Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel

by Charmaine Pauls

  We don’t speak on the way to the restaurant or during the elevator ride to the top floor of the Sandton Center. Our reservation is at Nelsons where a meal is worth the equivalent of the average worker’s monthly wage. I refrain from pointing out it makes more sense to eat at Buccaneers downstairs for a tenth of the price and donate the saving he’d make to the starving beggars on the street corner. I doubt Damian is a charitable man.

  A hostess seats us and spreads my napkin. Not three seconds later, the sommelier arrives with a bottle of Krug and an ice bucket. While he uncorks the bottle and pours two glasses, a waiter serves hors d’oeuvres.

  When the staff is gone, Damian lifts his glass. “Congratulations, Mrs. Hart.” Then he says it again, “Mrs. Hart,” not as in testing the sound, but rubbing it in.

  His smile is tight, but it’s the darkness of his expression that makes me not test him on this. As he presses the glass to his lips, holding my gaze, I take a sip. He looks at me with the same intensity from the church, except there’s an undercurrent of something darker, something more dangerous. I wait for the blow, but the fact that he says nothing about the dress only makes me tenser. He’s not going to just let it go.

  He motions at the food on my plate. “Eat.”

  My gaze flitters to the pastry topped with pink caviar mousse. Although I need to feed my body, I’m scared I’ll be sick again.

  “Lina.”

  My eyes snap back to his face at the way he says my name.

  “I’ll feed you if I have to.”

  Taking another sip of champagne, I swallow away the dryness in my mouth before putting the pastry on my tongue. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t waste such a delectable treat, but my stomach turns at the taste of the salty mousse. I chew and swallow, washing it down with some water.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  I dab the napkin to the corner of my mouth. “Just nerves.”

  He nods, as if he understands, and it’s not entirely unkind.

  The rest of the courses follow in a steady, well-paced flow, our menu pre-ordered, all the dishes extravagant.

  I can’t stop myself from commenting on the arrogance of ordering on my behalf. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not allergic to shellfish.”

  He fixes me with a knowing smile. “I know everything I need to know, including that you have no allergies and lobster is your favorite.”

  The statement takes me aback, but I’m not going to ask how he obtained such knowledge.

  Throughout the meal, he watches me, focusing on every bite I take and swallow, until I’m a self-conscious mess. He insists I clean everything off my plate. Thankfully, the portions are small, but by the end of the meal I feel like I’ll burst out of my dress. I decline his offer for coffee, and when I excuse myself to visit the ladies’ room, he’s on his feet before I am. Coming around the table, he extends a hand.

  I stare at his proffered hand. “I’m sure I’ll find the way.”

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  Not in a position to argue, I accept his hand, letting him lead me to the ladies’ room. He doesn’t stop at the door as I expected but pushes it open and enters like he owns the place, pulling me behind him.

  “What are you doing?” I exclaim.

  A woman applying lipstick at the vanity gives us a startled look.

  He shrugs at her. “Newlyweds.”

  She flushes a little and then wilts under his stare before gathering her make-up and leaving us to it.

  He opens the door of the first stall and steps aside. I wait for him to leave, but instead of budging he gets comfortable.

  Crossing his arms and ankles, he leans his shoulder against the wall. “I suggest you get started, unless you want me to pull down your panties.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’re going to stand here while I…?”

  He gives me a half-smile. “Pee? Yes, I am.”

  What the…? Oh, my God. Angry heat warms my cheeks. The old shame creeps up on me. My face burns with humiliation. He’s standing guard, making sure I don’t barf my expensive meal. Pushing past him, I fling back the door to shut it, but he catches it with a palm.

  “The door stays open.”

  I’m so angry I’m shaking. Facing him squarely, I let all the bitter loathing show on my face as I wiggle my panties down under the tight skirt of my dress. It’s my turn to watch him as I relieve myself, balancing gingerly in the air, but he’s immune to intimidation. He hands me a wad of paper from the dispenser when I’m done, which I yank from his hand. The smirk on his face stays intact as I adjust my clothes and wash my hands. Two women come in while I’m busy. Their smiles turn knowing as their eyes roam appreciatively over Damian where he stands waiting for me. The vexation he ignites overrides every other emotion, so much so that I forget to be nervous until we arrive at Damian’s home.

  It’s already dark, but the neighborhood is well lit. I swallow a gasp when we pull up to a large property. Where did Damian get the money to afford a place like this? He went to prison with the same thin shirt he’d worn to Harold’s dinner party. How does a man make money from behind bars? His house is an imposing Victorian structure on a hill in Erasmuskloof, an upmarket suburb of Pretoria. Hidden behind high walls and an electronic gate, it’s three stories high with a tower hugging each end. A porch runs right around. The front windows are wide and high, light shining from every one of them.

