Diamonds in the Dust Page 3

  “Let’s go.” He takes my arm and leads me to the lounge.

  The blond man must’ve been standing just outside, because Maxime only has to knock once before the door is unlocked. When Maxime drags me through it, I know my life as I knew it has ended.

  Chapter 2

  Zoe

  * * *

  A black Mercedes with tinted windows is parked in the alley around the corner. It’s new—judging by its shiny and flawless exterior—and a target for hijackers.

  I glare at the blond guard as he opens the backdoor for Maxime who shoves me inside. Immune to my hostility, the blond gets behind the wheel while the bearded guy takes the passenger seat in the front. Unlucky for me, I share the backseat with the devil.

  There’s ample space, but he takes up all of it, making me shift into the corner against the door. His energy envelops me like a shadow eating up light until only the darkness of his intentions is left. The cologne that overwhelmed my senses since the moment he took me is more prominent in the confines of the car. He smells of cloves and citrus, a faint mix of winter that matches the cold color of his eyes and the frost that never melts in their depths.

  The driver starts the engine while the bald one watches the road like a soldier looking out for danger in enemy territory. When the car pulls away, I twist around to look at my building. There’s no movement behind Bruce’s window.

  Sagging back in my seat, I ask, “What do you want from me?”

  Maxime doesn’t answer. He’s taken out his phone and is typing something.

  The luxury car is so out of place in this suburb pedestrians slow down to stare. However, crime is nothing new. Women are kidnapped all the time. I won’t be the first person to disappear from Brixton.

  Has the driver locked the doors? Locals do it habitually, but my kidnappers are foreigners. There’s a chance they might not have activated the central locking system.

  It’s rush hour. We’re moving slowly. I have to take my chance while Maxime’s attention is on his phone. By now Bruce would’ve alarmed someone. Hopefully, he’s on his way to a hospital. Maxime can’t hurt him anymore. Taking a shaky breath, I prepare myself for hitting the tarmac.

  Now!

  I yank the door handle.

  It’s locked.

  Fuck.

  “No,” I moan, fresh tears welling up in my eyes.

  Panic overwhelms me anew. My mind knows it’s futile, but my body acts on survival instinct, demanding I try harder. Pulling with all my might, I shake the handle in a fit of hysteria.

  A strong, warm hand folds over mine. I look down to where my kidnapper’s fingers are curled around my fist, stilling me with minimal effort. His grip is firm without being too tight. I have no doubt he can easily crush my bones.

  His voice is calm, a controlling force in the madness raging in my chest. “Look at me, Zoe.”

  I only comply because I don’t know what he’ll do if he loses his cool.

  He regards me with those flat, frank eyes. “It’ll be easier for both of us if you calm down.”

  The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. He’s clutching the wheel hard. His friend has one hand on the gun in his holster. I take it all in, jumping to the obvious conclusions.

  “Over here.” The clicking of Maxime’s fingers draws my gaze. He’s pointing at his face. “Eyes on me. That’s better.”

  To my utter shame, my lip starts to wobble. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No.” Maxime squeezes my hand and places it in my lap. “Why would I feed you if I was going to kill you? I already told you, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  But he will if I don’t do what he wants. If he doesn’t want to tell me what he wants, it must be bad. This isn’t a random kidnapping. Maxime targeted me for a reason. It has something to do with Damian. Maxime knows who I am. He knows where I live. He knows I live alone. He waited for me, knowing at what time I’d be arriving home from work.

  Oh, my God. “Have you been stalking me?”

  His smile is as flat as his eyes, like soda that’s lost its bubbles. “The old lady in your building was only too happy to tell me everything I wanted to know.”

  “Mrs. Smit?” I gasp.

  “It’s amazing what a cup of tea and a slice of cake can buy.”

  “That’s disgusting. You used that poor old lady.”

  “At least I’m not a stalker.”

  “Great.” I stare through the window. “That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

  I turn my head back to him. “Really? You’re lecturing me on my attitude?”

  Focused on his phone again, he says, “I’ll lecture you whenever I deem it necessary.”

  “Bruce would’ve called the police by now. They’ll be looking for your men.” I glance at the two guards again, but their eyes are trained on the road.

  “Not for the theft of a cellphone. Your police have enough murders to keep them busy.”

  “You stole his cellphone?” I cry out.

  He lifts a shoulder. “Motive for the forced entry and assault.”

  “You bastard.”

  The lines around his eyes tighten. “This is the last time I’m going to warn you about your language.”

  “Bruce is innocent. He’s not rich like you. He can’t afford another phone. How can you be so cruel?”

  He chuckles. “You haven’t seen cruelty yet, little flower.”

  “This is Brixton, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he replies in a dry tone.

  Meaning, the man who is carrying me off is worse than the neighborhood I’ve been trying to escape my whole life. I can’t help but laugh in a hysterical fit at the irony.

  “Something funny?” he asks.

  “My life.”

  “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

  I snort.

  He takes a packet of tissues from the side of the door and drops it in my lap. “Any allergies or food dislikes I need to know about?”

  I’m not going to wipe my eyes on his tissues. I use the back of my hand instead. “Couldn’t find that out, huh? Why, your power does have limits.”

