It Started with a Diamond

by Teri Wilson

  Not here. Take it slow.

  But he couldn’t stop his hands from reaching for the zipper at her back and lowering it until the bodice of her dress fell away, exposing the decadent perfection of her breasts. He stared, transfixed, as he dragged the pad of his thumb across one of her nipples with a featherlight touch.

  The gemstone nestled in her cleavage seemed to glow like liquid fire, burning blue. On some level, Franco knew this wasn’t possible. But he’d lost the ability for rational thought. All he knew was that this moment was one that would stick with him until the day he died.

  He’d never forget the feel of Diana’s softness in his hands, the way she looked at him as the city whirled past them in a blur of whirling silver light. Years from now, when he was nothing but a distant memory in her bewitching, beguiling mind, he’d remember what it had felt like to lose himself in that deep purple gaze. He’d close his eyes and dream of radiant blue light. God help him. He’d probably never be able to look at a sapphire again without getting hard.

  “Diana, darling.” He groaned and lowered his lips to her breasts, drawing a nipple into his mouth.

  He was being too rough, and he knew it, nipping and biting with his teeth. But he couldn’t stop. Not when she was arching toward his mouth and fisting her hands in his hair. His hunger was matched by her need, which didn’t seem possible.

  It was like falling into a mirror.

  How will this end?

  Badly. No question.

  He couldn’t fathom walking away from Diana Drake. But he knew he would. He always walked away. From everyone.

  “Mr. Andrade.” The driver’s voice crackled over the intercom.

  Franco ignored it and peeled Diana’s dress lower. He was fully on top of her now, spread over the length of the backseat. He was kissing his way down her abdomen when the driver’s voice came over the loud speaker again.

  “Mr. Andrade, there are photographers at the end of the block, just outside the apartment building.”

  Diana stiffened beneath him.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  He gently lifted her dress back into place, cursing himself for being such an impatient idiot.

  What were they doing? They weren’t teenagers on prom night, for crying out loud. He was a grown man. The choices he made had consequences. And somehow the consequences of his involvement with Diana seemed to grow more serious by the day.

  Diana sat up and brushed the chestnut bangs from her eyes. Her sapphire necklace shimmered in the dark.

  Franco looked away and straightened his tie from the other end of the leather seat.

  “We’re here, Miss Drake, Mr. Andrade,” the driver announced.

  “Thank you,” Franco said, squinting through the darkened car window.

  The throng of paparazzi gathered at the entrance to the building was the largest he’d ever seen. The press attention was getting out of hand. The wedding would be a circus.

  Get a grip.

  He shook his head. There wasn’t going to be a wedding. Ever. The engagement was a sham, despite the massive rock on Diana’s finger.

  The ring was messing with Franco’s head. He was having enough trouble maintaining a grasp on reality, and seeing that diamond solitaire on Diana’s hand every time she reached for him, touched him, stroked him just added to the confusion.

  The back door opened, and he and Diana somehow managed to find their way inside the building amid the blinding light of flashbulbs. The photographers screamed questions at them about the details of the wedding. Would it be held at the Plaza? Who was designing Diana’s wedding dress?

  It occurred to Franco that he would have liked to see Diana dressed in bridal white. She would look stunning walking toward her man standing at the front of a church in front of the upper echelons of Manhattan society. A lucky man. A man who wasn’t him.

  They managed to keep their hands off each other as they navigated the route to Diana’s front door. When had touching each other become something they did in private rather than for show? And why did that seem so dangerous when that’s the way it should have always been?

  Diana slid her key into the lock. She pushed the door open, and they paused at the threshold.

  Franco caught her gaze and smiled. “I’m sorry about what happened in the car and the close call with the photographers. That was...” He shook his head, struggling for an appropriate adjective. Careless. Intense. Fantastic.

  They all fit.

  The corners of her perfect bow-shaped lips curved into a smile that could only be described as wicked. “I’m not sorry.”

  Franco swallowed. Hard.

  Like falling into a mirror.

  But mirrors broke when they fell. They ended up in tiny shards of broken glass that sparkled like diamonds but cut to the quick.

  He didn’t care what happened to him next month. Next week. Tomorrow. He just knew that before the night was over, he would bury himself inside Diana again. Consequences be damned.

  * * *

  The moment they stepped inside the apartment and the door clicked shut behind them, Diana found herself pressed against the wall. Franco’s mouth was on hers in an instant, kissing her with such force, such need that her lips throbbed almost to the point of pain.

  A forbidden thrill snaked its way through her. This was different than it had been the night before. They’d been somewhat cautious with each other then, neither of them willing to fully let down their guard. But she knew without having to ask that tonight wouldn’t be like that. Tonight would be about surrender.

  “Take off your dress,” he ordered and took a step backward. His gaze settled on her sapphire necklace as he waited for her to obey.

