Diamonds in the Dust Read online

  I close the lid and throw the box back onto the bed.

  What am I doing?

  How can I admire objects my kidnapper bought? Soon to be my lover. A chill breaks out over my body. When I think of the alternative, of what Maxime showed and told me, I drop the towel and pull on the clothes.

  Everything fits perfectly, even the heels that are the same color as the dress. I’m about to go to the bathroom to brush my hair when I notice the silver brush and cosmetics on the bedroom dresser. I go over and trace the embossed rose on the back of the brush. It’s beautiful, a piece of art. After removing the elastic keeping up my bun, I pull the brush through my hair, almost closing my eyes at how the soft bristles massage my scalp.

  I sit down and look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale. I don’t want to look pretty for Maxime. I don’t want to give him me. Tonight, when I give him my virginity, I want to be someone else, someone I don’t care about so I can still face the real me in the mirror tomorrow.

  I inspect the makeup. It’s an expensive French brand. Other than mascara and lip gloss, I usually don’t wear makeup and not because I don’t like it. I can’t afford it. Now I go for a dramatic look, using smoky eye shadow and black eyeliner that I round off with a pale lipstick. Definitely not me. The sparkling earrings add the finishing touch.

  A clutch bag covered with the same cloth as the dress and an intricately sewn rose fastened to the clip stands next to a bottle of perfume. I dab a drop on my wrist to smell it and notice the marks from last night’s ordeal. My breathing turns shallow, but I inhale deeply and blow the breath out slowly. I can do this. I can put up this act.

  Standing, I regard my image in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Good.

  A knock sounds on the door. When I answer it, Maxime stands on the threshold with a bouquet of flowers. He’s dressed in a tux and bowtie, and his hair is damp.

  “You showered,” I say stupidly, wondering if he’s renting another suite.

  “I showered in Gautier and Benoit’s room. I wanted to give you privacy.” His gaze trails over me and fixes on my face. “You look beautiful, Zoe.” He holds the flowers out to me. “These are for you.”

  I take them uncertainly. I don’t understand this man who’ll lock me up in a dungeon and buy me flowers before stealing what’s left of my dream. He doesn’t need to woo me. It’s not as if we’re dating.

  “Don’t you like them?” he asks.

  I look at the cellophane-wrapped bouquet. It’s a colorful collection of sweet peas, poppies, daisies, and cornflowers. The arrangement is informal and uninhibited, just like the wildflowers. It’s lovely.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ll want to put them in water before we go.”

  I scoot around him, pulling in my stomach to avoid touching him when he doesn’t move out of the way. He watches me as I find a vase on the table and carry it back to the bathroom to fill it with water.

  While I take care of the flowers, he blows out the candles, presumably so the suite doesn’t burn down while we’re out to wherever he’s taking me.

  “Your bag,” he says when I turn to go.

  For lipstick, tissues, and powder, and whatever else a woman on a fuck date may need. He really thought about everything. I drop the tube of lipstick and compressed powder inside for the sake of placating him and hold my head high as I walk to the door.

  He stands aside for me to exit ahead of him. In the lounge, he drapes a long white coat around my shoulders and hands me a faux-fur scarf.

  “Where are we going?” I ask when he offers me his arm.

  He smiles down at me. “You’ll see.”

  If this is supposed to be a surprise, it’s not the good kind.

  I’m happy that a car and not a boat waits, because the air is wet and cold. He takes my hand and helps me inside. As before, he sits next to me in the back while Gautier and Benoit sit up front.

  I stare at the buildings as we pass, trying not to fidget. After a long drive, we stop in front of a building I recognize from my travel books—the Teatro La Fenice. I’ve read about it extensively. Is this why he brought me here? Because he saw various books about the landmark building in my apartment? I’ve always wanted to see an opera, just not with Maxime.

  The façade is the only part of the opera house that survived the two fires that almost destroyed the building in 1836 and 1996. It’s stunning. It bears the theater’s insignia in the center, a phoenix rising from the flames. Two statues in niches represent the muses of tragedy and dance. Above them are the masks of Comedy and Tragedy.

