by Kat Faitour
There was a heavy dullness in her chest, which she chalked up to disappointment.
Margaux respected Mason. Liked him.
She huffed out a breath and shook her head. If she were honest for once, she’d admit her feelings were far fiercer than like or respect. She was falling flat on her ass, head over heels in love with him.
Clearly, she was addled.
Maybe it was all the fresh air at his estate. She was used to cities. With their pollution and crowding and anonymity.
She scrubbed her hands over her face. No, it was probably the horses.
They’d gotten to her, for sure. With a pang, she realized she wouldn’t be seeing the six rescues again. Or the big new guy.
Even the idea of not being there to tease Thomas bothered her. Which only proved she was slightly out of her mind.
She paced to her studio and opened the blinds on the windows. With a press of a button, a skylight opened overhead, allowing full sun into the room. An easel sat in the center with a pristine, blank canvas propped at a slant.
As quickly as the thought occurred, she dismissed the idea. For once, an overabundance of emotion wouldn’t fuel the creative process. No, she’d only waste paint, turpentine, and time if she tried to paint in her current state of agitation.
She would call her father, she decided. Pulling out her phone, she quickly tapped the numbers before she could change her mind.
At one time, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She and her parents talked daily, if not more, while her mother had lived. But after her death, grief had brought silence.
And in that quietude, her father had found Melanie.
It occurred to Margaux she wasn’t hurt by that any longer. Something in the last month had softened her. And for that, she could thank Mason.
She sighed, the sound heavy and loud, as she waited for her call to connect. Maybe they just needed some time and space from each other. After all, they’d practically spent every waking moment together since they’d returned to Belgium.
“Margaux.” Her father’s voice, normally deep and strong, sounded older. Weaker.
“Daddy.” No matter the changes in their relationship, it was always good to hear him. “It’s past time I checked in with you.” Margaux had called him soon after finding Andrew but not since. “Andrew still hasn’t woken and remains in critical condition. Julian is with him.”
“Where are you?” The question was abrupt.
“Antwerp.” She creased her brow. “Where I live.”
“I know where you live, Margaux. But what about the diamonds? I haven’t received sales confirmations. Is there a problem?”
She stopped roaming her studio to pause by the window. She looked out but saw nothing of the city teeming outside. “I brought them back with me. They still need to be processed before I can sell them at the bourse.”
The silence after her statement lingered so long she thought they’d been disconnected. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” he barked. “Why wasn’t the work completed, Margaux? You were sent to perform a job. And yet, it’s not finished. Why?”
In all the years she’d worked for the family company, he had never spoken to her this way. Margaux was momentarily taken aback.
“It needed to be done. Finished,” he boomed. “Before you returned to Antwerp. I wanted the work done in South Africa.”
Margaux stiffened and quickly recovered her ability to speak.
“Father,” she began formally, “I was attacked by a mugger one day after my arrival in Johannesburg. Which, by the way, I am physically fine, in case you were worried.” She inhaled, winding up. “A Taylor employee was brutally attacked in our laboratory. My office was ransacked and the safe vandalized.” She gritted her teeth. “I could hardly go back in that same day and perform my assessment as if nothing had happened. For one thing, the police taped off the entire area for investigation.”
She could hear her father’s breathing, bursting in and out as if he were running. Or being pursued.
“You’re making excuses,” he snapped. She’d never heard him so agitated.
Margaux’s head reared back.
“That work should have been completed long before the break in. Now you’ve taken the diamonds to Antwerp, the very last place I wanted them examined.”
A strange feeling snaked up Margaux’s spine, leaving her chilled and slightly dizzy. What was going on here?
“Why does it matter?” she breathed the question, unsure whether she wanted to know his reasons.
She didn’t have to worry. He deflected her question with another accusation.
“I blame myself. Your mother and I coddled you. You’re spoiled, Margaux. You have no real idea of this business and the stakes involved. Time is money, and you squandered enough of both in Johannesburg to make me wish I’d sent someone else. Julian could have done the job better by himself.”
Never in all her years had her father spoken about money in such a way as to indicate they might be in need of it. And never, not since her first day, had he been anything but supportive of her.
She was shocked. Hurt. She’d always tried to do what he wanted, even though her heart wept to explore another path, one far from the family business. Looking over her shoulder, she eyed the empty canvas propped on its easel.
“What are you saying?” She pushed, unconsciously pursuing a long sought confrontation.
“I should never have hired you. It was a mistake.”
The statement wounded her in ways she didn’t anticipate. But she choked out a response, determined not to allow her roiling emotions to burst free. “I will see this fixed, as best I can.” She hung up.
She was stricken by her father’s attitude. And Julian’s too, now that she thought about it. They’d both acted as though the diamonds were more important than her feelings. Even more than her safety, considering the attempted robbery and attack on Andrew.
Was anyone on her side?
Her gut told her the answer. He was argumentative. Competitive. Superior and condescending. But he was also loyal. And true. She knew with absolute certainty that when the chips were down, Mason Graff would unequivocally stand with her.
