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

by Charmaine Pauls

  Straightening, he goes back to his schooled self, the lust replaced with calculated control. “Just wanted to give you ample warning in case the idea needs to grow on you.”

  It’s a command, not a request. He’s never forced me, but he has faith in his skills. He knows how to use his hands to turn me into putty.

  My breathing is shallow when he finally steps away and gives me space. He unpacks the groceries and fixes an early supper of grilled chicken and pan-roasted vegetables. His manner is strong and confident. His actions say he knows what he’s doing. The question is, do I?

  Chapter 17

  Zoe

  For two days, Maxime pampers me. He bathes me, dresses me, washes and dries my hair, and massages my body. He does the grocery shopping and replaces the cubes with granulated sugar. He cooks and cleans the apartment before going to work at his new office in town. It’s a hectic schedule for him, but he doesn’t complain or show fatigue. He’s my dedicated and uncomplaining servant.

  The rain stops on the third morning. When the sun comes out, the ants disappear. My health returns and everything goes back to normal. Well, as normal as this situation can ever be.

  I’ve been closed inside for as long as I can bear. I’ve had nothing but time to think. The more I think the more anxious and resentful I become. Resentment comes from Maxime forcing my hand and anxiety from knowing I’m not strong enough to resist him forever.

  As promised, he hasn’t touched me while I’ve been ill, but sleeping next to him reminded me of how if feels when his hard body slides over mine, how my skin comes alive when he drags his hands over every inch of me, and worst of all, how it feels when he rocks a gentle rhythm into my body. It reminded me of how he makes me fall apart and come together all at the same time.

  When nature gives me this reprieve, I get dressed, pull on a light coat, and step out into the sunshine. The salty air and far-off calls of seagulls are familiar. I stop for a moment on the busy pavement to take it all in. The fact that I can leave the building and go wherever I like doesn’t fool me into mistaking this for freedom. I have my phone in my pocket. Maxime can—will—track my movements. I could’ve easily left the phone behind, but there’s something other than Maxime’s possession that keeps me prisoner. It’s the danger that will always hover over my life. He’s no longer the mafia boss in Marseille, but Alexis wants him dead. I have no doubt he’ll use me to get to Maxime. With no guards to trail behind and protect me, I’m taking every precaution I can, including taking the busy roads.

  The walk and fresh air do me good. I feel invigorated when I get to an open-air textile market I remember from driving past here once. The smell of grilled chestnuts from the vendor stand mixes with the odor of chemical dye from the fabric. Weaving through the aisles, I drag the familiar perfume into my lungs. Despite my situation, my spirits lift. It’s like the smell of roasted beans when entering a coffee shop on a cold morning or the welcoming scent of ink and paper in a bookstore on a lazy afternoon. Only, it’s the cocktail of threads and colors that makes my heart beat faster. With it comes the rush of memories from the fashion academy and, like an answering echo, a wave of nostalgia. I miss this. I miss the slide of fabric through my fingers and the soothing hum of a sewing machine.

  A piece of organza hanging from a wooden rail lifts in the breeze. The floral print catches my eye. It’s pink and lilac, soft and lovely. I said I was done with sewing, but maybe it’s because I’ve been stuck on my old designs. Romantic designs. Walking to a stand with a much statelier roll of navy linen, I rub the coarse fabric between my fingers. Maybe I was looking at the wrong dreams.

  “Would you like this fabric, ma’am?” the vendor asks.

  I look up. The woman has a friendly smile. A red scarf tied around her hair brings out the warm tone of her skin and eyes.

  I don’t have any money on me. I didn’t even know this was my destination when I started walking. “Oh, I’m just browsing.”

  “Please cut the lady however much she wants,” a deep voice says.

