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“They’re from the mine.”
“I thought the mine is dry.”
“Not the bedrock.”
“You found a deposit of black diamonds?”
“They’re colored.”
If they’re colored, the diamonds must have a lower grade. “It’s profitable?”
“Very. The yield is high, and colored black diamonds are gaining popularity by the day. The demand will soon be higher than the offer.”
Very clever. If demand continues to rise, so will the value. “How did you know the bedrock is rich in deposits?”
“Always knew they were there. I was just biding my time.”
To get out of jail. “Congratulations.”
“It suits you.”
“Me?”
“I had it made for you.”
“For me?” I cover my collarbone with a palm where the diamonds would reach if they were draped around my neck. “Why?”
“You’re my wife. Turn around.”
I’m his wife. A showpiece for his guests. Suddenly, I understand why I’m showing off this particular necklace tonight. Damian is creating his own market. It’s more than a business dinner. It’s publicity, and I’m his advertising board.
He removes the necklace and chucks the box on the bed. “Turn around, Lina.”
There’s no point in arguing. Giving him my back, I lift my hair so he can hang the diamonds around my neck and fit the clasp.
“There.” He brushes his lips over the arch of my neck. “Perfect. Like you.”
“You haven’t seen what it looks like on me.”
“I don’t need to.”
Standing like this, with my back to his chest, I feel comfortable despite the situation and myself. Safe, almost. I don’t have to hide my expressions or rely on my legs to carry me. I can lean on him while the weight of the necklace and the world pull me down.
“Now you’re ready,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. He offers me an arm. “Shall we?”
There’s nothing left to do but take his arm and descend to the lounge where Zane and Anne are already mixing with our dinner guests. A new shift of guards came on duty, and for once, I miss Russell’s reassuring presence. The scrawny man who showcased the diamonds for my ring is there with a redhead at his side. Damian introduces the couple as the man who designed the necklace, Tony, and his wife, Belinda, and then excuses us to greet his mining manager.
Before we’re completely out of earshot, Belinda says to a blonde woman, “She’s more nuts than they say. Tony said she refused to choose a diamond for her engagement ring. Have you ever heard anything like that?”
The blonde replies, “Oh, my God. I can’t look at her arms. Hasn’t she heard about skin grafts?”
There’s not enough skin on my body for the grafts needed to fix my scars.
Damian squeezes my hand where it rests on his arm. “As I said,” he says soft enough for only me to hear, “they have much uglier scars. Theirs are etched on their souls. It’s called jealousy.”
“Etched on their souls?” In an effort to hide my discomfort, I laugh. “Being poetic doesn’t suit you.”
“What can I say?” He flashes me a wolfish smile. “You’re very…” His eyes drop to my crotch. “Inspiring.”
His jest is playful and meant to put me at ease. It would’ve worked if he’d said something nice about my personality instead of making it sexual. It reminds me of what we are. We’re physical. What we have is as dark, cold, and hard as the diamonds around my neck. My grandfather would’ve died before mining black diamonds. He would’ve said they’re a sad substitute for the real thing. That’s exactly what we are. A sad substitute for the real thing.
“You need a drink,” Damian says.
I quickly wipe the grim look from my face, replacing it with a plastered-on smile. People are always observing, and I’m not putting my imperfect life on display.
“You all right?” he asks, handing me a glass of Chardonnay.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I know that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“Brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.”
“You should know by now I don’t settle for nothing.” He gives me a warning lift of his eyebrow.
From across the room, Anne watches us, whispering to Zane.
“I’m just aware of being naked,” I lie, “and what’s dripping between my legs.”
“So am I, angel,” he says in a husky voice, assessing me with those dark eyes and letting me feel the static energy of his similarly dark intentions.
A waiter with a tray of hors-d’oeuvres saves me. I pop a bite-sized ricotta tart in my mouth, chewing but tasting nothing. At least, my full mouth prevents me from having to answer.
A young couple enters the lounge. The woman pushes a stroller, and the man carries a large diaper bag. Nadia Naidoo, a social butterfly and one of the most successful fashion columnists in the country, follows in their footsteps.
My feet automatically carry me to the couple with the stroller. A baby is wrapped up in blue blankets, his tiny porcelain face perfect as he blinks up at me. An overwhelming cauldron of emotions twists in my chest. Pain flashes through my heart, sharp and unforgiving, while endearment melts it. Yearning is a palpable taste in my mouth.
