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

by Charmaine Pauls

  “You don’t have to use Benoit’s phone. I added Sylvie’s number to your caller list.”

  “Thank you.” I guess?

  “Send me a text to let me know where you’re going.”

  “Right, so you know if you shouldn’t come fetch me.” Hastily, I add, “In case you were going to. I mean, if she’s available.”

  He chuckles. “That’ll be considerate.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work, then.” Or rather his shady criminalities.

  “I’ll miss you.” He waits a beat. When I say nothing, he hangs up.

  I check my watch. It’s almost time to go back inside, but I can fit a quick call in. When I check my caller list, Sylvie’s number is already there. I press dial.

  “Hi,” I say when she answers. “It’s Zoe.”

  “Oh, hi.” She sounds upbeat. “I’m so glad you called.”

  I’m a little uncomfortable. Maybe I’m putting her out. “Are you back in Paris yet?”

  “The university starts in a month.”

  Gathering my courage, I press on. “That coffee you mentioned, does the offer still stand?”

  She gives a small laugh. “Of course.”

  “Are you available today?” I ask, holding my breath.

  “Sure,” she says after a beat. “Where would you like to meet?”

  “You tell me.” My voice is lighter with relief. “I’m still new to Marseille.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At school. I get off at six.”

  “Okay. I’ll text you an address.”

  We say our goodbyes just as the lunch break is over. Students who’ve been lazing on the lawn stream back into the building. They’re all younger than me, maybe eighteen or nineteen, fresh out of school. I definitely don’t belong here.

  Benoit comes over, handing me my satchel. “You forgot this.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t look at him. “I better get back inside.”

  “Those girls,” he says as I start walking, “they have no business treating you like this.”

  Stopping, I meet his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He gives me a narrowed look. “I heard what she said to you. Everyone did.”

  “Well, maybe I deserved that.” Seriously, how are they supposed to feel about having me on board because my mafia boyfriend forced it?

  “They need to be put back in place.”

  “Don’t say anything to Maxime. It’ll only make the situation worse.”

  He regards me stoically.

  “Please, Benoit. Don’t make this harder for me than what it already is.”

  Still no answer.

  I can’t delay much longer without being late for class. Taking a shortcut over the grass, I head for my building.

  Chapter 12

  Maxime

  The last time I visited Dr. Delphine Bisset was before my trip to South Africa. She’s a good shrink. I’m not the self-searching or inwardly reflecting kind, but she helped me understand shitloads about myself, which, believe it or not, is imperative in my business. You can’t know your enemies if you don’t know yourself. Delphine is the only one with the balls to be honest with me. The psychiatrist I tried before her told me whatever I wanted to hear. I guess he was worried I’d shoot him.

  Pushing the door to her uptown consultation room open, I walk to the receptionist’s desk. I’m alone. My guards don’t tag along for this. My visits to the shrink are something I prefer to keep private. My enemies may take it for a weakness.

  The girl looks up. Her easy smile vanishes. “Good morning, sir.” Her hand is already on the phone. “Dr. Bisset is with a patient, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  I give her a polite nod and take a seat among the other waiting patients. Five minutes later, the door to the office opens and a young man exits in front of Delphine.

  “Max.” She offers me a warm smile and beckons me with a wave.

  The other patients glare at me when I stand. I don’t have an appointment.

  Ignoring their nasty looks, Delphine shuts the door and shakes my hand. “It’s been a while.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Naturally,” she says with wit. “Crime will do that to you.” Walking to the informal sitting area, she motions for me to take a seat. “What brings you today?”

  I sit down in one of the armchairs and adjust my jacket. “A woman.”

  “Ah.” She takes the seat opposite me and crosses her legs. “You mean one you’ve seen more than twice?”

  “Six months, actually.”

  She tilts her head. “Very out of character for you. What makes this one different?”

  “She’s innocent. Pure. I suppose you could say she’s naïve.”

  Folding her hands, she studies me. “You’re attracted to these innocent traits?”

  “Naturally,” I say, quoting her earlier remark. “Opposites attract and all that.”

  Her smile is eloquent. “Why?”

  “She’s everything I’m not. I’d say that’s obvious.”

  “How is this a problem for you?” she asks in her smooth voice.

  Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and tip my fingers together. I give her a long look as I weigh my words. Their heaviness bears down right in the center of my chest. “Am I capable of love, Doctor?”

  “Max.” She blows out a short sigh. It’s a soft sound laced with compassion. “In order to love, you need to have empathy.”

  “Whenever I’m the cause of her pain, I hurt myself worse than what she’s hurting.”

  “You’re inflicting pain on yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “As punishment?”

  “As a reminder.”

  “To have empathy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Physical pain doesn’t replace compassion, Max. Compassion comes from the heart.”

  “That’s the thing. She makes me feel.” I press a palm over my chest where the dead skin crawls from the mere thought of her. “She makes me feel things.”

  “Define things.”

  “Fear. Fucking loads of it. Weakness. She makes me care.”

