Diamonds in the Rough
Page 14
“What about you?” I close the step between us. “What’s your agenda? Making sure Alexis gets in on the big deals while pawning me off to the Italians?”
He waves a finger at my face. “Watch your tone.”
“I don’t even know why we’re having this discussion. In a few months’ time, I’ll be calling the shots, deciding how Alexis is involved.”
My father’s face turns red. “If you honor the contract.”
I narrow my eyes with a smile. “Are you hoping I won’t?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then don’t give me reason to.” I leave the glass on his desk and turn for the door. “Maman is waiting. Shall we have dinner?”
When I walk through that door, the power has shifted. I’m holding it all in my fist. Everything. I let the knowledge sink in, soothing my deepest concern—keeping Zoe safe.
Chapter 18
Zoe
* * *
The shorter and colder the days grow, the harder I work. By December, I’m only sleeping four hours a night. The closer I get to the year-end fashion show, the more my anxiety climbs. Only four of the girls who are left will continue to the final level. Our designs will be judged by an independent panel, and no one, not even Madame Page or Maxime, can determine the outcome.
I want to do well. I want to win Madame Page’s approval and show I’ve earned my place, which is why I put in more effort and hours than anyone in the class. I stitch faster than Thérèse and make fewer mistakes than Miss Page’s favorite student, Christine. I always hand in my homework early. I do research at home, and I visit fashion exhibitions and museums with Maxime on the weekends. I pour my heart into my collection. When the day of the fashion show arrives, I’m positive I’ll have good results. I’ll go as far as to say I’m hopeful of swaying Madame Page.
Maxime takes me early to the performing arts theatre where the event is held so I can add the finishing touches to my garments.
He carries my needlework case to the garderobe where our collections are already stored and leaves it on the worktable to wrap his arms around me.
“You’ll do great.” His eyes warm with a smile. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I pull away and flip open the lid of my case. The model who’ll be modeling my wedding dress has lost weight after a recent bout of gastro, and I have to take in the waist. There’s not enough time to remake the bodice, but I can take in a few centimeters on the sides by hand.
“Hey.” Maxime catches my wrist.
My cheeks grow hot at the heated look in his eyes.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asks in a husky voice.
That voice is enough to make me forget about everything. “I’m sorry.” I go on tiptoes to kiss his lips. “I’m a little distracted.”
He cups my nape. “I know.” Pulling me close, he kisses me in the way that makes every follicle come alive. Lethargic heat flushes my body, making me wet. I throb and ache for him. Just before my knees give out, he breaks the kiss.
My whole being mourns the loss of his touch and warmth. We stare into each other’s eyes, wordless understanding passing between us. I’m his. He’s mine. Our give and take isn’t equal, but there’s comfort in knowing we belong to each other and that we’ve somehow managed to make our warped situation work.
“Good luck,” he mouths.
“No.” I press my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it. It’s bad luck.”
Folding his fingers around my wrist, he kisses my palm before moving my hand away. “If I don’t let you go now…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. We both know we’ll end up in a dark corner fucking against a wall if he doesn’t leave. How did we get to this point? How did I get so addicted to him? When did he become so handsome and dear to me?
“Break a leg,” he says with a wicked smile, turning on his heel and leaving me in a puddle of desire.
I give myself a little shake to break the trance. A tinge of fear slips into my elation. I know exactly why he makes me lose track of everything, even here and now at this critical event. It’s because he overshadows everything. He’s grown more important than anything else in my life, even more important than my studies and my dream to be a designer. Somewhere in the knotted threads of our unconventional relationship, he became my dream.
The realization startles me. It frightens me. Whatever power I’ve given Maxime over me in the past is nothing compared to this. This is atomic. This can destroy me.
Voices coming from the hallway pull me back to the present. A few classmates file through the door, chatting animatedly. We’re all on edge about tonight, over-excited and anxious.
I thread a needle and set to work. My fingertips are already pricked raw. The grand finale, my wedding dress, is my dream design. I’ve poured everything I am and ever wanted to be into the dress. It’s whimsical, romantic, and feminine. It has a sweetheart bodice and a meringue skirt layered with diamante studded net fabric. The color is the softest of pinks, a barely visible hue that bleeds out from the virginal white at the top to the darker hem of the skirt.
After a couple of hours of careful adjustments, my back is aching. Stepping away from the dress form, I study my work. My chest swells. A feeling of peace dawns on me even as my breath quickens. It’s a warm feeling, but it’s nothing like the arousal Maxime elicits. This is pride. This is my best. I put a hand over my heart. I love this dress. I love it for everything it represents, but it’s more than pride and love. There’s something else underneath the layers, something that causes these reactions of glowing contentedness and combustible love inside me. It’s imagining wearing it for Maxime. It’s imagining him in a dark suit under the angelic lights of a stained glass window with a ring in his pocket. It’s the contrast of his black soul in a holy space, of winning the heart of a man so cruel. It’s my girlhood fantasy, the white day and the big dress. It’s imagining saying yes.