  The opulence inside is overwhelming. The photos I’ve seen don’t do it justice. I can’t help but stare at the golden pillars and detailed ceiling paintings. Maxime steers me to the Royal Box, the best seats in the house. We’re barely seated before the first curtain call sounds.

  I gasp when the curtains rise to reveal the set of a scene in Egypt. The life-size sphinx and pyramid look so real I’m transported to a different place and time. When the opera starts, I forget about Maxime for a moment. It’s Nabucco, goosebumps-worthy and incredibly sad. I loathe to admit I love every minute. When I dare to turn my head in Maxime’s direction, I catch him watching me with undisguised fascination, as if my reaction is the real attraction. It makes me feel like a monkey in a zoo.

  During intermission, he gets me a glass of freshly squeezed lemon juice with mint. I eye the glass of wine he sips. I could do with more alcohol courage. Too soon, the beautiful performance comes to an end.

  Gautier and Benoit stand guard at the entrance to our box when we exit. Maxime says something to Gautier in French, who nods and leaves. Benoit stays behind, following in our footsteps.

  “Do you always have protection?” I ask.

  Maxime places his hand on the small of my back to steer me down the stairs. “Yes.”

  “Why? Because your family is involved in criminal activities?”

  He glances around and says in a lowered voice, “Because we’re powerful.”

  “That makes you a target?”

  “Always.” He brushes his thumb over a vertebra. “You have to fight to get to the top, and then you have to fight twice as hard to stay there. There’s always someone eager to take your place.”

  His touch makes me shiver. “Does being at the top matter so much?”

  “Yes.” His voice is filled with conviction. “In this world, only the strongest survive.”

  I want to say it’s a cynical outlook, but we’ve arrived at the cloakroom. He gets my coat and makes sure I’m covered before leading me to the car. His attention is unsettling. He’s behaving like the perfect gentleman, but I know who he truly is.

  I expect us to go back to the hotel, but Gautier pulls up in front of a small but cozy-looking restaurant. Surely, we’re overdressed. When I mention it to Maxime, he only laughs.

  Once inside, I understand why Maxime wasn’t fazed. We’re the only customers. A man in his late fifties pushes through a swing door to greet us. I get a glimpse of the kitchen through the open door. Meat is sizzling on a grill and something is bubbling in a pot. An aroma of oregano and garlic fills the air.

  “Max.” The man slaps him on the back and says something in Italian.

  Maxime replies, after which the man addresses me in English. “Welcome to my humble restaurant. I will do my best to satisfy your appetite. I’m Matteo, but you can call me Teo.”

  I smile stiffly, my nerves getting the better of me. “Thank you.”

  Teo leads us to a small veranda where a table with a crisp white tablecloth is set with crystal and silverware. The terrace is encased in glass, keeping the cold out while allowing a view over the canal. A creeper grows over the trellis, and glass balls with tea candles dangle at different heights from the ceiling. It’s breathtaking. With the moon hanging low over the water between the buildings, it’s picture perfect.

  Teo seats us, then bustles off and returns with olive bread and tapenade.

&nbs
p; “I thought you’d be more at ease with an informal setting tonight,” Maxime says when Teo is gone.

  I glance at the empty tables. “You booked out the whole place?”

  “It’s more intimate, no?”

  Intimate isn’t where I want to go. When I toy with the stem of my glass, Maxime asks, “Thirsty?”

  I nod.

  He serves sparkling water for me and wine for himself.

  “Is there a reason I’m not allowed to drink wine?” I ask.

  “A good one.”

  “That is?”

  His eyes darken. “I want you lucid tonight.”

  My stomach flips. He wants me to remember our first time.

  Teo saves me from a response by arriving with a selection of small dishes.

  “I thought we’d just nibble,” Maxime says, “as you may be too nervous for a heavy meal.”

