by Kat Faitour
“You look nice’” Hope brightened seeing the other woman. “That color is fabulous on you. Do you have an auction today?”
Noor checked her watch. “In a few hours. I thought I’d stop in, take a look at the Taylor lot.” She swiveled her gaze between the others. “If they’re ready?”
Noor performed appraisals and ran auctions for the Orphans. Although her role sounded simple, it was often more difficult than the others. It was Noor they relied upon to make sure their diamonds passed inspection and certification. She accomplished this with the help of a close group of trusted insiders. And, of course, bribes.
Most of Mason’s stones went to market acknowledged and marked as laboratory grown. There was a growing demand for them as buyers realized they were an ethical alternative to the confusing and corrupt traditional diamond trade.
But the Orphans were more than legitimate business partners. They were also crusaders against blood diamonds and the mines that produced them. And when they became aware of a lot, as was the case recently with the Taylor stones, they depended on a switch. Mined stones for identical lab-grown ones—or as near as they could come. As detection technology had advanced, so had their need to rely more heavily on Noor and her connections.
Mason worried about the cost. She was quiet, introverted. And scrupulously honest outside their business.
“They’re ready. Let me show you.” With a light hand on her lower back, Mason escorted her to another office reserved for appraisals. Once she was seated, he went to a wall safe and keyed in the numerical code. He pulled out multiple trays and laid them on the desk in from of her. Behind her was another table, outfitted with various scopes, meters, and scales.
With loupe already in hand, she looked up through her lashes at Mason.
“So where is this stone you and Hope were talking about? When I walked in today she was apologizing for a bad cut.”
“It’s not a bad cut,” Mason clarified. “Quite the opposite in fact. But it’s a difficult one to substitute. The stone is exceptional. Colorless and internally flawless.” He moved back to the open safe and extracted a single stone on its own cushioned tray. “And it’s large.”
Noor gazed at the diamond he handed her. She set down the tray, never taking her eyes from it as she opened a desk drawer and extracted a pair of white cotton gloves.
Fitting the loupe to her eye, she picked up the stone and inspected it.
A soft gasp escaped her lips and she shifted her eyes to Mason, who remained standing near the door. He nodded in understanding.
“It’s perfect.”
“I know. And I have nothing in the lab that compares to it.”
Noor went back to the stone, turning it one way then another. Finally, she carefully set it back down.
“Well, I have a lot more tests to do, but I can see why you’re concerned. But Mason,” her eyes were nearly a match for the black velvet of the tray, “it would have been a shame for Hope to cut it any other way.”
“I know.” Mason flopped into a chair across from the desk. “But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. I have a batch growing in the reactor. But it’s hard enough to produce internally flawless, colorless stones. Add the size of that rock and I fear it will be impossible to match it. I’m reluctant to try. It would mean more delays, and Margaux grows impatient.”
He slumped in his seat. Noor continued to watch him, her eyes level and expressionless.
“I guess there’s the option of not replacing it.” He hated to concede but knew there may be no other way. “Margaux will want to see and assess the stones for herself. She knew when she saw this one in the rough that it was something special.”
“So we’ll switch after she sees her finished lot?”
Mason nodded. It wasn’t the way they normally operated because the risks of being caught were much higher. Once Margaux saw her stones, any disparities or differences later would undoubtedly catch her notice.
“Well that’s that then.” Noor pushed back from the desk and crossed her arms. “I’ll do my appraisals, then you should invite her to do the same. Her attention will be captured by this one.” Noor nodded to the large stone in front of her. “And that can work in our favor, Mason.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because she might not notice minute differences in the others later, when they go to auction. But to your point, no matter how close you might grow another, it would have to be identical. For one, the emerald cut is unforgiving, as you know, when it comes to revealing flaws or color discrepancies. You should do your best, but we have to accept this stone will most likely slip into the market.”
She picked up the stone with gloved hands and twirled in her seat to place it on a scale behind her.
A low whistle was her only reaction.
“I know. Trust me, I know,” Mason said.
“It’s at least ten carats. There’s no way.” She shook her head. “This could be worth upwards of a quarter million dollars once you factor in the mastery of the cut.”
“I know,” he repeated, his voice strained.
“No, it’ll have to remain in the lot. As is.”
“I have to try.”
“You’re damn right you do.” Cullen stood in the doorway, hands tucked in his front pockets. “For Ruby. You know how she’ll feel if something like that reaches market. It will command attention. Another trophy for an anonymous buyer.”
Mason turned in his seat. “Have you spoken with her? Or Clara?”
Hope joined Cullen, clearly curious as well.
“No.” Cullen, normally an untroubled man, seemed worried. “I was hoping you had.”
Mason shook his head. “Soon. We have to trust Clara. She’s never let us down, and she won’t start with Ruby.”
No one wanted to be the one to dispute his optimism. Besides, it was true. If it were within her power, Clara wouldn’t allow anything bad to happen, not to any of the Orphans. Especially Ruby.
There was a brief silence before thunder cracked overhead and practically shook the building. While the morning had been gloomy, the storm had come on fast and strong, as happened sometimes in a Belgian winter.
