Diamonds are for Surrender. Bronwyn Jameson
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father’s possible demise? Unbelievable.
“I’m not dressing to impress you, Perrini,” she said sharply.
He almost smiled and that tightened the screws on her incredulity.
“Give me five minutes—and some privacy—and I’ll change.”
“No, you won’t.” He took hold of her hand. “I’ve put some colour back in your face and some life in your eyes. Now let’s go before you start thinking too much and lose it again.”
The trip from Auckland to Sydney passed in a slow-moving daze despite the swift efficiency and supreme comfort of flying in the Blackstone corporate jet. A Gulfstream IV, it was the exact same model of aircraft her father had chartered for his ill-fated flight. She’d asked Perrini about that, after they boarded. After she noted the rich mahogany paneling, the luxurious cream-colored leather seats, the fully stocked galley and ornately appointed bathroom.
Right after he’d pointed out the bed and said, “Feel free to use it. I’m happy to share.”
No doubt he was trying to get the spark back in her eyes by employing the same diversionary tactics as back in her bedroom, but that didn’t dull the electric awareness that shimmered between them. Was he remembering another private flight they’d taken together?
There’d been no bed on that charter flight from San Francisco to Vegas but it hadn’t mattered. They’d improvised. And before she’d come down from that incredible high, Perrini stunned her with a proposal she’d thought as wildly impulsive and wickedly romantic as making love with him a mile up in the sky.
That weekend had been the zenith of ten blissful weeks as Ric Perrini’s lover. She’d become his wife in a wedding chapel only Vegas could love, and afterward they’d spent three decadent days in a Bellagio suite ordering room service and indulging themselves in every way possible. She hadn’t realised a wedding band would make such a difference, but oh, how it had. It was the difference between good champagne and the vintage French they quaffed that weekend. Another level, impossible to describe or define, that filled her senses and her heart until she wondered if they would explode.
On their return to Australia, they had.
Everything inside Kimberley contracted painfully as she recalled the bliss. She didn’t want to remember the freefall plunge that followed their return home … or the shattering pain of hitting rock bottom. So she’d focused on the here and now, and asked Perrini mindless questions about the jet’s inclusions and capabilities, and she’d learned that her father had chartered the same model.
Clinging white-knuckled to the armrests during takeoff with the high-pitched wail of the engines in her ears, feeling the forward thrust suck her back into her seat, she could not shut out the image of her father and Marise experiencing the same sensation fourteen hours earlier. Nor could she eradicate the image of all that power and speed crashing from the sky and hitting the sea with devastating impact.
The flicker of hope in her chest wavered and died, and Kimberley’s emotions spent the three-hour flight seesawing between numbed disbelief and intense dread of what lay ahead. She took up Perrini’s suggestion to lie down because she couldn’t bear the thought of looking out the window at the stretch of sea where the plane had gone down. He’d told her that Australian search-and-rescue had mounted an extensive search, but she didn’t want to see the evidence.
It wasn’t denial, it was self-preservation.
She felt she’d done a decent job of disguising her turmoil. She hadn’t succumbed to tears. She’d even managed to feign the easy breathing of sleep when Perrini came to check on her.
It was one of the hardest things she could remember doing, lying there controlling her breathing while he stood in the open doorway staring down at her. Then he’d pulled the light blanket over her prone body. If he’d spoken, if he’d touched her with more than the velvety brush of his knuckles, she might have given in and asked him to stay. To share the bed, to hold her, to distract her in any way he chose.
That’s how fragile and alone she’d felt at that moment.
But he’d left as quietly as he’d come and she’d curled up tightly and hugged herself, the same as she’d done so many nights as a child when she would sneak down from her bedroom and hide in a quiet corner of the foyer in their Vaucluse home, waiting for her father to come home from a long working day or a week at the mine or at the end of another overseas business trip.
Now, as they neared that home, the thought that he’d never come home again sunk diamond-sharp talons into her heart. It shouldn’t hurt this much, not when she’d come to hate everything about the way he operated, including his screwed-up ethics and his treatment of the Hammonds, who were his wife’s family. Not to mention the manipulation of her marriage to suit his own self-centred ends.
Maybe she needed to focus on that son of a bitch, instead of a childhood ideal of a father who had never existed except in her imagination.
“Okay?” Perrini asked from behind the wheel of his Maserati. The coupe was all sleek, blue style and eye-catching looks on the outside, with an engine that purred deceptively until provoked. Then it roared to life with impressive power and drive.
This car is your perfect match, she’d told him a couple of miles back. Now, the thick ache in her throat made it impossible to answer his question.
At the next red light he reached across and put his hand over hers, where they lay tightly clenched in her lap. The unexpected gesture was so comforting and so strengthening that she immediately found her voice. “I wish you’d stop being so nice,” she snapped. “It makes me nervous.”
He cut her an inscrutable look from behind his sunglasses. “A temporary aberration. Don’t get too used to it.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said dryly. Then she shook her head when she realised that once again he’d shocked her out of her wretchedness. “Thank you,” she repeated, this time with sincerity.
“For?” The lights changed and he took his hand back, using it to guide the powerful sports car through the gears as they climbed the curves of New South Head Road.
“For breaking the news to me in person. For rescuing me at the airport and bringing me home. For keeping me together along the way. I do appreciate it, Ric. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” They travelled another block before he added, “You called me Ric. I must be making progress.”
She’d called him Perrini from their very first meeting, a ruse to remind him of their business relationship because she hadn’t trusted his smooth moves or her body’s unruly responses to him. They’d had to work together and she’d wanted to keep it professional. She’d fought the good fight for almost two months. And after they’d hooked up she kept on using his surname out of habit—and to tease him when he got all he-man insistent about her calling him Ric.
Now she’d done so to show the sincerity of her thanks. “It was a temporary aberration,” she said coolly. “Don’t get too used to it.”
He laughed, a two-note snort of amusement that pierced Kimberley’s numbed senses. It was dangerous, letting him charm her so easily, so quickly, but this was a temporary situation. A week at most, and she would be returning to Auckland.
And right now she needed that charm and the sound of laughter because they’d arrived in Vaucluse and were climbing the street lined with multimillion-dollar homes to the most spectacular of all.
Miramare.
For the first twenty years of her life the three-storey white mansion had been Kimberley’s home. She’d never been struck by its majesty, its size, its opulence, until now as Perrini downshifted gears to negotiate the thick cluster of news teams waiting outside the security gates, and turned into the driveway. And there it was, rising before them like a Venetian palace. A home fit for the man the media dubbed Australia’s King of Diamonds.
A man who’d