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

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Two birds with one stone, huh?”

  He cups my cheek. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  It’s true, but I refuse to feel guilty about it. Turning my face away from his touch, I harden my heart. “I have a business to run.”

  He follows me to the door. “The business won’t go under in one day.”

  I charge through the frame into the workshop. “It may.”

  The girls look up. Their gazes are fixed on my husband with dreamy expressions. They shouldn’t believe everything they read in magazines.

  “Janice.” I flick my fingers in front of my newest employee’s face. “Pull out that seam and stitch it again. Make sure it’s straight next time.”

  She snaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Veronica, that pocket is askew. Do it over.”

  I evaluate their work with a practiced glance as I walk through the workshop. I never forgot Thérèse’s words about being a mediocre designer who pays better ones peanuts to do the work and taking all the credit. That’s why I’m extra aware of each of my employee’s work quality. My expectations are high, but I don’t expect anything of them I can’t do myself. My salaries are above the market average. If I spot potential, I move them up in the line of work. For the moment, I still take care of the designs. If anyone shows enough talent, I won’t hesitate to promote that person to a position of designer. I don’t make them sign exclusivity clauses in their contracts. If they want to go independent, I won’t stand in their way. If I believe in their work, I’ll even invest in their business.

  “You haven’t answered me,” Maxime says above the whir of the machines.

  I stop, making him bump into my back. Iona, who’s cutting a pattern, giggles. I turn on him with a huff. Here, between the smell of fabric and the soothing hum of stitching, I feel at peace. I’m safe. Having him here doesn’t fit. It’s like dropping a stone into a quiet pond.

  “Maxime.”

  I open my mouth to tell him no, but he takes my phone from my hand and swipes a finger across the screen. I’m aware of the faces staring at us as he looks at the photo of Damian and my niece.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asks, not looking up from the screen.

  I swallow. “Her name is Josephine.”

  When he meets my gaze, his eyes aren’t filled with the anger I expected. They’re filled with compassion. “It’ll come. We’ll get our turn.”

  My cheeks turn hot. It’s not the subject. It’s the lie. I never told him I went for another birth control shot. I justified the omission, telling myself his honesty wasn’t going to last. Sooner or later, he’ll lie again, but if I asked him for honesty, I owe him the same. Whether he loves me or not, we’re in this for life. He’s not letting me go. The least we owe each other is the truth.

  “Not here,” I say, taking back my phone. The meeting room is the closest. I go inside and close the door when he’s followed.

  “How are Lina and the baby doing?” he asks.

  “They’re doing well. Damian called just before you arrived.”

  He searches my face, “Yet you didn’t tell me.”

  I look at my hands. “The moment wasn’t right.”

  “I can see it in your eyes, Zoe.”

  “What?” I glance at him.

  “You want a baby.”

  “Maxime.” I drag a hand over my forehead and walk to the window. “We’re not going to have a baby.”

  The silence is like a knife in my back. I endure it for as long as I can, but when I can no longer take the tension, I turn to face him.

  The lines of his face are hard with anger. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  The words gush from my mouth. “I had a birth control shot.” There. I said it. My chest deflates.

  His gray eyes turn glacial. “Without discussing it with me?”

  I clench my fingers around my phone. “There’s nothing to discuss. We’re not bringing a child into this twisted marriage. It’s not real.”

  His nostrils flare. When he takes a step toward me, I take one back.

  “This isn’t real,” he says through clenched teeth, repeating my angry words in a flat tone. “Tell me something, Zoe. When I come inside you, is it not real?”

  “You know what I mean.” I back up another step. “Sex alone isn’t enough.”

  I jerk when he folds a hand around my neck, but the touch is excruciatingly gentle.

  “This.” He strokes a thumb over my pulsing jugular vein. “Is it real?”

  His scent wraps around me, familiar and cold like a winter’s day. If I reach out, his chest will be warm under his shirt. I’ll feel the beat of his heart and hear the intake of his breath when I touch him. If I slide my hand lower, he’ll grow hard. Yes, it’s real, but only in a carnal way.

