Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Read online

  Folding his hands over his big stomach, he regards me solemnly. “I don’t know. My honor? My conscience? You tell me.”

  “Knowingly or unknowingly, you were part of the scam when Dalton stole my mine.” I get to my feet. “I’ll wait for your call. You have until tomorrow noon to make your decision. I’m meeting Warren and Stone at three. Just know that if you’re out, you’re part of the enemy, and I won’t rest until my enemy goes down. Every single last one of them. Good night, Ellis.”

  “Yeah.” He wipes a hand over his mouth. “Night, Damian. I hope you can sleep at night.”

  I chuckle. I haven’t been sleeping for years. “It’s Mr. Hart to you.”

  The expression on his face as he watches me leave is one I’m well familiar with. It’s a mixture of hate and fear.

  Lina

  When morning comes, my eyes burn and my muscles ache. My body is stiff. The worst is my desperate need for the bathroom. Just when I think I can’t hold it any longer, Zane enters dressed in his black attire. Does he get the irony of chastising me for my choice of color? I say nothing while he uncuffs me. He takes one look at the raw skin around my wrist before he blows up our silent ceasefire with another backhand that hurts my jaw.

  “I warned you,” he snarls, shaking my wrist in front of my face. “Dami won’t like this.”

  “Will he like you hitting me?”

  “Oh, he may. He may even enjoy watching.”

  The statement hits a nerve, memories from a previous life I can’t face.

  He must’ve mistaken the reason for the grimace on my face, because he continues with a smirk. “You really don’t know what Dami is capable of, do you? Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  When he lifts his hand again, I steel myself for the blow, but it’s only to yank the covers down. “A word about any of this to Dami, and I’ll make your life so miserable you’ll wish you never set foot over this threshold.” He pulls me to my feet by my arm. “Get dressed and remember what I said about staying out of my way.”

  When he’s gone, I dash to the bathroom. My arm is coming to life with pins and needles. After massaging the muscles to get the circulation going, I do my grooming and get dressed.

  Despite last night’s big meal, I’m hungry. Do I need permission for food? Damian said he’d be gone until tonight, and Zane asked me to stay out of his way. I’ll optimistically assume that means I can help myself to whatever there is to eat in the house, provided the kitchen is stocked. I don’t have a cent of money on me, and no access to my bank account. Unless Damian withdraws the money for me, my hands are tied. I can’t take a measly rand of my inherited wealth, not that I want to. It’s Jack’s money, which makes it dirty.

  The feeling of helplessness isn’t new. I’ve lived with it for all of my life. I’ve been treated like a minor into adulthood. My independence has been stripped. It’s not easy to be a certified mental patient. It’s even harder to get back a status of normalcy. Once you’re on the list of crazies, you’re branded. You have to pass many tests and convince a jury of psychologists that their torture has healed you, a pointless exercise when your legal guardian testifies against you. Being marked as mentally incapable left me vulnerable and alone. Even if I had access to money, I have no one to ask to drive me to a supermarket. Not having a driver’s license or a car, I can’t drive myself. When I got home from the institution, Harold refused to let me learn how to drive. He limited my freedom in all regards. He’s been in charge of my decisions. Now, those decisions are in Damian’s hands, which doesn’t stop me from testing my boundaries. I’m famished enough to risk it downstairs in search of the kitchen.

  Russell is at the door. I presume he got some sleep, because he gives me a cheery, bright-eyed greeting. Thankfully, Zane is nowhere to be seen. I pass a living and dining room before I find what I’m looking for. The kitchen is spacious and old-fashioned with a corner fireplace. The house must be old. The double-door fridge pulls my attention. Hurrying to it, I pull on the doors. It’s not locked, and it’s stocked to the brim with cheese, eggs, meat, and milk. I can have scrambled eggs or French toast. No, wait. Scones with cream and strawberry jam. Or scones and bacon. Or bacon with pork sausages and baked beans. Except that I don’t know how to prepare any of it. I was a prisoner in Jack’s house, locked up in my bedroom. Harold always had a cook. When I returned to Harold’s house a widow, my meals were rationed, and the kitchen was off-limits.

