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

by Charmaine Pauls

  Maxime came back?

  I look at the terrace, but it’s raining hard. I doubt he’d be hiding out there.

  The vacuum cleaner stops.

  “Morning,” Francine says. Her voice turns sweet. “Oh, I hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She regards me as if I’m crazy. “I work here.”

  Going over to the jacket, I lift it off the chair. “Has Maxime been here?”

  “Um.” She sweeps an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear because not a hair came loose from her perfect bun. “I’m just returning it.”

  A whiff of perfume reaches my nostrils as I fold the jacket over my arm. “Returning it?”

  “He lent it to me last night.”

  It takes me a beat to catch on. “Last night?”

  “You know.” She clears her throat. “At the hotel.”

  She went to his hotel and left dressed in his jacket? What am I supposed to make of that? The answer is obvious.

  My headache escalates. The rotten way I feel doesn’t help. Turning on my heel, I go to the kitchen to get a glass of orange juice. I need an aspirin and some vitamin C. Something crunches under my feet when I round the island counter. It looks like sugar. I follow the trail. Ants are marching in a line over the kitchen floor. I’m not sure where they’re coming from, but their destination seems to be the trashcan. Lifting the lid, I peer inside. Sugar. Granulated sugar.

  Dumping Maxime’s jacket on the nearest chair, I go to the cupboard and take out the sugar pot. It’s filled with cubes. Aware of Francine watching me, I empty the pot in the trashcan. For good measure, I throw the quiche that still stands on the counter in the trash, too. The old me would’ve never wasted food. The new me has a hardened heart.

  My head is aching so much it’s an effort just to talk, but I turn on Francine and say, “Leave. Now. You don’t have to bother coming back.”

  She pulls herself straight. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Max is my boss and—”

  “That may be, but this is my house.”

  She drops the vacuum pipe. “I’ll work until the end of the month.”

  “You won’t put another foot in here.”

  Her smile is mean. “Is this about my work or about what happened between Max and me last night?”

  Honestly, I can’t say if the sugar war is the last straw prompting me to chase her out of my house or if it’s the jealous anger eating away at my insides. Maxime and I, we’re not an authentic couple, but we are married. If he couldn’t respect the vows he took yesterday, he shouldn’t have made them. Whatever the case, I’ve reached my limit.

  “You’re such a spoiled brat,” she says. “You don’t realize what you have.” Taking a few steps toward me, she asks, “Do you know what lengths Max went to yesterday? Do you know what you ruined?”

  Placing a hand over my neck, I fight for composure. I fight not to humiliate myself by screaming or saying nasty words I can’t take back.

  “He booked a whole restaurant out for you and hired a singer,” she continues. “Your own private little diva. He spent a fortune on roses and a wedding cake, not to mention the most exclusive photographer in Marseille who cancelled all his appointments just to capture your precious memories. Oh, did I mention the church choir? He did it all for you. No guests. Just you. The hotel honeymoon suite sure was pretty with all those roses and candles. At least I didn’t waste the champagne.”

  Maxime always has a reason for doing what he does. He taught me that in Venice. His flowers and candles come with a price. It’s not the effort he went to that affects me. It’s that he already broke the promise he made when he slipped a ring onto my finger. My chest squeezes until my heart hurts. I can’t look at Francine for one minute longer.

  “Leave your keys,” I say. “You won’t need them any longer.”

  She grabs a coat and bag from the coat stand. “I’ll return the keys to the person who gave them to me,” she says, slamming the door on her way out.

  I lean against the counter. It was hardly a fight, but it took all the energy I had. The smell of Francine’s perfume on Maxime’s jacket taunts me. It’s going straight to the dry cleaners. Furious and hurt, I bundle the jacket up to put it in the washing basket. Something white and lacy peeks from the pocket. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even care, but I can’t help myself.

  Holding my breath, I slide my hand into the pocket and pull out the item. A woman’s thong. White. Like Francine’s dress yesterday.

  I stand there like a statue, staring at the small piece of fabric in my palm. I have no right to feel like this, but it fucking hurts. It hurts differently to the day I caught Izabella and Maxime having a polite conversation with soft laughter in his library. That hurt was a shock, a mountain of ice dumped on my head I hadn’t seen coming. I never expected it. I suppose it prepared me for this second round, because this pain isn’t as acute as more drawn out. It’s a slow burn, creeping at a snail’s pace to bury itself deep under my skin. I’m not sure what’s worse, the quick and devastating collision or the slow crawl of agony. In any event, the outcome is the same—pain and more pain.

  Maxime fucked Francine on our wedding night.

  All the more reason to put a chastity lock and chain around my heart. I throw the jacket and the underwear into the trash can, wash my hands twice, and pour a glass of juice that I take back to bed. After swallowing aspirin, I crawl under the covers and pull the comforter over my head.

  If I stay here long enough with my head buried under the covers, the pain eventually has to fade.

  It’s late morning when I wake up again. I’m still alone. I feel like shit. Shaking all over with a cold fever, I pull the covers up to my chin. I need to eat. My body needs energy to heal. When the ice in my bones turns hot and sweat covers my body, I throw the covers aside and drag myself to the kitchen.

