Diamonds are Forever: A Diamond Magnate Novel (Diamonds are Forever Trilogy Book 3)

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Diamonds are Forever: A Diamond Magnate Novel (Diamonds are Forever Trilogy Book 3) Page 4

by Charmaine Pauls


  I don’t acknowledge him. I continue to take in the view, to remember the moments I loved here most, all of them ironically involving Zoe.

  Breaking first, he asks, “How does it feel?”

  I turn away from the beauty of the ocean framed by the cliffs. Alexis only taints its perfection with his presence. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Fantastic. Best cunt I’ve ever had.”

  I raise a brow. “Does she know how you speak about her? Her honor isn’t mine to defend, but I’m sure her menfolk will take up the task.”

  There are two kinds of hatred. The cold kind that fills you with loathing but leaves you unaffected, and the heated kind that devours your soul and eats you up from the inside. When I look at my brother, it’s winter I feel. Cold. The hatred burning in his eyes, on the other hand, is the heated kind. It makes him the loser, always, even when he wins.

  “You know they’ll kill you if you hurt her, right?” I ask with growing amusement as his face distorts with the realization of how powerless he is against me. A person only has power over you if you give it to them. To give it to them, you have to care, and I don’t give a shit.

  “I’m going to crush you,” he says through clenched teeth, “and I’m going to love every minute of it.”

  For a second, I almost pity him. Alexis has always resented me for my first-born rights. He’s undermined me whenever he could. For as long as he’s lived, he’s crawled on his knees and kissed my father’s ass. He’s always hated me, but since I punished him for torturing the prostitutes under his protection, he wanted to destroy me. After making him and his torture buddy fuck each other’s asses while whipping them to shreds, it’s become his life mission.

  Good luck to him. It’s not that easy to get rid of a bad weed. Weeds grow tougher than cultured garden plants and flowers.

  Sauntering to the wet bar with his fake confidence, he pours my favorite whiskey and carries the glass back to me. Swirling it under my nose, he grins, then takes a sip before flopping down in the chair behind the desk.

  “I assume you’re all packed.” He glances at the door as he speaks. “Bring me a souvenir from South Africa, will you?”

  I follow his gaze. Izabella stands in the door, wearing a long-sleeved dress and high heels with stockings, the image of cultured refinement. The perfect wife. Her dark eyes rest accusingly on me. She follows my movement as I cross the floor. When I reach her, I stop and wait. She steps aside without a word. I don’t look at her as I push past her. I carry on straight, walking through the front door without sparing either of them another glance.

  Chapter 6

  Zoe

  Urgh.

  The evening was a disaster. My poor date. He’s a nice guy, not bad-looking either, but I decided to be honest with him over a too-sweet fishbowl cocktail we shared at News Café in Sandton. When I told him I was on the rebound, he paid his portion of the bill and left me there alone with a fishbowl full of fluorescent alcohol and two soggy paper straws. Thank goodness I insisted on driving there in my own car instead of letting him pick me up. At least I had a ride home.

  It’s only nine when I arrive at my complex. At the security gate, I type in my pin to open the gate, and then scan my thumbprint to lift the boom. An armed guard nods from the guardhouse. I give him a friendly wave. The extra security measures almost all the complexes in the area have to combat robberies give me a feeling of safety. Damian had a security slam-gate fitted in front of my door and fortified bars in front of all my windows as well as under the roof. He wasn’t taking any chances. My little fortress is safe. With the alarm, there’s zero possibility of anyone getting in.

  Just in case, I fold my hand around the pepper spray in my bag when I park. A high wall with electrified barbwire on the top surrounds the complex. Spray lights illuminate the parking and the dark corners. Being attacked by someone lurking in the bushes is a very small probability. Still, I scan the grounds and look over my shoulder.

  I lived in Brixton before, a suburb a lot more dangerous than Fourways, yet I’d never been this paranoid in Brixton. This constant state of alertness is the price I pay for being kidnapped and smuggled abroad, all in the name of diamonds. Once upon a time when I was young and naïve and had dreams, I wanted a man to put a pretty ring with a shiny stone on my finger. Now I hate those stones for what they represent. Crushed dreams. Greed and ugly truths.