  “Good morning,” a female voice says behind me.

  Giving a little start, I bump my head before extracting it from the fridge. A young woman with red hair and freckles faces me. She has a pretty face, made even prettier by the smile she wears. It comes easily, that smile, and it makes me warm to her.

  “Hungry?” She winks.

  It takes me a moment to catch her implied meaning. “Oh. No. He left. I mean, it’s not what you think.”

  She crosses the floor with an extended hand. “There’s no need to explain. I’m Jana. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hart.”

  We shake hands. “Please, call me Lina. Are you a guest here?”

  Her brow pleats. “Mr. Hart didn’t tell you?”

  “Um, we didn’t have much time to talk. He left for business last night.”

  “On your wedding night?” Flushing, she adds hastily, “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business. It was an inappropriate remark.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know it must seem strange, but we haven’t…” How do I explain it? She’s obviously not aware of the dynamic of our forced relationship. “He hasn’t told me much about the running of the household.”

  “He hasn’t?”

  “We haven’t exactly been dating. Not long, I mean. We haven’t been dating for long.”

  Her frown deepens, but she’s polite enough not to pose questions. “I’m doing the catering as required. It’s still early days, so I suppose we’ll iron out the schedule as we go. Mr. Hart wasn’t sure how often my services would be needed.”

  “I thought Zane is the housekeeper.”

  “He can’t fry an egg. If he tries to make toast, he’ll probably burn it.”

  “Oh.” I fold my hands in front of me, not saying that I won’t fare much better.

  Her gaze flickers to my wrist, finding purchase there. It takes a moment to realize what she’s staring at. Moving my hands to my back, I bury them in the folds of my skirt.

  She recovers quickly. “Don’t let that stop you from whatever you were going to make.”

  Self-consciously, I shut the fridge doors. “Do you have any recipe books?” On second thought, I should just go get my new phone to Google something.

  She takes an apron from a hook and ties it around her waist. Her eyes trail over my ribcage. “How about I prepare you some bacon and eggs?”

  I wrap my uninjured arm around my waist, trying to hide as much of my thinness as I can. “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s my job.” She gives me another sweet smile. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll have it ready in no time.”

  I’m pathetically grateful to this woman who isn’t mean.

  In no time, as promised, I have a full English breakfast with fresh bread rolls and coffee in front of me. I don’t know where to start. Ignoring the eggs, I go for the bacon first. Mm. Oh, my God. So good. It’s crispy and salty. I butter a roll and bite into the fresh bread. It melts on my tongue. I’ve had more boiled eggs than what I care for, but the fried ones are soft, the yellow runny enough to scoop up with the bread. I hum my approval with every bite while Jana whistles as she tidies the kitchen. The fact that she knows where everything goes tells me it’s not her first day on the job.

  “Have you been working here for long?”

  “Four years.”

  “For who?”

  “The previous owners. You can say I came with the furniture when your husband bought the house.”

  “He bought it, furniture and all?”

  If my lack of knowledge about how my husband ac
quired the house shocks her, she doesn’t show it. After her initial surprise about how little Damian has shared with me, she’s schooled her features. “He just walked in here and made the owners an offer to take over everything.”

  That explains how he managed to set up a house with staff so quickly after coming out of jail only last week.

  “It must’ve been a good offer for them to have just packed up and left like that.”

  “They’re an elderly couple who’ve been contemplating retiring at their holiday home on the coast for some time.” She looks up from wiping down a counter. “I guess the offer came at the right time.”

  How ever did Damian make so much money, and in prison, no less? The obvious answer is disconcerting.

  Saving the best for last, I bring the mug to my lips and inhale the heavenly aroma. Reverently, I take a sip. It’s strong but smooth. My first coffee in two years.

