by Ruth Wind
His hands were in my hair, on my neck, and I shoved his coat from his shoulders, kicked off my shoes, started pulling at his shirt. It felt I would die of the need to see his chest, bare, with hair across it; die of the contact I finally made with it. I broke free of his kiss and pressed my nose into the very center of his rib cage, breathed in the concentrated essence of his skin.
I opened my mouth and tasted his skin.
Paul's skin.
I wanted to weep with it, and I lifted my face to his again, and there were tears on his face, falling on me. "Oh, God, oh, God," I whispered as he kissed me, pushed the dress from my shoulders, down my arms, baring my breasts, which I pressed into the silky hair on his chest, belly to belly, chest to breasts, my skin and his, and our lips tangling, his tongue so deep in my mouth, and then drawing me deeply into his. He made a soft, harsh noise as the dress fell away to my waist, and picked me up, pulled my groin into his; I wrapped my arms hard around his neck, my legs around his waist, and kissed him even more, even deeper, breathing in, tasting, touching, feeling—
It seemed impossible. Impossible. Wonderful.
This was Paul, my Paul. Whom I had loved all my life. Whom I had wanted for at least a decade, probably longer. Finally kissing me, me kissing him, as we were meant to do. His hand in my hair, drinking of my mouth as if he might die without it, his arm around my waist, an urgency about us that was dark and thrumming with unsaid, unsayable things, expressing a thousand moments of loss, of connection, of longing.
He put me on the bed and paused, over me, looking at me, touching my face. So seriously, so soberly, with so much awareness it pierced me through. He kissed me, slowly, breathing my name between the press of our lips—Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie. My love, my love—his hands pushing away my hair, exploring my shoulders.
I touched him, running my open palms down his back, surprised by the tensile strength there, corded below his shoulder blades, down his spine. I reached below his belt, in his trousers, to touch his buttocks, pulled him closer to me.
His arms were trembling, and I felt that echo in my whole body, too. "Take off my dress," I said, gasping. "Take off your pants."
"Yes," he said, and scrambled up, tugged my dress the rest of the way off me, leaving me in ordinary bikini panties. I lifted my hips and skimmed them off, too. I lay there, on a hotel bed in Romania, at last naked before Paul Maigny, the man I had seen at seven and turned to my mother and said, "He is the most handsome man in all the world and I am going to marry him."
And that man, still lean, still more beautiful than anyone I'd ever known, looked at me, stricken, his big, raw-boned hands loose at his sides. "Oh, my Sylvie, you are wounded because of my greed."
I sat up, reached for his belt, kissed his belly urgently as I worked the buckle loose, bit at his navel, rushed to skim away his trousers before he let himself be lost in musts and shoulds and all those other things that would come between us much faster than I would like.
And then, he, too, was naked, and very aroused, and I raised my face and smiled. "Oh, you are splendid, my love. Even here, you are splendid." I kissed him, his member, and he pushed me, climbed onto me on the bed, put our bodies, finally naked, together. He kissed me, deeply, slowly. "I cannot bear to rush, Sylvie. Forever and ever I have wanted to touch you this way. I have thought of it a thousand times."
"A million," I whispered, cupping his face in my hands, wrapping myself around him, feeling him rock and slide against me. Naked chests, bare arms, nude legs, unclothed, undressed. At last.
At last.
He kissed me, and we pressed together as if we could sink into each other, trade cells, meld entirely. I struggled to stay conscious of the now, of this moment, this moment when at last I could let free my passion for this particular man, touch his skin, kiss his mouth, put my hands in his thick and wavy hair. "Oh, Paul," I whispered. "Paul."
At last we could no more contain the hunger, and he moved me, parted my legs and looked at me, and then guided himself in, into the warmth. He filled me, slowly, slowly, slowly, and then paused there, braced himself on his elbows and said, "Look at me, Sylvie. Look at me."
"I see you," I whispered, and it was true. I stared right into his gray-green eyes, saw the flicker and wounds of his life; he moved, slowly, slowly, kissed me again, looked at me, and we both had tears on our faces, and we fell into the depth and pattern of our own creating, something that seemed it had been waiting for me all of my life. As my orgasm built, split me, as he slammed into me, his legs sliding against my thighs, his hands hard in my hair, his tongue deep in my mouth, I heard a catch in his voice, and he came, his mouth on my throat, my chin, my face, my lips. "Sylvie," he choked. "Sylvie. Sylvie."
