House of Diamonds

by Amber Jakeman

  “Sure.”

  While he was out, there were several serious flashes of lightning and a huge rumble of thunder.

  When he came back in, he was dripping wet and the power had gone off. He held up the wet bottle like a trophy, grinning like the kid in the photo.

  She clapped and they laughed. She found another teatowel and helped to mop him down. Up close, he smelled like rain. Delicious.

  She shivered.

  “You’re wet, too. Cold.” He held her by both shoulders and considered her. “You’re about my mother’s size. There’s a tonne of clothes here you could borrow. Mother’s wing is that way; her dressing room is on the left.”

  “Oh, no, I ...”

  “What? You’re going to stay wet all night? And get sick? No way. Mother’s half a world away. There’s no shortage of dry clothes. She’s certainly not using them. Maybe leave the ballgowns where they are, but otherwise, go for it. I’m going to freshen up myself.” He pointed up a hallway, then headed in the other direction.

  James was right about his mother’s clothes. Her dressing room was a dream, spacious and well stocked, everything carefully color coded, and hanging according to size. Stella would have grabbed jeans and a fresh t-shirt if she could find them, but there was nothing quite so simple.

  She was struck by the quality as much as the quantity. Beautiful silks, cottons, linens and wools. Exquisite textures. Suits and other carefully blended ensembles. Was there nothing plain? What did she wear in the garden? There was half a wall of shoes. Everything looked new.

  Stella settled on a plain black turtleneck cashmere sweater and black slacks, not unlike something she’d normally wear, then contemplated the bathroom, another affair in marble and shiny brass. The products were an education. There was so much French on the bottles in the shower it took her a while to recognize the shampoo and conditioner, but their smell was divine, as was the moisturizer, and she emerged in a fragrant puff of steam and padded off down the hallway in the fresh clothes, feeling as if she was in an advertisement for a health spa.

  James stood by the crackling fire, taking the top off the bottle in the old fashioned way, using the corkscrew with finesse. There was a gentle pop of cork. Victorious, he turned his attention to her, smiling his approval.

  He wore clean, close-fitting jeans, a fine blue sweater and that smile. She wanted to run her hands all over him. Forget dinner. But she was suddenly shy, and so was he. Why else would he talk about the weather?

  “Bit of a wild place, Kangaroo Valley. Storms whip up from nothing and they can be quite severe. We might need to hunker down for a while. Cheers.”

  “Cheers. You can see I’m really suffering.” She felt like a kid. The fire was warm and the wine smooth, maybe a little too smooth. Through the rich red liquid, the flames leapt. She was so happy to be close to James. He smelled fabulous and she was more relaxed. A whole glass was gone before she remembered she needed to drain the pasta.

  “Back soon.”

  She found a tray and loaded it up with everything she could find. Salt. Pepper. Casserole in wide pasta bowls. Bread. Olive oil in a small bowl.

  “Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,

  “A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse, and Thou...,” James greeted her as she entered. He was topping up their wine glasses.

  “Beside me singing in the Wilderness,

  “And Wilderness is Paradise enow. Omar Khayyam.”

  “And you say you’re not a player, James Huntley.”

  “What does that make you, then, Stella Rhys? How do you know that poem?”

  “My mother loves it. Says it practically every time we have a glass of wine, and that’s at just about every meal. Enjoys life, my mother. ‘Rich in the things that matter.’”

  “Wise woman.”

  “Single mother.”

  She hadn’t told him much about herself or her family. Maybe she’d open up if he didn't push her too far.

  “Cheers again. I’m enjoying myself, Stella. For once I’m glad Will’s away and his car’s a crazy Alfa that won’t start.”

  They laughed and touched their glasses together. He was even more handsome in the intimate light of the candle and fire. She bit her lower lip.

  Wind howled outside.

  “We might need to stay the night,” James said. “I’ve tried to drive in weather like this and copped a branch in the windscreen. We love these country roads, but they can be dangerous.”

