Page 63 of Diamond in the Rough (The Diamond Trilogy 1)
He appears on the landing, and I spare a glance.
Black slacks and a white button-down. He looks dressed for a date. That’s my first thought. Next I realize how ridiculous that is. This man doesn’t take women on dates unless he’s trying to steal diamonds back from them. “My contact came through,” he says, his voice even. He doesn’t seem affected by my animosity. He’s still as pleasant as ever. “The hacker. She found traces of your sister in east Paris.”
“What does that mean, traces?”
“A digital footprint.”
“Can I come with you?”
A firm shake of his head. “No, I don’t think I could manage both Frank sisters. At least not without hurting you, and I refuse to do that.”
“What a gentleman,” I say, my voice dry.
He’s already hurt me more than I would have thought possible. It seems like my heart would know better than to love a man who’s a thief and a liar. The fact that he does those things in the name of the greater good doesn’t make him any less dangerous to me. His methods don’t take into account the emotions or safety of a regular person.
“I’m not your enemy,” he says softly, but there’s a soft lilt at the end of his low voice, as if he isn’t sure of the truth of the statement. It’s almost a question.
“You’re not my friend.”
“No,” he agrees. “I’m not your friend.”
I pick up my pen as if I’m going to write and stare at the words, unseeing. I don’t know how to think when he’s standing so near me.
“I’ll be back tonight,” he says, approaching me, and I tense.
He leans close and places a kiss on my forehead. It feels like a goodbye.
Then he’s gone, taking his masculine scent and warmth with him. I’m left bereft, hating myself for wanting more of him, my body fighting the urge to run after him.
I touch two fingers to my skin where he kissed me, as if I can hold it in.
Low voices converse below.
He’s talking with Carson, who I haven’t spoken to since I found out I’m a prisoner here. It doesn’t make sense to care about my captors. No matter how nice the cell.
There’s a beep from the alarm as it disarms. A brief few seconds when I could actually escape. If I had the desire to jump out of a two-story window. If I could land without him finding me. If I had any money or resources or a place to go.
So I remain seated.
Or maybe those are only the excuses I tell myself. Maybe if the prison is warm and comfortable enough, the captive learns to enjoy herself.
I’m wearing a tiered Gucci dress in rustic floral patterns. It’s like a runway version of what Marisol would wear in her real farmhouse.
I peek out the window in time to see the black SUV drive away. It’s a sunny day. Down the street I see a couple strolling arm in arm. A young mother pushes a stroller. Such domesticity. Such contentedness as I’m trapped in this luxurious cell.
What would they do if I started banging on the window?
Most likely Carson would notice and stop me.
That’s a depressing thought.
I wander back to the bedroom and lie down. It’s something most people might not realize, the boredom of living in captivity. I lie down on the bed with its many pillows and remember the night Elijah threw them all to the floor. He took me against the dresser there.
It wasn’t the last time we had sex, but it was the last time I expected it to be sweet.
“Pssst.”
The sound is soft enough that I think I imagined it. Until it comes again.
“Pssssst.”
I look behind me to the back window, which opens to an alleyway. A familiar pair of eyes peek over the sill. “London,” I breathe before scrambling off the bed.
She’s perched on the casement from the window below her, a very precarious situation that makes my heart swoop in fear. “Hey, Sis.”
“What are you doing?” I whisper furiously. “Come inside.”
Her head shakes. “No, you have to come with me.”
“The diamonds. Do you have them?”
She hesitates. “Not here.”
“You’re going to fall,” I say, my voice rising. Elijah was right to be worried. Right to think she wouldn’t want to give the diamonds back. He was right, and everything is wrong.
“Don’t go supersonic,” she warns.
“I was so worried about you.” I’m definitely going supersonic.
“Shhhh. Mr. Downstairs took a potty break, but he’s not going to be there for long. We have to get you out before that happens.” The window is already cracked, and she opens it wider. Ancient hinges emit a low-pitched groan. “Hurry.”
“How did you disarm the alarm system?”
“You don’t want to know. Come on, Sis. It’s now or never.”
There are a million reasons to stay where I am. Starting with a very healthy and normal fear of heights. The back of the house actually drops three stories. There’s every chance I could fall to my death attempting to escape. Then there’s Elijah. While I’m pissed at him, I believe he won’t hurt me. Is that enough of a reason to stay?