“Miss Hart?”
I give a start.
A woman with a clipboard breezes past me. “Your models are ready. You’re on in ten.”
I jump back into action. My dream dissolves in a flurry of activity. The model wearing my day dress cusses when the zipper gets stuck. I work on it while she fixes her lipstick.
“Maxime fucking Belshaw is out there,” she says, dabbing powder onto her nose.
“What?” With the noise, I’m not sure I heard correctly.
“God, I hope I catch his eye.” She fits her shoes.
“Hart, you’re on,” the organizer calls from the stage door.
“That’s us,” the model says, making her way over.
The rest passes in a blur. It’s crazy and exhilarating. It’s so damn stressful, and I love every minute. I run on pure adrenaline by the time the wedding dresses are paraded. Standing backstage with the rest of my class, I revel in the moment our ultimate creations are revealed on the runway. For an unreal moment, I lose myself in the lights and music as my eyes follow that dress, knowing it’s perfect because I made it for him.
I search the crowd until I find Maxime. He sits in the front row on the left. The stage lights illuminate his face, making the shadows under his eyes run deep. The groove between his eyebrows begs me to trace the line and drag a finger over the bump at the bridge of his crooked nose. His eyes are bright with pride and his lips pulled into the slightest of smiles. I turn hot knowing what those lips have said and done to me, knowing how deft those strong, slender fingers are. I love watching him like this, when he’s unaware and his guard is down, but then there’s applause and Madame Page gets on the stage.
I miss most of her speech, my thoughts being scattered in every direction. I’m rerunning the show in my mind. I should’ve pulled out the seam and re-stitched the body. My head is spinning with everything I’ve realized tonight. I can’t look away from Maxime’s face or strong body. I imagine his broad chest and well-cut muscles underneath his shirt. All I want right now is to straddle him
and claim him as my very own forever.
Someone takes my hand—Christine—and we form a line to walk onto the runway. I take my bow like the rest, feeling like somehow this is a dream, and the only real thing is Maxime in his tux, looking as if he may eat me alive.
We stand on stage as the judges call their verdicts. The panel is made up of a mix of fashion editors, designers, and label owners. One by one, our average scores out of ten are called. Seven for Thérèse. Eight for Christine. Loud applause. Six for someone else. Four for another. One for me.
One.
It hits me like a bucket of ice water. The shock travels from my head to my toes, freezing its path down my limbs. I feel the blood drain from my face in shame. Automatically, my gaze finds Maxime’s. His jaw bunches, but his gray eyes are sympathetic.
It’s over. I blew it. I’m out. I’m not entering the next level. I’m not going to graduate or become a fashion designer. Worse, I suck. The panel agreed. Their decision is irreversible.
We bow. I smile like is expected of me, but inside I’m burning and freezing in interchanging bouts of humiliation and disappointment. I’m devastated. All those hours. All that magic I felt when I held my pencils and needles. All gone.
“Sorry,” Christine whispers in my ear. Her eyes glitter when I meet her gaze. “Maybe next time.”
The rest of my classmates enjoy their well-deserved glory as family members come up to congratulate them. I escape to the garderobe and start gathering my equipment.
“Hey,” Maxime says behind me.
I soak up his warmth as he folds his arms around me from behind and presses his nose in my neck.
“Yours is my favorite,” he says. “I’m proud of you, little flower. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Turning in his embrace, I put my arms around his neck. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”
He takes my hand and places it over his heart. “I promise. Cross my heart.”
And hope to die. “Thank you.”
His eyes are filled with understanding. “Shall we get out of here?”
“God, yes.”
“Gather your stuff. I’ll pack your dresses.”
I’m so grateful to him right now. It doesn’t matter that he got me into the course by pulling strings. I’m just happy he’s here for me. I’m happy he’s here when I need him most.
Chapter 19
Zoe
* * *
It takes me a few days to get over my disappointment. I hang my collection in a closet in one of the spare rooms where I don’t have to look at it, but the knowledge that it’s there remains. Every time I walk past that room, my failure screams at me.
By the end of the week, I pack everything into a box and donate it to charity, everything except for the wedding dress. I can’t get it out of my heart to part with it, not after I’ve realized what it means. I only hang the dress deeper in the closet, hiding it in a black dry-cleaning bag.
On Saturday, I wander around aimlessly for a while, not having to work on anything for the first time in months. It’s a cold, gray day with clouds rolling in from the sea. I try to read in the tower, but the wind howls around the corners.
Hold on. I know why I’m so listless. I’ve left the debacle about dropping out of fashion school unfinished. There’s something I need to do.
I go downstairs to look for Maxime and find him behind his desk in his study. The door stands open. Lines of worry run over his forehead and around his eyes. He’s so engrossed in his work he doesn’t notice me. I knock because he still keeps the room locked, which means I’m not welcome inside.
He looks up and smiles. “I’ve just been thinking about you.”