  His seductive accent chills me to the bone. His insight sets me further on edge. I don’t want him to know what I think or feel. Especially, not what I feel.

  He leans closer, his gaze sharp and predatory. “I can make it very good for you, Zoe. All you have to do is relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

  My cheeks heat, as Teo is still busy shifting the dishes around to fit everything on the table.

  When Teo is gone again, Maxime drops the lustful tone and talks about the opera while he serves me. Like the night he took me to Seven Seas, he proves how skillful he is at the art of making conversation, keeping it light while the stone in my stomach is heavy and I don’t have words.

  If not for the circumstances, the evening might’ve been pleasant, but I can’t wait for it to be over. I’m half relieved and half terrified when Maxime finally stands and offers me a hand.

  His gray stare is as intense as his words are charged. “Shall we go?”

  Clearing my throat, I push back my chair. I consider not taking his hand, but after a moment’s hesitation I accept. This is one of those battles not worth fighting.

  The closer we get to the hotel, the tighter my stomach grows. I think I may be sick. I hate him, even if he’s saving me from a worse fate. If he hadn’t taken me to start with, I wouldn’t have been in this awful position.

  I glance at his face from under my lashes as we drive. The man I’m about to accept as my lover is harsh, unfeeling, unattractive, and a kidnapper. I don’t understand why he went to so much trouble for me tonight. I do, however, believe he does nothing without purpose, and that makes me question his motives. He doesn’t need to give me consideration, attention, or lavish treatment.

  He turns his head a fraction, catching me staring. “Don’t like what you see?”

  Unable to admit the truth, I avert my eyes.

  His easy acceptance of the unspoken insult tells me that one, he gets that a lot, and two, it doesn’t faze him.

  By the time we’re back at the hotel, I’m a wreck. I climb the stairs ahead of the men, my back stiff and chin high. Maxime bids the guards good night on the landing and opens the door for me.

  Once inside, my bravado falters. I stop in the lounge. What now? How is this supposed to happen? Do I go to the room and get naked? Wait for him in the bed? At the thought, a shiver crawls over my skin.

  In no hurry, Maxime removes his jacket and drapes it over the clotheshorse. He undoes his tie and pours himself a whiskey from the wet bar. Sipping it, he studies me quietly. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem uncertain. It looks as if he knows exactly what he’s going to do next.

  I have an urge to wring my hands together. Instead, I force them behind my back. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’ll be my first. I lock that knowledge away, hanging onto it selfishly for as long as I can. He doesn’t deserve it. Hopefully, he won’t even notice.

  “Zoe.”

  I jump at the sound of his voice, giving away my anxiety. The timbre is deep and velvety, the way he says my name in his foreign accent like a caress. I barely suppress the rebellious instinct to defy him.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom?” he asks.

  Not trusting my voice, I shake my head.

  He says in a low voice, “Then go to the room, cherie.”

  Chapter 10

  Zoe

  * * *

  The words are like a sentence, the lash of a whip on my back. A sense of pending loss hangs over me, but I squash it and lock down my emotions as I do what he says and go to the room. I throw the clutch onto the loveseat where he treated my wounds this morning and stop next to the bed. When he enters the room, courage hangs around me like a shroud.

  I square my shoulders, my false bravado back in place. “How do you want me?”

  He tilts his head and studies me curiously. “How do you mean?”

  I curl my fingers until my nails cut into my palms. “Naked or clothed?”

  A slow smile curves his lips. “I don’t fuck a woman with her clothes on.”

  “Naked, then,” I say with a bite in my tone. “On the bed? Bent over the dresser?”

  “Zoe.” He shakes his head, amusement making the flat gray of his eyes seems livelier, like quicksilver. “Slow down.”

  “Just do it already.” I only want this to be over.

  He walks to me slowly, working his bowtie free. “Fucking isn’t only about me driving my dick into your pussy.”