“Mason, you better get home.” This was from Hope. “Sherman hates storms.”
“Who’s Sherman?” Noor asked.
The mention of the enormous addition to his stable was enough to turn Mason’s mood. He went from worrying about the stones to wry humor. Laughing, he commenced describing his newest horse.
“He’s my newest rescue. Except he’s not a retired racehorse. He’s a big, strapping farm boy.”
“A Belgian draft horse?”
“Maybe, partly.” Mason grinned. “He’s actually bigger than those. He might be mixed with Clydesdale or something else. He’s an absolute giant. Which is why Margaux named him after a tank.”
“And he’s an even bigger baby,” Hope said.
Her initial comment clicked into place, and Mason swung his attention to her. “Good grief, you’ve been to the house?”
Hope frowned. “No, but I’ve talked with Thomas. He told me I couldn’t come to meet him yet, but he would be worth the wait.”
Noor folded her hands on top of the desk and watched the exchange.
Cullen, in typical fashion, allowed nothing to slip by him. “Why can’t we come to the house?”
Mason looked at him, dumbfounded. “Because Margaux is there.”
“So? It’s not like she hasn’t met us.”
“You have?” Noor asked. “Where was I?”
“Mason brought her to tour the lab, and you weren’t here that day,” Cullen offered. “So I don’t see the big deal if we come to the house.”
Mason sighed and ran his hands through his hair. For the first time ever, he felt like he was living two lives, with two sets of priorities. He didn’t want the Orphans to see the truth of his relationship with Margaux.
Hell, he wasn’t sure about the truth of his relationship with Margaux. He was fal
ling, of that he was sure. But for whom? She held so much of herself back from him. How could he be certain he knew the real woman and not a carefully constructed facade?
He couldn’t explain that to Cullen or the others. But he could clarify his reluctance as it pertained to them.
“If you come to the house, it will be obvious you’re more than employees and our relationships go far beyond that. I don’t want her seeing too much or exploring what our connections are. If she finds out about the past—our shared losses—then she could put the pieces together. She’s smart. I don’t want to underestimate her.” He paused, knowing he’d been talking too fast. “She mustn’t suspect what our real work is. That’s all.”
Hope was the first to speak, and Mason realized he hadn’t fooled anyone.
“You’re going to hurt her.”
He swallowed and dropped his eyes. “I’m trying not to, Hope.”
“We have to leave Mason to do what he thinks best.” Noor spoke, ending the painful exchange. She stood, indicating the door. “Now I need to get to work, so all of you, kindly get out.” She smiled, softening the order. “And please close the door on your way.”
Hope and Cullen left, single file, leaving only Mason. He looked at Noor, even though she’d shifted her formidable focus to the stones.
“Thank you.” She mumbled something he didn’t catch, so he added, “For the vote of confidence.”
She surprised him by looking up. And like so many other times, her gaze seemed to go straight through him.
“I trust you to keep the end goal in sight. By whatever means.”
Mason nodded but wondered whether her words were a testimony to his character. Or an indictment.
* * *
By the time Mason reached home, the storm was raging overhead with violent intensity. He parked his Land Rover then immediately hurried for the stables.
Racehorses could be notoriously high strung and temperamental. But Sherman, his newest and most agreeable addition, caused the most concern.
He completely transformed. He reacted to rain as if it were acid. And claps of thunder terrified him.
In Mason’s experience, a horse would respond one of two ways when frightened. He would kick out and try to fight. Or he would turn tail and run like hell.
Sherman was a runner.
In a horse his size, this proved challenging. In the weeks since his arrival, he’d galloped through one unlocked gate and heavily damaged another when he bolted. He was like a locomotive, and no amount of effort could stop him until he calmed down, which had to be on his own terms. Usually, the storm was over by that time. And he reverted to being his sweet, goofy self.
But this squall was far from over.
Mason flew through the doors of the stable toward the stalls. The smell of hay and horse greeted him, welcoming him. Various whinnies and snorts answered the lightning cracking overhead. He cocked his head, listening.
But there were no screams of terror. Not even anxious neighing, which was usually Sherman’s prelude.
Rain lashed the roof of the enclosed stable, but Mason swore he heard a melody during lulls in the wind. As he approached his horse’s stall, Mason’s mouth fell open.
Margaux was in the enclosure standing next to the giant horse. Her arms were looped as far as they could reach around his neck, as if embracing him. As for Sherman, he’d brought his head low, and his ears twitched to her melodious crooning.
Mason rocked back on his heels.
Margaux was singing. To Sherman.
Bemused, Mason propped himself outside the stall to watch and listen. The horse was in thrall to her, completely calm and utterly composed. His liquid brown eyes professed adoration while his gentle bumps encouraged her to keep chanting.
Mason didn’t recognize the tune, but that hardly mattered. After the stress of the day, it had much the same effect on him as Sherman. His head lolled against the post, all the confusion and indecision draining out of him.
He must have made some sound, because Margaux’s head swung round his direction.
“Hey.” The greeting was pitched low so as not to scare the horse. Sherman nickered.