“You have?” I wave at the groove between his eyebrows. “It doesn’t look like pleasant thoughts.”
“Come here.”
I pad over the floor to his desk. “I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to say thank you.”
He gets to his feet and rounds the desk. “For what?”
“For making the fashion school possible. I just realized I never thanked you. I’m sorry for being so rude.”
A fresh frown meets his smile. “I didn’t take you for being rude, but I appreciate your gratitude.” He shoves a hand into his pocket. “You’re welcome.”
I study him. He seems oddly formal this morning. It’s not like him not to touch me when we’re standing so close together. Usually, he can’t keep his hands off me. He’s always looking for excuses to kiss and fondle me. On any other morning, he would’ve had his hands on my hips and his mouth on mine by now.
“Okay,” I say, swiping a strand of hair behind my ear.
“For whatever it’s worth, I think you deserve—”
I hold up a hand. “You don’t have to make me feel better. I did my best.”
“There are other schools.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine.” Madame Page proved her point. I don’t have what it takes.
“I know how disappointed you are. You haven’t been out of the house since the fashion show.”
I glance at the window. “The weather hasn’t been good.”
“I think you need to get out, Zoe.”
“Get out where?”
“Go to a movie. Do some shopping. Have your hair done. Whatever makes women feel good.”
“You mean alone?” Except for meeting Sylvie and going to school, he’s never let me go anywhere alone. As Sylvie and I haven’t spoken since the night I discovered her deceit, I’ve only been out to school on my own.
“I have a meeting. There’s no reason why you should be cooped up in the house.” He reaches out, hesitates, and finally cups my cheek. “Go on before I touch you more and change my mind.”
The opportunity is too rare not to jump at it. I can take a long walk on the jetty and lick my wounds in solitude. Alone time sounds exactly like what I need.
“Thank you,” I say, my heart warming with gratitude.
“Dress warmly and no chatting to my men. They’re there to protect you, which they can’t do if a pretty woman distracts them.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
His gaze heats. “Are you sassing me, Miss Hart?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have to pull you over my lap for that when you get back.”
I go on tiptoes to kiss him. “I look forward to that.”
He regards me with amusement as I backtrack to the door, the controlling and possessive Maxime silent for once.
“Do I have a curfew?” I ask, pausing in the frame.
“Just let me know where you are. I’ll be busy until late afternoon. You don’t have to be back before dinner.”
There’s something intense about him as he watches me leave. It’s as if he’s fighting with himself to let me go.
I put on my coat and scarf. Making sure my telephone is charged, I drop it with some money into my bag. I always have a stash of cash, courtesy of Maxime. He calls it my emergency fund, as if he doesn’t already take care of my each and every need.
Outside, Benoit jumps to attention.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask. “Aren’t you freezing?” I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. He didn’t have to hang around on a Saturday.
“Nah.” He rubs his hands together. “I was running errands for Maxime.”
“I’m going into town.”
“My car or yours?”
“I’m taking some me time.” I flash him a smile. “I’m driving alone.”
He curses under his breath, hurrying to the Mercedes when I hop into the new Mini Cooper Maxime has bought for me. Two guards follow in his steps.
Throwing the car into gear, I leave the gates before Benoit has had time to start his engine. I grin as I look in the rearview mirror. His wheels are kicking up gravel in his attempt to catch up with me. I can try to shake him off and maybe even succeed, but I do feel better that he’s tailing me. No matter how many times I tell him I don’t need him, I appreciate the protection.
Determined to make the best of the time Maxime has granted me, I put my thoughts aside and drive to the main beach in Marseille. The parking is empty. So is the jetty. I’m happy to have the space to myself.
I button my coat up and pull the hoodie over my head against the cold wind. Benoit mutters some cusswords and says something about freezing his ass off as he follows me to the pier. From there, he lets me go alone. I walk all the way to the end. A spray of saltwater blows against my face. A seagull calls out, swooping low and landing in the swell.
I take my phone from my bag and send Maxime a text to let him know where I am. Benoit always lets him know, but texting him my whereabouts is one of Maxime’s unbreakable rules. I don’t want him to get it into his head to come looking for me just because I disobeyed, or worse, take away my freedom and privileges.
Holding my phone in my hand, I wait for it to vibrate with his reply. Nothing. I check the screen. The tick mark shows my message has been delivered, but the dots don’t dance to indicate he’s busy typing. That’s strange. He always texts me back immediately. I wait a few more seconds, my unease growing, and finally pocket my phone.
It’s not like him to ignore my messages. No matter where or when, I always get a reply. Come to think of it, Maxime behaved very out of character this morning. Letting me stand here alone like this is definitely not like him. No matter how much work or how many meetings he has, he never lets business get in the way of spending time with me on the weekends. If he has to attend an event, he takes me along. If I need to get out, he puts everything on hold to accompany me. I’ve always credited his behavior to making sure I don’t escape, but maybe there’s more to it. Maybe he’s been considerate because he cares.