Diamonds in the Rough (Diamonds are Forever Trilogy 2)

Maxime takes me early to the performing arts theatre where the event is held so I can add the finishing touches to my garments.

He carries my needlework case to the garderobe where our collections are already stored and leaves it on the worktable to wrap his arms around me.

“You’ll do great.” His eyes warm with a smile. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” I pull away and flip open the lid of my case. The model who’ll be modeling my wedding dress has lost weight after a recent bout of gastro, and I have to take in the waist. There’s not enough time to remake the bodice, but I can take in a few centimeters on the sides by hand.

“Hey.” Maxime catches my wrist.

My cheeks grow hot at the heated look in his eyes.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asks in a husky voice.

That voice is enough to make me forget about everything. “I’m sorry.” I go on tiptoes to kiss his lips. “I’m a little distracted.”

He cups my nape. “I know.” Pulling me close, he kisses me in the way that makes every follicle come alive. Lethargic heat flushes my body, making me wet. I throb and ache for him. Just before my knees give out, he breaks the kiss.

My whole being mourns the loss of his touch and warmth. We stare into each other’s eyes, wordless understanding passing between us. I’m his. He’s mine. Our give and take isn’t equal, but there’s comfort in knowing we belong to each other and that we’ve somehow managed to make our warped situation work.

“Good luck,” he mouths.

“No.” I press my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it. It’s bad luck.”

Folding his fingers around my wrist, he kisses my palm before moving my hand away. “If I don’t let you go now…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. We both know we’ll end up in a dark corner fucking against a wall if he doesn’t leave. How did we get to this point? How did I get so addicted to him? When did he become so handsome and dear to me?

“Break a leg,” he says with a wicked smile, turning on his heel and leaving me in a puddle of desire.

I give myself a little shake to break the trance. A tinge of fear slips into my elation. I know exactly why he makes me lose track of everything, even here and now at this critical event. It’s because he overshadows everything. He’s grown more important than anything else in my life, even more important than my studies and my dream to be a designer. Somewhere in the knotted threads of our unconventional relationship, he became my dream.

The realization startles me. It frightens me. Whatever power I’ve given Maxime over me in the past is nothing compared to this. This is atomic. This can destroy me.

Voices coming from the hallway pull me back to the present. A few classmates file through the door, chatting animatedly. We’re all on edge about tonight, over-excited and anxious.

I thread a needle and set to work. My fingertips are already pricked raw. The grand finale, my wedding dress, is my dream design. I’ve poured everything I am and ever wanted to be into the dress. It’s whimsical, romantic, and feminine. It has a sweetheart bodice and a meringue skirt layered with diamante studded net fabric. The color is the softest of pinks, a barely visible hue that bleeds out from the virginal white at the top to the darker hem of the skirt.

After a couple of hours of careful adjustments, my back is aching. Stepping away from the dress form, I study my work. My chest swells. A feeling of peace dawns on me even as my breath quickens. It’s a warm feeling, but it’s nothing like the arousal Maxime elicits. This is pride. This is my best. I put a hand over my heart. I love this dress. I love it for everything it represents, but it’s more than pride and love. There’s something else underneath the layers, something that causes these reactions of glowing contentedness and combustible love inside me. It’s imagining wearing it for Maxime. It’s imagining him in a dark suit under the angelic lights of a stained glass window with a ring in his pocket. It’s the contrast of his black soul in a holy space, of winning the heart of a man so cruel. It’s my girlhood fantasy, the white day and the big dress. It’s imagining saying yes.

“Miss Hart?”

I give a start.

A woman with a clipboard breezes past me. “Your models are ready. You’re on in ten.”

I jump back into action. My dream dissolves in a flurry of activity. The model wearing my day dress cusses when the zipper gets stuck. I work on it while she fixes her lipstick.

“Maxime fucking Belshaw is out there,” she says, dabbing powder onto her nose.