  She stood frozen, breathless for a moment, as she tried to make sense of what was happening. She shouldn’t enjoy being told what to do, but this was for her pleasure. His. Theirs. And the molten warmth pooling in her center told her she liked it, indeed.

  She reached behind her back for her zipper, but her hands were already shaking so hard that they were completely ineffectual. Franco moved closer, his face mere inches from hers. Her neck went hot, her knees buckled and she desperately wanted to look away. To take a deep breath and calm the frantic beating of her heart. But she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from his.

  The corner of his mouth lifted into a barely visible half smile. His eyes blazed. He knew full well the effect he had on her. In moments like this, he owned her. He knew it, and so did she.

  It should have frightened her. Diana had never wanted to belong to anyone, let alone him. And she wouldn’t. Not once their charade was over and they’d gone their separate ways.

  But just this once she wanted it to be true. Just for tonight.

  “Turn around, love.” His voice was raw, pained.

  She did as he said and turned to face the wall. With excruciating care, he unzipped her gown. Red lace slid down her hips and fell to the floor. Franco’s hands reached around to cup her breasts as his lips left a trail of tantalizing kisses down her spine.

  “Preciosa,” he murmured against her bare back. Lovely.

  His breath was like fire on her skin. She was shimmering, molten. A gemstone in the making.

  She sighed and arched her back. Franco’s hands slid from her breasts to her hips, where he hooked his fingers around her lacy panties and slid them down her legs. She stepped out of them, turned to face him, but he stopped her with a sharp command.

  “No.” He took her hands and pressed them flat against the wall, then whispered in her ear. “Don’t move, Diana. Stay very still.”

  This was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She’d never been with anyone besides Franco, but this was even different than the times they’d been together. The brush of his desi
gner tuxedo against her exposed skin made her consciously aware of the fact that, once again, she was completely undressed while he remained fully clothed. She couldn’t even see him, but that seemed to enhance the riot of sensations skittering through her body. She could only close her eyes and feel.

  He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, her shoulder. His hands were everywhere—on her waist, her bottom, sliding over her belly. She was suddenly grateful for the wall and the way he’d pressed her hands against it. It was the only thing holding her up. Her legs had begun to tremble, and the tingle between them was almost too much to bear. She was so overwhelmed by the gentle assault of his mouth and the graceful exploration of his hands that she didn’t even notice he’d nudged her legs apart with his knee until his fingertips reached between her thighs and found her center.

  “I could touch you forever,” he said and slid a finger inside her.

  Forever.

  It was a dangerous word, but this was a dangerous game they were playing. For all practical purposes, they were playing house. Living as husband and wife. And to Diana’s astonishment, she didn’t hate it.

  On the contrary, she quite enjoyed it.

  Especially now, bent over with Franco’s fingers moving in and out of her. She moaned, low and delicious. She needed him to stop. Now, before she climaxed in this brazen posture. But she’d lost control of her body. Her hips were rocking in time with his hand, and she was opening herself up for him like a flower. A rare and beautiful orchid. Diamond white.

  “Franco,” she begged. “Please.”

  “Come,” he whispered. “For me. Do it now.”

  Stars exploded before her eyes, falling like diamond dust as her body shuddered to its end. She collapsed into his arms, and he carried her across the apartment to the bedroom, whispering soothing words.

  She’d gone boneless, yet her skin was alive. Shimmering like a glistening ruby. The King of Stones. And as he gingerly set her down and pushed inside her, she felt regal. Adored as no woman had ever been.

  She was a queen, and Franco Andrade was her king.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Diana took her place at a reserved table situated near midfield, where Artem and Ophelia sat beneath the shade of a Drake-blue umbrella. She tried not to think too hard about the fact that this is what life would be like if she and Franco were together.

  Really together.

  Sundays at the Polo Club, sipping champagne with her brother and his wife, surrounded by the comforting scents of fresh-cut grass and cherry blossoms. A real family affair.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

  Her throat grew tight. It felt quite nice, actually. Far too nice to be real.

  Surrender.

  It would have been so easy to give in. The past month had been more than business. It had been such a beautiful lie that she wondered sometimes if she actually believed it.

  I could touch you forever.

  Forever.

  The word had branded itself on her skin, along with Franco’s touch.

  “Here he comes,” Ophelia said.

  Diana dragged her attention away from the night before and back to the present, where Franco was riding onto the field atop a beautifully muscled bay mare. The horse’s dark tail was fashioned into a tight braid, and the bottoms of its legs were wrapped with bright red bandages. These were protective measures, necessary to guard against injury during play, rather than fashion statements. But the overall effect was striking just the same. The horse was magnificent.

  But not as magnificent as its rider.

  Diana had never seen Franco in full polo regalia before. Riding clothes, sure. But not like this...

  He wore crisp white pants and brandy-colored boots that stretched all the way above his knees. The sleeves of his Kingsmen polo shirt strained at his biceps as he gave his mallet a few practice swings. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at the muscles in his forearms. Or the way he carried himself in the saddle. Confident. Commanding. The aggressive glint in his eyes was just short of cocky.