  There’s nothing I can heat up and no baguette to make a sandwich. The quickest meal to fix will be scrambled eggs. I take the carton with the eggs from the fridge, but feel so miserable that I leave them with the pan on the counter and just grab the carton of juice. I take it to bed and swallow another painkiller. My throat is killing me.

  I must’ve fallen into a feverish sleep again, because sounds in the kitchen jerk me from a dream in which I’m walking with Maxime through the freezing rain to a church in the distance that falls farther away the more we advance.

  Sitting up, I grab the knife from under my pillow and hold it out in front of me as footsteps approach and a shadow falls over the threshold. A moment later, Maxime’s tall body fills the frame. The tension in my shoulders eases marginally.

  His angular face darkens as he looks at the weapon in my hands. “What are you doing with the knife?”

  Sagging with the breath I release, I leave the knife on the nightstand. “Alexis was here. I thought maybe he came back.” I’m so damn angry with Maxime, but too exhausted for a fight.

  A thunderous look joins the darkness, making a terrifying tableau of his face. “What?” In two steps, he’s in front of me. “What did he want?” He drags his gaze in a frantic sweep over me. “Did he hurt you? Did he fucking touch you?”

  Clutching the sheet to my chest, I say, “He told me everything.”

  “Everything?” Just like that, his emotions turn off. The mask falls back in place. “Everything about what?”

  “That you gave up your house and position to go after me. Why would you do that?” Why would Maxime drag me to the mairie and marry me if he was going to fuck Francine?

  “He said that?” he asks in a flat voice.

  He’s stalling. He doesn’t want to answer me. My energy already depleted, I fall back against the cushions. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

  He scrutinizes me with a furrowed brow. “Why are you in bed?” Then he says with alarm, “Zoe, you look terrible.”

  “Thanks.” I give him a cold smile. “You can go ba
ck to your hotel now.”

  He presses a hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up. You’re sick,” he adds with a hint of panic. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I push his hand away. “It’s only a cold. Go away and leave me alone.”

  “Like hell.” Taking his phone from his pocket, he swipes over the screen. “I’m calling the doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor.” The white dress shirt without the jacket reminds me why I don’t want to see him. Even more so, I don’t want him to see me like this—weak. “I just need you to go.”

  He holds my gaze as he makes the call and tells the doctor to come straight over, making it sound as if I’m dying.

  “You’re wasting the doctor’s time,” I say when he hangs up. “It’s not the first time I’m having a cold. It’ll pass in a couple of days.”

  He paces to the window. “I dragged you out in the cold dressed in a flimsy gown with wet hair.”

  If only yesterday could turn into a black hole in my memory. “Why do you even care?”

  He turns back to me with a somber regard. “Because I can’t help it.”

  I’ve never understood him. I’m no closer to deciphering my husband. He keeps on saying he cares, but caring lovers don’t drag their unsuspecting partners to the altar.

  “Why did you do it, Zoe?” he asks with a hint of despair, curling his fingers into fists. “Why push me so far? I wanted to give you a beautiful day.”

  “You wanted to control me. It was just another one of your sick manipulations.”

  “The dress and the flowers weren’t attempts at manipulating you. Those gestures were genuine. So was the evening I had planned for us. Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know what is genuine and what is psychological warfare with you. In all the time you’ve kept me, you never let me get close to you. Not even a little. How am I supposed to know when you’re real?”

  His regal posture slips. “The man from yesterday, the man who lost his temper, that man was real, and I don’t like him.”

  This is the closest to being honest he’s ever been with me. “I didn’t like him either.”

  Crouching down, he fists the sheet in his hands. “Then teach me how to be a man you can like.”

  I barely suppress the urge to trace the crooked line of his nose and rest my palm against his cheek. “Real is good. You just have to learn how to control it.”

  “This is what you want?” He scrunches the sheet, sounding angry. “This kind of honesty?”

  “No more lessons, Maxime. No more manipulations.”

  A war rages in his eyes. Trust doesn’t come easy for us, but we’re bound to each other. This is the only way I’m prepared to go forward. I won’t expect his love or devotion, but I’m not going back to how we were.

  After a moment, he concedes with a quiet, “No more lessons.”

  At least if he’s honest, I’ll have a shot at figuring him out. In the meantime, I still have questions.

  I consider his actions. “Why did you give up your house?” That house meant everything to him. “Why give up your legacy and birthright?”

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he takes my hand. “Because you’re my obsession.”

  An obsession. Some people only want what they can’t have. I pull my hand from his. “Is it the chase?”

  He allows the rejection, but the tight set of his jaw tells me he doesn’t like it. “Despite what you may think, I don’t enjoy hunting you. I’d much prefer your compliance. I sleep better knowing you’re safely in my possession.” The wintery color of his eyes turns colder. “How did Alexis get in?” More dangerous. “You didn’t open the door for him, did you?”

  “You left the door open. He walked in right after you’d gone.”

  “Fuck.” Dragging his palms over his head, he flexes his fingers as if he imagines them around his brother’s neck. “He was watching us. Me.”

