Diamonds in the Dust Read online

  I dunk the spoon with a shaking hand in my bowl. The tremors running over my body are no longer only from fear, but also from anger and injustice. I force the liquid down my throat, tasting nothing.

  Maxime continues to watch me until I’ve cleared my bowl. Every swallow is a battle I fight. I drink more wine than I’m used to, downing the first glass and throwing back another straight after.

  The waiter doesn’t look at me as he clears our bowls and serves the main dish—lobster for Maxime and ordinary pasta for me. I somehow manage to eat everything and keep it down, although in the morning I’ll probably not even remember what I ate.

  Through it all, Maxime makes conversation and even lighthearted jokes. When our dessert and herbal tea arrive, he pours a cup and hands it to me.

  “What do you do at the sweatshop?” he asks.

  “I’m a seamstress.”

  His gaze drops to my blouse. “Did you make that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t notice a sewing machine in your apartment.”

  “I use the machines at work.”

  “Doesn’t the manager have a problem with that?”

  “The supervisor lets us use them after hours.”

  He brings the cup to his lips. “Is that what you always wanted to do?”

  “It’s a steppingstone.”

  “To designing.”

  I nod. He saw the books on my bookshelf.

  “Honey?” He pushes the pot toward me.

  “No.” I take sugar, but I don’t say so.

  “You’re talented.”

  I shrug.

  The conversation continues in this manner until he asks for the bill. He pays with a stack of cash that would’ve covered my rent for a couple of months. He asks if I need to use the bathroom and waits outside the door until I’m done.

  The guards are smoking in the garden. They put out their cigarettes when we approach. The blond one hurries to get my door, but Maxime waves him away.

  “I’ve got this, Gautier.”

  Once inside, Maxime turns to me. “Would you like to go for a drink somewhere, maybe show me another part of your city?”

  I rub my temples where a headache is building. “I’ve played your game. I’ve eaten my food. I just want to go home.”

  “As you wish,” he says, “but you’re not going home.”

  My body goes rigid. “Where am I going?”

  He nods at Gautier, who pulls off as Maxime says, “To my hotel.”

  Chapter 3

  Maxime

  * * *

  Glass skyscrapers and modern office blocks dominate the view as we drive to my hotel in Melrose Arch. It’s nothing like the crumbling buildings and weed-infested pavements of Zoe Hart’s suburb. I’ve seen worse neighborhoods. In my line of work, there’s always worse. Yet for some reason, the empty buildings with planks crossed over their broken windows in Brixton made me tense. We’re armed with enough weapons to defend ourselves should anyone be stupid enough to attack us, but it’s not my safety I fear. The uneasiness eating at me is for the woman I just found and can’t afford to lose. Her apartment doesn’t even have an alarm, for God’s sake.

  In a place like that, it’s only a matter of time before she turns into a statistic. The fact that I’ll be the one to turn her into that statistic doesn’t faze me, which says a lot about the kind of man I am.

  I regard my petite charge. She’s quiet now, her worry bigger than her anger. It’s not that I don’t want to put her at ease. It’s just that I can’t tell her the truth. Her hands are clutched together in her lap. Every now and then, she untangles those long, slender fingers to rub at a temple. That should teach her for downing two glasses of the most expensive wine in the restaurant without even tasting it. Not that I blame her.

  She’s right to be nervous. She should be wary of me. I’m angry with her, even if it’s not her fault. I’m angry that she put me in this position, a position that makes me give a damn. How could I not look at her as a person after going through her apartment and witnessing the dreams so obviously strewn around? She wears them like the emotions in her expressive eyes—on her sleeve. Hope shines in those wide blue irises, and hope makes a person human.

  The problem is I’ve never dealt with an innocent. Everyone in my business has dirt on his hands, but Zoe is only a pawn. If I hand her over to my younger brother, as planned, she’ll be broken and nothing but a shell of herself, those beautiful dreams and naïve hope crushed and forgotten by the time we send her back to her brother. If we ever do.

