Diamonds in the Rough: A Diamond Magnate Novel (Diamonds are Forever Book 2)

by Charmaine Pauls

  He brings the car to a screeching halt in front of a white building with a water fountain. Grabbing my jaw in his hand, he squeezes painfully. “You’re mine, Zoe, for the whole fucking world to see. Is that clear enough, or is it time for another lesson?”

  Tears gather in my eyes. I shake my head. “Please, Maxime. I can’t do this. Not tonight. Just take me home.”

  He lets go, the momentum shoving me against the door. “You will go inside and get changed. You will wait for me in the room until I come and fetch you.” His expression hardens. “How tonight turns out is up to you.”

  He gets out, comes around, and opens my door. Gautier and Benoit must’ve followed behind us. They get out of a Mercedes. Gautier takes a dry-cleaning and overnight bag from the trunk of Maxime’s car. Benoit scans the entrance of the casino and steps aside for me to enter. I’m halfway across the pavement when Maxime catches my wrist.

  “You forgot something.” Yanking me against him, he cups my nape and kisses me.

  The kiss is hot and intense, but I’m not in it.

  Maxime tears his lips from mine and pushes me aside. “Make sure you’re ready in an hour.”

  I walk on wooden legs to the door, following Gautier and Benoit through the lobby to an elevator. Gautier pushes the button for the top floor. Always the penthouse. He leaves the bags on the bed and checks the suite before locking me in.

  I stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor, the lights of Marseille stretching out below like a bed of diamonds. The ache in my heart bleeds and grows. The shame and betrayal are like stains on my soul. I can almost forgive Maxime for making me fall in love with him. Almost. At least that wasn’t intentional. It happened all on my part because I opened my stupid heart when I opened my body, but this I can never forgive.

  Rushing to the telephone, I lift the earpiece and dial zero.

  “Good evening, Miss Hart,” a male voice says. “How may I assist you?”

  “I’d like to make a local call, please.” If I can reach the embassy, I can ask for help. “Can you connect me?”

  He clears his throat. “Sorry, ma’am. No calls. Mr. Belshaw’s instructions.”

  Of course. It was worth a try. “Thank you, anyway,” I say before hanging up.

  My gaze falls on the bottle of champagne cooling in the ice bucket, the cork already popped. I pour a glass, but stop before bringing it to my lips. I said I wouldn’t become my father. Drowning my problems isn’t going to help. I leave the glass on the table and unzip the bag on the bed. It’s a pink dress—simply beautiful. Silk rose petals are sewn onto the skirt with teardrop crystals. I brush my fingers over the stretch velvet fabric, admiring the craftsmanship. The dress looks as if it’s made from rose petals that are scattered with drops of dew. It must’ve taken hours to hand-sew the detail. It only intensifies the ache in my chest that Maxime should know my taste so well.

  The overnight bag contains my toiletries and makeup. I shower, take my hair up like Maxime likes it, and apply a light coat of makeup before putting on the dress. It has a high neck and low back, the fabric kissing my breasts and legs. I haven’t touched the new sewing machine yet. I wanted to focus on my sketches first. Now I’m not sure I can.

  After fitting the strappy heels, I go out onto the balcony and let the breeze cool my skin as I inhale the fragrance of the night. Salt drifts in from the sea. It’s mixed with the smell of industrial oil and grilled sausage wafting from the hotdog vendor on the street corner four stories below. It’s the smell of night and the city, of potential and freedom. In Johannesburg, it was smoke and coal, fabric dye near the flea market, and leather coming from the shoe factory. Each city holds its own prison, a life I yearn to escape. Yet here I am, a prisoner of my own making, bound to the heart of a merciless man.

  The door opens and closes. There’s a silent pause. I imagine him crossing the floor on the soft carpet. A moment later, his heels fall hard on the balcony tiles.

  He comes to a stop next to me. Citrus and cloves reach my nostrils, wiping the city and night away and its feeble promise of freedom.

