Diamonds Are For Lovers: Satin & a Scandalous Affair

He drew himself up to full height. “You will not touch this stone with anything but your fingers, do you hear?”

Danielle Hammond rolled her eyes at him. “Of course not, but I may use other gems.” She eyed him speculatively. “You are supplying findings? Platinum, diamonds, the whole deal?”

“As long as you keep the stone whole, you have carte blanche to design whatever you like. I will need to approve a model and a list of your requirements.”

“This could take weeks….”

“You have three, less is preferable. The accommodation is acceptable?”

She nodded.

“I will feed you. Everything you need for the job is there. All you need to do is tap into your talent and work.”

“Who’s it for?”

Quinn opened his mouth, staring at her face. “A friend,” he said shortly. “A special friend.”

Dani nodded, and he could almost hear her mind ticking over. That was his brief; she was not to know who commissioned the piece. No harm letting her think there was a special lady friend. “Do we have a deal?”

She exhaled noisily and stared down at the diamond as if for reassurance.

Just to play with her longing, he closed the lid—slowly.

“I want half the money up front,” she said, “and throw in Steve’s wages.”

He scowled. “How very Blackstone of you.” Her family connections were his main objection to the deal. Quinn had no time for anyone bearing the Blackstone stamp and was sorely tempted to delegate this job to one of his staff. But it was a sensitive matter, one which he’d reluctantly agreed to handle personally.

He picked the box up off the desk, noting with pleasure the regret and loss in her eyes as she watched him put it away.

“This is going to be a barrel of laughs,” Dani muttered from behind his back.

“The sooner you get on with it, the quicker we can go our separate ways.” He banged the safe door closed. “I’ll take you home to pack and make arrangements.”

When he turned back to her, she was rubbing the side of her long pale neck, eyes closed, her head rolled back. Quinn teetered on the edge of a rogue wave of desire so intense that it stopped him dead in his tracks. Behind her, not two feet away, his king-size bed sprawled, inspiring all sorts of suggestive images.

Her eyes snapped open, finding his gaze immediately. “No need. My place is only a minute or two from here.”

He gestured to the door. “I’ll drive you,” he said firmly, intent on getting her out of his bedroom.

Quinn prowled her living room while she packed and made arrangements to cover her absence from her shop. He was fond of his comforts, and the climate up here in Northern Queensland was not to his liking. Luckily, unlike Dani’s tiny apartment in a dated resort complex, the beach house was equipped with an excellent air-conditioning system. He wiped the back of his neck while she scurried about packing with the phone plastered to her ear. The prospect of baby-sitting a spoiled girl with an artistic temperament and inflated opinion of her own talent, whilst sweltering in the suffocating humidity, was not a good one.

His internal temperature soared even higher when later that afternoon, after settling in at his rental, his house guest took a swim. Quinn’s office window offered an unobstructed view of the pool. His work forgotten, he stood at the window, watching the long-legged, flame-haired beauty. She wore long shorts and an oversize T-shirt; perfectly respectable attire—until it got wet. Quinn turned the air-conditioning dial down a couple of notches and undid the top two buttons of his shirt.

For the first time in many years, he wanted, with a savage unrelenting intensity. He was certainly not celibate, but preferred older, cultured and financially independent women. Women with similar interests and social mores as he. Danielle Hammond looked to be mid-to-late twenties and certainly had the wealth of the Blackstones behind her, but they were light-years apart.

It was totally undignified to stand at a window, salivating over the sights of wet fabric clinging lovingly to a fine pair of breasts, and of water streaming down well-toned, lightly tanned legs. He was much too discriminating to crave the slide of her wet, spiralling curls on his burning skin. Wasn’t he?

He returned to his desk, pushing aside the unwelcome intrusion. This wasn’t supposed to be a holiday, he chided himself. The next Famous Paintings auction was only days away. It was frustrating to be stuck here for such an important date on his professional calendar, but at least he had a contact to inspect a very special lot number for one of his most important clients.

Clearing his head one final time, he refocussed his attention where it belonged. On his work. He remained at his desk until Danielle interrupted him, after the dinner hour. Apparently she was ready to work and wanted the diamond to be brought to the workroom.

Quinn set it up on the workbench and watched her circle the desk, her small digital camera clicking and whirring as she took snapshot after snapshot.

He was totally absorbed by her concentration, not to mention her lithe form bending and stretching, and the interesting strain of fabric across her rump and thighs as she crouched and circled. So when she suddenly straightened and looked at him, he was a few seconds behind the eight ball.

Her finely arched brows seemed to mock him. “What’s she like?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your lady friend. The one you’re giving the diamond to.”

“Like?”

She looked at the ceiling briefly. “Her height and build. I don’t want to design something dainty for a big strapping girl. Or vice versa.”

Quinn hesitated. It wasn’t an unreasonable request.

Tonight she wore flowing baggy summer pants of an indeterminate colour that fell between pewter and light brown. A purple lacy top accentuated her shape, which was, he conceded, a work of art. A strip of matching fabric tied bandanna-style kept her forehead free of springy curls, and lime-green beads circled her throat. “Five nine, five ten.” He shrugged. “Slender but strong-looking.”

Dani held the camera up, checking the images. Quinn noted with surprise that her nails were short and some of them jagged, as if she chewed them.

“Pale or tan?” she asked distractedly.

“Lightly tanned,” he told her. “Freckles.”

Click, click. “Okay. Hair?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she lowered the camera and frowned at him. “What colour is her hair?”

Several superlative responses came to mind, but while he was deciding which best described her vibrant curls, her frown gave way to sarcasm. “You’re a little unobservant, Mr. Everard. Do you have a photo, perhaps?”

His mouth quirked. “Red. Dark red.” He pursed his lips, wondering when she would twig. “Curly.”

Her brows arched up to kiss the edge of the bandanna.

“Rather multifaceted in style,” Quinn went on, warming to his task. “Unconventional, definitely. Some would say bohemian, but that’s not it … She’s like no one else.” And that was the truth. Her use of colour, breaking all the fashion rules, should have offended a conservative like himself, yet somehow, it charmed the hell out of him. Living with Danielle Hammond, he knew, would never be boring.

Dani pursed her lips sternly. “You have good taste in women, Mr. Everard,” she told him smartly, and put the camera down with a sharp thud. “Contemporary bling, then, for the lady.”

“Knock yourself out.” Quinn pushed himself away from the doorjamb, trying not to be horrified about her terminology in reference to this diamond. He’d spent hours trying to talk his client out of this, citing Danielle’s age and inexperience.

Surprisingly though, he smiled all the way down the hall, pleased with himself, and with her. Maybe the next few weeks wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Dani Hammond had a bite to her. She seemed smart—almost street-smart—and Quinn knew all about that.

But how did she, with her luxurious upbringing?

Sightings of Dani were scarce the next couple of days as she immersed herself in her design. She worked late and rose late. Mid-morning she would request he bring the diamond to the workroom. He restored it to the safe on his way to bed. He kept the refrigerator stocked and was thankfully spared the ignominy of standing by the window like a Peeping Tom, because she didn’t use the pool again. Most of the food he prepared went to waste as she said she was too busy to be hungry. Despite himself, and without seeing any tangible results yet, he was impressed by her dedication.

The third night, she joined him for dinner, an impressive meal catered by one of Port Douglas’s surprisingly fine restaurants.

“Why me?” she asked over coffee. “You must know twenty world-class designers who would gnaw off their right hand to ingratiate themselves with you.”