  Alexis’s warning comes rushing back. “He said he was going to kill you.”

  Instead of acting shocked, Maxime’s laugh is cold. “He can try.”

  “He said you’re powerless.”

  “I’m out of the mob, but I’m not out of business. The family needs my business. No one can run it like I can. It pumps money into Marseille and opens trade with the rest of Europe. No one is going to be stupid enough to take me out, not even if Alexis gives the order.”

  “What business?”

  “The diamonds. It’s legit. Damian decided to continue selling directly to me.”

  Ah. Hence the reason for our hasty marriage. It’s just another business deal. “It’s always about the damn diamonds.”

  “I told you,” he says in a hard voice, “I don’t care about the diamonds. I didn’t care about your brother’s decision. I would’ve made you mine regardless.”

  “I’m not yours,” I force from tight lips.

  His smile is wicked. “We’ll see.” He glances at the glass with the remains of the juice on the nightstand. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’ll fix something later.”

  He frowns. “Where’s Francine? Why didn’t she make you something to eat?”

  I tense again. “I asked her to leave.”

  The line between his eyebrows deepens. “Why?”

  I give him a cold stare. “Do you really need to ask me that?”

  Comprehension washes over his face. “What did she say to you?”

  “Does it matter?” I ask with ice in my tone.

  “Of course it fucking matters.”

  I don’t answer. It’s the best way of replying when a conversation isn’t worth my time.

  “Nothing happened, Zoe. She came to the hotel, but I sent her away.”

  “Wearing your jacket.”

  “She said she was cold.”

  I can’t help the sarcasm that sounds in my voice. “That must explain why her underwear was in your pocket.”

  The bastard looks pleased. “My little flower is jealous.”

  “I have no reason to be jealous, and I’m not your little flower.”

  “Admit it, Zoe. You’re green.”

  “Go to hell, Maxime.”

  “Yes, she offered to fuck me.” He adds in a gentler tone, “I declined.”

  I find that hard to believe. “I thought you’d jump at the opportunity.”

  “Did I jump on it when I first took you?”

  I think back to the night when Francine had her arms around Maxime’s neck and the fight that resulted, how he punished my mouth and how I slapped him. It was the night I decided I didn’t want to revert to violence like my father. “You weren’t bothered about fucking me while being married to Izabella.”

  “That was different. Izabella was business, nothing more. You’ve made your view on cheating clear. I’ll honor your feelings.”

  “That’s it? You won’t sleep with other women because you’ll honor my feelings?”

  “What do you want from me, Zoe? What more do you want me to say?”

  That I’ll be enough. I suppose, given our situation, that’s a bit much to ask. I suppose this is as good as it gets for us.

  The intercom buzzes in the kitchen. He studies me for another moment before pushing to his feet to answer it.

  When he returns to the room, he says, “The doctor is on his way up. I’ll make you something to eat while he examines you.”

  I don’t bother to argue. What’s the point? Maxime does what Maxime wants. Nothing has changed.

  The doctor who takes my temperature and blood pressure is the same one Maxime took me to for a birth control shot. Dr. Olivier has been administering my quarterly shots since then. Which reminds me, I’m almost due for another.

  “You have a bad bout of flu,” Dr. Olivier says. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do except recommending a couple of days in bed and painkillers for the fever and ache.”

  “That’s what I told Maxime,” I say, embarrassed about wasting the doctor’s time. “Since you’r
e here, can we schedule an appointment for the next birth control shot?”

  “You won’t need it,” Maxime says from the door, carrying a tray with scrambled eggs and tea.

  I give him a startled look. “I don’t want to fall pregnant.”

  “There’s no fear of that if you refuse to sleep with me.” He balances the tray on my lap.

  Dr. Olivier clears his throat. “Call me when you’ve discussed it.”

  Gathering his instruments, he packs everything into his doctor’s case. “Keep her indoors,” he says to Maxime. “We don’t want to risk pneumonia if the infection spreads to her lungs.”

  Maxime sees him to the door. When he returns, he looks at the tray on my lap. “Shall I feed you?”

  “No thanks.” I pick up the tea. In all honesty, I am hungry. “You didn’t have to do this, but thank you.” Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I have to forget my manners. I have to cling to some shreds of decency unless I want to turn into a savage like my husband.

  The warm smile clashes with the cold burn in his eyes. “You’re always welcome.”

  Chapter 15

  Maxime

  The doctor is barely gone when Zoe’s fever spikes again. Forty degrees. I make her drink another painkiller and take her temperature. The fact that she doesn’t argue or slap my hand away tells me how sick she is.

  Good going, Belshaw.

  Aren’t we off to a great start?

  Cursing myself, I go to the bathroom to run a bath. Her wedding dress lies in a dirty heap on the floor. The bath is stained with the dye. I clean the bath and let the water run cool. While I’m waiting for the bath to fill up, I gather the dress and carefully fold it into a bag that I store in the dressing room to drop off at the dry cleaners later. Zoe put months and a lot of love into the dress. I don’t want it spoiled.

  When the bath is ready, I go back to the room for my flower. She’s curled into a ball, huddling beneath the blankets.