It Started With A Diamond

“I’m not yours, Mr. Andrade. Never have been, never will be.” She glared at him, jammed the second cuff link into his shirt with a little too much force and dropped his wrist. “We’re finished here.”

Why did she have the sinking feeling that she might be lying?

Chapter Two (#u4c667277-027a-5829-a8ab-51cd9bf8153a)

Diana Drake didn’t remember him. Or possibly she did, and she despised him. Franco wasn’t altogether sure which prospect was more tolerable.

The idea of being so easily forgotten didn’t sit well. Then again, being memorable hadn’t exactly done him any favors lately, had it?

No, he thought wryly. Not so much. But it had been a hell of a lot of fun. At least, while it had lasted.

Fun wasn’t part of his vocabulary anymore. Those days had ended. He was starting over with a clean slate, a new chapter and whatever other metaphors applied.

Not that he’d had much of a choice in the matter.

He’d been fired. Let go. Dumped from the Kingsmen Polo Team. Jack Ellis, the owner of the Kingsmen, had finally made good on all the ultimatums he’d issued over the years. It probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Franco knew he’d pushed the limits of Ellis’s tolerance. More than once. More than a few times, to be honest.

But he’d never let his extracurricular activities affect his performance on the field. Franco had been the Kingsmen’s record holder for most goals scored for four years running. His season total was always double the number of the next closest player on the list.

Which made his dismissal all the more frustrating, particularly considering he hadn’t actually broken any rules. This time, Franco had been innocent. For probably the first time in his adult life, he’d done nothing untoward.

The situation dripped with so much irony that Franco was practically swimming in it. He would have found the entire turn of events amusing if it hadn’t been so utterly frustrating.

“Mr. Andrade, could you lift your right forearm a few inches?” the photographer asked. “Like this.”

She demonstrated for him, and Franco dragged his gaze away from Diana Drake with more reluctance than he cared to consider. He hadn’t been watching her intentionally. His attention just kept straying in her direction. Again and again, for some strange reason.

She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Then again, beautiful women were a dime a dozen in his world. There was something far more intriguing about Diana Drake than her appearance.

Although it didn’t hurt to look at her. On the contrary, Franco rather enjoyed the experience.

She stood at one of the jewelry counters arranging and rearranging her tiny row of cuff links. He wondered if she realized her posture gave him a rather spectacular view of her backside. Judging by the way she seemed intent on ignoring him, he doubted it. She wasn’t posing for his benefit, like, say, the photographer seemed to be doing. Franco could tell when a woman was trying to get his attention, and this one wasn’t.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about her that captivated him until she stole a glance at him from across the room.

The memory hit him like a blow to the chest.

Those eyes...

Until he’d met Diana, Franco had never seen eyes that color before—deep violet. They glittered like amethysts. Framed by thick ebony lashes, they were in such startling contrast with her alabaster complexion that he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away. Even now.

And that was a problem. A big one.

“Mr. Andrade,” the photographer repeated. “Your wrist.”

He adjusted his posture and shot her an apologetic wink. The photographer’s cheeks went pink, and he knew he’d been forgiven. Franco glanced at Diana again, just in time to see her violet eyes rolling in disgust.

A problem. Most definitely.

He had no business noticing any woman right now, particularly one who bore the last name Drake. He was on the path to redemption, and the Drakes were instrumental figures on that path. As such, Diana Drake was strictly off-limits.

So it was a good thing she clearly didn’t want to give him the time of day. What a relief.

Right.

Franco averted his gaze from Diana Drake’s glittering violet eyes and stared into the camera.

“Perfect,” the photographer cooed. “Just perfect.”

Beside her, Artem Drake nodded. “Yes, this is excellent. But maybe we should mix it up a little before we lose the light.”

The photographer lowered her camera and glanced around the showroom, filled with engagement rings. You couldn’t swing a polo mallet in the place without hitting a dozen diamond solitaires. “What were you thinking? Something romantic, maybe?”

“We’ve done romantic.” Artem shrugged. “Lots of times. I was hoping for something a little more eye-catching.”

The photographer frowned. “Let me think for a minute.”

A generous amount of furtive murmuring followed, and Franco sighed. He’d known modeling wouldn’t be as exciting as playing polo. He wasn’t an idiot. But he’d been on the job for less than an hour and he was already bored out of his mind.

He sighed. Again.

His eyes drifted shut, and he imagined he was someplace else. Someplace that smelled of hay and horses and churned-up earth. Someplace where the ground shook with the thunder of hooves. Someplace where he never felt restless or boxed in.

The pounding that had begun in his temples subsided ever so slightly. When he opened his eyes, Diana Drake was standing mere inches away.

Franco smiled. “We meet again.”

Diana’s only response was a visible tensing of her shoulders as the photographer gave her a push and shoved her even closer toward him.

“Okay, now turn around. Quickly before the sun sets,” the photographer barked. She turned her attention toward Franco. “Now put your arms around her. Pull her close, right up against your body. Yes, like that. Perfect!”

Diana obediently situated herself flush against him, with her lush bottom fully pressed against his groin. At last things were getting interesting.

Maybe he didn’t hate modeling so much, after all.

Franco cleared his throat. “Well, this is awkward,” he whispered, sending a ripple through Diana’s thick dark hair.

He tried his best not to think about how soft that hair felt against his cheek or how much her heady floral scent reminded him of buttery-yellow orchids growing wild on the vine in Argentina.

“Awkward?” Diana shot him a glare over her shoulder. “From what I hear, you’re used to this kind of thing.”

He tightened his grip on her tiny waist. “And here I thought you didn’t remember me.”

“You’re impossible,” Diana said under her breath, wiggling uncomfortably in his arms.

“That’s not what you said the last time we were in this position.”

“Oh, my God, you did not just say that.” This was the Diana Drake he remembered. Fiery. Bold.