  “Maybe for you it’s not real,” he says, letting me go.

  I place a palm on my neck over the skin he’s left cold. I don’t call him back when he walks to the door. The vibration that shakes the frame when he slams it is very real. I feel it all the way to my heart. At least it’s not completely frozen yet.

  Chapter 34

  Maxime

  Paris has changed. It’s dirtier.

  Lonelier.

  The breeze blows a fast food wrapper down the street. A smell of weed wafts from the sex shop. Following the address one of my connections has given me, I weave my way through the cobblestone streets of the Pigalle district.

  I order a croissant with my espresso and take a chair at a street table by the brasserie facing the two-star hotel where Leclerc is renting a room, and then I wait.

  It doesn’t take long for him to stumble outside, squinting at the early morning sun. His face is unshaven, and he’s wearing a creased T-shirt and chinos. He drags both hands through his disheveled hair and crosses the street.

  I count the seconds. It takes him exactly five before he spots me. He freezes. His gaze darts right, then left. He chooses left, sprinting downhill. I finish my espresso, leave a bill, and wipe my mouth on the napkin before getting up. At the end of the street, he looks over his shoulder before ducking into an alley.

  I’m in good shape. It takes me a short time to run him down. He swings his elbows, putting effort into the escape, but before he’s made it to the busy intersection, I’m on him.

  Grabbing him by the collar, I slam him against the wall.

  He lets out a grunt followed by a frightened sound. “What do you want?”

  I look around. We’re alone in the alley. “You know what I want.”

  “Who told you?” he stammers with his cheek pressed flat against the wall.

  I turn my nose away from the stench of his oily hair. “What does it matter?”

  He lifts his hands. “I’ve got something you’d want.”

  “Is that so?” I push his arm up enough to make him grunt again.

  “I swear.” He swallows. “I swear, Mr. Belshaw. Please.”

  I apply more pressure. “You’re going to give it to me.”

  He wails. “Yes.”

  “Tell me what it is.”

  “Fuck, you’re hurting me.”

  He knows exactly how much I can make him hurt. A bit more force, and I’ll dislocate his shoulder. “What is it, Leclerc?”

  “Stop!” He pants through an open mouth. “Stop. Please.”

  “I’m not asking again.”

  “Evidence,” he says when I let up, trying to catch his breath.

  “What evidence?”

  “Evidence.”

  The foul smell sweating from his pores tells me he’s not taking care of himself. Leclerc is a dirty man. A broken man. They’re the most dangerous, because they’ve got nothing to lose.

  I said I wasn’t going to ask again. I bend back his thumb, driving him to his knees.

  He howls. “Stop! I’ll tell you.”

  I keep him on his knees facing the wall. “Talk.”

  “I know who—” He gulps, swallowing ai
r. “I know who started the fire.”

  I go still. Crackling sounds in my ear, the sound of flames melting paint and plaster. I smell it, the smoke. It’s thick in my lungs. It burns my eyes. My rage is white-hot. It smolders quietly like coals, a spark waiting to catch and leap.

  My voice belongs to someone else. I know, but I still ask, “What fire?”

  “The fire.” He twists his neck to look at me. “The fire in the warehouse.”

  Ignoring the dirtiness of his hair, I grip the strands and yank his face to the wall. “Don’t fucking look at me.” I’m too frightened he’ll see the anguish I suffered in those moments. That’s private.

  “I’m sorry!”

  Heat devours my skin. “Who?”

  “Alexis.”

  A rush of ice douses the burn. “What did you say?”

  “I have it on video. I filmed it.”

  Blood gushes in my ears, drowning the static crackling. “You were there?”

  “I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. Alexis told me to empty the can of petrol. He lit the match.”