* * *
We lay together in the quiet, curled under blankets while the snow muffled all external noises. We touched each other in that longing, wordless way—our fingers lacing together, then coming apart, my body pressed into his, my leg over his thigh.
I wanted to say, I could live here, in this moment. I wanted to say, I have never loved anyone in my life the way I love you. I wanted to spill my heart, my guts, my soul to the one man who might really understand me.
But what if he didn't?
He kissed my forehead, my crown. "Sylvie, do not think too much, love. Let it be."
I nodded against him, but what did that even mean?
Let it be. I slid my hands through the hair on his chest. "Your skin is so silky," I said.
"Mmm. So is yours."
He slid downward. Kissed my neck. Gently bent over my bruised breast and kissed it. Spread a hand over my lower belly. I put my hands in his hair and drew him upward to me, and kissed him. "What does that mean, Paul, not to think too much? Do you love me?"
"Yes," he whispered. "But I am not going to hold you back from the things you deserve. Children, stability, a man who will not go to his grave decades before you."
"Don't say that!" The idea of him ever going to his grave brought tears of loss, a searing kind of fear into my heart. I couldn't bear to think of it.
"I have spent years trying to keep this from happening," he said, brushing hair over my face. "I thought we might finally be safe when you married.
I had hoped I was wrong about him."
"Well, you were right."
He braced himself on his elbow, looked down at me. His hand, huge and encompassing, curled around my cheekbone and jaw. "And don't you know, in your heart, Sylvie, that I am right about this, too?"
"No," I said. "I think you don't believe in me enough."
"I believe in you now. But I have also walked roads that are yet in front of you, and there are things—" he shook his head "—that will challenge you."
"And you're afraid that I'll betray you or something? Is that it?"
"No, no." He bent close, covered my mouth with his, and we got lost in kissing for a moment. "Quite the opposite—I fear you would discover you do not love an old man anymore, and you will suffer along without leaving me, longing for someone else."
"Paul!" I cried, aggrieved. "You don't believe that?"
"You don't know what life can do to a person, Sylvie."
I pushed my face into his shoulder. "Stop it."
He moved his hands over my back, down the hollow of my spine to my buttocks. Kissed my shoulder. "Whatever happens, Sylvie, I want you to remember one thing."
I looked up at him. "What?"
He swallowed, rubbed his thumb over my forehead, along the edge of my eye. "I love you."
It frightened me, the way he said it. Why did it suddenly feel that I was going to lose everything, just when I'd finally found it?
Chapter 24
In Hindu mythology, diamond has a great importance. It is the vajra (lightning, the weapon of Indra, main god of the Hindus), and by the six points of the octaedra symbolises the true man who resists to attacks from the north, south, east and west, from the infernal powers and celestial powers. Therefore a diamond bearer is protected from fire, poiso
n, thieves, water, snakes and evil spirits.
—www.diamondgeezer.com
When I awakened, Paul was not beside me. I sat up straight, blinking, and called out his name, listening in case he was in the shower or something.
Only silence greeted me.
I hate it when people leave me sleeping. It no doubt loops back to my mother, and I ought to get over it, but my fear of abandonment is quite strong.
Which Paul knows. It was a trauma even when we were in Nice, long ago. He would not leave me like this. Not while I slept.
Unless he took the Katerina.
With a cynical smile, I stood up and padded across the room naked. The Katerina was still there, as bright as if she was a star, or a lightbulb. She glowed, as if she had some internal source of light.
Next to her was a gray envelope with my name written on it in Paul's continental hand. My heart sunk.
It was hard to read the note at first, because my tears blurred the page. If I'd been looking for the truth of my feelings, I suppose I had them now.
He'd written in English:
My dearest Sylvie,
I know you will be angry with me for leaving you as you slept, but I do it to protect you. This morning, you will look into your heart and you will know what you feel for the world, for yourself. You've made it through your divorce. You have accomplished a major coup by capturing this lost gem. You are beautiful, and brave, and sensual and smart. There is not a woman on this earth who is your equal. You are a tiger, burning bright. The world is yours, my sweet.