  I had to drive the last woman unfortunate enough to have ended up in Alexis’s bed to hospital. Her injuries weren’t pretty. Even without the payoff from my father, she wouldn’t have pressed charges. The consequences are too terrifying. Our family is feared. It’s not fair, but that’s life for you.

  Zoe tenses more when we pull up at the hotel. Part of her fault is that she’s pretty and exactly Alexis’s type. He’ll like her dark hair and pale skin. He’ll want her. That makes her my problem, one I don’t need and shouldn’t want. Yet I do. Maybe that’s the real problem. I’ve wanted her since I pressed her body against mine and slammed my hand over her mouth.

  I liked the head rush I got from holding her in my power. I liked how clean her apartment was amidst the filth of the buildings surrounding hers. I liked the simple wildflower and the cherished green plant on her windowsill. Just like her. She’s a pretty little daisy that pushes through a crack on a dirty pavement, resilient and beautiful, surviving against the odds.

  She’s poor as fuck, but she’s proud. I like that, too. Judging by the books she reads and the clothes she fancies, she’s a romantic. That, I like the most. It fascinates me. I want to know how she can believe in something so abstract and idyllic that doesn’t exist. Even if it did, she certainly wouldn’t have found it in Brixton.

  I want to know how the fuck she can still believe in something beautiful, in anything at all, when everything around her is dilapidated, rotten, and hopeless. I want to know how someone with her fragile body and meager means survives. I want to know how her soul can crack concrete and flourish with no one’s care to shine like a daisy amidst the grime. Maybe, just maybe, if I know her secret, I’ll know how to be happy. Maybe if I can catch her spirit, I can steal her dreams and make her hope mine.

  Zoe glances at me when we pull up at the hotel. She’s been wringing her hands since we left the restaurant. Instead of quieting her fiddling, I let her have the outlet even if it distracts me from my thoughts of what the fuck to do with her. I get out and go around to get her door. I don’t give her a chance to reject my offer to help her from the car like she did with Gautier. With him, I allowed it, preferred it even. I didn’t like him touching her. My grip on her waist is firm as I swipe my access card to open the door and lead her inside. There’s no receptionist or lobby staff, part of the reason why I chose to stay here. It’s more like an aparthotel with the services of a hotel.

  Gautier and Benoit scout the area before they follow, as much from habit as a necessity in a high crime area. We ride the elevator together. I tell them in French to have dinner before catching a few hours of sleep. It’s only after eight. The kitchen staff deliver meals to the rooms until ten. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.

  On the top floor, we split. They go to the room they share at the end while I take Zoe to the penthouse suite.

  She pulls back when I unlock the door with my card, but it doesn’t take much to push her over the threshold. She doesn’t weigh more than a cat. A small kitten, really. When I lock the door, she puts distance between us, backtracking to the middle of the floor.

  The suite is three times the size of Zoe’s apartment. She looks lost, hugging her slight frame in the middle of the lounge in her frilly blouse and hip-hugging skirt, and even more petite than usual against the floor-to-ceiling window framing Melrose Arch. With those black curls and pearly skin, she’s more than easy on the eye. Long lashes frame her blue eyes, and her mo
uth is pouty like a budding rose. The blush on her cheeks is as pink as the petals of that rose, the darker hue closer to the stem if I were to pull the flower apart.

  At my evaluation, she folds into herself like a flower that curls up at night. I’m staring too openly, the lust I don’t care to show in public probably visible on my face. I remove my jacket and hang it over the clotheshorse. Then I put my Glock and access card in the safe, making sure my body blocks the code so the little flower I plucked from her life isn’t baited with temptation.

  When I turn back to her, her eyes are swimming with trepidation. The way the tears make them glitter are gorgeous. They seem bigger and even more expressive. It’s a pretty sight, but I don’t want to torture her. She did nothing to deserve what’s coming to her.