  “I have something for you.” Taking my hand, Maxime turns me to face him. His gaze slips over me, evaluating my efforts. “You look beautiful.”

  We haven’t laughed since the sewing machine. I was going to laugh with him tonight. I imagined us like this, at home, maybe on the beach, sharing a moment from my day. He’d pull me into his lap and make me tell him everything while listening attentively like he always does.

  “You never tell me about your day,” I say.

  He drags his knuckles over my cheek. “You didn’t drink the champagne I ordered for you.”

  “I’ve learned my own lesson.”

  He smiles. “One glass isn’t going to hurt.”

  No, but it’ll take the edge off, and I don’t want to dull my senses tonight. I want to punish myself with the truth for being so repeatedly, stupidly naïve.

  I don’t know where the words come from. They’re out before I can stop them. “You used me that night.”

  His look is amused. “The night you got drunk? You let me.”

  True.

  Leaning closer, he brushes his lips over my neck. “You liked it.”

  I did.

  “It’s on the table,” he says. “Go open your gift.”

  I don’t want another one, but I don’t have the energy to fight this war, too. I let him pull me back inside. A velvet box lies on the table. I flip the lid back to reveal a diamond choker. The stones are brilliant and beautifully set. It looks invaluable. It looks like a really expensive collar.

  “Turn around,” he says, lifting it from the velvet cushion.

  I face the mirror, watching my reflection as he puts the choker around my neck and secures the clasp at the back. The woman who stares back at me isn’t me. She’s the woman who sold her body in exchange for a life and a reprieve from lessons, a woman who’s just accepted another magnificent token of ownership.

  Cupping my hips, he meets my eyes in the glass. “You’re so perfect it hurts to look at you.”

  Yes, it hurts. I turn away from the picture, condemning it to the place where I lock away all my painful memories.

  He takes my hand and kisses my fingers. “Every eye will be on you tonight.”

  When he puts my hand on his arm, I don’t protest. I follow him out in the hallway and into the elevator. We exit on the first floor. The ballroom is already buzzing with people. I’m relieved it’s a seated dinner and not a cocktail, which means I don’t have to follow like a puppy while Maxime mingles. I can sit down and drift away while the speeches drone on.

  A hostess shows us to our table. The hall fills up even more. Maxime pours me a glass of water. It seems the couple who were seated with us didn’t show up, because when the speeches finally start, we’re alone at our table.

  Maxime drapes an arm around the back of my chair. He drags his fingers over my shoulder and along the curve of my neck to my nape where his thumb traces the choker before brushing over a vertebra.

  Leaning over, he whispers in my ear, “Talk to me, Zoe.”

  I look at him. He wants to talk here? Now?

  “You’re upset,” he says in a low voice. “Tell me. I’ll make it right.”

  “You can’t make it right,” I whisper back.

  “Try me.”

  Tears burn behind my eyes again. “I never entered that school on my own merit, did I?”

  He stiffens. “Who told you?”

  “No one. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

  Anger sweeps over his features. “If you’re being treated unfairly just because—”

  “No.” I don’t want trouble for Madame Page. It’s bad enough he forced my way in with his powerful family connections. “How did you do it? Did you donate a ridiculous amount of money to the school?”

  His lips tighten. “No one says no to me, not in this city.”

  “I see.” I look away so he won’t see the tears I can’t contain.


  Gripping my chin, he turns my face back to him. “Is it so bad that I want to make you happy?”

  “Yes, Maxime. This is bad. This is really bad.”

  “Why?” he asks though clenched teeth.

  “You made me believe I earned it.”

  “You did,” he says with conviction.

  “That’s not for you to decide. You’re not a fashion design expert. It was up to the board and Madame Page.”

  He looks confused. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I was happy until I found out it’s a lie.”

  Gripping my hand hard under the table, he says, “I pulled a lot of strings to make this happen for you, so you’re going to swallow your pride and be a good girl and go to school and do what you love. It’s that simple.”

  “You’d think it is.”