  My steps echo on the concrete as I cross the parking lot. There are twelve units with four apartments in each. Mine is on the first level of the second unit. The fact that it’s not on the ground level makes the possibility of someone climbing through a window or the roof even more improbable.

  It’d been a long day at work. I’d rushed home to get ready, putting on a blouse with wide sleeves I made from tea-stained lace with a pair of high-waist black pants fastening with buttons on the sides. Pairing it with high-heeled booties, I call it my pirate outfit. So much for making an impression. I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’m on the rebound, but I hate being dishonest. I’ll have to tell Lina to limit her matchmaking to guys who aren’t looking for anything serious.

  Who am I kidding? The idea of a man’s hands on my body repulses me. I was hoping tonight was a step in the right direction to get over my phobia of being touched, something I’ve developed since I escaped. I’m worried sex isn’t in the cards for me for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll never be able to tolerate an intimate touch again. Maybe Maxime damaged more than my sense of safety for life.

  Climbing the stairs to my unit, I pull free the elastic that ties my blond hair into a ponytail and shake out the long tresses. I use a straightener these days to get rid of my natural curls.

  On the landing, I tiptoe so my neighbor doesn’t hear me. Mariska is a nice girl, but I’m not in the mood for company. I just want to wash the makeup off my face and crawl into bed. I was worried for nothing, though, because a reggae song pierced with laughter filters through her door. She’s got company. Later, I’ll have to listen to the banging of her headboard against the wall, lying awake in the dark and pondering all the ways in which I’m screwed up.

  Those sleepless nights are the worst. I ache for a touch I can’t tolerate from any other man, my body heating with need at the memory of another woman’s man. I burn and cry, and eventually make myself come only to hate myself for it in the morning. Maybe I’ll take a sleeping pill tonight. I picked up a herbal remedy from a natural medicine pharmacy a while ago, but I haven’t tried it yet.

  I keep my alarm remote and keys in a zip pocket of my bag that’s easily accessible so I don’t have to fish for them at the door. It’s the small security measures that make the difference. Get inside fast before someone can snatch you on the landing. After deactivating the alarm, I unlock the security gate and door, and blow out a sigh of relief when I’m inside. I lock the gate and door, then double check by testing the handles to make sure I’ve locked them. Hanging my bag on the coat stand in the entrance, I go through the door on the right to the kitchen and fill a glass with water from the tap. I take a long drink before unzipping and kicking off my booties.

  The heat in the overcrowded bar left me sticky. I envision another quick, cool shower as I make my way to my room with the glass in one hand, already unbuttoning my blouse. The lamp I left on in the lounge guides my way. The radio still plays softly. I always leave on signs of life when I go out so that potential robbers would be deceived into thinking I’m home.

  I enter the lounge to switch off the light and music, and then stop dead. My heart slams into my ribs. My breath catches, and the glass slips from my fingers. It shatters when it hits the tiles, water splashing over my bare feet and against the legs of my pants.

  I don’t look at the damage at my feet. I don’t look away from the large frame of a man sitting in my armchair. I’m battling to process what’s happening as we’re staring at each other, my body frozen in shock while he assesses me with an emotionless expression.

  “Hello, Zoe,�
� he says in a gruff voice, the foreign accent rich and unmistakable. “Or shall I say, Amanda?”

  Chapter 7

  Zoe

  I can’t think.

  I can’t breathe.

  Shock pierces my skin like needles. I go hot and cold, then hot again.

  Maxime looks exactly as I remember, except for the slightly longer and disheveled hair that matches the dark scruff on his jaw. He’s wearing a white dress shirt that’s unbuttoned almost to the waist and a pair of dark suit pants. His ankle rests on his knee in a casual stance, but there’s nothing casual about the cold light shining in his gray eyes.