  “We might.”

  “What a great cook you are!”

  “It was really difficult pressing ‘heat’ on your mother’s microwave! Want some more?”

  “Sure. I’ll get it. Want to help me finish it off? It’ll go off if we don’t finish it.”

  “Well. Okay. It’s delicious.”

  Stella swirled the wine in the glass as the flames danced, resting her back against the nearest sofa. Cosy. Relaxing.

  ...

  “Given any thought to joining our business?” James asked, as he settled himself next to her, handing her a plate.

  “I’ve given your business lots of thought,” she answered carefully.

  “Oh.” They were two different things, but he didn’t want to state the obvious. Wanted to draw her out.

  “Trouble with Huntleys is, it’s a bit exclusive. These are just my ideas. I’m not criticising, just sharing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, people love jewelry. But only the wealthy must feel like they can afford Huntleys jewels. And, believe me, I’ve been studying the crowds. There aren’t that many truly cashed up people walking through Bondi Junction. Rich people, I mean. People like your mother. And I bet she chooses to buy her jewels in Paris, because she can.”

  “True.”

  “So if you want to make Huntley’s a destination in itself, you’ve got to make it world famous. And the fastest way to do that is to open it up to more people, and go online. Turn it inside out. You want people to love the place, to feel like it’s theirs.”

  “And?”

  “I reckon you can do it.”

  “You do?”

  “Those doors of yours. Why are they always closed? Prop them open. Make the place totally welcoming. It’s a beautiful building. You want people in there who love history and architecture as well as jewels. Put it on the map for lots of people, for lots of reasons.”

  “Alright. What else?”

  “Well I don’t want to be rude.”

  “Go on. I’m all ears. Everything you’ve said makes sense so far. It’s so good to discuss this with someone I respect. Someone who understands jewelry and cares about the customers. Growing up with it, it all just happened around me. Maybe I would have learned some theories at uni, but you heard what happened. Never got to finish.”

  A pang of sympathy rose in her for his own unfinished ambitions. Maybe he could make time for uni in the evenings once things were on an even keel again.

  “Okay, James. Here goes. You’ve got loads of space in there, and you’re just not using it. I know about cities. Every square millimeter costs a bomb to own or rent. Why don’t you make it work for you? You’ve got every piece laid out on every floor with about a metre of space around it, but at my stall, people love to crowd around and riffle through it all. The more packed my trays are, the more they love it. It’s the ‘hunter gatherer’ instinct. Maybe you’ve been appealing to hunters who like wide open spaces. But you’ve got to appeal to the gatherers as well.”

  “‘Hunters and gatherers.’ I like it. You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I came out east. To test my ideas and watch how buyers behave.”

  “So... what you’re saying is we need more stock, and a greater variety of stock for a greater variety of customers.”

  “Exactly. And why not? As I said, you’ve got the space for it. Make the space pay, why not? You could even bring in guest jewelers to exhibit in your space. Host designers from all over the world if you wish. Big na
mes. And little names. Mix ‘em up. Get people talking about Huntleys. And get some rent in for your space at the same time.”

  “There’s certainly no shortage of styles,” James mused, picking up on her ideas. “We could have vintage 60s in one corner - all those bright orange and lime green triangles. Yes. And art deco in another. And antique watch chains and collectors’ items on another. Mother might be interested in sourcing that, in France.”

  “And why not offer workshops for aspiring jewelers, and master classes for people already in the game who need fresh inspiration? You could make them like mini-conferences, with themes. Like ‘fire and ice,’ and ‘fruit of the fields,’ and ‘the planets.’”

  “I like the workshops idea. Everything from beading to the lost wax method. Cloisonne. We could get some archaeologists in to give talks on jewelry through the ages.”

