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

by Charmaine Pauls

  The answer flashes across her face, raw and naked in her startling blue eyes before she manages to hide it behind a mask of indifference. We both have regrets. The difference is mine isn’t big enough to want to go back in time and change my decisions.

  “I don’t regret marrying you,” I say again for what it’s worth. One day, I’ll earn enough money so that not marrying Izabella won’t be a regret. “She’s nothing to me.”

  “It’s not her.” She looks away. “I have nothing against Izabella. It’s what she reminds me of.”

  Of the pain I caused. Yes, I get that. “That’s over now.”

  “Is it?” She faces me again. “From where I stand, I still don’t have a choice.”

  Damn right. She’s with me. I could teach her a lesson about choosing between happiness and misery, but I promised no more lessons. No more manipulation. All she has as a device for happiness is love. Why won’t she use it? Why won’t she fall back onto it like she did that day on the beach when she begged me to love her? Why won’t she be the girl who believes in fairytales? That girl has the power to be happy amidst the grime like me. Me, all I have as a weapon is lust. I can corner her now and shove my hand into her panties. It’ll only take a few seconds to make her wet. I know how to drive her to her knees and make her beg, but I promised myself I’d give her power. I told myself I’d wait until she came to me. Well, she’s here now, pretty as a flower in the flesh, but if I open that door she’ll still be running. I want her so much I have to clench my hands until my knuckles hurt to prevent myself from grabbing her and spreading her legs on my desk.

  When she pushes me aside and reaches for the door handle, all I can grab are straws. “You didn’t tell me why you came.” Don’t go.

  Her tone is flat, her eyes dead. “I maxed out the credit card.”

  “You did?” She’s never been a big spender. “What for?”

  “I’m selling that dress, and you’re not going to stop me.”

  I frown. “To who?” I don’t want her to have to work to support us, but I never said she couldn’t sell the dress.

  “Doesn’t matter. I came to tell you I made an investment in fabric.” She opens the door. “Damian is sending a necklace to go with a dress I’m making. He said you can sell it after I’ve used it for publicity.”

  Ah, damn. I lose. My willpower caves. Locking my fingers around her wrist, I hold her back. “Zoe.”

  “What?”

  Touch, me. “I’m happy you’re designing again.”

  She pulls free. I step back, letting her go.

  In the threshold, she turns. “I don’t regret marrying you, Maxime. I regret how it happened.” She takes a shaky breath. “I regret how everything happened.”

  Hanging her head, she leaves.

  I regret how it happened. How everything happened.

  It and everything are small words for the shitload of dirty water that has passed under our bridge.

  Chapter 31

  Zoe

  The day Vera Day steps off the plane in Marseille, the evening gown is ready. I’ve worked day and night. The necklace Damian promised has arrived. I bought a second-hand mannequin from a thrift store for next to nothing. The mannequin is dressed in the gown and the necklace, standing in the soft light that falls from the circular window.

  I step back to study my work. It’s striking. The necklace hangs in a single platinum chain down the back, a black diamond caressing each vertebra of the naked spine. Magnificent. Definitely one of a kind but not me. I brush aside the odd twinge of betrayal that nips at my heart. This isn’t about staying true to myself. This is about building a brand and making money.

  Even if I can’t afford it, champagne is chilling in an ice bucket on the counter and macaroons from a reputable baker are set out next to it. The intercom buzzes exactly on the hour. I push the button to open the street door and wait at the front door to welcome Ms. Day.

  She flitters from the elevator like a leaf on an autumn day, breezing down the hallway with a bodyguard on her tail. After shaking hands, I invite them both in, but the man takes up a position by the door, politely declining my offer for refreshments.

  “Please call me Vera,” she says, stepping inside and looking around. “Wow, nice place.” The minute her gaze finds the dress, she gasps. “Oh, my God.” She waltzes over and slams a hand over her mouth as she circles the creation.

  My chest warms. She likes it. There’s a good chance she’ll wear it to the festival.

  “I want it,” she says even before I’ve closed the door.