  He holds one of my water glasses filled with a quarter of amber liquid in one hand while the other lies in a relaxed pose on the armrest of the chair, a gun resting in his slack grip. All the while, he’s watching me with the cruel amusement and unsettling interest of a serial killer.

  Even from here, the smell of whiskey reaches my nostrils. I don’t drink it, but I got the bottle in a crazy bout of devastating sadness one day when missing him hit me so hard it felt like a physical disease. My cheeks heat when I remember how I made myself come on my fingers, fingers I’d dipped into that alcohol and sucked to remind me of the taste of his kisses.

  I stare at him in horror as he considers me with that laid back demeanor and strange look that seems indifferent, volatile, cool, and heated at the same time. Despite his quiet immobility, I sense the litheness trapped under the deceptive calm. If he appeared dangerous before, he’s danger personified now. The only thing preventing me from bolting for the door is the gun resting in his hand.

  His gaze slips down to where my blouse is unbuttoned, heating as it lingers there. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest he must be able to see it.

  Terrified, I clutch the ends of my blouse together. “How did you get in?”

  “Really, Zoe? That’s the first thing you’re going to ask me?” His tone is mocking, his accent both familiar and new after all this time. “No greeting or welcoming kiss?” Putting the glass on the side table, he gets up. He executes the action leisurely, but he dominates the small space with his height and mere presence.

  Instinctively, I take a step back. Something sharp cuts into my heel. I gasp at the sting.

  He holds up a hand, the hand with the gun, but the barrel is turned toward the ceiling. “Don’t move.”

  Lifting the pressure off my heel, I look down. A shard of glass is lodged in my skin, and blood is mixing with the water on the hardwood floor.

  Maxime tucks his gun into the back of his waistband and crosses the floor. I shrink back when he reaches for me.

  “Don’t touch me,” I cry, holding up a hand as if that may stop him.

  His voice holds a warning that clashes with the melodic quality of his French accent. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He will if he has to. Just like before. Just like always.

  “I just want to help you,” he says.

  Help me? That’s not why he’s here.

  Putting my weight on the toes of my injured foot, I back out of the door as fast as I can. If I can get to the entrance, I can push the silent distress button on my alarm remote that’s hanging from the keychain in the door. The security company will be here in a few minutes, and they’ll alert Damian.

  Maxime has the physical advantage, though. He has longer legs and wider steps. He chases after me with determined strides, in no particular hurry to catch me. Like a fox playing with a rabbit, he backs me up to the door and grabs the keys from the lock before I can reach them.

  “Looking for this?” he asks, dangling the keychain in front of my face.

  I’m locked in with him. It’s a reminder of the first time he broke into my apartment, and it steals my ability to breathe.

  Flattening my body against the wood with my palms pressed next to my thighs on the door, I force from dry lips, “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” His laugh is low and wicked as he closes the last step that separates us, putting his body flush against mine. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

  I can’t shrink back any farther. I can only lift my chin with fake bravado. “I want you to leave.”

  “Oh, I will, my little flower.” Dipping his head, he drags his nose over my temple and whispers against my ear, “And you’re coming with me.”

  “You’re married,” I say with disdain, spitting the next words at him. “Go back to your wife.”

  He slams a fist against the door next to my face. “You wanted me all to yourself. You’ve got it, ma belle.”

  I jump. The violence makes me shake. “You have what you wanted. Damian is honoring your deal. He’s still selling you your damn diamonds. Now leave me the hell alone.”

  “Yes.” Nostrils flaring, he sneers. “Like hell. Like hell I’ll leave you alone.”

  “What more do you want?” I exclaim, tears burning behind my eyes as fear for Damian and his family rips through my chest.

  He regards me with a solemn gaze. “You.”

  The declaration hangs between us for a moment. I battle to grab it from the air and own it, but then it sinks in, the knowledge like a ball of lead in my stomach.

  “I’ve given you everything,” I say on a broken whisper, “and it wasn’t enough.”

  I gave him my love and my heart. He took both and married another woman. He only upgraded me from being his whore to making me his mistress.