  I spin on my heel. The sight of him takes my breath away even after all this time. With his hands shoved into his pockets, Maxime’s stance is relaxed, but I recognize the power running underneath. As always, he’s dressed immaculately. Even his casual street clothes scream of sophistication and a keen sense of fashion. A roll-neck black T-shirt and fitted pants are rounded off with a brown coat, matching scarf, and short boots, but it’s not the clothes that define the man. It’s his presence. It’s how he dominates the space and demands attention. It’s what that look on his face promises.

  Women stop talking to stare. I stare, too. I take in the familiar sharp chin and deep lines, the crooked nose and bump on the bridge, the gray eyes that cut through defenses and intentions, and the strong mouth that makes knees weak. His hair is ruffled, curlier from the humid air, and the longer sideburns give him an artistic look. He could be an eccentric painter or a brilliant rocket scientist, a mafia boss or a man bathing a woman on his knees. He could be a jet fighter pilot or a diamond tycoon. A woman’s imagination could run wild. What every female here knows with instinctive knowledge is that those hands, those hidden hands, can stroke a cheek as gently as they can squeeze around a throat. This is a man who can make a woman’s fantasies come true, and his gaze is trained on me with possessiveness. Adoration. Lust.

  Our gazes remained locked as he takes his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out a few bills.

  The vendor clears her throat. Her voice is husky when she asks, “How many meters would you like, ma’am?”

  “Three, please,” I say, ripping a number from the sky.

  Maxime’s lips lift in one corner. The smile makes his unconventionally beautiful-unattractive face seem more predatory than friendly.

  Leaning closer, he presses his lips against my ear and says in English, “Let me buy this for you.”

  The foreign accent hits me between the knees. We’ve been speaking French since my return. I’ve forgotten what his deep timbre sounds like when he whispers in my mother tongue. He smells like the king of winter, of cold weather and citrusy days. The perfume of chemical dye retreats as that winter heat rushes over me. The man and everything he stands for overwhelm my senses.

  That my mind can focus on his words is a miracle. I think back to his story, to the man who had two choices, the kidnapper who could take his target kindly or with force. I don’t want force. I don’t want kindness. I want honesty.

  “Why?” I ask with a dry throat.

  His breath strokes over my ear. His words are self-assured and seductive. “Because I can.”

  Pulling away, he creates an avalanche of cold when he takes his heat with him. I look down to where he’s rubbing the fabric between his fingers in a gesture that seems oddly like a caress. I shiver as if feeling that caress on my skin.

  Because he can.

  The nuance of the situation isn’t lost on me. It’s foreplay. It’s a preview of what will happen if I follow him home. I don’t fight it. I’m already beaten. I lost the minute my gaze landed on him. He hit me full-on when my defenses were lowered, and my armor wasn’t in place.

  I’m healthy. I’m alive. I’m just a woman. I feel him in the ache between my legs and the heaviness of my breasts. I feel the memory of him in the heat that floods my stomach. I remember him in the anticipation that tightens my lower body.

  The woman hands him a parcel. Her hand shakes slightly, and her voice is breathless. “Here you go, sir.”

  Does everyone feel the sexual tension in the air?

  “Thank you,” he says, accepting it with a smile without looking away from my eyes.

  When he offers me his hand, I take it. I would’ve taken it if he was leading me to hell. I may have sealed my heart in a dark room, but this is the part of me Maxime fully owns.

  Chapter 18

  Maxime

  Zoe is nervous when I let her into the apartment. Her small body is tense. She should be, seeing that I’m about to strip her
naked and fuck her until she can’t walk. It’s been too long. For too many months, I haven’t felt the shape of her breasts under my palms or the warm tightness of her body sucking me deeper. I’ve seen her naked for three torturous days. I’ve punished myself, abstaining from the release of a hand job in the shower. I won’t last much longer.

  I know her. If she’s to enjoy this, I have to put her at ease. I have to go slowly. I can’t jump on her like a tiger and hold her down with my teeth while ramming my cock into her body until she’s accepted every inch of me.

  I drop the parcel on the table so I can take her coat. “Tea?”