  “I’m going to do the shopping for lunch,” Jana says. “Any special requests?”

  I shake my head, the simple decision suddenly overwhelming.

  “With this hot weather,” she says, “I recommend a melon and Parma ham salad. Will that do?”

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  “The menu is my responsibility,” a hostile voice says from the door.

  Jana and I turn in unison. Zane stands in the frame, his face tight.

  “You’ll run it past me,” he tells Jana.

  She gives him a startled look.

  “I’ll be in the lounge when you’re ready,” he continues.

  A strained silence remains as he leaves.

  Jana is the first to come to her senses. “Right.” She unties the apron, and adds uncomfortably, “I’ll see you later.”

  As I get up to take the dirty dishes to the sink, she says, “You can leave that. The cleaning staff is coming in today.” She adds, most probably for my ignorant benefit, “They come in twice a week.”

  When she’s gone, I nick two of the rolls, slipping one in each skirt pocket. You never know. It’s good to be prepared for rainy days, and rainy days are plentiful in my world.

  I quickly familiarize myself with the layout of the mansion. The study and bedrooms are upstairs, and the rest of the living quarters downstairs. There’s always a guard at the front door, and the back door is locked. The keys are not in the door. When I ask Russell about it, he tells me Zane keeps the keys. None of the interior doors in the house is locked, which will make my search for the evidence easier. Russell says Damian has an office in the city, but also works from home. I pray the evidence is somewhere in the house and not at his office.

  I’m not the only one with that piece of evidence on my mind. Just after lunch, Russell finds me where I’m carefully placing my stolen bread rolls on the windowsill of an unoccupied bedroom to inform me Harold has arrived at the gate and refuses to leave.

  I follow Russell on the long walk to the gate. Situated on the outskirts of town, the grounds are huge. Harold’s Bentley is parked at the gate, and he’s standing in front of it like a sulking child, his hands fisted on the iron bars.

  “Tell them to open the gate,” he calls when I’m still a distance away.

  I only reply when I stop in front of him. “You’re not allowed inside.”

  “Tell them,” he insists. “You’re my daughter. It’s my right to visit you.”

  The automatic rifle hanging from the shoulder of the guard manning the guardhouse makes me nervous. Harold must really be pompous not to be bothered by such a threat.

  “They won’t listen to me.” For the first time in his life, Harold isn’t getting something he wants. The ugly part of me feels satisfaction at his red-faced frustration. “They’re following Damian’s orders.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “As I said—”

  “I’ll tell Damian about your arms.”

  I go rigid. I quickly look toward the guard outside the gate, but he drags on a cigarette and blows smoke into the air, appearing unfazed by our conversation. Luckily, Russell is out of earshot, standing a few paces behind.

  I lower my voice. “You have to leave.”

  “Come out here, then, if I’m not allowed inside.” His eyes narrow menacingly. “Unless you want everyone to know your secret.”

  I’ve been living with my scars alone, and that’s the way I intend to keep it. The world doesn’t need to be a witness to how much I’ve been degraded.

  “Let me out,” I say to the guard on the other side.

  The guard exchanges a look with Russell.

  “I’m not a prisoner,” I say to the man stumping out his cigarette under the heel of his boot. “And please pick up that butt and put it in the trash.”

  The man clenches his jaw and grips the rifle tighter.

  Russell smirks. “You heard her.”

  Eyes locked on mine, the guard bends to retrieve the butt. He doesn’t look away when he chucks it into the trashcan next to the guardhouse.

  “Now,” I say sweetly, “open the gate.”

  “I have instructions—”

  “Our instructions are not to let Mr. Dalton onto the property,” Russell says. “Mrs. Hart is free to leave whenever she wishes.”

  The guard takes a wide stance. “I don’t answer to you, Roux. I only answer to Mr. Hart, and to Zane in his absence.”