  Folding back my shirt sleeves, I advance slowly so I won’t frighten her. She tilts her head back to meet my gaze when I stop in front of her.

  Her voice is as silky as her flower-petal skin. “Why am I here?”

  I know what she’s really asking. “Don’t worry. I’m as little a rapist as I’m a stalker.” Only a killer.

  Swaying a little, she frowns and rubs at her temples. “Then why did you bring me to your hotel?”

  She’s exhausted, has been since she came home with sagging shoulders, dragging feet, and two tomatoes for dinner. “To sleep.”

  “I have a bed. I have a home.”

  Not any longer. I walk to the wet bar and pour a glass of water, which I carry back to her. “You had too much wine too quickly. Drink.”

  She takes the glass and gulps everything down. I refill it and take the pill from the box waiting next to the decanter. It’s a good thing I had the foresight. Being kidnapped can be draining on all counts, both the spirit and the body.

  “What is it?” she asks when I hand the pill to her with the water.

  “Something for your headache.”

  She regards me with mistrust, as she should. It’s not a lie. It will take away her pain. It’s just not the full truth. It’s not the first time I don’t give her the truth, and it won’t be the last.

  “How did you know I have a headache?”

  “It’s obvious from the way you rub your temples.”

  She studies my face with wide, weary eyes. I see the exact moment she decides to believe me. Putting the pill in her mouth, she swallows it down with the water.

  I take back the glass. “I have some business to take care of. Why don’t you have a nice, warm bath?”

  She glances at the bedroom door.

  “This way.” I take her arm and lead her to the opposite door that gives access to the bathroom. “I’ll be a while. Take your time.”

  She looks around the room, seeming as lost as when I brought her into the suite.

  “Do you need help with operating the facilities?”

  Her look is scathing. “I can open a tap.”

  Ah, her fire hasn’t burned out. It pleases me. I smile. “Call if you need me.”

  She scoffs before pushing past me and slamming the door in my face. The lock turns on the other side. As if she has any power. Grinning, I shake my head and drag a hand over my face. The stretch of my lips is a foreign feeling, something I haven’t experienced in long time. Maybe never.

  Leaving the little flower to her bath, I steel myself for the call I have to make. Certain she can’t escape, I go onto the balcony for privacy and check the hour. It’s the same time in France.

  It takes a while for my father to take the call. From the cutlery sounding in the background, he’s having dinner.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask in French.

  It’s my brother who replies. He’s jovial, a few glasses of wine already in his stomach. “How are things working out in South Africa?”

  I roll my shoulders, but my voice comes out tight, anyway. “Fine. I didn’t know Maman invited you for dinner.”

  “We’re at the club.”

  My spine goes stiff. The club is where the deals are made. Alexis is greedy to undermine my power. “Let me speak to our father.”

  “Do you have her?” He sounds excited.

  Something dark stirs in my chest. I can’t discuss her with him. Even that little will soil her.

  “Max?” Alexis’s voice rises in volume. “We have a bad connection. I can’t hear you.”

  “Put Father on, Alexis. It’s late.”

  He laughs. “Getting old?”

  I let the jab slide, but get one of my own in. “Pronto, little brother.”

  The diminutive works. A moment later, my father’s cigar-rough voice comes on the line. “Did you meet with Dalton?”

  Good evening to you, too, Dad. “You’re at the club.”

  “The business doesn’t go on hold when you’re not here.”

  I force nonchalance into my tone. “What’s Alexis doing there?”

  The way my father changes from brusque to overly friendly tells me everything I want to know. “It’s just dinner, Max.”

  “I thought you said it’s business.”

  “For me. Your brother is networking. Enough of family. Tell me about Harold Dalton. Did you see him?”

  “Last night.” I hated every minute of the dinner I shared with that shark.

  “And?”

  “He’s not going to last.”

  There’s a moment of silence. “Is he as bad as our dealers say?”

  “Worse. His mine reeks of mismanagement, and his board is corrupt.”