  “What?” I ask, the click of the door sounding loud in my ears.

  “I want it. It’s perfect.” She gives me a panicked look. “With the necklace, right? Please tell me the necklace is for sale.”

  I lay a hand over my heart. “Actually, yes.”

  She lifts one of the stones. “Black diamonds? I’ve never seen one.”

  “They’re from my brother’s mine in South Africa.” I walk over. “His designer made it.”

  Her face brightens. “You do have to show me more. Earrings and rings.”

  “My husband is the importer. He’ll be happy to send you a catalogue.”

  She clasps her hands together. “Excellent.”

  “Maybe we should try the dress first?”

  “Oh, yes.” She beams. “I’m so happy I found you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  I show her to the bedroom for privacy to undress, but she shakes her head with a laugh.

  “Darling, I’m used to undressing on set.” Shimmying out of her dress, she says, “It’s just a body.”

  She has a beautiful one for modeling clothes. I help her into the dress and with the zipper before fastening the necklace, and then scurry to bring the swivel mirror from the dressing room into the lounge. She turns left and right, studying her reflection with a critical expression. I give her a hand mirror to see the effect of the necklace hanging down her back. It looks as if the dress was made for her—because it was. It fits like a glove. I hold my breath until she finally tears her gaze away from the mirror to look at me.

  “Zoe.” She pauses dramatically. “I’m buying this.”

  My heart almost jumps out of my chest. “But you haven’t even asked the price.”

  “I don’t care how much it costs. I have to have it.” She turns sideways and admires her reflection again. “I’ll need shoes, but I have time to shop, and I know exactly the place in Marseille. I’ll have to change the hairdo I had in mind.” She takes up her hair, and then frowns. “I’ll need a bag.”

  Having been prepared, I unwrap the tissue paper around the clutch I’ve covered with the same fabric. It’s simple—thin and narrow. “Will this do?”

  Her red lips stretch. “You’re a genius.” She takes the bag and poses with it. “I’m going to own that red carpet.”

  I have to agree. The dress looks good on her, but most of her presence comes from her attitude. She’s enthusiastic and energetic. It’s hard not to be swept along.

  “Shall we try the day dress for the charity event?”

  “Let’s,” she says with a wink, turning for me to undo the zipper.

  The blue dress needs a minor adjustment. I’ll have to take the hem down a fraction so that it still passes for decent. We agree on the length, and then I let her dress while I carefully package the dress and the necklace.

  “Champagne?” I ask as she writes out a cheque.

  “Oh, no, but thank you.” She makes a face. “I count every calorie I ingest.”

  “The effort shows.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles sweetly, giving me the cheque.

  We agree on the date the dress will be ready, when she’ll be back in Marseille before heading home. I hand her one of the business cards I’ve designed and ordered online with my logo, website, and contact details. After dumping the box with the clutch and necklace as well as the dress bag in the guard’s arms, she leaves with an air kiss in a faint fog of perfu
me like a dispersing dream.

  I stare at the cheque in my hand to be sure it’s real, but the numbers are there, four zeros that will put Maxime and me out of our credit card debt and relieve most of our pressing financial concerns.

  Elation hits me. I walk to the mannequin on a cloud. For a moment, I can only stare at the plastic model and the naked curves that used to be covered in the dress. I look down at my hands. They’re red and my fingertips raw from sewing. My nails are short and torn. These hands aren’t pretty, but they earned every cent I hold between my fingers. There’s joy in that. There’s immense satisfaction in being self-sufficient again, more than I’ve ever been.

  Without Maxime, I doubt this would’ve been possible. Without him, I’d still be a seamstress in a sweatshop, battling to make a living. I wouldn’t have been here in France, sewing designs that look like pictures from Madame Page’s instruction manual. I wouldn’t have been so unhappily in love that I’d pour my hours and days into a dress for someone else.

  Sitting down on the sofa, I consider the whatifs. Damian would’ve offered me a job, and I wouldn’t have taken it. It’s too important for me to be independent. I would’ve moved someplace better, of that I’m sure, and maybe I would’ve become a seamstress in someone else’s factory, in the workshop of a big, local design brand, but I doubt I would’ve had the courage to do what I’ve done. I would’ve been just me—romantic, frilly, and old-fashioned.