So if her father didn’t want the diamonds processed by their usual laboratory in Antwerp, she knew of another, less celebrated but equally excellent.
It would seem she and Mason weren’t finished with each other yet.
Chapter 7
In the end, Margaux decided the best approach was to sneak back onto the estate and act as though nothing had happened. After all, she’d spoken out of turn, but Mason’s reaction was what pushed everything over the top. Good grief, if he’d let her explain, there wouldn’t have been any disagreement at all.
If he met her even part of the way, she’d apologize later. After they’d worked out their frustrations and pique with a bout of sweaty, mind-numbing sex.
For now, she carefully dipped her brush into the scarlet-red oil paint then delicately dabbed it onto a place just right of center on the canvas. It would serve as the focal point for the painting and hopefully convey the work’s intended message. With no initial intention of doing so, she’d crafted a social statement in visual format. Creatively, she was on fire.
She wondered if Mason would see what she’d attempted to do. And if so, whether he would begin to understand her feelings for him.
A photograph was loosely clamped to the upper left corner of the canvas. It was slightly blurred, out of focus. But what the photo failed to distinguish her mind remembered.
It was a Taylor mine, the one they’d flown over that day in South Africa. It had always been her intention to paint it, and although her vision for the final product had changed, she was sure it was for the better.
A knock on the door had her turning from the bay alcove to answer. She brushed her hands down the serviceable but shapeless smock she wore as another tap hurried her along.
“Coming, coming,” she murmured. She pulled open the door to her
suite to find Thomas standing outside with silver tray and coffee server. A small pot of cream sat alongside a bone china cup and saucer. She pulled the door wider but took the time to eye him up and down.
“All you need is a black morning coat with tails to step straight out of an Agatha Christie novel.”
Thomas placed the tray on a table, fussing to arrange its contents so she could sit in the chair facing the outdoor gardens. He pulled a rolled linen napkin from a large pocket in the front of his apron and laid it to the side then pulled out the chair, gesturing for her to sit.
Margaux did so, bemused.
“Shall I pour?”
“Did you bring yourself a cup?”
“No,” he said, surprised. “I know you prefer this time alone. To work. I thought I’d spare you the trip downstairs for coffee.” His gaze tracked to the painting, which she’d unthinkingly left uncovered. She heard his sharp intake of breath then braced herself. Long experience had taught her an uninhibited response could mean approval or rejection.
“May I?” With one hand, he indicated her art.
Margaux’s face flamed. She realized his opinion mattered. A lot.
Since returning to Mason’s estate, she’d essentially taken an idyll from the diamond business. Disappointment with her father and Julian had prompted the break, but Mason also provided her with an easy excuse. His team had the entire batch of diamonds and were currently processing them. It had been a couple of weeks already, but soon she would take them to auction. In the meantime, her father could damn well wait.
Mason assured her they would take the utmost care with the lot, ensuring optimum value. And while his team took longer than was typical, he provided regular updates about each stone’s design plans. He was involved with every step, although Hope and Cullen did the bulk of the work, especially with the marking, initial sawing, and bruting, which was the process where the stone was set in a lathe and ground into a perfectly round shape. This part was also called girdling, and it seemed Hope showed a finer hand and talent with that step than the others.
“Miss Taylor?”
Thomas’s voice brought her back to the present and his request. She pressed a hand to her stomach but smiled.
“You can look, but only if you promise to stop calling me that.”
She thought she saw a whisper of a smile before the fleeting moment was gone and he stared at her straight-faced. “Fair enough. How shall I address you?”
His formality didn’t put her off for a second. Thomas was coming around. She was sure of it.
“Margaux. Or if you prefer,” she grinned, “Your Highness.”
His smile stayed in place, widening.
“Margaux it is. Now may I?” he repeated.
She ignored the chair he’d pulled out and instead led him to the miniature studio she’d set up in the corner near several large windows.
Thomas stopped directly in front of the painting and stared.
This went on for several long moments, until Margaux was forced to inhale, not realizing she’d been holding her breath the whole time. Oblivious to her nerves, Thomas continued to gaze at the artwork, periodically leaning close to inspect various sections.
Finally, he turned to face her, and a broad smile split the contours of his weathered face.
“You’re brilliant,” he pronounced.
Margaux surprised them both by grabbing Thomas by the lapels and planting a smacking kiss on one lined cheek.
“And so are you, dear Thomas,” she laughed. “For being the first to pronounce my genius.”
He laid his hand on her forearm, his expression turning earnest.
“No, really. I’m hardly joking.” He led her to the table and poured her coffee, then stirred in the exact amount of cream she preferred before handing her the cup. “It’s been a long time, but I still have some connections in the art world. Trust me, I’m no sycophant. When I say this is good, I mean it.”
Margaux held up her hand. “Wait a second. You worked with art?”
