“Why the delay?” my father asks.
“I have loose ends to tie up.”
Laughter sounds in the background.
“I’ve got to go,” my father says. “The girls have arrived.”
I clench my fists. My words are measured. “Say hello to Maman for me.”
My father doesn’t like the rebuke. The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in my hand. Fuck. If I had more time—
“Maxime?”
I turn around.
Zoe stands in the open sliding door, barefoot and drowning in a hotel robe. Her dull eyes show the medication is kicking in. “What was that about?”
I pocket the phone. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“It sounded like a fight.”
“Go inside.” My body is tense, my cock taking notice of how little there is between my hand and her skin. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“I don’t feel well.”
It’s not a lie or an attempt at manipulation. The pill will do that. In a minute, she’ll be a little nauseous, too.
I close the distance and take her arm. “You’re tired. You’ll feel better after you’ve rested.”
“I need my clothes.” Her tongue slurs a bit. “I have nothing to wear to bed.”
In the room, I stop to take one of my T-shirts from the dresser. “Put that on. You can take the bed.”
She watches me with drooping, albeit wary eyes. “What about you?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
“Okay,” she says with obvious relief. She takes the T-shirt and stumbles on her way to the bed.
I catch her around the waist before she hits the floor. “I’m sorry, little flower.” She smells like the hotel shampoo. When I first pressed her against me, her skin and hair smelled like roses. I make a mental note to get the same brand of shampoo I saw in her apartment before we go.
Helping her into a sitting position on the bed, I stay close in case she pukes.
She puts a hand over her stomach. “I feel sick.”
“You’ll be fine.”
Her long lashes lift, her eyes scanning my face with an ingrained desire to trust. “I think I ate something. The urchin maybe.”
“There was nothing wrong with the food. Relax. It’ll get better in a minute.”
“May I please have some water?”
“Wait it out.” I don’t want her to puke up what’s left of the pill in her stomach.
“Maxime?” There’s panic in her sleep-heavy voice.
“Shh.” I brace her nape with one hand and cup her cheek with the other, brushing my thumb over the soft skin under her eye as I watch them lose more focus until her eyelids finally close and unconsciousness takes her.
Gently, I lower her to the bed and take a step back. Her hair is spread out around her face, the curls framing her beautiful bone structure. My T-shirt is still in her hand, her dainty fingers folded around it softly. The robe gapes slightly where her legs are bent over the edge. I grow hard looking at her like this. I imagine stripping the robe and spreading her legs to watch her. I imagine dragging my hands over the contours of her body and getting to know her curves while she’s out cold. The dark, invasive thought makes me even harder. I could tell her I had to dress her in the T-shirt, so she’d sleep more comfortably. She’d never know if I stroked her or stroked myself while looking at her.
But not like this.
My thoughts are sick. They make me sick.
Disgusted, I grab my testicles and squeeze until my eyes water. The pain is good. It grounds me. I deserved that.
I arrange her like a princess on the bed and cover her with the duvet. Then I sink down into the armchair with my head in my hands, watching, thinking. When I’ve decided, I get up. I’d like to watch her all night, but there’s plenty to do.
It takes a lot of work to make a person disappear.
Chapter 4
Zoe
* * *
I wake up groggy. My throat is dry, and my eyes burn. I’m lying in a big bed, covered by a soft blanket, instead of on the lumpy mattress of my single bed. Memories from yesterday return, of a man with big hands and a winter’s day eyes. I shoot upright.
Blinking, I look around the room, but it’s not the hotel room from last night. Wait. What happened before I passed out? The last I recall was feeling sick. Maxime took me to the bedroom and gave me a T-shirt. After that, my mind is a blank.
I glance down at the hotel robe I’m wearing. No T-shirt. I don’t remember putting it on or going to bed. My panic escalates as I survey the room with the Renaissance furniture and golden brocade curtains I don’t remember.
Where am I?