  I failed at design school, but maybe the failure wasn’t all a loss. It’s only two dresses. There’s a long road still before I can say I’ve made it, but it’s a start, and a good one. For that, I’m grateful to Maxime, no matter how unorthodoxly it came about.

  When Maxime comes home an hour later, I’m still floating in my bubble. Usually, I’d have dinner ready, not because I want to be a good housewife, but because I like to be useful. Tonight, I don’t feel like cooking. We’re not eating pasta. We can order Chinese takeout for a change.

  Removing his jacket by the door, he eyes the mannequin. “Finished the dress?”

  “Yes.” I turn sideways on the sofa. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” he asks, hanging the jacket on the coat stand.

  “For the design school.”

  He crosses the floor. “You already thanked me.”

  I did. It was the day he ushered me out of the house to meet with Izabella behind my back. I stiffen at the memory, but then brush it away. It’s only fresh in my mind because I saw her at his office last week. It’s not her fault. I know that. Knowing about me must’ve hurt her too. A part of me understands why Maxime regrets not marrying her. I understand he’d want things to be like they used to. I understand what he’s given up for me. What I don’t understand is why. He doesn’t love me and never will. He said so himself. Why go to such lengths to steal me back? I never thought obsession could be so consuming.

  In a way, the knowledge that he wouldn’t have chosen differently if given the chance of who to marry again is soothing. It placates my bruised ego, however warped that may be, because if given a choice, I’d scurry for freedom. I’d scurry like a mouse, exchanging the cake it had been fed in a cage in the blink of an eye for breadcrumbs in the freedom of gutters.

  He stops in front of me. “Aren’t you going to show me?”

  “I sold it.”

  “Already? You didn’t tell me.”

  I look up at the man in the stylish clothes. He’s wearing a white shirt and dark silk suit. The fitted waistcoat that’s back in fashion accentuates his narrow waist and broad chest. Of course, he was always wearing it, long before it became fashionable again. Need stirs in my body. After all, it’s been a long time, and I’m only human.

  “I wasn’t sure she’d take it,” I say.

  “Who wouldn’t?” He unknots his tie, letting it hang loose around his neck. “It’s a beautiful creation. Did you put the necklace in the safe?”

  I fold one leg under my body. “She took the necklace with the dress.” The valuation certificate was in the box. “She’d love to see more pieces. I said you’d mail her a brochure.”

  His eyes widen a fraction. “Did you sell it at full price? You know how much it’s worth, right?”

  I point at the cheque lying on the coffee table.

  He looks at the amount. “Holy hell, Zoe. Who did you sell it to?”

  “Vera Day.”

  “The Vera Day?”

  I nod.

  He frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know if she was going to take it. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “Jesus.” He glances over my shoulder. “Is that what the champagne is for? We’re celebrating?”

  I swipe my hair behind my ear. For once, I’ve left it loose in tamed curls down my back and not in a messy bun on my head. I’m wearing a decent dress and heels instead of the sweatpants and T-shirts I favor for working. “I got it for Ms. Day, but she’s watching her calorie intake.”

  “Right.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I suppose if clients are shopping for clothes with a five digit number price tag, champagne and artisanal macaroons are the least you can offer.”

  I smile. “That’s pretty much how it works.”

  “It’ll be a shame to waste it,” he says, making his way over to the counter. He pours two glasses and carries one with a raspberry macaroon, my favorite flavor, back to me.

  When he holds the patisserie to my lips, I don’t open. I take it from his fingers. The corner of his mouth flicks up even as his eyes dull with disappointment. I’ve given him nothing since the night he made me come in his lap on this sofa, and he hasn’t taken. He wants me, but I can’t make myself take that first step. I don’t want to give him even as little as that.

  Shoving the whole pastry into my mouth, I chew very unladylike. Yet he watches like it’s the most erotic sight he’s seen. Self-conscious now, I wipe a crumb from my lips with the back of my hand.