  “Can you put her first, above your own needs?”

  I consider that. Putting Zoe first will mean doing what’s best for her and what she wants—to let her go. Only, I can’t do that, and it has nothing to do with her brother’s diamonds. I’ll never set her free. She’s mine. Mine. I fucking claimed her. I took her virginity. I came inside her. No, I’m afraid letting her go has and will never be an option. Tilting my head back, I scrub a hand over my face.

  “Do you manipulate her, Max?”

  I look back at the doctor. “For her own good.”

  “Do you lie to her?”

  “When I must.”

  “Do you feel shame or remorse for your lies and manipulations?”

  “No.”

  Her small smile is sad, conveying a wordless message.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “I’m still the pathologically lying, manipulative, coldhearted prick with the versatile criminal behavior and lack of moral judgment.”

  “And high intelligence,” she adds, “not to mention ruthlessness.”

  “That’s supposed to help me?”

  She leans her arms on her knees. “You’re the most ruthless person I know, meaning you’re willing to take risks. Are you willing to take a risk for her and step out of your comfort zone? You’re also a clever man, a man who knows how his behavior impacts others, even if you don’t feel guilty about it. You want to do better. That’s why you sought me out for starters.”

  “Even if I do better, I’ll still be the fucking psychopath incapable of love.”

  “You suffer from emotional detachment, but feeling something is a beginning. We can work with that.”

  Frustration mounts. “I’m pretty much agitated right now. That counts for an emotion.”

  “Your frustration and anger are manifes
tations of your selfish impatience. We’ve already covered this.”

  “Isn’t caring for someone love in its own kind of way?”

  “It depends on the root of the caring. Is this about her or you?”

  I shift in my seat. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you care because of how being with her makes you feel, or do you care about how she feels, regardless of yourself?”

  “I don’t want her to be sad or unhappy.”

  “How do you feel when she’s unhappy?”

  “Frightened.”

  “Why?”

  “That it’ll slip away.”

  “That what will slip away?”

  “Her. This. What I’m feeling when she’s around.”

  “Right.” She raises a brow. “So, this is about you.”

  “I love my family, don’t I?”

  “You hate your father, and your brother is your biggest enemy. You have a sense of responsibility toward your mother, and you experience feelings of injustice for your father’s behavior, but you lack the empathy that forms unconditional relationships with your family.”

  “This woman—my woman—grew up in a dysfunctional family in a poor neighborhood. She’s been exposed to every circumstance you quoted for making a psychopath, yet she’s not like me. How come?”

  “Max.” She sighs again. “It’s not a secret you can steal. Every person’s internal and external factors are unique. As I’ve told you before, I suspect in your case it’s a combination of your violent circumstances and genetic inheritance.”

  “So,” I say with a wry smile, “you’re telling me I’ll never be able to love.”

  “I think you do love in your own way, and I do believe you’ll be able to build a trusting and sharing relationship if you can manage to see things from your partner’s perspective.”

  “But?”

  “But in this case, your care is selfish. You said it yourself. She gives you what you don’t have. You’re opposites. You’re using her to balance yourself.”

  Great. This helps a fucking lot, and it changes nothing.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Always a pleasure, Max.” Despite her strict no touching policy, she leans over and squeezes my hand. “I’m here when you need me.”

  I stand. “I appreciate your time.”

  “No, you don’t.” Her intelligent eyes meet mine. “You expect it. In fact, you insist.” Not unkindly, she adds, “Next time, try to be considerate to everyone else and make an appointment.”

  She’s right, as always.

  I’d give my life to give Zoe the love she deserves, but I am what I am.

  I leave Dr. Bisset’s office still the same man, a man unable to reciprocate love.

  Chapter 13

  Zoe

  As promised, Sylvie sends me a text, suggesting a brasserie in the old town.

  Benoit drives me while the men from this morning follow again. With the yellow awning and red window frames, the brasserie looks like a typical French postcard. Before, I would’ve thought this a dream. Now I can only admire the image abstractly, a deeper part of me hating everything associated with this city.

  Loud chatter greets me when I push the door open. The inside smells of coffee and beer. It’s busy. People sipping wine or espresso occupy the tables. Not one is free. It seems like a popular place to meet for drinks after work.

  Benoit follows behind me and then overtakes to greet some of the customers. I spot Sylvie at the bar. She’s wearing a fitted powder-blue dress with a short jacket and ballerina flats. The ensemble is simple but stylish. It’s the kind of understated elegance Madame Page and Maxime’s mother favor. Noelle and Hadrienne, too. This is the French bourgeois style.

  Benoit raises a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. The bartender smiles kindly when he notices me. He says something to Sylvie, who turns.

  “There you are,” she says when I reach her, kissing my cheeks. She holds me at arm’s length to study my leggings and off-shoulder jersey. “You look gorgeous.”

  I love this jersey. It has pirate sleeves and a drawstring in the hem for a puffy look. “Thank you.”

  “Come.” She takes my hand and leads me to the back. “Let’s sit.”