Jumping from the bed, I rush to the window and yank the curtains open. The view makes me stumble a step back, gasping as I take in the dome roofs and towers over the canal.
My heart beats furiously as I turn back to the room for clues. My bare feet are quiet on the thick carpet as I run to the adjoining room and peer inside. It’s a bathroom. I’m desperate, so I lock the door and use the facilities before washing my hands and splashing cold water on my face to clear my head.
The bathroom is even bigger than the one of last night. The shower has twin nozzles. A spa bath window overlooks more sandstone buildings and cobblestone streets. I run to the window and check for a handle, but there isn’t one. It doesn’t open. Light streams into the room, the sun still high. It’s sometime in the morning, maybe around ten.
I go back into the room and open the closet. It’s empty. I check the nightstand for stationary or a complimentary pen, any clue, but there’s nothing. I have a terrible suspicion, one so unreal it’s absurd to even think it. I hurry to the other door and push the handle down. It opens onto a lounge as luxuriously decorated as the bedroom. Maxime sits in an armchair, a cup of espresso on the coffee table. He stands when I enter. Dressed in a dark suit and silver tie, he’s as impeccably groomed as yesterday.
“Where am I?” I cry out, going to the lounge window. The view over the square is strangely familiar, yet I know this isn’t home. This isn’t South Africa.
“Calm down, Zoe. Come have breakfast, and I’ll explain.”
I spin around. “I don’t want breakfast.”
He walks to a table and lifts the silver lid from one of the dishes. A waft of pancakes fills the air. He points at the chair. “Please.”
The word is a command. Not hungry in the least, I pad over cautiously and lower myself into the seat. He adjusts my chair and serves two pancakes on the plate in front of me before reaching for a bowl of cream.
I can’t stand it. I have to know. “Did you touch me?”
His hand stills on the serving spoon. It’s minute, but I notice. He drops a dollop on each pancake. “No.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but he definitely didn’t rape me. I would’ve felt the difference in my body, wouldn’t I? “What’s going on? Please tell me where we are.”
Offering me a bowl of strawberries, he waits with an outstretched arm. It’s clear he’s not going to budge until I serve myself. I take a strawberry without paying attention to what I’m doing. I’m too focused on his face, looking for answers.
He pours tea that smells like roses into a porcelain cup and puts it next to my plate before taking the seat opposite me. “We’re in Venice.”
The strawberry drops from my fingers. It rolls over the carpet under the table. I can feel the blood drain from my face as he gives me the verbal confirmation of what I suspected.
“Why?” I whisper.
“I thought you wanted to come here.”
He saw the books in my apartment. I clench my jaw. He stole me. That’s terrifying, but somehow this, the fact that he invaded my dreams, feels so much worse.
“Eat,” he says. “You need your strength.”
I grab the knife. The shaft shakes in my hand. Am I capable of stabbing him? Can I drive the blunt end into his black, devious heart? “How did I get here?”
“I have a plane.”
&nbs
p; “You abducted me.” I can’t make sense of the facts staring me in the eyes. “I don’t even have a passport.”
“You didn’t. You do now.”
“How…You can’t just get a passport overnight.”
He doesn’t answer.
Oh, my God. He came prepared. He came to South Africa with a passport. My kidnapping was well thought out. Premeditated. “Just tell me what you want.”
He crosses his legs as he considers me with his emotionless eyes. Does he even feel anything? Is he a psychopath? His face is rough and unsightly to look at, but it’s the flatness of those sharp, gray eyes that scares me the most.
“Eat,” he says again, “and then we’ll talk.”
I eat, not because I want to, but so he’ll tell me what’s going on. The pancakes are fluffy, but I don’t taste anything.
“Have a strawberry,” he says. “They’re out of season. I had them flown in especially.”