  Her shoulders sag with visible relief. “Please.”

  After hanging both our coats on the stand, I go to the kitchen and boil water.

  “How did you find me?” she asks in an uncertain voice, rubbing her hands together as she takes baby steps toward the island counter where I’m putting out mugs and a mix of organic raspberry and rose petal tea leaves.

  “Your phone.” Picking up the remote, I turn the heat up a notch. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  She slips onto one of the tall chairs. “You can’t follow me around forever. I’m sure you have lots to do at your new job.”

  I flash her a smile, my eyes meeting hers briefly before I scoop the leaves into the teapot. “I have enough to keep me busy.” I dust my hands and make eye contact again. “But you always come first.”

  Her cheeks flush pink. It makes me want to grab her face between my hands and kiss her, but I miraculously succeed in focusing on the task at hand, which is switching off the kettle before the water reaches boiling point and not kissing her before I’ve brought us back to a place where she can be naked and comfortable with me.

  “Talking about phones…” She wrings her fingers together like she does when she’s nervous. “I’d like to call my brother to let him know we’ve arrived safely.”

  I pour the water over the leaves. “Then call him.”

  “But…” She takes her phone from her pocket and looks at the screen.

  “I’ve already spoken to him just after we arrived so he wouldn’t worry about his baby sister, but you can call your family any time you like.”

  “You mean…” She looks at the phone again.

  “Yes.” The word is curt. Reminding her of her previous limitations isn’t where I want to go right now. “You can dial anywhere in the world.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  I don’t say she’s welcome. It’s not a novelty she should be thanking me for. Having access to communication is a given in any normal person’s life. I don’t want her caged. It’s no longer necessary. I’ve effectively clipped her wings with my ring on her finger. Which reminds me of a subject I shouldn’t bring up, not ever and certainly not now, but I can’t put it out of my head. I can’t stop calling up images and allowing my imagination to torment me in every waking minute of my days and every dream-filled hour of my nights.

  “Did you move on in South Africa?”

  She gives me a startled look. “What?”

  My voice is surprisingly even when I pour the tea. “Did you sleep with someone?”

  “No,” she cries out. “I told you so.”

  “Just making sure I don’t need to have you tested for STDs,” I lie.

  Her mouth tightens. “How about you, Maxime?”

  I push a mug and the sugar pot toward her. “No.” Meeting her gaze squarely over the too-far distance of the counter, I say, “There’s only you. There will never be anyone else.”

  Questions bounce around in her blue eyes. She wants to know why. She wants to hear the things I can’t tell her. She asked for my honesty, but honesty cuts so much deeper than lies when it comes to love. I love you could’ve slipped so easily from my tongue. It’s just three little words, but even before I promised her no more games and lessons, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that particular lie. Love has always been the foundation of her dreams. Deceiving her with that ultimate untruth seems simply too cruel.

  “All right,” she says, adding two spoons of sugar to her tea. “But tell me something.” The spoon rings out as she stirs it around the mug. “Can obsession last a lifetime?”

  Leaning closer, I give her the conviction that runs in my very veins, the knowledge that comes from a higher place than reason or logic. “You better believe it.”

  She cups the mug. “People grow old.”

  “Yes, they do.” At least this much I can promise. “I’ll be growing old right beside you.”

  Our gazes remain locked for a precious moment of truth. I can see her weighing the words, testing their meaning, and finally trying to categorize them in her frame of reference. Zoe and I, we can’t be categorized. There isn’t a file with a label for what we are.

  “Married or not, you belong to me,” I say. “You always will.”

  Maybe that was the wrong truth to say. The line of her mouth hardens as she touches the mug to her lips. Pushing the sugar pot aside, I reach across the counter, take her wrist, and pull her hand away from her face. Now isn’t the time to hide behind a mug of tea. She wanted honesty without games. We’re facing our truths. I won’t let her shy away from them.