The one thing I would ask is that you not let our one digression affect what has been the source of my strength for many, many years. Without you, I am lost. Without me, you have no champion.
I am ever your servant,
Paul
PS I think her name now is Katerina's Heart, don't you?
I picked her up. She was still a very powerful stone, but now it seemed there was a radiance to her, a beauty that had been washed clean of greed and unholy desires.
And it suddenly occurred to me where it should go. What I should do. Lifting the beautiful, storied gem to my lips, I kissed her and said, "Now that I've brought you home, I must ask a petition."
As if she heard me, the spirit of the stone, it felt like it was buzzing in my hands. I pictured the life I wanted, with my love, the one I had longed for all these years. "I will take you to your rightful place," I said aloud. "In return, let me go to mine."
For a long time, we sat in the quiet, Katerina and I, and then I looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly ten.
My father's race! In a rush, I ran to the television and started flipping channels. Surely someone carried the race!
The sound of engines alerted me to the right channel, and I sat down in my robe, the remote control in one hand, the Katerina nestled in my other. The cars were lined up, and the camera panned over my father's, a sleek yellow beauty he called—what else?—Sylvie.
"Go, Dad!" I whispered. And bit my lip for an hour until the race was done.
Gordon Montague, oldest Formula One driver in the world, won.
Chapter 25
April 7, 20—
FAMOUS GEM SURFACES
BUCHAREST (AP)—One of the world's most valuable diamonds, thought lost for decades, surfaced in Romania yesterday. An orthodox priest received a letter giving directions to a grave thought to contain the original remains of a 13th century princess, Katerina Colceriu, whose brutal murder was thought to kick off a centuries-long curse attached to the stone that bears her name, Katerina's Blood.
The diamond, more than 80 carats, was wrapped in a lock of blond hair that had been braided and tied around it, and it was tucked inside a small pouch. Although police searched for clues to the identity of the deliverer, no answers were expected.
A note within requested that the name of the diamond be changed to Katerina's Heart.
The airport is the same grimy Jetsonesque place it always is, but nothing can dampen my excitement at being back in France. As I climb out of a cab in the Marais district, the air smells of blossoms and chocolate.
The florist on the corner has giant masses of daffodils, and I ask her to wrap up a huge armful, which I carry in my arms with a bottle of wine up the stairs. The building smells of onions and I can hear the old woman in the courtyard humming an old French love song.
I knock on the door, and there's grumbling with, "Un moment!" then the door swings open and Paul gapes at me. His sleeves are rolled up on his arms, and he's had his hands in his hair, and he looks tired.
"Bonjour, monsieur."
He still just looks at me.
I can see I am going to have to do everything. "You know," I say, "there are no guarantees. Maybe you'll meet a dashing beauty who steals you away from me. Maybe I'll fall in love with a gardener. My career is very busy and so is yours, but—can we try to be lovers? Just for a while?"
He steps forward, puts his hands on my face. Speech seems beyond him.
With a little smile, I hand him the flowers. "Would you please kiss me?"
He flings an arm around my neck, bends down and kisses my throat. "Oh, my Sylvie, I have missed you so very much."
"I know," I say, and the world shifts. Sylvie the seven-year-old and Sylvie the twelve-year-old and Sylvie the twenty-eight-year-old, all sigh together as he lifts his head, bends over our lips and gives us all a lovely, long kiss.
"Hey, what's this?" says a voice that startles and thrills me. I pull away from Paul to see my father, hale and tanned, standing in the apartment living room.
With a laugh, I rush forward and give him a hug. "Now you show up, after all the adventures!"
His strong arms practically crack my ribs, and he laughs his big, hearty laugh. He's not reliable, my father, but he's wonderful, and his life has made him the kind of man to whom I can say, "Hey, Dad. I want to introduce you to my new boyfriend."
For a moment, they measure each other, Paul and my father.
Then my father nods. "Nice to meet you."
We all have supper on the Rue de Sévigné, and drink wine, and it's exactly all that I could ask of the world.
At least for now.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-5935-9
THE DIAMOND SECRET
Copyright © 2006 by Barbara Samuel
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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* The Last Roundup
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**Men of the Land
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* The Last Roundup
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Table of Contents
Letter to Reader
RUTH WIND
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
> Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
