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

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Get on my lap,” he says.

  The command is dominant and easy to obey. He’s taught me well to follow his orders. I straddle him without bothering to take off my shoes. I rest one palm on the unscarred part of his chest and the other on the damaged part that’s hidden underneath the shirt.

  He clamps his hands around my middle and lifts me over his erection. It’s so easy, this dance. He knows what he’s doing. He’s taking without making excuses, making it easy for me to follow. There’s no guilt or questions, no wondering why we’re doing what we’re doing. We’re simply doing. I sigh as the head of his cock parts my folds. He lowers me slowly, taking care of my comfort. I don’t mind it rough, and he knows, but today he wants to give me tender. I close my eyes and lean my head on his shoulder. His lips are warm on my neck. He kisses a path to my jaw, each kiss marking another inch that he slides deeper.

  When he’s fully sheathed, he grabs my face in one hand and lifts my chin to meet my lips. His hold is rough, but the kiss is soft. I moan when he rolls his hips at the same time as he nips my bottom lip. My hands explore his body under his open shirt, tracing the flat disks of his nipples and the rough edges of his scars. It’s a familiar landscape, the only one I know. Maybe the only one I’ll ever know. The thought both pleases and scares me. Is a lifetime of only sex enough?

  The thought fizzles out when he lifts me a little and moves his hips. It’s been so long since he touched me or that I touched myself in the shower, my orgasm builds quickly. I lean back to take him deeper. Always reading my body, he cups my breasts and gives me the pace I need. I’m coming before he’s even close to his release. It’s instantaneous and gratifying. My skin is sensitive. I gasp when he presses a thumb on my clit and massages in a circle. It makes me want to come again.

  He leans back and lets me take over, allowing me to set the rhythm. His jaw bunches when I slide up and down over his length. I’m ruining his pants, getting my arousal all over the dark silk, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He abandons my clit when I move faster, digging his fingers into my globes for purchase.

  “I’m close,” I say, grabbing his shoulders for support.

  “Come.” He grits his teeth. “Come for me one more time, Zoe.”

  He’s waiting for me to finish before he comes. I can’t deny that I’m always turned on when he makes me come draped over his lap, but I prefer it like this, when we’re coming together.

  So, I do. I come for him. For us. He follows a second later, filling me up with a thrust of his hips. We’re both spent in the aftermath, not so much from the physical effort than the emotional toll. Sex with Maxime is always intense on a deeper level. He demands as much as he gives, and if I didn’t put a chain and lock on my heart, he’d take that with my release.

  “Cold?” he asks, rubbing a hand over my back.

  I shiver.

  Without pulling out, he removes his shirt and holds it open so I can fit my arms. Then he buttons it up and pulls me against his chest.

  We sit like that with him stroking my hair until shadows creep over the floor.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says after a long while.

  I sit back to look at his face. “Do you mean that?”

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You said you didn’t want me to work.”

  He smiles. “I don’t want you to do something you hate to put the food on our table because my business is suffering. I have nothing against you making money by doing what you love.”

  I’m not going to ask for his permission to do what I believe is right, but I don’t say so. We have little enough peace as it is.

  “What are your plans?” he asks.

  “Eventually, I’d like to have a small boutique.” I add, “If my designs keep on selling.”

  “I know just the place.”

  “You do?”

  He kisses my nose. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  “Do you have time?”

  “For you? Always.”

  I lean my head back on his shoulder. If only we could stay like this. If only we could pretend our love was naked and raw and real, and not a plastic mannequin in an elegant dress.

  Chapter 32

  Maxime

  Francois Leclerc is hiding like a cockroach in the drainpipes. It’s not as easy to find him as I hoped. I’m certain he’s not in Marseille. He won’t risk it in the hub of Alexis’s organization. Too many men are on the lookout in the city. My bet is on Paris, somewhere where he can lie low until he has enough bribe money to buy a nice, big hacienda in South America.

  Even if I’m no longer part of the mob and cut off from my family, many men still respect me. Trust doesn’t vanish overnight. It only takes one call to my old bookkeeper to find out Alexis is making transfers to an offshore account. Leclerc isn’t a total idiot, after all. I put out word with a few men who owe me favors to keep an eye out for any offshore property purchases or suspicious business activities, and then I contact a banker in the offshore department who laundered money for me before. Now it’s only a question of waiting.

  I pick Zoe up after lunch and take her to visit the boutique in the old center. It’s a small two-story level shop in a prominent trading street with a beautiful façade. The upstairs room can be converted into a working space while downstairs can be made into a showroom. There’s a storage room at the back and a kitchen and toilet upstairs. The rent for the prime spot is expensive, but I know the owner, and he’s willing to cut me a deal.

  I watch Zoe carefully as she pokes her head around doorframes and into empty cupboards. “What do you think?” I ask when I can’t keep it in any longer.

  She knocks on a wall as if to test its sturdiness. Adorable. “It’s stunning.”

  “The location is right.”

  “Couldn’t be better,” she says, folding her hands behind her back.