Thomas nodded. “I owned a gallery.” He turned back to her painting, stepping so he could check it out from various angles. “And this is very, very good.” The words were so faint, she couldn’t be sure he was speaking to her or himself.
Margaux was still distracted by his revelation. “But, Thomas.” He barely turned his head, but it was enough for her to see he was listening. “Why on earth are you Mason’s butler?”
This brought him back around. “I like it here. And I like my work.”
“Because of Mason?” She could understand that. She’d slipped under Mason’s spell in barely a week.
He chuckled. “Not really. I worked for the owners of this estate before Mason’s time. You could say I came with the house.” He paused. “But I’m glad I stayed. He’s a good man.”
Margaux sipped her coffee. Yes, that was exactly the truth.
Mason Graff was a good man. He was honorable and decent. He treated people well. And if he occasionally veered off into arrogance, then surely she could overlook that tiny flaw.
Thomas was still thinking of art. “I could put in a word for you, if you’d like. With some local galleries.”
Margaux wasn’t quite ready for that. She shook her head. “Let me think about it.”
With the finely tuned instincts of a good butler, he sensed when it was time to leave a room. He moved to the door but turned before stepping out.
“Has Mason seen this?”
“No, you’re the first.” She smiled, oddly shy. “I paint only for myself. It’s a private endeavor, one I like to keep personal. I trust you understand?”
“I understand, Miss Taylor. Margaux,” he corrected. “But if I may make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Consider sharing this with Mason. He considers himself something of an artist as well as a scientist. And he’s a popular patron in this country, although he keeps quiet about his sponsorships.” He shifted, and Margaux could tell he wanted to say more. “Seeing your paintings would bring him great joy. And pride in knowing you were the artist.”
Margaux finally sat in the chair Thomas had pulled out earlier for her. She looked outward to the gardens outside, rather than back at Thomas.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Very good. And Margaux?”
This time she looked, brows raised.
“Will you be long this morning? Or will you be coming downstairs soon?”
She glanced at her painting. She would allow it to rest, then assess it with fresh eyes tomorrow. The red—the small dab that defined its meaning—needed to be perfect. In placement and size. Otherwise, her intention would be lost.
“I’ll be down as soon as I change.” She finished the last sip of her coffee. “Is there a reason you ask? Something scheduled that I’ve forgotten?”
Thomas looked sheepish.
“No.” He drew out the word. “But it seems the new horse won’t eat until you’ve visited him.”
She whipped around in her chair. “Really?”
“Really,” he said dryly. “He’s nothing but a big baby, that one.”
Margaux rose and pushed the chair back under the table. Before Thomas could move, she stacked her dishes back on the tray and carried it to him.
“Then I’d better hurry up.”
Relief mixed with humor on his face. “While you take care of him, I’ll fix your breakfast. The full works. How does that sound?”
She thought of the awful oatmeal he continually tried to push off on her and Mason.
“Porridge?”
He grinned, knowing full well what they thought of his efforts. “Eggs. Hashbrowns. Bacon. Toast if you want.”
Margaux’s mouth watered. Thank God. As she shooed him out of the room, one thought prevailed.
Thomas was definitely coming around.
* * *
Mason, Hope, and Cullen stared at the hundreds of gems spread out before them.
They were in the confer
ence room, and the table had been covered in dark navy velvet. Diamonds covered the surface, spaced no more than a centimeter apart. The effect was striking, like a desert night sky that twinkled with a thousand stars.
“We don’t have anything.” Cullen was the first to make the pronouncement.
Mason pressed his lips together while his eyes scanned the array one more time, desperate for options.
“Why?” he asked for the third time that day. “Why did you shape it like that, Hope?”
She glanced up but immediately dropped her eyes again. “Because it demanded that cut. For an internally flawless stone of that size, it was the only choice.”
“Jesus, Hope.” He waved his hand, indicating the table. “You talk as if they’re people. But I don’t have a lab-grown example of that size and clarity in an emerald cut. You knew that. You do the damn work!”
“Hey, let’s all settle down.” Despite the competitiveness between them, Cullen was quick to defend Hope. “You have a batch started in the reactor now, don’t you?”
Mason spun away to pace the length of the room. “Yes, but it would take too long to allow anything to grow to that size. And there’s no guarantee—far from it—that it would be internally flawless.” He chewed his thumbnail. “Margaux grows impatient. I’ve already put her off by saying we work more slowly due to a smaller staff and higher standards. Plus, I said we had other clients’ contracts to honor. But I can tell she’s starting to wonder about the delay.”
He rejoined the other two, and they spent several minutes staring at the diamonds laid out on the table. Collectively, it was a small fortune in stones, even taking into account they were lab grown and about twenty to thirty percent less in retail value than mined ones.
Their expressions ranged from glum to downright depressed.
“I’m sorry,” Hope mumbled. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have cut it that way.”
“What way?” Noor entered the room wearing an aubergine wool tailored skirt and jacket. Black Italian leather sling-backs with matching clutch purse completed her outfit.