  He stills. “I gave you everything too. Everything I fucking have.” He unclenches his fingers where they rest on the door and curl them back into a fist. “But it wasn’t enough for you either.”

  “Don’t you see? We’re no good for each other. Please, Maxime. Go back to your wife. Leave me in peace. Please. You can do it. You can let go.”

  “Is that what you did?” He hits the door again. “You let go?”

  “I tried to,” I say through my tears. “I am trying to.”

  “By seeing other men? Tell me. Is that how it works for you? Is that why you saw that putain de connard de merde tonight?”

  My words tumble from my lips with a tremulous breath. “You followed me?”

  “Did he touch you?” He leans closer, trapping me with his weight. “Did he kiss you?” His tone is both cold and furious, detached and possessive. “Tell me, Zoe. Did he put his hands on you?” Slipping a hand between our bodies, he cups my sex and rests his thumb on my clit. “Maybe here?” He drags his palm under the hem of my blouse to the exposed skin of my stomach. “Here?”

  I suck in a breath as the heat of his hand burns my skin. It’s like branding me with a hot iron, but it’s not repulsion I feel. It’s not a random touch that stirs my phobia. He’s not just any other man.

  He lowers his head to mine, brushing words over my lips—angry, seductive words—as his palm moves higher and flattens between my breasts. “Or here?”

  “No!” I swat his hand away. “He didn’t touch me.”

  “I’ll kill him. I swear I will.” His lips curve, but the gesture doesn’t resemble a smile. “Maybe for this lesson, I’ll make you watch.”

  “Maxime!” My breath catches on a hitch, my pulse spiking not only from the threat but also from his insistent touch. Even if it wasn’t familiar and my conditioned body didn’t react in reflex, it still would’ve turned me on. It also scares me with its power and underlying anger. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No?” He traces my cheek with a finger. “Then tell me. What was it like?”

  “It was just a drink, okay? I told him I was on the rebound and he left. That’s it.”

  “How many?” he asks with a tight jaw.

  “Just this once.”

  Spearing his fingers through my hair, he considers my answer for a moment. We’re standing too close. His erection is pressing against my stomach and the pull of his fingers is getting tighter in my hair. I’m not sure if he’s going to kiss me or snap my neck. There’s nothing I can do about it. Whatever Maxime decides will be my fat
e.

  “I have to say,” he says, slipping his hand from my hair to curl his fingers around my neck. “I’m impressed. How did you do it?”

  Unwilling to implicate Damian, I shake my head.

  He squeezes, leaving me little air to breathe. “How did you do it, ma petite fleur? I know your brother helped you, but how did you manage to contact him?”

  My lungs burn. I suck in what little air I can. On second thought, it’s probably better he kills me. That way, I can’t betray the only person who’s ever cared enough to help me.

  “Do it,” I croak. “You want to kill me? Go ahead.”

  He laughs. It’s a deep and husky sound. “You think I’ll kill you? No, my pretty flower. It’s not you who’ll pay the price.”

  The threat makes my throat close up. Stars dance in front of my eyes. I cough when he lets me go, my body spasming as survival instinct takes over and my lungs battle to draw in oxygen.

  “I’ll ask you one last time,” he says. “How did you contact Damian?”

  A dull ache starts throbbing in my heel where the piece of glass is still lodged. Rubbing at my neck where he gripped me, I sag against the door. “I slipped a sleeping pill into your champagne and used your thumbprint to unlock your phone.”

  Admiration lights up his features. “Do go on.”

  “I called Damian. He sent someone to the airport with a false passport.”

  “Very innovative.” Tracing my bottom lip with a finger, he asks, “How did you know your brother was out of jail?”

  “I called the prison first. They told me. I did a search on Dalton’s mine and saw it had become Hart Diamonds. There was a contact number on the website.” Hurt filters into my voice. “Why didn’t you mail the letters? Why did you deceive me?”

  A beat passes as he stares into my eyes. “I never said I was going to mail them.”

  “You know what?” Tears blur my vision. “I knew you were going to say that.”

 

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