  I lean a shoulder against the wall. “But?”

  “It’s too soon.”

  “It’s never too soon.”

  “What if it doesn’t work out?”

  “We don’t have to sign a contract for a year’s lease. We can give thirty days notice.”

  She narrows her pretty eyes. “How did you manage that?”

  “The owner owes me.”

  She doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close enough. “Of course he does.” She rests her chin on her shoulder, looks through the window for a while, and then asks, “Why are you doing this, Maxime?”

  Straightening, I walk to her. “I want you to be happy.”

  She stares at my face. “Why?”

  “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  I cup her hips to draw her to me, but she twists out of my hold and escapes to the far end of the room, pretending to study the mosaic floor tiles.

  “Zoe?” I ask with a nerve twitching under my eye. I don’t like it when she defies our connection. No matter what she wants to believe, we have something. A spark.

  She shrugs. “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Yes,” she says with a sigh. “I want you to be happy.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  She faces me. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  Haven’t I proven myself by now? “What more do you want me to do to?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Have I manipulated you since our wedding?” I ask.

  “Maybe a little yesterday.”

  When I seduced her with the mannequin. I disagree. That kind of seduction wasn’t manipulation. I only reminded her she wanted me. “We both wanted it.”

  Her cheeks turn pink.

  “Have I lied to you since my promise?” I ask.

  From the way she averts her eyes and studies her shoes, I’m guessing this is the heart of the problem.

  “Have I lied to you, Zoe?”

  She looks up. “I don’t know.” Her voice is pained. “Have you?”

  My answer sounds harsher than w
hat I intended. “No.”

  “That’s the issue.” She spreads her hands, holding up her palms. “You’ve lied to me so many times I don’t know how to believe you.”

  The statement stabs me in the chest. I’ve never been bothered about someone else’s opinion, especially not an opinion of me, but this floors me. I don’t like it.

  “I haven’t lied,” I say.

  “Trust takes time. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

  Fine. I’ve got time. I have a lifetime of it. I just have to be patient, like with sniffing out Leclerc, but for some reason I want to fix this now.

  “Zoe, please.” I take a step toward her. “Give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “You took too much from me. There have been too many betrayals. The lie about hurting Damian, the design school, Sylvie, and Izabella—”

  I hold up a hand. “I know what I did.”

  “Then you must understand how I feel.”

  The surprising thing is that for once I do. For once in my emotionless life, I get why my actions hurt her. I don’t like it, but I can’t take it back. For once, I can’t have it my way. I don’t have a choice but to wait, hoping in time she’ll give me the trust I once took for granted and want back at all costs.

  “Fine,” I say, the word weighing heavily on me. “I can wait.”

  She crosses the floor and stops short of me. “Don’t hold your breath.” Squeezing past me, she mumbles, “I’m certainly not.”

  Fuck me. That hurts, not that I don’t deserve it. I’ve long since made peace with the fear, but the hurt is new, and it’s a shock as much as torture. My shrink said I could have a rewarding relationship if I could see matters from my partner’s perspective and build trust.

  If this is anything to go by, it looks as if we’re on our way to a rewarding relationship.

  Chapter 33

  Zoe

  The Cannes festival brings in a lot of publicity, not only for me, but also for Damian’s diamonds. Since Maxime is the supplier for Europe, he profits from the advertising too.

  Within a week, I have five orders for custom-designed gowns. I ask for deposits and use the money to fit out the boutique and hire a seamstress. Maxime’s gift to me is a signboard with my logo that goes above the door. He moves my sewing machine, boxes of fabric, and other equipment from the apartment to the new premises.

  With the big job of organizing photo shoots, having a glossy jewelry brochure designed, translating it into various European languages, overseeing the printing, and having the website updated, Maxime has his hands as full as I do with the opening the boutique. We’re too exhausted for more than a celebration at home in the Jacuzzi with a good bottle of wine.

  The weather has turned, and the days are getting warmer, making it possible for us to grill meat on the barbecue outside, which Maxime does more frequently since I work longer hours and arrive home later than him. The business is grueling. My seamstress is good at her job, but she needs a strong hand. If I don’t double-check her work, she’ll let an uneven hem or a sloppily sewed button go through. Quality is important. It’s not in my nature, but I have to be strict.

  I call Vera Day to thank her for the publicity, and she places another order. Before I know it, I’m in over my head and need more staff. While Maxime’s business is still battling because of the pressure Alexis puts on the buyers, mine is thriving. When the workspace becomes too cramped, I expand to a workshop in the industrial area and transform the upstairs floor of the boutique into a lounge and fitting room for clients who wander in from the street.

  An article appears in Le Figaro. The journalist has tracked down Madame Page who takes credit for her influence in my designs. The journalist quotes her saying, “My school delivers the best of the best.” When asked about my failure at the fashion show, Madame Page says I was under a lot of stress and my vision clouded, but that she’s glad I followed her advice and didn’t throw in the towel.