  All the evidence, every scrap of DNA, burned away. I walked through that fire. I survived it. I paid the price of living through the ordeal. I searched for the guilty person. I let it fester like the pus that leaked from my charred flesh. Somewhere between fighting for my life and fighting the pain, I lay my hunger for vengeance down. Living took every ounce of energy I had left. I told myself it was enough, that I was lucky to be alive.

  Leclerc just struck that match he claims he never touched, and I’m a fire raging out of control.

  I think fast. Leclerc’s room may be booby-trapped. He may have cameras in place. If I were in his shoes, I certainly would’ve taken precautions. Plus, I don’t know the people in the shithole where he stays. I can’t afford witnesses.

  “You’re going to bring it to me,” I say, jerking back his head. “Hôtel du Cadran. Room 118.” I know the owner. I can get cleanup in and out unnoticed. “It’s not you I want,” I lie. “It’s Alexis.”

  “It’s going to cost you,” he says in a pathetic attempt of bravery.

  I let him go, giving him the illusion. “Name your price.”

  He scurries to his feet. “Twenty thousand.”

  “You’ve gotten enough out of Alexis already.”

  He puts distance between us. “Ten.”

  I grin. “Deal.” I don’t even have one thousand in my name, but he doesn’t need to know I have no intention of paying him.

  “What then?”

  Then I kill Alexis. “Then nothing.”

  He wipes his nose with his hand. “What about your brother?”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you think?”

  His beady eyes hop around in their sockets as he considers the outcome of the situation. He’s safer with Alexis dead. Plus, another ten grand before he skips the country can’t hurt. He knows he’s milked this cow dry. He nods.

  “One hour,” I say. “If you don’t show, I’ll burn you alive.”

  Fear widens his eyes. His fat chin quivers.

  I hold out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

  He delves a hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

  I snatch it from his palm. “If I don’t find you, Alexis will, so you better show up.”

  Pocketing his phone, I turn and walk in the direction of the Moulin Rouge.

  “What about the money?” he calls after me. “I want cash.”

  I don’t look back.

  He’ll show up.

  The consequences if he doesn’t are much too terrifying for him not to.

  Chapter 35

  Zoe

  I work extra late. When I come home, Maxime is gone. He left a plate of grilled calamari and Camargue rice in the oven for me. A note with the name and room number of his hotel in Paris lies on the counter in case I need him.

  After kicking off my shoes, I pour a glass of wine. I can’t shake my guilt for how Maxime left. I’ve been a bitch, but doesn’t he deserve it?

  I owe him nothing.

  He’s trying, a voice says in my mind.

  For how long? How long before he shows his true colors again?

  Shaking the thought, I call Lina. She sounds so happy. Damian is staying with her and Josie in the room while their nanny is taking care of Josh at home. I’m glad Damian is an attentive husband and daddy. The bonding with the new baby is important. I’ve read up about it. We have a quick chat before a nurse interrupts to check on Lina. I ask for more photos of Josie and promise to call back on Sunday. If it was up to me, I’d call every day, but I have to give them some space to adapt to the change in their lives.

  I throw the phone on the table and look around the empty space. It’s quiet. I’ve grown used to having Maxime here when I come home. When we’re not having sex, he keeps his distance, but his presence has become a quiet given. He’d either be working on his laptop or tidying the kitchen after cooking. If he’s not reading, he’s always fiddling around, replacing light bulbs or oiling door hinges. The apartment feels lonely without him.

  Settling on the sofa, I open my laptop and email a few design drafts and quotes. I get rid of the junk mail in my inbox and upload new social media content. My fingers hover over the search field in my browser. After a short hesitation, I type in the TGV website. A page with travel information comes up. Out of curiosity, I click on the link for Paris. A train leaves at 5 am, arriving in Paris three hours and fifty-three minutes later. I click on the price. The last-minute tickets are selling at a discount. Biting my lip, I hold my finger over the button.

  What am I doing? I don’t know if it’s speaking to Lina and feeling like there’s something fundamental missing from my life, the regret of letting Maxime leave in the way I did, or the big glass of wine I finished, but in an impulsive moment, I sweep my finger over the button. My heart starts thrumming with the risk I’m taking when a popup window requests my credit card details.