  “If you’re implying I don’t care, you’re damn right. I don’t give a damn what Madame or your classmates think. You shouldn’t either.”

  I guess that’s the difference between us, and the crux of the problem. He doesn’t give a damn. Unfortunately, I do.

  “No more talking about this,” he says, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing my knuckles.

  I breathe in deeply to abate my tears and put a stopper on my emotions. I can’t give the people around us the satisfaction of witnessing my distress. It’s too personal. Too vulnerable.

  I eat as much as I can stomach, feeling raw inside. Feeling cheated. What else is Maxime hiding from me? I’m peeling away these layers of truth one at a time, and I’m scared of what I’ll find at the core. I’m so tired of floating in the dark and drowning in his secrets.

  It’s after midnight when the dinner is finally over and Maxime has greeted everyone he wanted to. Networking is important.

  “I know you’re tired,” he says, placing a palm on my lower back. “We can sleep here if you like.”

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer to go home.”

  Home. It’s not the first time I’ve said it tonight, but we both pause when the word leaves my lips. Maxime is kind enough not to make a big deal out of it, even as more of the possessive satisfaction I’ve come to recognize washes over his face. He tells Gautier to fetch my overnight bag from upstairs and ask at reception for a valet to bring his car around.

  The same questions as always repeat through my mind when he escorts me outside. Why is Maxime keeping me here? I know it has something to do with the diamonds from the questions he posed before kidnapping me, but why is he holding Damian’s life over my head? I’m distracted, but simultaneously hyperaware of the warm night and how the heat seems to lift for a brief reprieve even as Maxime’s broad palm burns hot on the exposed skin of my back. Benoit and Gautier move ahead of us, Gautier carrying my overnight bag. The valet rounds the corner with Maxime’s Bugatti. The Mercedes in which the guards came is parked across the street.

  A black car with tinted windows rolls slowly down the road. The back window lowers when they’re almost next to us. It must be someone Maxime knows, maybe someone from the party who wants to call out a last goodbye. I look at Maxime to catch his attention. He’s slowed down beside me, staring at the car with a strange expression.

  “Get down,” Maxime yells at the same time as a string of shots blast through the air.

  He throws his body in front of mine, taking me down to the pavement as the glass door of the casino explodes behind us. I hit the concrete with a thud, his arms cushioning the fall but my head taking a knock that makes my teeth clatter. My elbows and hip burn. My bones are crushed against the hard surface by Maxime’s weight.

  Another round of shots go off. People scream. The couple who exited behind us scurry for the casino lobby. My cheek is pressed to the pavement. The concrete is rough and warm against my skin. It smells of dust and car exhaust. I register everything as the black car speeds off.

  Someone shot at us.

  “Maxime!” I push on his shoulders. Oh, my God! Is he hurt?

  His eyes are the color of pale marble, cold and hard, when he lifts his weight and drags his hands over my body in clinical, examining strokes. He’s calm. Collected. Only his voice is urgent. “Are you hurt? Have you been shot, Zoe?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Fuck.” He gets up and helps me to my feet.

  Benoit is waving a gun. Gautier is lying in the gutter.

  What? No! I slam a hand over my mouth.

  Maxime bends down and presses two fingers on the jugular vein in Gautier’s neck. His face hardens. “Follow them,” he says to Benoit.

  Benoit runs for the Mercedes.

  “Get in the car, Zoe,” Maxime says.

  I’m aware of him touching my arm, dragging me a little, but I can’t focus on anything other than the blood oozing from Gautier’s temple. I can’t look away from his open eyes and the way the light is missing from their depths.

  “Zoe.” Maxime’s fingers dig into my upper arms. My teeth clack together as he shakes me. “I need you to keep it together. Can you do that for me, cherie?”

  He turns me toward the Bugatti. The valet stands on the pavement with a stunned expression. I somehow manage to fold my stiff body double and get into the passenger seat when Maxime opens the door for me. He gets in and secures my safety belt, then his own.