  “Exactly. Great idea. And you can write up all that stuff on your website and Facebook site. Get Ruben in to do some regular features. He could interview the designers, feature a jewel of the week, a gem of the month. Have you and Nicole thought about podcasts? Jim could talk about some of your most interesting vintage pieces. There’s no end to what can be done, James. Even Jim’s a hidden treasure. Share him with the world. Why not? Most jewelers these days are like all the others. They’re franchizes. I guess they don’t have much freedom. But Huntleys is unique. You’re a lucky man, James Huntley, the Third.”

  Stella suddenly gave a yawn, though the ideas were still flowing.

  “And you heard how Jeannie spoke so warmly of Huntleys because Matt bought their engagement ring there? There must be so much brand value you could stir up! Make it work for you. Why not? Are you keeping a database of your customers? Send them wedding anniversary vouchers with discounts. And what about... yawn... Valentine's Day? How about Huntley’s hearts?”

  She yawns again and rests her head against his shoulders, enjoying his strength and warmth.

  “Too much wine.”

  “You’re extraordinary, Stella Rhys.”

  The buzz of James’s voice humming through his body right into hers was lovely.

  ...

  The wind whistled outside, slapping wet leaves against the French windows. As the flames leapt up and gave off heat, she turned to study him with those dark eyes. Those lips, slightly open. So close.

  One brush of his lips against hers, the smell of her, and his fingers were in her hair, cradling her head, pressing her closer, and she was up on her knees, her hands on his shoulders. He laid her down on the Persian carpet in a tumble of dark hair and kissed her again, deeply, tasting her, running his lips across her jaw and down to the soft skin between her neck and collar bone, and she was pulling him closer, running one hand under his shirt, her fingers cool against the heat of him.

  Had Helene ever loved him like this, hungrily, generously, the whole of her suddenly opening up to him, willing him onwards, welcoming every inch of him, her hands as eager as his to touch and hold and cherish? Never.

  Down on the rug, as the flames illuminated the planes of their faces and her soft curves against his strength, they were finally free to find each other and surrender, to lose themselves in the wonder of each other, until they were satisfied and the fire burned low again.

  Chapter 22

  Stella emerged from a dream, aglow with contentment, wondering why every part of her body was humming.

  She could see his forearm and hand, still in sleep, exquisite as a detail in a Michaelangelo. James, the golden man. Memories of the previous evening swirled and settled. Bowral. James’s mother’s house. The fire, the sex. Great sex. Now she practically purred.

  She almost laughed at herself. Since when had Damian ever done anything but roll away from her and retreat to his own room, once satiated?

  James. She wanted to feast her eyes on him as he slept, revisit that beautiful body, but by the time she twisted around, his own eyes were blinking, then fixing on hers, and there was that half smile of his, so sexy.

  Sex with James had been an utter revelation. Damian had always prided himself on his prowess, but it had always been all about him, she understood now, whereas James had actually cared about her own enjoyment, had insisted on caressing her, again and again.

  It made her want to ...

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “For you, actually.”

  “Excellent.”

  It was cold above the quilt, so they burrowed underneath as she relished the welcoming heat of his body and the way he reached for her, like something valuable, irresistible, necessary. Wonderful.

  ...

  It was still wet outside, the stench of oil from Will’s car’s burbling engine competing with the smell of rain. Branches and sprays of leaves were down all over the place.

  James pointed at an echidna at the edge of the drive as he opened Stella’s door. It was sinking itself into the soil, spines protecting its underbelly. They watched as it all but disappeared, a small Australian miracle, going about its business.

  He reached across to squeeze her hand and steady her as she slid into the low seat, and the feeling of being cherished rose inside her like the sun.

  Just then Stella’s phone buzzed and without thinking, she reached into her bag for it.

  Damian.

  Damian. She thrust it back into her bag, heart pumping.

  ...

  James was silent as they joined the road. Maybe Damian was her brother. Her husband? What did he know of her after all? It wouldn’t do to become too attached. Too late for that. His eyes caressed her. He was warm from their love making, confident. Stella.

  Her phone bipped with a message. Would she read it?

  “Everything alright, there?”