  A guard waits on the steps. When the driver parks, the guard opens my door and helps me from the car. Knowing what’s to come, my nerves shatter. I clutch my bag so hard it feels as if my fingers may snap. Damian puts a hand on my lower back, guiding me up the stairs and through the front door. A redwood staircase frames either side of the entrance. In the middle of the floor, under a skylight, stands a table with a huge bouquet of flowers. With wooden wall panels and oriental carpets, the interior is either gloomy or cozy, depending on which side of Damian you are on. As he nods at the guard who followed us inside, I assume I’m not on his good side. The guard takes my clutch bag, clips it open, and turns it upside-down on the table. The content clatters onto the top, the tampons rolling off the edge. I stand stoically, as if it’s normal for any groom to search his bride’s bag, but the heat under my skin tells me I’m turning pink.

  Damian stands equally motionless, waiting patiently as the guard checks my phone, pills, and even the travel-size packet of tissues. The guard pockets my phone and bends to retrieve the tampons. When he’s packed everything back, he hands me my bag.

  Under my cutting look, he lowers his eyes. Without a word exchanged, he takes up a position by the door.

  “Come.” Damian makes his way to the stairs.

  For a second, I hesitate. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go through with what’s going to happen. For a crazy, heart-racing moment, I consider making a run for the door on the left, but where will I run? I’m trapped in Damian’s house—my new home—with his guard blocking the front door.

  Damian stops and turns. He regards me with a disturbing light in those bitter chocolate colored eyes, an expression I can’t decipher. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it hurts worse when you resist. Forcing my feet to obey, I walk to my husband, coming to a stop in front of him. I’m not rewarded for my obedience. No approving light or victorious smile transforms his features. Then I really get scared, because all I see in his dark eyes are disapproval and suppressed anger. It pierces me like an arrow through the ribs. Damian is furious. He controls it well, and that frightens me more.

  My fear escalates with every stair we mount, my heels sinking into the plush carpet. On the landing, we turn left. He opens the first door and steps aside for me to enter. I walk into the room as if there’s nothing to be frightened of, keeping my back straight and my shoulders square while my insides shake. The walls are lined with shelves and filled with books. Two armchairs face a fireplace, and a desk stands in the far corner. It’s not where I expected him to bring me.

  Leaving me
to stand in the middle of the room, he walks to a liquor tray and pours a whisky. He surprises me again by carrying it to me and putting the glass in my hand.

  “You look like you need it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, because it’s more mercy than I’ve ever been granted.

  I down it in one go. The liquor burns down my throat and heats my stomach. My eyes water. He’s right. I do need it. I need it for what I have to do, and I’ll be damned if I let him see how much it scares me. Feigning courage, I leave the tumbler and my clutch on the table and walk to the desk. I lean on it, facing him. I resent him so much, this beautiful man staring at me. Fear-filled expectation is worse torture than the physical kind. I just want it to be done.

  “What are you waiting for?” I taunt, lifting my skirt and spreading my legs as far as the dress allows. “Get it over with.”

  Chapter 3

  Damian

  It’s not going to happen like this. Anyway, I’m so angry with Lina for the dress stunt, I feel more like strangling than fucking her.

  Her lush, usually pink lips are a shade paler. The lip balm makes them shimmer like mother-of-pearl. “Are you a man or not?”

  Provocation. This is what it is, but I fall for it all the same, being in the state I am. In three long strides, I’ve crossed the floor. Her eyes grow large, betraying her brave performance. My hands are on her before she has time to blink. Twisting her around, I bend her body over the desk and pull up the skirt of her dress, the ugly black fucking dress. I lean my weight over her, crushing her chest to the wood. No doubt she can feel my dick growing hard between her ass cheeks. Her breath catches when I drag my hand up the inside of her thigh.

  “Is this what you want?” I whisper with my nose pressed against her ear.

  She shivers. “Does it matter what I want?”

  I squeeze her thigh, applying the slightest of pressure. “Answer me.”

  She jerks. I guess that shiver wasn’t the good kind. Repulsion, maybe.

  Her voice is small. “No.”

  Slowly, I straighten and let her go. The minute my hold lifts, she flings around.

  Her face is ashen. “Why don’t you just get it over with?”

  “I’m not in the habit of forcing women into my bed.”

  “Just into marriage?”

  Yeah, I’m not in the habit of forcing women—never had to—but I do force a smile that must look as stiff as it feels. “When it suits my objective.”

  “Ultimately, sex is part of your objective. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

  Her question is a challenge, a hopeful one that begs for denial, but I’ve already admitted as much in her father’s library. I’m not going to lie to her. It doesn’t matter that she’s unstable and certified crazy. I still want her. For that, I hate her almost more than for destroying my life.

  Besides, it’s not an easy question to answer. I want more than sex. I want to punish her for the part she played in her family’s sins. I want to destroy her for making me want her when she damn well knew she wouldn’t be mine. I want her to know what it’s like to desire someone so intensely you physically ache. I want her to know what it’s like to masturbate with one person’s face in your mind for six never-ending years. When I’m done with her, I want her to never want another. I want her to covet me and pine away into a ghost of herself when I’m gone. I want her to imagine my face when she comes on her fingers and cry out my name in her sleep. I want her to go down on her knees and beg me to fill her with my cock, because that’s the force with which I want her, and I’m not in the habit of nurturing unrequited passion, either. I want to ruin her for all other men. That’s what I want.

  I settle for the simple answer. “I’ll take what I want when you’re offering.”