  Not looking back, he pulls off with screeching tires. We’re driving too fast. It makes me nervous, especially with the narrow road and the steep abyss dropping into the sea. I grip the door handle as he dials Raphael on voice command.

  “We have a situation at the casino,” Maxime says when his father replies. “Gautier is down.”

  Raphael’s voice is tight. “Motherfucking damn.”

  “I’m dealing with it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Maxime switches over to another call, telling someone he needs cleanup. Another call demands backup, the next puts the guards at the house on alert, and the last instructs his lawyer to take care of the police. By the time we arrive home, Maxime seems to have everything, including himself, under control.

  It’s only me who’s shaking, unable to process what’s happened.

  He comes around and helps me from the car. The front garden is swarming with guards. Two stand at the door. Another waits inside.

  “Guard her with your life,” Maxime says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Maxime makes his way with long strides to the room he always keeps locked.

  I run after him. “Maxime, wait!”

  He takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and pushes it open. Reflexively, I remain on the threshold when he hurries inside. It’s an instinctive reaction to knowing he doesn’t want me in there. There’s a big desk against the window and photos on the walls. It looks like a study. He opens a tall safe in a corner cabinet and removes a gun that he pushes into his waistband.

  “Maxime, please. What are—?”

  The automatic rifle he takes out next makes my words dry up.

  Without giving me another look, he locks the door and walks from the house.

  I stand in the foyer, staring at the front door he slammed behind him, hearing the echo bouncing off the emptiness.

  The guard catches my eyes. “Maybe you should have a drink,” he says in a strong voice. “And a hot shower.”

  I rest a palm against the wall. My body is shaking with cold chills. The lie whispers past my lips. “I’m fine.”

  I want to be, but I’m not. Gautier is dead. Someone tried to kill Maxime in the middle of the street, right there in the open. That’s not normal. That’s not a simple drawback of being part of a rich and powerful family. That’s not taking the law into your own hands to punish your brother. That’s the truth. That’s the little worm that’s been niggling its way into my brain, the one I’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

  Making my way to the stairs, I grip the balustrade. My back is straight for the sake of the guard who’s still watching. He can’t see my shaky knees as I make my way to Maxime’s bedroom. I stop in front
of the mirror. The beautiful dress is torn. My arms are scraped and dirty. My hair is a mess. My face doesn’t look much better.

  I function on autopilot. I strip, shower, disinfect the scrapes, and put ointment on the bruise on my hip where I hit the concrete. I dress in a T-shirt and soft cotton shorts, and go down to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. I carry it to the bedroom and install myself there, waiting for Maxime to return, telling myself it’s my future I’m worried about and not his life.

  Chapter 6

  Maxime

  Benoit followed the motherfuckers to a house near the hill. I park a distance away and gather my men around me. The backup arrived a few minutes before me.

  “Whoever pulled the trigger,” I say, “is mine.”

  They nod.

  “How many?” I ask Benoit.

  “Three guys got out of the car and entered the house. The curtains are pulled, but the light came on downstairs. The only other movement is on the first floor, second window to the left.”

  I cock my gun. “Let’s go.”

  We creep along the shadows, staying low behind the bushes. The front door opens on the street. I motion for Benoit to go around the back. He returns promptly, giving me the all clear.

  Gun pointed in front of me, I stand back for one of the men to kick down the door. I’m inside before the three motherfuckers on the couch can blink. Four of my men rush up the stairs.

  “Put your hands on the table,” I say, circling the three idiots.

  The one on the left is the last to comply. He holds my eyes with defiance, his lip curled up in a mocking smile. It’s him I choose. I’ve always loved a challenge.

  “Tie these two up,” I say to Benoit, motioning at the other two.

  “With pleasure, sir,” he replies with cold hatred just as my guards drag a man, dressed in black combat gear with his arms tied behind his back, down the stairs.

  “Anyone else?” I ask.

  “No, sir,” one of my men says. “We’ve searched upstairs.”

  The other guards return from the kitchen. “No one else downstairs, sir.”