection. He wants my body, but I want to mean more.

  I want to be more than a whore and a pawn.

  It’s the biggest risk I’ve taken, freeing his cock. Straddling him, I press a kiss to the tip. He leans back on his arms, watching me with wary attention. I grip the base in one hand. He’s so hard, so much man. He shudders when I lick the underside, and when I take him to the back of my throat he surrenders. Something inside me gives as he folds his arms under his head in the sand, his guard relaxing. I reward him by sucking him the way he likes, the way he taught me. He groans, lifting his hips a fraction, but he maintains his position of immobility, allowing me to choose.

  I do. I choose to move my underwear aside and lower myself over his hard length. With every inch I take him deeper, I let the cold, hurtful blade of hope into my heart. I moan at how completely he fills me, at the bite of pain that comes with the stretch. My fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt, his jacket falling over us like a cloak when I lean forward and slide my body up and down. The pleasure is exquisite. Hard. Dark. I whimper as our groins press together. The angle is just right, adding friction to my clit, but I need to see his face. I need to look into his eyes when I fall, hoping to God there will be just one small spark of warmth for me.

  Leaning back, I brace my hands on his thighs and ride him. I hold onto his gaze as release starts winding through my body. His jaw is tight, his gray eyes gleaming. He’s ablaze just as I am, but his flames only go skin deep. Still, I cling to the sharpness in those pools that cut into my soul. If he could only give me a drop, just a little to survive.

  I rock faster, my sounds and thoughts already splintering as my climax builds. My cry is desperate. “Maxime, please.”

  Satisfaction bleeds into his eyes, sharpening his edges, maki
ng him seem crueler as he recognizes his power over me. “Please, what?”

  The words spill over my lips, a request that leaves me utterly powerless. “Please, love me.”

  He freezes. A shutter falls over his eyes. In a blink, he switches off.

  No.

  Tears burn at the back of my eyes. “Please,” I whisper, “just a little.”

  A vein pulses in his temple. For a moment, we’re stuck in a terrible limbo. It’s a defining moment. It’s the moment I fall for my captor, admitting I want—need—more from him than sex.

  Just like that, the show is over. He moves from spectator to orchestrator. Grabbing my upper arms, he flips us around. I’m pinned in the sand by his heavy body and hard cock. The fever in his eyes is new. Cold. Buttons fly as he rips open the bodice of my dress. He flips the cups of my bra down, exposing my breasts. His fingers are punishing on my nipples, twisting and pinching. He pulls out and slams into me as if he’s trying to break me in two.

  The breath leaves my lungs with every thrust. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I hold onto his shoulders as he pivots his hips with a furious tempo, eradicating any earlier softness. It’s animalistic and carnal. It’s us. I was stupid to think it could ever be different. Stupid to want things I can never have. I should’ve known better, but now it’s too late.

  I climax with a raw cry, my body and heart falling apart as he rips his cock from me and comes over my breasts. His breathing is ragged and his expression wild. The birth control is long since effective, but he’s still using a condom. And now, he didn’t come inside me.

  Shame surges through me. He humiliated me. On purpose. Another lesson. He’ll never have feelings for me. I can blame it all on him, but I’ve also humiliated myself by opening up to him. The pain is brilliant. It slices me up with cruel, precise cuts. I can’t stand for him to see me like this—something used and discarded. Gripping the shredded fabric of my dress, I cover my breasts.