  “Here,” he says, putting the glass in my hand. “You may want to swallow that down before you choke.”

  There’s humor in his words. I ignore it as I take a sip, washing down the cake stuck in my throat. My body is nervous with awareness. If he touches me, I’ll falter. When he turns away to study the mannequin, my stomach drops with disappointment. I may hate him, but my body still wants him, and I can only hate both of us more for that.

  “She looks strange without the dress,” he says, rounding the doll. “With it, she almost looked human.”

  “They make them very realistically these days.”

  “Not so much,” he says.

  “How do you mean?”

  Bringing his hand around from behind, he cups her breast. “No nipple. They should make them with nipples so you can see the way it pushes against the fabric of a dress.” He brushes a thumb over the tip where the imaginary nipple would be.

  My breasts tighten in response. “Why would anyone want to see that?”

  “To know how the dress is going to look without underwear.” He looks at me as he drags his palm down her side to her hip. “Some dresses don’t allow for a bra.”

  I swallow, imagining his hand on the dip of my waist and the rough feel of his calloused fingers on my skin. The knuckles of his hands are still bruised. He doesn’t beat guys up any longer, but he still trains at a boxing club, and he likes to fight bare-fisted.

  “You had a dress like that,” he says, smoothing his palm over the dummy’s stomach. “Several, actually.”

  I remember each one. I remember on which occasions I wore them. I remember which ones he took off and the ones I took off for him.

  He traces the mannequin’s stomach, dragging his nails over the plastic. “A navel would be nice too.”

  My stomach tightens with tingles.

  “There’s a certain way a dress falls over a woman’s hips. There’s a dip to her waist and a curve just here.” He caresses the doll where her navel should be. “The small valley of a navel is very sensual under
the right fabric.”

  My words dry up when he slides his hand down between the doll’s legs. My body answers, my folds swelling in need.

  “Here,” he says, stroking the center of her legs with his thumb, “should be a line and a triangle of hair. The shape should be visible under bikini bottoms. It’s a beautiful part of your female anatomy that’s always turned me on.”

  My pulse jumps. My breath comes quicker.

  Holding my eyes, he cups a breast and the juncture of her legs while brushing his lips over her shoulder and along the curve of her neck. “Then again, nothing beats the real thing, does it? I suppose it doesn’t matter that they don’t look like a woman. Maybe that’s not the point.”

  “It’s not,” I say in a hoarse voice.

  They’re only supposed to showcase clothes, not to be an instrument of seduction at the bruised and skillful hands of a dangerous man.

  His gray eyes are alight with knowledge. He knows me too well. He knows I’m a shivering mass of need.

  When he says, “Come here,” I don’t argue. I get to my feet and meet him halfway. It’s the only way I can do this, if we both take the first step.

  He drags his gaze over my halter neck dress, pausing on my breasts. “Turn around.”

  I turn, facing the kitchen and holding my breath. He pulls the ends of the ribbons that fasten behind my neck. The bodice falls open, revealing my breasts. I gasp when he slips a hand around my body to test one’s weight. His thumb mimics the action he practiced earlier on the doll, and my body bows at its reward. My nipple extends when he rolls it between two fingers. My breasts turn heavier when he squeezes.

  The warmth of his palm disappears. The zipper on the side of the dress makes a lazy sound as he takes his time to pull it down. The fabric slips over my hips and pools around my feet. His hands are calloused on my hips just like I imagined. His lips are warm and soft as he drags them over my shoulder. I shiver when he kisses my neck. He smells of cloves and citrus, of skill and experience.

  Gently, he turns me around. I stare up at the unforgiving lines of his face as he takes off the waistcoat and unbuttons his shirt. He holds my gaze as he unbuckles his belt. When he sits down in the baroque armchair, I follow and stop between his spread legs. He unzips his pants and takes out his cock, all the while watching my face. He only breaks our eye contact when I step out of my underwear. Fixing his gaze on my naked body, he strokes himself twice.