  Stella sighed and looked out the window.

  He was still elated, humming with contentment. These country roads were fun to drive in Will’s car. The storm of the previous evening had washed away the dust. The summer gum trees were beautiful, sloughing off their old bark, freshly watered. It was full steam ahead, a turn for the better in his life.

  “My old boss, back in Perth,” she blurted out. “Damian. He wants me to come back and work for him. He’s offered me an outrageous sum of money.”

  “Tempted?” he tried to keep the jealousy out of his voice. He had no hold on Stella Rhys, though he’d like to think there might be a future for them.

  “He led me on for years. I was in love with him. We had an affair. It’s over.”

  “Good to hear,” he said, though he wondered. He’d seen what outrageous sums of money could do for people, for Will, for example. Will was always for sale.

  “All those ideas of yours,” he said. “Last night.”

  “Yes?”

  “So, when are you joining Huntleys?”

  Stella’s answer made him want to slam on the brakes.

  “To be honest, I drank quite a lot of wine, James.”

  It hit him in the pit of his stomach. This was rejection. Again. Surely she couldn’t be backing away. Not after their easy banter and all of their sharing, not after the hot sex. Had he not been considerate enough of her? Not from the way she’d clung to him and whispered his name. Not from the way she’d stayed with him, allowing him to stroke her, cherish her. No. They’d been right together. Perfectly attuned. Experienced. Honest. Mutually satisfied. More than that. They’d fulfilled every promise of that first snatched kiss in the gutter, finished what they’d started down beside the water. They’d hurried, and then they’d gone back for more, more slowly. So what was this sudden pulling away from him? Didn’t his offer make perfect sense?

  Noticing he was gripping the wheel too tightly, he deliberately unclenched his hands, along with his jaw. He needed to explore this. Not panic. Go gently. Something wasn’t right. Whatever it was, he needed to find out.

  “You gave me one brilliant idea after another.”

  “Ideas are cheap. It’s the e
xecution that matters.”

  “You’re talking to a long distance runner, Stella. I know all about the long jog. All about the middle mile. Been in the middle mile for a few years, truth be told. Till you turned up outside my door.”

  She smiled at him and reached across, tracing the back of her finger down his stubbly cheek. When he tried to bite it she moved her fingers to his thigh.

  “Hey! Want us to have an accident?” Good. She was still attracted to him. This wasn’t a physical barrier. He was reassured.

  “Of course not!”

  “You’re going to, aren’t you?”

  “Join your business? Maybe. But maybe not. I have to tell you this, James. You’ve been straight with me, but I haven’t shared my story with you yet.”

  “Tell me. I’m listening.”

  “I came across the country to be my own boss. It’s really important to me. I wasted too many years slaving for a boss I loved who never returned my attention. There are things I need to achieve for Stellar.”

  “So how do I repay you for the ideas you shared?”

  “With hot sex,” she said and he raised his eyebrows.

  “Seriously, though, there are plenty of ideas you could share with me, too, James. Like what are some good competitions, what gem shows might be worth visiting. And suppliers. Show me your world, James. And if Jim’s going to be offering workshops, maybe I can be his first customer.”

  “And maybe you’ll get sick of staying outdoors. Maybe you’ll consider becoming our first ground floor tenant. If you’re not ready to come and work with us.”

  “Maybe.”

  ...

  Stella twisted away from him to look out her side window. Why couldn’t she just accept his offer? There was no question she was attracted to him. She could barely keep her hands off him. And every moment, the feeling was stronger. It scared her.

  Because there it is, she thought. Impossible. She really had wasted too many years adoring the boss. It would be the hardest thing in the world to be working so closely with James every day without knowing he would always return her love, without reserve. The last thing she wanted was to end up subservient again. What if she was just another promising young jeweler in a long string of them hired by James - so hard to resist with his manners and sex appeal. She knew how that felt - to be just one in the lineup of Damian’s never-ending supply of PAs?