  Gripping my jaw, he doesn’t squeeze hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to let me feel the underlying threat. “If you went for your regular health checks, I would’ve known.”

  I jerk free. “Yeah, well, doctor visits cost money.”

  “We’ll correct that shortly.”

  “Correct what?” My pulse jumps again. “Why?”

  “Just focus on what’s important now. I asked you a question.”

  “I’m not answering your questions any longer. By now Bruce is safe. You can’t manipulate me by hurting him anymore.” I lift my chin. “When you let me out of this car, I’ll run. I’ll scream. You can’t just take me.”

  Cruel calculation flashes in his eyes as he leans closer, pressing me against the door. “Do you know what an easy target a man in jail is?” He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. “You see, Zoe, a man behind bars is nothing but a sitting duck. One word from me and your brother is dead.”

  Tears blur my vision. I slap away his hand. “I don’t believe you.”

  He gets out of my face, giving me space to breathe. “Zane works for me. That, my pretty flower, you better believe.”

  The punch hits me straight in the gut, because what I do know is that Damian loves his cellmate like a brother. I feel sick. I want to spit in Maxime’s face.

  “I’ll only ask you one more time,” he says. “Do you have allergies or is there any food you hate?”

  I clench my hands in my lap. “I’m not a fussy eater, and I don’t have allergies.”

  “Medication?”

  I frown. “What?”

  His harsh features are emphasized by the shadows playing over his face as we pass under the bridge. “Are you on any medication?”

  I fumble with my sleeves, a nervous habit. “Why are you asking?”


  “Alcohol is prohibited with some medications.”

  “No, nothing.”

  Glancing at my restless fingers, he folds his hand over mine. “In that case, I hope you’ll let me order for you.”

  Normally, I’d take offense to anyone making my decisions, especially deciding what I should eat, but this situation is so far removed from normal it feels unreal. What feels too real is where he’s touching me. I’m like a kid with a vicious dog, tensing up, waiting for the moment it’s going to bite, but then he pulls his hand away. My chest expands with a breath.

  After dropping the threat on Damian’s life like a hand grenade in my lap, Maxime continues to work on his phone quietly.

  I have to warn Damian.

  I look at the passing landscape while scheming, noting the landmarks as we drive north. Since we were kids, Damian and I had a secret code language. Our code words for trouble at home were apple pie.

  I’ll get word to Damian. I’ll warn him Zane isn’t his friend.

  My turbulent thoughts are cut short when we stop at Seven Seas in Sandton. Only the wealthy and famous eat here. My monthly salary won’t even cover a starter. I’ve seen pictures, but the private mansion converted into a restaurant is much more imposing in real life. The modern double story building is encased almost entirely in glass and situated on a vast, green lawn.

  The blond guy opens my door. Ignoring his proffered hand, I get out. Maxime comes around to take my arm and steer me to the entrance. I can’t help but stare at the lights in the double story foyer when we enter. A modern chandelier reaches all the way from the top level to the ground floor in a cascade of golden bulbs.

  A hostess bustles over. “Max.” She kisses his cheeks before taking his jacket. “Welcome back.”

  I suppress the urge to push the toe of my shoe into the carpet to hide the scruff where the color has worn off.

  Her gaze flickers over me. “No bag for the lady?”

  From her red Balenciaga number, it’s obvious my antique lace blouse and mermaid skirt don’t fit here, but I made them, and I love them.

  Maxime lays a hand on my shoulder. “No bag.”

  His palm burns through the thin silk lining of the blouse. When the hostess turns away, I shake his touch off.

  After putting Maxime’s jacket in the cloakroom, she leads us down a red carpet to a veranda overlooking a fishpond that stretches the whole length of the lawn. A fountain with a sea snake spouting water from a forked tongue stands in the middle. Lilies drift on the water. It reminds me of an illustration of The Frog Prince in a book I owned, only this is no fairytale. I’ve stepped right into a nightmare.

  Not having a choice, I sit down in the chair Maxime pulls out for me. A waiter drapes a linen napkin over my lap and hands me a menu. It’s all very pretty and fancy, but I hate the place. We’ve entered a different world where unfamiliar rules and manners apply, a world where someone takes your jacket and judges you for the price tag on your clothes. Several other diners in eveningwear cast curious glances my way. With his European style, Maxime fits right in. I must stand out like the underprivileged kid in the candy store.

  When Maxime opens his menu, I do the same, not because I’m eager to participate in this charade, but to block out his hateful face behind the big leather folder. There are no prices on mine. Going through the list of entrées and main courses, I understand why Maxime suggested ordering for me. It wasn’t so much a gesture of control than saving me the embarrassment of admitting I understand nothing. The dishes all have foreign names. I’m guessing they’re French. There’s nothing I recognize.

  The waiter returns with appetizers. “Sea urchin on Melba toast with truffle oil.”

  I stare at the disc of bread with a dollop of red cream, a sprig of chive, and three dots of oil on the side.

  “Do you like urchin?” Maxime asks.

  “I don’t know.” Isn’t it’s obvious I can’t afford food like this? “I’ve never had it.”