  “Call Zane,” Russell says. When the guard doesn’t move, he takes his smartphone from his pocket. “Do you want me to call him for you?”

  With a scoff, the guard enters the guardhouse and types a number into the intercom phone.

  A few ringtones later, Zane’s voice booms over the line. After listening to the guard, he tells him to let me out. Harold gives the man a victorious grin as I step through the gates. The minute I’m out, he grabs my arm and pushes me toward his car, but Russell blocks his way.

  “She’s not leaving the premises,” he says. “You have five minutes.”

  Uttering a string of expletives that shames me to be connected to him, Harold leads me down the road that cuts through an empty plot and exits onto the highway.

  “You have to find the evidence,” he tells me when we’re out of earshot. “That blackmailing bastard must be keeping it in the house.”

  “I figured.”

  He stops at the end of the road. “You know what will happen to me if the evidence falls into the wrong hands, don’t you?”

  “You’ll go to jail and get killed.”

  “That’s right. What will happen if I’m dead?”

  I purse my lips and look toward the distance.

  “You’ll never know,” he answers on my behalf.

  A physical ache blooms in my chest, twisting itself like thorny ivy around my heart. “You said you’d tell me as soon as Jack’s estate was yours to manage.”

  His fingers dig into my muscles. “Now it’s Hart’s to manage, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not my fault. If you didn’t steal his discovery and frame him for theft, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Doesn’t matter why or how it happened. Bring me what I want, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. Don’t bring it, and I’ll tell the world the truth.”

  “What truth?” There are so many, I’ve lost count.

  “That you committed a murder in cold blood.”

  I’m backed into a corner again, a feral cat in a cage. I feel like shredding his face and scratching his eyes out of their sockets, but I don’t move a finger. I force myself to detach from the moment, like years of practice taught me. If I can get the evidence, I can blackmail Harold myself, but as always, he’s one step ahead of me, demanding the proof of his crimes in exchange for his silence about mine. Where does that leave me? My only hope is an exchange—the evidence for my baby.

  Chapter 4

  Damian

  The men around the table stare at me, their expressions varying from angry to downright murderous. I’m offering to buy them out, the price well below the current value of their shares. They’ll acc
ept. I have dirt on both of the fat bastards who’d sat at Dalton’s table the night he condemned me.

  “Stone.” I push a stack of photos of him with his cock in a stripper’s mouth across the table.

  Women are his weakness. His marriage won’t survive this particular weakness, and his wife owns the wealth. The very investment in Dalton Diamonds, the money that helped bring this corporation off the ground, came from Mrs. Max Stone. She’ll strip him naked and throw him to the wolves.

  He glares at me, rebelliously refusing to look at the photos my industrious private investigator provided.

  Warren’s turn is next. His weakness is getting high while having his ass pummeled by his masseur during his weekly appointment. Said massages he claims back from his medical aid fund for health reasons. The high-res images are a colorful array of him on his hands and knees, butt naked with his stomach hanging on the floor. It only gets more colorful as oily dicks join the picture.

  “Jesus.” He flicks the images over and puts a hand on his forehead. His face has gone from white to red.

  “You son of a bitch,” Stone says.

  “Careful with the insults, Stone.” I distribute the files. “Your contracts, gentlemen.”

  They both sign, agreeing not only to sell out to me, but also giving me their votes for acquiring my portion of the shares.

  “Nice doing business with you,” I say as I collect the signed contracts. “Keep the photos. Consider it my parting gift.”

  “Fuck you,” Warren says.

  “I don’t think so. From where I’m standing, you’re the one who’s fucked.”

  “You don’t know it yet, buddy,” Stone says, spit flying over the table, “but that mine is dead. If you think you’ve struck the jackpot, think again. You’re going under.”

  I clip my satchel closed. “We’ll see.”

  Fuck, yes. It feels good to stand on the other side of the table. If I’m playing dirty, Dalton only has himself to blame. He set that wheel turning.