  The black crumbs on the clean counter catch my eye. I’m an OCD personality type. Noticing is a reflex reaction. The crumbs are scattered around the sugar pot. Ants.

  Dead ants.

  With a sweep of my arm, I smack the mug from Zoe’s hands. It smashes against the wall next to the French doors, tea splattering over the curtains and glass panes.

  “Maxime!” Her eyes are round in her white face.

  A few more ants lie dead on Zoe’s side of the counter. They’ve been hidden from my view until I pushed the sugar pot aside.

  “Wash your hands,” I instruct tersely, inspecting the floor. The ants never made it that far.

  She hops off the chair and stands as stiff as a stick. “What’s going on?”

  “Zoe, do as I say.”

  My harsh tone jolts her into action. She grabs the dishwashing liquid from under the sink and washes her hands. I hand her a paper towel to dry them before doing the same.

  Her gaze flitters to where mine is lingering on the counter. I can almost see the gears turning in her head as she connects the dots.

  “Did you spray poison?” she asks in a hoarse voice.

  Mine is strained. “No.”

  “Do you think…?” She licks her lips, giving me a petrified look.

  “The sugar.” Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial an old contact from the forensics department. “Don’t touch anything,” I say as I wait for the call to connect.

  Hector’s voice comes onto the line. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again.” He doesn’t sound happy. “I thought you retired.”

  “I did. I need you to come over to my apartment.”

  “What now?”

  “Now.”

  “I’m working.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He lowers his voice. “You’re not in a position to cut deals any longer. I’m not covering up evidence. You can’t protect me.”

  “This isn’t about evidence. I need you to sweep my apartment.” Correcting myself, I say, “My wife’s apartment.”

  “If you’re hoping to catch her lover, it’s easier to hire a PI.”

  “Cut out the jokes, Hector. Someone tried to poison her. At least I think so.” I hope to hell I’m wrong.

  “Fuck.” He sighs. “You’re legit now. There’s a police department for that.”

  “They’ll send you anyway.” Plus, I don’t want the police involved, and Hector knows perfectly well why. I’m going after whoever did this.

  He sighs again. “Fuck, Max.”

  “You owe me, Hector.” I have a few favors to call in for all the times I paid off his debts. His wife has expensive taste.

  “Goddamn. Okay, fine, but I don’t want cash. It’s becoming too difficult to hide the extra reven
ue. I want diamonds.”

  “Diamonds? That’ll be difficult to convert into cash if you don’t know the right buyers.”

  “I don’t want to sell it. It’s our wedding anniversary soon.”

  “Ah. What did you have in mind?”

  “Earrings.”

  “I’ll make sure you have two of my highest quality stones.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Thirty minutes.” It shouldn’t take him longer to drive from his side of town.

  “For fuck’s sake, Max. I have a boss, you know. What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  Cutting the call, I face the woman standing there looking so frail and vulnerable. “A friend is coming over. His name is Hector.” I take a pair of rubber gloves from the cleaning cupboard and pull them on. “Don’t open the door for anyone but him and keep your phone with you.”

  “Where are you going?” she asks as I scoop a little of the sugar into a zip lock bag and seal it.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Maxime!” She runs after me to the door. “You’re going to see Francine, aren’t you?”

  We both had the same thought. Only one person has access to this apartment. Given what Zoe told me about the sugar war, this makes sense.

  “Maxime, please.” She grabs my arm when I pull on my coat. “What are you going to do?”

  “Stay put, Zoe. Don’t touch anything and don’t eat or drink. Call me if someone other than Hector shows up. Our code word is bouillabaisse.”

  I pull gently from her hold. If I stay a moment longer, I won’t be able to leave her at all. Losing her does things to my head, crazy things that boil with a rage in my blood. Still wearing the gloves, I can’t even touch her. I only allow myself the luxury of pressing a kiss to her temple.

  “Lock the door behind me.”

  I exit and shut the door. I don’t go until I hear the turn of the key.