  He winked at her, and she realized he’d caught her staring. Before she could stop herself, she wiggled her white-gloved fingers in a tiny wave.

  Beside her, Artem cleared his throat. “Are you ready for this, sis?”

  She dropped her hand to her lap and nodded. “I am.”

  He was talking about the horses, of course. As far as Artem knew, she hadn’t been this close to a horse since the day of her accident. She thought about telling him what Franco had done for her, but she couldn’t find the words. She wasn’t even sure words existed to describe what had happened when he’d taken her hands and placed them on the warmth of the gelding’s back.

  But the main reason she didn’t try and explain was that she wanted to keep the grace of the moment to herself. To preserve its sanctity. Almost every move she and Franco had made for the past month had been splashed all over the newspapers. Every touch. Every kiss. Every lie. The truth between them lived in the quiet moments, the ones no one else had seen. And she wanted to keep it that way as long as she possibly could.

  Because so long as no one knew how much he really meant to her, she could pretend the end didn’t matter. She could hold her head high when the gossip pages screamed that she and Franco were over.

  Right in front of her, the players were clustered together in the center of the field. The two teams faced each other, waiting for the throw-in—the moment when the umpire tossed the ball into play. Diana forced herself to watch, to concentrate on the present rather than what hadn’t even happened yet. But as the bright white ball fell to the ground, she couldn’t help but feel like time had begun to move at warp speed. And, with a resounding whack of Franco’s mallet, it did.

  The ball sailed across the grass, a startling white streak against bright, vivid green. Franco leaned into the saddle, and his horse charged forward. The ground shook beneath Diana’s feet as the players charged toward the goal.

  Franco led the charge, and when he hit the ball with such force that it went airborne, her heart leaped straight to her throat.

  She held her breath while she waited for the official ruling. When the man behind the goal waved a flag over his head to indicate the Kingsmen had scored, she flew to her feet and cheered.

  Franco caught her eye as his horse galloped toward the opposite end of the field. He smiled, and her head spun a little.

  God, she was acting like an actual fiancée. A wife.

  But she was supposed to, wasn’t she? She was just doing her job.

  It was more than that, though. There was no denying it. She wasn’t acting at all.

  Oh, no.

  Her legs went wobbly, and she sank into her white wooden chair.

  You’re in love with him.

  “He’s amazing, isn’t he?” Ophelia clapped and yelled Franco’s name.

  “He is, indeed.” Diana felt sick.

  How had she let this happen? Sleeping with Franco again—twice—had been stupid enough. Falling in love with him was another thing entirely. Off-the-charts idiotic.

  The players flew past again in a flurry of galloping hooves and swinging mallets, and Diana’s gaze remained glued to Franco. She shook her head and forced herself to look away, to concentrate on something real. The silver champagne bucket beside the table. The feathered hat situated at a jaunty angle on Ophelia’s head. Anything. She counted to ten, but none of the little tricks she’d once used to stop herself from thinking about Diamond worked. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Franco.

  In the blink of an eye, he scored three more goals. It was a relief when the horn sounded, signaling the end of the first chukker. The break between periods was only three minutes, but she needed those three minutes. Every second of them. She needed a break from the intensity of the action on the field.
Time to collect herself. Time to convince herself that she wasn’t in love with the high-scoring player of the game.

  Artem refilled their champagne flutes. “Franco’s on fire today.”

  Diana watched him trot off the field toward a groom who stood by, ready and waiting, with Franco’s next horse and mallet. By the time the match was finished, he’d go through at least seven horses. One for each chukker.

  “Diana?” Artem slid a glass in front of her.

  “Hmm?” she asked absently.

  Franco had removed his helmet to rake his hand through his hair, a gesture that struck her as nonsensically sensual. Even from this distance.

  “Could you peel your eyes away from your fiancé for half a second?” There was a smile in Artem’s voice.

  Sure enough, when she swiveled to face him, she found him grinning from ear to ear. Ophelia’s chair was empty. Diana hadn’t even noticed she’d left the table.

  “Fake fiancé,” she said. The back of her neck felt warm all of a sudden. She sipped her champagne and wished Artem would find something else to look at.

  “You can stop now,” Artem said. “I know.”

  “Know what?” But she was stalling. She knew exactly what he’d meant. He knew.

  “About you and Andrade.” His gaze flitted toward Franco climbing onto his new horse. This one was a sleek, solid-black gelding. Just like Diamond.

  Diana’s heart hammered in her chest. “Who told you?”

  Franco? Surely not.

  But no one else knew.

  “No one.” Artem let out a laugh. “Are you kidding? No one had to. I’m not blind, sis. It’s written all over your face.”

  She shook her head. “No. We’re not... I’m not...”

  I’m not in love. I can’t be.

  “Don’t even try to pretend it’s an act. I’m not buying it this time.” His gaze flitted from her to Franco and back again. “How long?”