  Her delicate nostrils flare. “Never.”

  Chuckling, I trace the line of her jaw. Her flawless skin is soft under my calloused pad. Her smooth and my rough rub together like good girls and savages disguised as gentlemen. Beasts like me, our clothes fit us well because brand names and tailored cuts cover the flaws of an unrefined education and less than honorable heart. The dishonorable beast in me likes the way we rub—her vulnerability and my power. He likes it very much.

  “You know what they say about never, angel.”

  She jerks her head away and escapes with a sideways step. The rapid movement of her chest draws my eyes to her breasts. They’re firm and pert. Beautiful, unobtainable, out-of-my-league Lina is mine. She may not want me—yet—but that doesn’t change a thing. As of today, I’m her legal guardian. I’m responsible for her. She can’t make a single decision without my approval, and I’m still high on the knowledge.

  “We need to lay down the rules.”

  Silence.

  “Russell, the bodyguard you met downstairs, is at your disposal. You won’t leave the grounds without him.” As much for her protection as to ensure she doesn’t try to run away. “My housekeeper will show you around. If you need anything while I’m gone, Zane will take care of it.”

  “You’re leaving?” she asks with a tinge of hope she hides too late.

  “Not by choice. I have to take care of urgent business, but Zane will play host until I’m back.”

  “Zane?”

  “Yes, my housekeeper is a man. Is that a problem?”

  Something akin to panic sparks in her eyes. “You’re leaving me alone with him?”

  “You have nothing to fear. He’s a good friend, and he also happens to be gay.” Which is the only reason I trust him with her. I take the new phone from my pocket and hand it to her. “This is yours. My number is programmed.”

  She hesitates but takes the phone after a moment.

  “Play by the rules, and it’ll be smooth sailing.” More or less. “Any questions?”

  She licks her lips. “No.”

  “I’ll be home tomorrow night. I suggest you get some rest. It’s been a taxing day.”

  I grip her slender fingers and press them to my lips. The touch is to remind both of us to who she belongs. Like her, I have patience. It’s only a matter of time. I would’ve preferred to not leave straight away, but the business I’m about to conduct can’t wait. Maybe this trip is the best thing that could’ve happened. I haven’t had sex in six years. I shouldn’t trust myself around her, especially not when my lust is tainted with anger. With a squeeze, I drop her hand and take my leave.

  At the door, I turn. “One more thing. Your father isn’t welcome in my house. He won’t visit whether I’m here or away, and neither will you visit him. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  I trail my gaze over her one last time, imprinting the dishonor she bestowed on me to memory before calling my driver and ordering Zane to the study.

  Lina

  Has Damian really gone, letting me off the hook? With the new phone clutched in one hand, I grip the edge of the desk behind me with the other, unable to believe my luck. He hasn’t taken me like I thought he would. He hasn’t punished me, although I’m sure it’ll come. For now, I’m all right, and I’ve become good at living in the moment. Letting my shoulders drop under the strain of the day, I alternate between dragging in breaths and puffing them out. My act slips and my bravado falls away, leaving my knees weak in the aftermath of all that could’ve been. I’m still gasping like a fish on shore when the door opens, and a man enters.

  I give a start but am incapable of adopting my earlier proud posture. I simply don’t have enough strength left.

  The glint is his eyes is sardonic. “Did I give you a fright?”

  Dressed in a black T-shirt, dark jeans, and white sneakers, he’s not the stereotyped butler in a stiff waistcoat and bowtie I expected. He’s young—early twenties with a bronze complexion and brown hair. He’s not attractive by general standards, but he has an open face, the kind that would elicit trust if he’s not scowling, like now.

  Crossing the floor, he does a visual inventory. His perceptive gaze misses litt
le.

  “It was a beautiful ceremony.” The compliment sounds sarcastic. “I brought some of the flowers from the church home to put in the entrance.”

  “You were there?” I don’t remember his face from the crowd, not that I’d been taking in much of what was going on around me.

  “For the whole fiasco.” He looks me up and down. Satisfaction laces his tone when he says, “Not exactly a wedding dress.” He’s happy I look nothing like a bride. “I can’t imagine Dami liking it. He hates black.”

  “For a man who hates black, he sure owns enough black suits.” Given, I’ve only seen him twice, not counting our first meeting, but he chose black for both occasions. Or maybe it was just for me.

  “I meant on a woman.” He smirks. “Although, I can’t say I’m surprised that black’s your choice of wedding gown color after unpacking your bags.”

  If I don’t own any other color than black, it’s none of his business. “I didn’t expect you to unpack my bags but thank you.”

  He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the tense set of his shoulders gives away his resentment. “It comes with the job.” Seeming to consider me for a moment, he continues, “I’ll be honest with you, no one here is pleased about the turn of events, so do yourself a favor and do as I tell you. Otherwise, try to stay out of my way.”

  I smile. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

  “Come.” He turns for the door, knowing I’ll obey because I don’t have a choice.

  I collect my clutch and follow him down the hallway, not surprised to see Russell still guarding the front door. He’s not as tall as Damian, but meatier. His presence would’ve been scary if I weren’t used to the bodyguards in Harold’s house.