I stare at the bowl of fat, red strawberries. Each one is perfect, almost too pretty to be real. Taking one, I bite into the flesh. Juice runs over my chin. I catch it with my palm. He reaches over the table, offering me a linen napkin. I snatch it from his hand, scrunching it up in my fist before dumping it next to my plate in an impulsive act of defiance.
The warm drink is the only thing I really want. I reach for the tea. “I ate. Now talk.”
Rubbing a thumb over his lips, he seems to weigh his words. After an awkward silence, he says, “We need to borrow you for a while.”
The warm tea scalds my throat as I almost choke on the sip I took. “Borrow me? We?”
“My family.”
I replace the cup on the saucer lest I drop the hot liquid in my lap. “What for?”
“You don’t need to concern yourself over the details. What you need to know is Damian’s life is in your hands.”
Shock runs through me. He—they—intend to keep me. If I don’t comply, Damian will pay. “I have a job, a home, friends—”
“You resigned,” he says. “I already gave up your lease and took care of your outstanding bills.”
“You can’t do that,” I exclaim. “My plant… the cats… nobody else will feed them.”
“Your neighbor kindly took your plant, and I’m paying for the food he’ll feed the cats. He also promised to return your library books.”
I jump to my feet. “You went back to see Bruce?”
“He sent a text to your phone to tell you what happened. He wisely thought he should warn you about the thieves targeting your building. I explained you were with me and wanted me to check on him.”
“You told him I was going away with you. Is that the lie you told him?”
“He was happy for you. Oh, and you’ll also be glad to know I replaced his phone. He was very grateful for the gesture.”
I swallow down my tears. I can’t believe this is happening. “You drugged me.”
“It was easier that way, less stressful for you.”
I curl my hands into balls at my sides. “You don’t know what’s easier for me.”
“Sit down and finish breakfast. We have work to do before I can show you the city.”
“You want to go fucking sightseeing?”
“Mind your tongue, Zoe. We’re really going to have to do something about your language.”
“Is that why you brought me here?” Every muscle in my body is trembling in rage. “As payoff for borrowing me?”
“No,” he says softly. “Not for that.”
“How long exactly is this borrowing supposed to last?”
“Three, four years. It’s hard to say. It all depends.”
Four years? I place a hand over my stomach, feeling sick again. “On what?”
“I can’t say.”
His calm indifference infuriates me. I want to slap him. Kill him. My gaze darts to the teapot. If I throw it into his face—
“Don’t even think about it,” he says. “Gautier and Benoit are right outside. I really don’t want to punish you, but I will. I’m not going to threaten you with Damian again. The next time you disobey me, I’ll put those threats into action.” He gets up and walks over, stopping close to me. “This,” he waves an arm around the room, “is not going to happen every day, maybe never again, so I suggest you make the most of it. Enjoy the food. Enjoy the trip. I went to a lot of effort and spent a lot of money to make this happen for you. Whether you hate it or set aside your pride to enjoy it won’t change your fate. You may as well make the wise choice and make the most of it.”
With his speech done, he watches me with a raised brow, waiting for me to make my decision. I want to fling myself at him in a fit of fury and punch him in his ugly face, but I can’t surrender to my anger. That’s not an option he gave me, not unless I want to suffer the consequences of getting my brother hurt. The wiser option is to tamp down my bitter anger and mad rage, and to obey like a dog.
It takes all the strength I possess to sit back down and fold my hands around the teacup. It hurts. It hurts my self-esteem and my pride, but I swallow it with my tears, not only for Damian, but also for myself.
“Good decision,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
My body stiffens under his touch. Thankfully, he pulls his hand away.
While I force pancakes and strawberries down my throat, washing it down with rose petal tea, he makes phones calls in French. He stays on the far side of the lounge, as if giving me space would help to keep down my food.
When my plate is empty, he calls me over with a flick of his fingers.
I stand and walk over like the obedient dog he’s making of me.