  The men at the table for which she’s headed get up when they see us, take their drinks, and leave.

  “That’s very gentlemanly,” I say.

  “Ha. Don’t you believe that. It’s only because they know who Papa is. Espresso?”

  “Tea, please.”

  She signals the bartender, making a C and a T with her hands. “So, what made you call?”

  A man died saving my life. My kidnapper went after the attackers and killed them. Not only did I discover that said kidnapper is a mafia boss, but also that he deceived me when he held my brother’s life over my head. I threatened him with an icepick. He tied me up and punished me with multiple orgasms all day. My teacher and classmates think I’m a fake and hate me. I won’t even know where to begin. There’s no way I can answer her question honestly.

  “It’s tough,” she says, covering my hand with hers, “but you can’t let it get to you.”

  I force myself back to the moment. “What?”

  “The shooting. You can’t let them win.”

  “Who?”

  “Brise de Mer.”

  “Is that a gang?”

  “The Corsicans. They’ve been at war with my family for years.”

  The bartender arrives with our drinks. He serves them with ginger cookies and leaves.

  How does Sylvie cope with mafia life? How can she sit there so unafraid, looking so normal? “I don’t know how you can live like this.”

  “Don’t worry.” She lifts her cup to her lips. “Our men will take care of us.”

  I consider her words. They strike a chord of irony. “It’s funny. I used to have this stupid fantasy of being saved from my miserable life and carried off to a happy ending by a knight in shining armor. Now I don’t like that fantasy so much. I didn’t like being saved.” I make quotation marks with my fingers. I can’t tell her saved is a sarcastic term for kidnapped. “I think I prefer to be in control of my life.”

  “Oh, honey.” She makes a sad face. “The women belonging to the family have very little freedom, but we do have control. You just have to be clever about it.”

  “You mean manipulation?”

  She cocks a shoulder. “Papa wouldn’t let Noelle and me study, so we got depressed.” She chuckles. “We started eating so much Maman told Papa no man would ever marry us if we couldn’t even fit into a wedding dress.”

  “That made him agree?”

  “Papa’s biggest fear is that we won’t give him grandchildren.”

  A life of constant manipulation seems awfully sad, not to mention exhausting, but I’m not going to insult her by telling her so.

  “You need to figure out what Max’s weak points are,” she continues. “You, for one, seem to be a pretty strong weakness. Surely, you must have some bargaining power in bed.”

  My cheeks heat.

  “See?” She wags her eyebrows. “I knew I was right. You need to convince him to let you come visit me in Paris. We’ll go out and do some shopping. It’ll make you feel a whole lot better.”

  It’s appealing, but a crazy idea. “I doubt that’ll ever happen.”

  “You may be surprised. Max cares about you. He wants you to be happy. I’m sure he’ll do anything to make sure you are. He may come along to Paris and bring an army with him, but he’d do that if you go about it the right way.”

  The right way. He’s showed me time and again he’d treat me kindly if I behave, but that’s just another form of manipulation, and I’m so tired of the games. I just want to be free. I want to make my own decisions and determine my own actions. I don’t want to have hidden agendas. I want to give because I care, not because I need something in return. How can I explain that to Sylvie who’s been raised to navigate this world and its myriad of landmines?
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br />   “We have to make the best of what we have,” Sylvie says, pushing her empty cup aside. “Accept what we can’t change. Let’s face it, we have it a lot better than many other women.” She gets to her feet. “Do you mind if I have a cigarette?”

  “Of course not.”

  She grabs her bag. “You’ll have to come with me. I’ll have to smoke in the toilet.” When I frown, she says, “Papa doesn’t know.”

  “Oh.” Of course. The people here all know Benoit. That means they all know the family. One of the men will see it as his duty to inform Sylvie’s father if she lights up a cigarette in the street.

  When I follow her to the bathroom, Benoit takes up a position by the bar from where he can keep an eye on the door. It’s a unisex bathroom. The space is cramped with a small basin on one side and a toilet on the other.

  She locks the door and takes a cigarette from her purse. “I can’t buy a packet, or Papa will know. Every tobacco shop owner in Marseille pays Papa rent.”

  “Then how do you get them?” I ask, leaning on the counter.

  “Some of the guards are friendly.” She takes a drag and blows out a thin line of smoke. “I know which ones won’t talk. See? You just have to be clever.”

  I both admire and pity Sylvie. I pity her lack of freedom and admire her survival skills. I admire her outlook on all of this. I wish I could cope so easily. I study her from under my lashes. Can I trust her? She did open up to me about forcing her father’s hand to let her study and smoking behind his back, and she was kind enough to make time and meet me.

  “Can I ask you something, Sylvie?”

  She blows smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Shoot.”

  “What’s the difference between a mistress and property?”

  “Where did you hear about that?” She offers me the cigarette.

  I shake my head. “Just something the guys talked about.”

  “A mistress is a lover. It means an open-ended relationship that continues for however long the guy wants.”

  “What about what the woman wants?”