  My cheeks heat at his crass language. When he hands me his tumbler, I take it in a reflex reaction. He unbuttons his collar before taking back the glass and leaving it on the dresser. His actions are fluid, self-assured. He stares deep into my eyes, penetrating every corner of the parts I try to hide from him as he cups my face between his broad palms.

  His skin is warm and calloused on my cheeks. I gasp as he tilts my head back and lowers his with slow purpose. I know he’s going to kiss me, but nothing prepares me for the moment his lips touch mine.

  I expected to be repulsed, as I expected him to strip me naked and use me. I didn’t expect him to kiss me and certainly not like this. It’s tentative, exploring. His lips are warm and soft, and the gentle pressure on mine wakes the nerve endings under my skin. When he releases my lips, I stare up at his face with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  “What are you doing?” I manage on a whisper.

  He scans my face, studying my eyes before his gaze drops to my lips. Instead of answering, he presses our mouths together again. This time there’s a crackle of a spark where his lips brush over mine. I gasp, a soft intake of breath. His eyes darken at the sound. The lust burns brightly in his, but before apprehension can take root, he deepens the kiss.

  The only parts of our bodies touching are his hands on my cheeks and our lips, but it’s already a sensory overload. His clean smell infiltrates my nose—citrus and spices. The warmth of his hands seeps into my skin. I’m unprepared, and the new sensations catch me off-guard. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so susceptible if this wasn’t my first kiss. I can only blame myself for holding out for a futile fantasy. I can only blame my inexperience for being so utterly defenseless against his skillful lips.

  Goosebumps break out over my arms when he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth. He nips the flesh softly with his teeth and then lets go to plant a butterfly kiss on the same spot. Heat surges through my veins, my body reacting violently to the light stimulation. When he traces the seam of my lips with his tongue, my lips open of their own accord. He steals inside, intensifying the kiss further. He tastes of whiskey and man. The gentle way he molds his lips over mine weakens my knees. My body starts to hum, electricity tingling under my overly sensitive skin. All the while, he holds me carefully, framing my face like I’m a fragile doll.

  My breathing spikes. My breasts tighten. An ache starts to pulse between my legs. A moan escapes my lips, bursting like a bubble in our kiss. Need rises in my body as the kiss becomes more demanding. I answer it without thinking, tangling my tongue with his. The minute I return the caress with equal measure, he walks me backward until my body collides with the window. The curtains haven�
��t been drawn. The pane is cold on my back, emphasizing how overheated my skin is.

  He leans in, pressing his body against mine. There’s something about being held like this by a man. I can’t put my finger on it, only that it makes me want to submit to his possession, to be dominated by his strength and protected by his power. I fall effortlessly into the trap. My lifelong tendency to escape via dreaming is a well-practiced skill. It easily aids my mind away from reality to the fantasy that’s played off so many times in my dreams that I’m longing for it with constant desire.

  He’s hard and solid, a wall of muscle. His erection presses against my stomach, feeding me my own measure of power. Male power has always featured in my fantasies about sex, but I never knew I’d have some of my own. It’s liberating, soothing my resentment of our unequal standing. The small part of my mind that still functions processes and stores the new knowledge. The only place I’ll ever have power is in his bed.

  His hands leave my face to slide down my neck and over my shoulders. They roam over my arms and come to rest on my hips. Through it all, he doesn’t break the kiss. Our life forces are mingled, the air we inhale the same. My breathing becomes more labored as Maxime lays a palm over my stomach. I know he can feel the rapid movement of my in- and exhales, my need for more. It’s as if he does just that, measures my reaction, before moving his hand to the underside of my breast. I gasp, my body going still in anticipation. Cautiously, he drags his hand higher until his thumb brushes my nipple. When the tip hardens under his touch, a growl escapes his chest.

  Our kiss turns frantic, my fantasy urgent and his victory a foregone conclusion. I can’t describe what his hands on me feel like. I’ve never experienced such crazed need. I don’t even know what to expect, only that it’s natural when he bunches the dress in a fist and pulls it up to my hip so his free hand can slip underneath and cup the heat between my legs.