Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Read online

  I pull free. “Thank Lina.”

  Anne looks between Zane and me. “Which room can I take?”

  “Lina will decide.” Walking to the door, I address my wife. “A moment, please.”

  Outside in the hallway, I back Lina up to the wall. Zane and Anne can exit at any moment, but I need this. I need to pin her weight against me. I need to remind her how she submitted not moments ago. I need to remind myself that I have the power, even when I give in to her.

  “What?” she asks, a little breathless.

  Taking perverse pleasure from her reaction, I don’t back up. She’s been kind to me from day one, but there was no telling if she’d want me. I breathe easier, knowing it’s doable. Call it a test, but after what she showed me in the study, I can teach her to want me.

  “What?” she repeats, flattening her back against the wall, but it doesn’t stop her nipples from brushing my chest.

  As Anne barged in uninvited, there was no need for introductions. Since she’ll be staying, I need to clarify the nature of our relationship.

  “Anne is Zane’s sister,” I say. “She boarded with me for a night. That’s all.”

  “His sister?”

  “She’s not my mistress.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “As your husband, I do.”

  “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” she asks, as if telling her I’m not fucking the guest she invited isn’t important.

  “We have a party on Saturday. Zane will take you dress shopping. Whatever you need, he has a credit card for your expenses.”

  Something in her gaze shifts. “Zane?”

  “I’ll be tied up with urgent business for most of the week.” Such as voting Dalton off the board.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “That I prefer you to take me.”

  “Pity.” I smile like I imagine a snake would grimace at a mouse. “How did you mean it?”

  “I don’t need Zane to take me shopping.”

  “Your safety isn’t up for discussion.”

  “I’m not talking about my safety. I don’t need a dress.”

  “You do.”

  “I have enough.”

  Five. I’ve counted. All black. “Not for our wedding reception.”

  “Our what?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let our marriage pass without a celebration, did you?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “No such luck, angel.” I push away from the wall before I’m tempted to make her come against it. I can get addicted to her orgasms. When she comes, I can tell it’s overwhelming. I like to know I have the power to do that to her. “Get a dress.” I walk away. Resisting her is too damn hard.

  “No,” she says to my back.

  “Get one,” I call over my shoulder.

  Of course, she’s going to defy me.

  Lina

  What happened? I feel like the mouse in the cat’s claws. Damian has gone easy on me, but he’s not done playing. Of that, I’m sure. Strung out by his game, I search Jana out in the kitchen. Her kindness is soothing. She tells me everything I don’t know about my own wedding reception. I sit at the kitchen table, sipping the tea she insists I drink, while she fills me in. The party will take place at the house. An event coordinator is making the arrangements. From what she’s seen of the planning, it’s going to be the event of the year. My only job is to look pretty, says Jana. Over a hundred people have been invited, including the mine magnates and diamond brokers. The only person not on the list is Harold. Damian’s orders.

  Jana gives me a probing look from where she’s scooping butternut into a blender. “May I ask why your father isn’t invited?” She’s finally accepted to call me Lina, but only when Damian isn’t around. “It’s none of my business, but I hate to see you looking so down.”

  I lift my head quickly. “I’m not down.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s written all over your face. Why don’t you talk to Mr. Hart? Sometimes, family has fallouts. It can always be fixed.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” I’m glad Harold won’t be here, but I can’t expect Jana to understand.

  She rinses her hands and dries them on a kitchen towel. “I think I know why you’re upset.” Crossing the floor, she stops on the opposite side of the table. “You’re sad because Mr. Hart didn’t involve you in the planning. I’m sure he’s only trying to make it easy for you. Knowing he’s not around often to help, he probably wanted as little stress and work for you as possible.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  There’s no way of explaining our complicated situation to someone as sweet and uncomplicated as Jana, who’s been married to a nice, stable guy with a great sense of humor—her words—for the past twelve years.

  “Good.” She pats my hand. “Talking of not being around often, Mr. Hart said he’d be late for dinner. I’ll leave everything in the warming drawer if you want to eat earlier.”

  “That’ll be kind.”

  I’m about to ask if she needs help with dinner when Anne walks into the kitchen.

  “Oh, hi, Jana,” Anne says, barely sparing her a glance.

  Jana nods. “Anne.” Turning her back to us, she continues with the meal preparations.

  “You didn’t say which room I should take,” Anne says.

  “Any one you want.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose or anything, but my clothes are already in the room next to yours.”

  “Then leave them there.”

  “Great.” She bounces on the balls of her feet. “Zane just told me about Saturday. He’s taking me shopping for a dress. Want to come?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Okay.” She finger waves and skips out of the room.

  “Lina.”

  “Mm?”

  Jana leans on the counter, her expression concerned. “Tell me she’s not moving in.”

  “She’s short of money.”

  “Not so short she can’t afford a new dress.”

  “Maybe Zane gave her money.”

  “Maybe he should’ve given her money for rent.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Be careful of that one. You may want to keep a close eye on your husband with her around.”

  “Don’t you like her?”