  Overnight, I become the success story born from failure, every other potential failure’s hope. The media makes me out to be some kind of Cinderella, and I’m lucky to be their new favorite pet. Of course it’s nothing other than selling newspapers through sensationalism. Who doesn’t like a rags-to-riches story? I tell the truth in an interview, that I simply had a lucky break with Ms. Vera Day, giving credit where it’s due. The reporter twists it in such a way that the article makes me appear humble, which adds to my public image of the poor girl gone rich and famous.

  There’s speculation about my husband, but I try to keep Maxime out of the media frenzy as much as I can. Of course everyone knows about his involvement and break from the mafia. The stories romanticize our marriage. On paper, it’s a love story like no other. Maxime becomes the sex idol of many a young, naïve girl, and I turn into the breadwinner as his business continues its downward spiral. The fact that I’m solely responsible for covering our bills and the investments in both of our businesses makes me work extra hard. Despite the taxing hours, I’m enjoying the challenge. It’s the purpose and passion I need in my life to make up for what I don’t have—the love story the media so ironically idolizes. The harder I work, the less time I have for whatifs. For where I find myself in life, it’s much safer like this.

  On a hot Friday in summer, my cellphone lights up on my desk. One glance at the number, and I shove all the papers aside.

  “Damian?” I say even before I have the phone pressed against my ear.

  He sounds tired. “It’s a beautiful girl, Zee.”

  “Oh, my God.” I jump up. “How’s Lina? How’s the baby?”

  “Everything went fine. It was a long labor, but Lina didn’t want an epidural. She was so brave.”

  “Are you sending me a baby photo?” I ask, rounding the desk.

  “I’ve just bathed her.” His voice fills with awe. “Fuck. She’s so small. So perfect, Zee.”

  “Oh, Damian. Congratulations. I’m so happy for all four of you. When can I speak to Lina?”

  “She’s sleeping now, but you can call tonight.”

  “How’s Josh with his sister?”

  “It’s new. I think he feels insecure about sharing us, but he’ll come round.”

  “I’m sure he will. Have you chosen a name yet?”

  “Josephine.”

  “That’s beautiful. At what time was she born? How much does she weigh?”

  “Just after three. She’s a good three and a half kilos. The doctor says Lina can go home if Josie continues to gain weight over the next three days.”

  Crying sounds in the background.

  My heart clenches. “Is that her?”

  “Bawls like you can’t believe when Lina doesn’t feed her fast enough,” he says with pride. “I better take her to her mom. I’ll speak to you later.”

  “Take care. Take care of both of them.”

  “I will.”

  I stare at the phone when he ends the call. A moment later, a photo drops on my screen of my brother holding a baby in his arms. She’s wearing white pajamas with pink bunnies and a pink beanie. Her mouth is open in a wail and her little face bright red with the hungry frustration Damian described. She’s so small her head fits in Damian’s palm. The expression on his face as he looks at his daughter makes my heart melt into a puddle. A yearning burns deep inside me. A longing stirs. I’ve always wanted to have children. Two. I imagined giving them a happier home than the one I grew up in. I even know the names I would’ve given them. What does it feel like to hold that little bundle in your arms?

  A knock sounds on the door. I tear my gaze away from my phone. Maxime stands on the threshold with a vase of lilies.

  “These are from Damian,” he says. “The florist delivered them just as I arrived.”

  I drop my arm to my side. “What are you doing here?” It’s not that I don’t want to share the happy news with him. I only need a moment to compose myself. If I tell him now, he’ll see the longing in my eyes.

  H
e walks over and leaves the flowers on my desk. “It’s Friday.”

  I inhale their sweet fragrance. It’s the third bouquet Damian has sent since the opening of the boutique. Taking the card, I read the message.

  Congratulations. I’m proud of you.

  It goes both ways.

  “And?” I ask, leaving the card on my desk.

  “I thought we could go to Paris for the weekend.”

  “Paris? I’m working tomorrow.”

  “You’re the boss.” He perches on the corner of my desk. “You can take off one day.”

  “Why Paris?” Except for one, blissful weekend in Corsica when I was stupid enough to believe we were happy, we’ve never travelled. Venice doesn’t count. I’ve scrapped that from my memory. Buried it deep down.

  His lips tilt, but it’s not a smile. “Because.”

  I watch him closely, my heart squeezing as I wait for the lie.

  “I have to go for business,” he says.

  I exhale a long, silent breath. I’m always on my guard, walking a tightrope between mistrust and faith, and it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting not to trust your spouse. It’s exhausting to be terrified of the day he’ll betray me again.

  “Zoe,” he says in chastising tone. “I said I wouldn’t lie. When will you believe me?”

  The day he no longer gives me reason to doubt. Can a bird change feathers?

  “I’ve made mistakes,” he says. “Don’t let that be our future.”

  I don’t want to talk about our future. “What does this so-called business entail?” He has no diamond auctions planned until the end of summer.

  “It’s old business.”

  “Mafia business?” I exclaim softly.

  “Just something I need to take care of.”