  “Did you have a look at the books?”

  “Only the ones he wanted me to see. He did a good job of trying to hide it, but they’re definitely cooked.” I have a nose for figures. It only takes me a moment to know when one and one don’t add up to two.

  “I see.” Another short silence. “In that case, we won’t interfere with Damian Hart’s scheme.”

  “I’ll advise against it. From looking at all the facts, Hart is the best man to revive that mine. Plus, his motivation is personal.” Personal always guarantees the best results.

  “Then we let Dalton go under when the time comes.”

  “In two years’ time, we won’t be making any more money out of him. He’s running the mine into the ground.”

  Literally.

  Harold Dalton is the owner of one of the most lucrative diamond mines in South Africa. He sells to us directly, cutting out the brokers and wholesalers, which earns us a big fat saving of thirty percent. When you’re talking billions, thirty percent is a considerable chunk, enough to bribe and, if needed, kill for.

  Word has it that the mine is running empty and will soon go bankrupt. We keep a close ear on the ground. In our business, it’s imperative. We have informants everywhere, even in Dalton’s mining workforce, and we’re not the only ones who play that game.

  It turns out Damian Hart has informants, too. He knows about the mine’s pending failure. According to his cellmate and our informant, Zane da Costa, the mine has unyielded potential that Dalton is too thick in the head to exploit. Da Costa sold us information about Hart’s plans to take over the mine when he gets out of jail. According to Hart, Dalton stole his discovery, and he has every intention of taking it back.

  From what I’ve learned about his strategy and how he’s planning on going about it, my money is on Hart. For the time being, Dalton is giving us the first buying option for a kickback. Hart wants to bring back the wholesalers and cut out the shady dealers like ourselves, which poses a problem for our business. If Hart takes away thirty percent of our business, everything will fold—the casinos, shipping companies, our whole empire. Our mission is ensuring Hart honors the deal, and for that to happen, we need a sword we can hold over Hart’s head.

  My father sighs. “I hate change. Too damn unpredictable.”

  At least that’s one thing we agree on. “Better the devil you know.”

  “I take it you found Hart’s sister.”

  Dipping a finger into the knot of my tie, I loosen it. “Why else would I call?”
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  “Are they as close as da Costa said?”

  “I don’t doubt it.” If I had a sister like Zoe, I’d protect her with my life.

  “Good. Bring her in.”

  I hesitate. “It’ll take some time.” With enough time, I could let her become used to me and even brainwash her into believing it was her idea to leave.

  Impatience infuses his tone. “Tomorrow.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “Business is like a game of chess, son. You’ve got to have your pieces in place before your opponent has as much as thought about moving his. I’m not taking any chances. It’ll be checkmate before Hart even enters the game.”

  “We have six years before Hart has served his sentence. He’s only starting to gain power in jail.”

  A glass clinks. It’s time for my father’s after-dinner cognac. “I heard from da Costa. Hart may be released from prison early for good behavior.”

  “How early?”

  “In two years.”

  Someone on the outside is paying Hart for services rendered on the inside. He doesn’t have access to that money yet, but in two years’ time he’ll be considerably wealthier. With wealth comes power, which is the second reason we’re not taking him out. Number one is he has the ability to revive a mine that sustains our business, and number two is he’s wasted no time in making powerful allies in jail. Some of the families who run Hart’s country and pull the politician’s strings have members on the inside. They’re not the kind of enemies we want or can afford to make.

  “How sure are you of this informant?” I’ve always had a bad feeling about the rat.

  “Nothing is ever sure, but this one is power hungry.”

  They’re the easiest to buy, the ones without honor or loyalty.

  My father exhales. I imagine him sucking on his cigar. “Let me know at what time you’ll arrive.”

  Staring at the city lights, I consider this new dilemma I didn’t expect. I consider what I’m going to do, telling myself it hasn’t crossed my mind even once. “Expect me back after the weekend, not before.”