Approval softens his features. He likes my obedience, or maybe it’s just easier for him not having to fight and threaten me constantly. “Would you like to have a shower? I’m having clothes sent over for you in a while.”
“I have clothes.” Which I love.
“They won’t serve you here.”
I give him a hateful look.
His smile is patient. “The weather here is much less forgiving than in your country.”
“I’ll have a shower,” I bite out.
“Another good choice.” Another mocking smile. “You’ll find everything you need in the bathroom.”
I go to the bathroom and lock the door for good measure. As he promised, the cabinet is stocked with cosmetics and toiletries. I even find my normal brand of shampoo as well as the conditioner I could never afford.
Opting for the shower instead of the bath, I quickly wash and dry off. I apply some body lotion to alleviate the dryness of my skin. I don’t know if it’s a side effect of the drugs or the flight. I’ve never travelled. I do know from reading that Venice is a fourteen-hour-long flight from Johannesburg. The surrealism of it all still shakes me to my core. When I’m done, I pull on a clean robe with a hotel logo.
Maxime is waiting in the lounge when I step out. There’s a rail with dresses, jackets, and coats. Several pairs of boots are displayed on the floor. A box with underwear stands on the coffee table.
“I think this is your size,” he says.
Despite my resolution to take as little from Maxime as possible, I can’t help but go over to admire the clothes. My fingers itch to touch the fabric. I lift a tag and nearly faint at the price. It’s Valentino. I’ve never shopped in a department store, let alone a boutique. My clothes are either self-made or bought at the flea market. Owning a piece from a world-renowned designer has only featured in my dreams, which is why I drop the tag. I’m not giving Maxime more of my dreams.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Don’t you like the clothes?”
I turn to face him. “No.”
He shrugs. “Then I’ll choose what you wear.”
I watch with mounting anger as he takes a navy wool dress with white sailor collar and matching coat from the rail.
“I think this will look good on you.” He pushes the items into my hands. “Go put that on.”
I jut out my chin. “No.”
/> “You prefer to go out naked?” Something sparks in his eyes, something dark and demented, as if the idea appeals to him. “Maybe I should let you walk around without clothes. I could put a collar and chain on you instead. Would you like that? Would the way people look at you make you wet?”
“You’re sick,” I spit out.
He puts his nose inches from mine. “Right now you still have a choice. Remember what I said about not wasting the little you have.”
Dumping the blue set on the couch, I back away. “Fine. You win. You can have your way in this, but you’ll never have a piece of my soul.”
He smiles. “I never asked for your soul.”
Seething, I spin away from him and flip through the clothes with more force than necessary. My hand stills on a beautiful pink coat with a scrunched collar. The matching dress is a fitted cut with puffy sleeves.
“Good choice,” he says.
Grabbing the box with the underwear, I escape to the room. The dress fits perfectly. I finish off the outfit with nude winter tights and boots.
A knock falls on the door just as I finish drying my hair. I pull a brush through it and reluctantly open the door.
Maxime’s gaze trails over me. There’s nothing in his eyes to tell me what he thinks, not that I care.
“Time for work.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the lounge.
I jerk free but follow him to the writing desk pushed against a window. A writing block with the hotel logo and pen lie on the desk. He pulls out the chair in silent command. Once I’m seated, he puts the pen in my hand.
“You’re going to write a letter,” he says.
I already know before I ask, “To who?”
“To Damian. You’re going to tell him you met someone, a foreigner visiting your country, and that he swept you off your feet. Love at first sight. You went out for dinner. It was beautiful, like a fairytale. You were devastated when he had to go back to his country. He couldn’t bear leaving you behind, so he asked you to come with him. You didn’t think twice. He got you a passport, and you left the country. You’re in Europe with him now, and you’re very, very happy.”
He presses his palms on the desk, putting our faces close together. His eyes are cold, as always, but it’s a different kind of cold, a cold that frightens me, because flames can burn a cold shade of winter.
Diamonds in the Dust Page 5