  “Just saying. When you’re staff, people think you’re invisible, but I see things when I’m working, and I saw the way she looks at Mr. Hart.”

  What would a wife in normal circumstances say? “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Maybe Anne is the distraction Damian needs. If she’s willing and eager, perhaps he’ll lose interest in playing cat and mouse games with me.

  Damian

  It’s barely dinnertime when I park in front of the house. I’m home earlier than expected. I rushed the meeting for one reason only. Lina is alone. Zane called to let me know he’s having dinner in town with Anne, wisely staying away from me tonight. I’m still upset about Anne’s move. I’m even more impatient to get inside. Damn, the things I want to do to my wife.

  “Everything fine?” I ask Russell on my way in.

  “Perfect, sir. Mrs. Hart is having dinner.”

  “Good. Take a break.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He leaves promptly.

  Loosening my tie, I go straight to the dining room. In jail, I wanted nothing more than to dress in a power suit and tie, as if I had to prove with clothes who I could be. Now, the tie feels like a noose. I dump it on a chair in the hallway and unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt. Who the hell puts chairs in hallways, anyway? Who’s going to sit on them? In the doorframe of the dining room, I pause.

  Lina is sitting at the place I chose for her, immediately to the left of the head of the table. Her head is bowed over a bowl. She’s spooning soup down her throat so fast she doesn’t notice me.

  “Slow down.” I chuckle. “The soup isn’t going to run away.�
�

  Pausing with the spoon halfway in the air, she averts her eyes before leaving the spoon in her side plate and dabbing a napkin to her mouth. “Sorry.”

  Immediately, I want to bite my tongue. With her history, I want her to eat. Badly. “Please, don’t stop on my behalf. Pretend I’m not here.”

  Her look is cutting. I don’t like where this is going. I don’t want her to think she needs permission to eat, or God forbid, to stop eating all together. Hunger strikes aren’t beyond her and force-feeding isn’t beneath me. I just prefer not to go there. Her back sets in a rigid posture, but I’m quietly relieved when she picks up the spoon again.

  The clinking of her cutlery follows me into the kitchen where I serve myself a bowl of butternut soup before carrying it to the table.

  As the meal progresses in silence, I use the opportunity to study her. She doesn’t strike me as someone scared of eating. On the contrary, she’s eating with gusto, fast, as if she’s worried the food will disappear.

  “There’s a bat in the garden,” she says out of the blue.

  Taken aback not as much by the remark than the fact that she spoke to me, it takes me a moment to formulate a reply. “I’ll have it removed.”

  “No! They’re endangered.”

  “I said removed, as in moved to a colony, not killed.”

  “You shouldn’t move it. It may have a family here.”

  That makes me smile. My wife is concerned about a bat family. “What do you propose I do?”

  “You need bat boxes.”

  “You happen to know about bat boxes,” I tease.

  “I did some research today.”

  “How?”

  “I browsed some sites.”

  Not having access to a computer, she must’ve used her phone. “Do you need a laptop?”

  “The phone is enough.” As an afterthought, she adds half-heartedly, “Thanks.”

  “Go ahead then. Get the boxes.”

  “It’s going to cost five thousand for the boxes, and nine hundred for the installation.”

  She really did do her research.

  She toys with her napkin. “Will you give me permission to withdraw the money from my account?”

  Absolutely not, but I’ll give her the money. “Tell the company to send me the bill.”

  “Thanks,” she huffs.

  It’s a sore point for her, the fact that she has to ask permission to use her money. How does it feel to be filthy rich, but unable to buy even an apple? I like to pay for everything she needs. It goes deeper than my desire to control her. I want to take care of her. I fucking love knowing I can provide her with whatever she requires. After drowning in poverty during my childhood, this is my obsession, my own private issue.

  When she excuses herself to clear the soup bowls, I fetch the main meal. I carve the pork roast and serve us each a helping of vegetables. She attacks the food like a vulture, every now and again remembering to slow down. When she does, she shoots me a sidelong glance, but I pretend not to notice this oddity of a lady who’s been schooled in table manners at the most elitist of establishments. It doesn’t matter to me how she eats. For all I care, she can eat with her hands and slurp her soup, but I know where she attended school, and I know what they teach young ladies.

  In many ways, Lina is a mystery. According to her medical reports, she suffered from anorexia and bouts of bulimia, but since she’s been eating at my table, she eats as if every meal is her last. She has an angelic face, but she never smiles. It’s not just when she’s with me. She doesn’t smile in her yearbook or newspaper photos. A young woman of twenty-four, she only wears black, not in a gothic or alternative fashion, but in a genuinely morbid, depressing way. She covers herself from head to toes like a goddam nun, even in the heat of summer. Russell told me he showed her the pool. She doesn’t own a bathing suit. I went through her belongings when her suitcase arrived. What am I supposed to make of all this? I doubt she’s crazy. Not crazy enough to be locked up for a year. Eccentric, perhaps. Spoiled, maybe. Incompetent? I have my doubts.

  She pushes her empty plate away. “May I please be excused? I’m rather tired.”