  Without thinking about it more, I get my card and type in the details. Six seconds later, I’m booked on the early morning train to Paris.

  I eat, clean the apartment, pack a bag, have a shower, and hardly sleep. I’m up before my alarm, dressing in a red fitted dress with a matching jacket and black heels. I pin my hair up and apply makeup before studying my reflection in the mirror. I look older. I look like someone who’s lived ten years in one. Dismissing my image, I grab my bag, lock up, and drive to the station.

  On my way to Paris, I send a text message to Veronica telling her I won’t be in and instructing her to keep up the fort. I ask Janice, who lives closer to the boutique, to put a sign in the window saying we’re exceptionally closed today. I get some work done, and by the time the train pulls up in Paris, I’m nervous. I should warn Maxime of my arrival, but I still don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing this. I tell myself I want to surprise him, but the truth is I’m keeping my options open in case I want to back out.

  I get a taxi and give the driver the address. Less than thirty minutes later, we stop at the hotel. I confirm at the front desk that Maxime is in. Since he booked a double room, there’s no need to upgrade. After proving my identity, I convince the concierge to give me a card for the room so I can surprise my husband.

  With my heart beating a strange, crazy rhythm, I take the elevator. When I stop in front of Maxime’s door, my nerves almost fail me. I consider turning around and going back where I came from, but when I think of taking the train home after I’ve already come this far, I take a deep breath and swipe the card.

  A voice I don’t recognize filters from inside when I open the door. I pause. Maxime’s louder voice overrides the first, and then they speak simultaneously. Both men stop talking when the door shuts with a click.

  A man appears from around the wall separating the bedroom from the entrance.

  My throat goes dry.

  It’s the man I saw at Alexis’s apartment on the night they tortured the woman. He smells like sweat
and cabbage, clutching a shoebox under his arm.

  He bares his teeth in a gesture that resembles a smile. “Your wife’s here.”

  A curse sounds.

  Maxime rounds the corner with a glass of whiskey in his hand. His gray eyes are expressionless, his voice flat. “What are you doing here?”

  I look between the men. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “Bad surprise,” the man says. “At least for you, Mr. Belshaw.”

  I drop my bag on the floor, my body going rigid in an involuntary flight response. “What’s going on, Maxime? What is he doing here?”

  “Go downstairs,” Maxime says.

  The man steps closer to me. “I brought something for your husband, but I think you’ll appreciate it more.”

  I glance at the box, my scalp prickling with premonition. “What is it?”

  Unfazed, Maxime takes a sip of his drink. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Maxime is making a deal with a torturer? After what this man did to that woman?

  “The deal has just changed.” The man turns to me with a feverish light in his eyes. “Your letters.”

  Coldness travels over my body. “What letters?”

  He tips his head in Maxime’s direction. “The ones he never mailed.”

  “She knows,” Maxime says with a lazy drawl. “And the letters are at home in my safe.”

  “I took them out of the envelopes and put blank paper inside,” he says. “I stole them from your study when Alexis moved in, before you had time to move everything out.”

  Maxime regards him with a twisted smile. “You’re bluffing.”

  Fishing a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, he holds it out at me. “See for yourself.”

  I take the folded paper with a trembling hand, already recognizing the yellow color and ink seeping through the thin sheet before I’ve unfolded it. It’s the first letter I wrote to Damian.

  I look at the man. “Why would you steal them?”

  “To have something to hold over my head,” Maxime says, swirling the drink in his glass.

  If he thought I didn’t know Maxime never mailed the letters, it would’ve been something to bribe Maxime with, but what is his motivation for giving it to me? Does he know what it means? Those letters were written in a code language that told Damian I’d been taken and kept against my will. It will give me immense power over Maxime, because if those letters fall into Damian’s hands, they’ll start a war. Damian won’t let it go, not what Maxime did. If my brother knows the truth, he’ll ruin Maxime and then kill him.