“Hey.” Since both woman and horse had seen him, Mason unlatched the stall and stepped inside. Sherman made no moves, just stood still as Mason came to greet him. The velvety muzzle butted his shoulder, looking for a treat. Mason laughed then produced an apple he’d slipped into his jacket when he entered the stable.
Sherman munched the fruit, a perfect example of equine docility. Mason took advantage of his distraction to lean over and press his lips to Margaux’s.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” she blushed. “But it was only a matter of figuring out what he needed to feel safe.”
Mason grinned as another round of thunder rumbled outside. The sound was already more distant, a sign the storm was blowing over. Mason looped his fingers around Margaux’s ponytail and tugged.
“Suddenly, I feel a little scared myself.” His lips hovered over hers. “Maybe you could do something to help me.”
Her pale-green eyes twinkled. “And what might that be?”
“Well, you could put your arms around me,” he said, dotting the words with brief kisses over her face. “And maybe we should lie down.”
She pulled her head back, lips pursed. “Oh? And how would that help?”
“Well, I feel a little weak.” His tongue slipped between her lips on a devastating foray that lasted several minutes. He pulled back reluctantly. “Do you think it’s okay to leave Sherman?”
Margaux laughed, pointing. “I’d say so.”
The big, goofy horse was eating hay from the bucket that hung from the rails of his stall with poised aplomb. As if he’d never had a moment where he behaved with anything less.
Mason swore Sherman was observing him out of the corner of his eye. Another male, smitten by the woman beside him.
He took Margaux’s hand and led her out of the stall and down the aisle of the stable toward the house. But she had other ideas.
“Mason,” she whispered.
He turned.
“I have a confession.”
His heart skipped a beat. Her lips curved, and lines crinkled outward from her eyes. “What?” he whispered back.
“It’s more of a fantasy.” She abruptly pulled him to the side and flipped the bolt of an unoccupied stall. Before he could protest, she used both hands to gently shove him inside.
Mason, taken unawares, stumbled and fell on his butt. Luckily, fresh straw padded the ground and was heaped high in one corner. It broke his fall, but was far from soft.
As Margaux fell on top of him, frantically unbuttoning his shirt, Mason grinned. The rough needles of the bedding poked at his clothing, abrading his skin.
Clearly, she had no idea about such things. She was in for a treat.
He fell back, content to let her have her way with him. For a little while, anyway.
Her lips pressed against his as her hands, soft and uncalloused, raced over his torso. His abdomen quivered when she reached his waistband, his humor in the situation all but forgotten.
When her lips closed over him, whatever was left of his mind blanked. He forgot where they were, the horses, and the waning storm outside. Hell, he forgot his own name.
There was only Margaux. Margaux as she rose and fell, her mouth a warm and wicked spell from which he had no desire to escape.
A flick of her fingernail along the sensitive underside of his length nearly had him shooting off the floor. But it was too late. He felt the warm rush of his release and could only lie helpless as Margaux finished him off, her tongue lapping and licking until he was all but unconscious.
A light tapping on his cheek brought him back to awareness. Margaux was sitting on top of him, her legs braced against the bedding.
“Hey,” he said.
She leaned down and kissed him with profound yet gentle sincerity. It was more intimate than
anything that had gone before. And in that moment, Mason knew it was over for him, for there could never be another.
He loved her.
As surely as the sun would proceed to rise and the seasons continue to pass, he would always love her.
It was certain.
“My feet itch.” Her face scrunched up as she reached down to scratch. “Damn, how do you stand that?”
Mason laughed, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside. “It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. But it was my duty to fulfill your fantasy.” He lifted her off him then hopped upright. Before she could react, he scooped her into his arms.
She patted his cheek. “Oh is that what just happened? You fulfilled me?”
She was a demanding, insatiable vixen. And he was crazy about her.
“Not yet, but as soon as I get you back to my room, you’re all mine until the job is done.” He kissed her forehead. “Prepare yourself, darling.”
They laughed all the way to the wing that housed their rooms. But as he turned to enter the hallway to his suite, she grabbed hold of the corner of the wall. He stopped.
“No, take me to my rooms.” She pointed the way with her thumb.
“Why? Mine are bigger. More comfortable.” He thought of his oversized bed and began plotting all the tempting tricks he could use to keep her in it.
She cupped his face. “No, this time it has to be my room.” Her eyes were soft green. Dark and luminous in the muted light. “I have something I want to show you.” She smiled. “Something to share.”
Had she but known it, he was completely hers to command. He pivoted then moved toward her suite, his long legs eating up the distance.
When they entered her rooms, she reached around and flicked on the lights. Mason blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Whoa. Let my eyes adjust, but if you want all the lights on, I’m certainly game.” He licked his lips in a parody of lascivious lust and lowered Margaux to her feet. “So, let’s play show and tell.”
She grinned. “In a minute, you pervert.” She took his hand and led him to the corner bay. An easel sat in the center with a white sheet covering the art.
“You paint,” he exclaimed.
“I do.” She smiled shyly. “And I wanted you to see.”