  “Some people love it. Others hate it. Go ahead. Try it.”

  I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I don’t have an appetite. Even if I were starving, which technically I am, I would’ve declined on principle. I’m not selling my soul to the devil for a meal.

  I push the plate away. “No, thanks.”

  His eyes crinkle in the corners, but the set of his mouth is hard. “I’ll feed you if you prefer.” He pronounces the words carefully in his accent, making sure I understand. “On my lap.”

  He’ll do it. I have no doubt. He’s callously uncaring about how people are looking at us, or rather at me. Defeated, I give him a cutting look as I take the morsel between two fingers and place it in my mouth. It’s salty and smoky with a strong but not off-putting iodine aftertaste.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  I cross my arms. “No.”

  “I’ll order you something more ordinary, then.”

  The insult is payback for my ungrateful and bad-mannered reply, but I couldn’t care less. Yes, I’m poor. Yes, I’m not used to much, certainly not urchin, and caviar, and whatever else they serve here, but at least I’m not a criminal who breaks into people’s homes and kidnaps them.

  Picking up the knife and fork on the far outside of his plate, Maxime scoops up the bite and brings it to his lips. I want to crawl under the table for demonstrating just how uneducated I am by eating with my hands. It’s not that I care what he or the people around us think. I just hate giving them the pleasure of being right about me.

  The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and pours us each a glass, after which he takes our order. Maxime has no problem pronouncing the names of the dishes.

  When the waiter is gone, I decide to go for a blunt approach. I already know my kidnapper’s name. Knowing less or more about him won’t make a difference in my fate.

  “Are you French?” I ask.

  His lips quirk in one corner. “What gave me away?”

  “Your accent.”

  “It was a rhetorical question, Zoe. It’s called humor.”

  Some of the fear makes place for anger. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I wasn’t patronizing you.” His smile grows into a full, mocking curve. “I was just pointing out the obvious.”

  I hate him. He did this on purpose, making me feel stupid for asking. Not wanting to talk to him anymore, I turn my head away.

  “Why so angry, my little Zoe? Is it because I didn’t fall for your transparent way of fishing for information about me?”

  I look back at him. “I’m not your little Zoe, and actually, I brought it up because your accent is rather unpleasant on the ear.”

  He raises a brow. “Is that so?”

  I’m not going to tell him he makes talking sound like sex. I bet that’s what he’s used to hearing.

  “Strange,” he drawls. “You’re the first woman to complain.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I bat my eyelashes. “Did I hurt your fragile ego?”

  “No teacher ever managed to rid me of this accent, no matter how many private tutors I had.”

  There’s honesty in that statement, like an olive branch he’s offering. I’m too desperate to know why he took me not to take it. “You speak English well enough.”

  He takes a sip of wine. “A business requirement.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” I can’t stop myself from adding, “Human trafficking?”

  He only smiles broader. “When necessary.”

  The waiter arrives with our starters. It looks like some kind of seafood soup. In different circumstances, the spicy aroma would’ve made my mouth water, but my stomach churns when the waiter puts a bowl down in front of me.

  “Bisque,” Maxime says. “I hope you’ll like it.”

  I stare at the lobster tail drifting in the center of the bowl.

  “The secret is in the sherry,” he says, bringing his spoon to his mouth.

  I drag my gaze from the bowl to his face. “So, France is home.”
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  “Eat your food, Zoe. If you need to know something, I’ll tell you.”

  My anger escalates. “Ah, so we’re on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about after dinner? What happens then?”

  He stills. “You really need to live more in the present, to enjoy the moment.”

  “Because something bad is going to happen later?” I ask a little louder.

  His gaze hardens. “Keep your voice down and eat your food.”

  If I eat one bite, I’m going to vomit. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’m not feeding you again until tomorrow morning.”

  The last two words get stuck in my head. Tomorrow morning. They add to my barely controlled panic. “Why do you need me until the morning? Why are you doing this?” He reaches over the table for my hand, but I pull away. “Tell me. Tell me now.”

  “Calm down. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of all these people by teaching you your place.”

  “On your lap?” I say in a catty tone.

  “Over my lap, and then you’ll eat on my lap with a smarting ass.”

  Tears that refuse to dry up burn behind my eyes. “I hate you.”

  “I know. You’ll hate me even more if Damian gets a beating tonight.” He motions with his spoon at my untouched soup. “Now eat.”

  “I can’t. I’ll be sick.”

  He wipes his mouth on his napkin. “You have two choices. You can either eat the delicious food and enjoy the conversation or be treated like a child and go to bed hungry and sulking. You can see why the first option is hands down the winner. You’ll nourish your body and make the best of a moment you don’t have any control over. It’s up to you. Just know I won’t hesitate to execute my threat. I don’t make idle ones.”

  I’m crying with helpless anger by the time his speech is done. I don’t even care any longer that everyone is staring. I just want to go home.

  “What will it be, Zoe?”

  Picking up my spoon, I grip it so hard the metal pushes painfully into my palm.

  “Good decision.” His voice is calm but his gaze attentive, waiting for the moment I crack.