  The question pops out before I can stop myself. “Why did you marry Clarke?”

  We stare at each other, her eyes round and my heart thumping with a dead beat. The night she offered me her shawl, when I’d found her in the corridor before going to Dalton’s office, I’d walked right up to her and said, “It was nice to meet you, Angelina Dalton. One day, you’re going to be Mrs. Hart.” There wasn’t a trace of a smile on her face when she replied, “I know.”

  She gapes. “W-what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  When she pushes back from the table, I grab her wrist. It’s out in the open, the big, fat elephant, and ignoring it will only make it bigger.

  “You said you’d be mine.” Not in so many words, but on the night I told her I was going to make her Mrs. Hart, she said, “I know.”

  I know.

  She doesn’t fight the hold of my fingers, maybe instinctively sensing pushing me now is dangerous.

  “I was eighteen,” she says in a quiet voice.

  “Yet, you married Clarke.”

  “He asked.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your father needed mining rights for my discovery. Clarke was the only one who could grant them. It seems convenient that you suddenly became his wife.”

  Anger flashes in her eyes. “I didn’t marry him for mining rights.”

  “Just for money?”

  “Like you married me for money?”

  I chuckle. “I told you it’s not just about the money. Don’t change the subject. You could’ve waited.”

  “For what?” she exclaims softly. “For a man I saw once? You were in jail for theft.”

  I can’t believe my fucking ears. “You believe I stole that diamond?”

  “What was I supposed to think? I didn’t know you.” Her tone is pleading. “I still don’t know you.”

  Not good enough. She said she knew. She should’ve known. She should’ve waited. This is the moment I blow it. This is the moment my carefully crafted composure cracks.

  “You’re right, Lina. You don’t know me. Not yet.” I stand, pulling her with me. “But you’re going to learn, starting right now.”

  Her calmness slips. She tries to hold back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to show you who I am.”

  Chapter 6

  Damian

  No amount of kicking and fighting can stop me, not that Lina is fighting. She knows she’s too small, too light. She knows we’re alone. She stumbles behind me in her effort to keep up. I don’t slow down. I’m not the younger version of me who told her I was going to make her mine. Back then, I meant it in a good way. Now, I’m a man stripped from everything that’s good. That’s all right, or so I tell myself, because she’s not the girl who bewitched me. Neither is she the woman who’s going to save me. I’m long since beyond saving.

  With her unstable history, she’s ten different shades of problems, which is why I’m walking a tightrope with no safety net by dragging her into my study, into my anger. I fling her into the room, letting go the moment I’m sure she won’t fall, because the longer I touch her the more I want to hurt her, and the more I want to hurt her the harder I get. She watches me warily, like she should, rubbing at her arm where I’ve gripped her. Holding her gaze with all the intentions bubbling up inside me, I reach behind me and close the door.

  Her throat bobs as she swallows. She’s too brave, lifting her chin and standing her ground when I advance. My mind screams at me to calm down, but my heart knows no mercy. Stopping short of her, I grab at the last straws of reason. She’s an incompetent woman. Her mind is fragile. So is her body. Yet, she’s not insane. If there’s a classical rich girl dysfunctional cliché, I can pin it on her. Attention see
king, weight obsessive, egoistic, and spoiled. The crazy label is just an excuse to hide her personality defects and justify the sympathy she doesn’t deserve.

  “On your knees.”

  “No.”

  “On your knees.”

  “I’ll take it standing.”

  She won’t last, not even on her knees. She’ll be facedown, smothering in the carpet before I’ve had time to take a calming breath. I’m seething. I’m furious. I’m a mess, all because of six years ago. All because of Dalton. All because of their betrayal. All because she fucking said, “I know,” and then gave away what wasn’t hers to give.

  She gave away what was mine.

  “It’s never been yours.”

  Did I say that out loud? My feet seem to move of their own accord to the wall. With every nail I hammered into the fancy wallpaper, I thought about her. With every implement of torture I hanged on the wall, I thought about pain and pleasure. It’s an out-of-body experience, watching my hand reach for the whip. The wooden handle presses into my palm as I tighten my fingers. My logic calls to me, tells me this is the point where I can still turn around. Yet, she’s not a fantasy on a jail cot in a cell. She’s here, and she’s not as crazy as she should be.

  I let the leather thong unfurl. It lashes the floor with a thwack. “On your knees.”

  “No.”

  My hands start shaking with both pent-up and new anger. I fling the whip again, this time closer to her feet. “Kneel.”

  Her heart beats like a beast under her bodice, but her voice is steady. “No.”

  I know how to swing a whip. The next lash flies past her face, sizzling in the air. She flinches, but she doesn’t move. It’s off. It’s as if she’s done this before, only, I can’t imagine anyone posing her on a Persian rug and swinging a whip around her pretty face. That kind of cruelty is saved for men like me.

  “It’ll be easier if you do as you’re told.”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” I graze her shoulder with the wooden handle. “I was going to go easy on you, but you may as well get the full ugly of who I am.”