Page 2 of The Tycoon's Diamond Demand

Maja, dressed in a server’s uniform of a white T-shirt, severe black trousers and service boots, picked up a tray of champagne glasses and slipped into the gallery of the premier arts centre situated on Rasmus Meyers allé. She moved to the side of the room and watched for reactions to her massive images hanging on the high walls of the light-filled space. This section of the famous Bergen art centre was dedicated to up-and-coming artists, a space to showcase the work of rising talents. Maja swallowed and rocked on her heels. After years of struggling, shooting portraits and weddings, she was starting to gain recognition as an ‘interesting’ and ‘provocative’ photographer. Best of all, her art was hers, wholly unconnected to her past and family name. No one knew M J Slater was, in fact, Maja Hagen, the only daughter of Norway’s most powerful and influential businessman.

What would these people think if they knew she was Håkon’s daughter? Would they like her work more, or judge it more harshly? If they knew she was Maja Hagen, they would either fawn over or despise it, and it would be viewed through a Håkon Hagen lens. She’d either fail dismally or be over-complimented, neither of which she wanted. M J Slater was an unknown artist, with no family baggage. Between her father and Jens Nilson, Maja Hagen had trunkloads of the stuff.

No, she wasn’t going to think about Jens. Not now. Not today. Definitely not while she was in Bergen, in Norway. Coming back was hard enough without having to deal with the memories.

Maja deliberately shifted her focus back to her father. She wondered who would inherit Hagen International, the empire her great-grandfather started in the nineteen-twenties. Who would inherit his houses, his art, his billions? Her stepmother? It wouldn’t be Maja herself. When she’d stormed out of Håkon’s life, she’d given up her name, her country and any access to family money.

She didn’t regret her decision. She was succeeding or failing by her own merits, removed from her father’s criticism and the influence of his name. She’d freed herself of his control, and she now lived life on her own terms.

Maja watched a young man, dressed head to toe in designer clothing, stop in front of her biggest image, an eight-by-six-foot monochrome photograph. He tipped his head to the side, and frowned, obviously unsettled by the provocative image of a ragged, dirty street child bending to pick up a discarded, but incredibly big and expensive, bouquet of roses and lilies. The juxtaposition was, she admitted, jarring.

Some people loved her work, others walked around the gallery frowning. She photographed the misunderstood and the isolated, the marginalised, people who stood on the outside looking in, and individuals who didn’t quite fit in. Some hated their lives, others revelled in the freedom of not being accepted. Most just tried to get on with life, accepting the hand it dealt them, playing their cards as best they could, whether it was a ghetto in Mumbai or a luxury mansion in Dubai.

You could, as Maja knew, be as unhappy rich as you were poor. Did she put distance between herself and her subjects because she liked the concept of standing apart, because she refused to engage with people beyond a certain level of intimacy? Maybe. Probably.

Another perfectly groomed young man stepped up to look at the huge image. ‘Who’s this artist again?’

‘M J Slater,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve never heard of him before, but Daveed Dyson told me he’s someone to look out for.’

Daveed Dyson, the celebrated art critic, was talking about her?Wow.But why did everyone always assume M J Slater was a man? Not that she cared: as long as her identity remained a secret, they could assume she was a purple and pink spotted lizard.

‘Where’s he based?’

‘No idea. There’s no information on him.’

Scotland was her home now, Edinburgh her city. She was a UK citizen through her mum. Norway held too many bad memories, too much intense regret, guilt and pain, for her to stay.

The last time she’d been here, she’d been so young. So naïve. Initially so convinced love would triumph, that it stood a chance against financial power and influence. It didn’t. Love withered when faced with wealth and power built up over generations, when it came up against someone as heartless, ruthless and controlling as her father.

Someone touched her shoulder and Maja turned to look at her frustrated business manager, Halston. She handed him a glass of champagne and ignored his scowl. He’d far prefer her to be dressed in a little black number, schmoozing and talking about her art with the very rich guests. He wasn’t a fan of her need to remain incognito.

Maja looked away from Halston, pretending he was another guest. ‘Did they like them? Hate them?’ She didn’t know...she never did. For most of her life, her father had made her feel she wasn’t enough, and she still needed to feel validated and reassured. Would she ever outgrow that trait? She hoped so.

‘That’s why I came to find you,’ Halston told her, making it look as though he were issuing an instruction to a server. ‘It’s a huge success, with one anonymous buyer buying your four biggest pieces earlier tonight at an exclusive preview.’

She placed a hand on her heart, relieved. ‘Great. But we’ll only be able to claim a hit exhibition when the art critics have posted their reviews in a week.’

‘The curator is going to announce the identity of the buyer of the four images. Apparently, he’s a big deal. I came to warn you not to react if you want to stay hidden,’ Halston told her before moving off. Finding a tall table, she placed her tray on it and slid behind a huge flower arrangement. Nobody would notice her here...

The atmosphere in the room changed and then the crowd in front of her parted, as it would for a king or queen. And Maja tensed, electricity skittering up her spine as every neuron in her body caught fire. Someone tapped a microphone and called for the room’s attention. But Maja had eyes only for the man standing next to the gallery curator, looking as remote as Bouvet Island thousands of miles away. Her body immediately reacted to his presence, turning hot, then cold.

Jens was here...

Memories, so many of them, whipped through her. His hands in her hair as he moved her head to take their kiss deeper, his big hands on her hips as she stood between him and the wheel of his fishing trawler, his chin resting on her head as they returned from the fishing grounds north of Lofoten. Sneaking him past the groundsman and the housekeeper working at her father’s holiday home on the outskirts of Svolvær and up to her bedroom, where he initiated her into the delicious art of sex. She’d had a few lovers since, but none who had made her feel the way Jens had.

There were a few remnants of the young man she’d known and loved in the face of the man standing across the room. His face, ridiculously handsome with rugged features, olive skin and navy blue, almost black eyes, looked a little leaner. His hair, the deep brown of a sable’s coat, was as thick as before, cut shorter to keep the waves under control. He’d been big before, always muscled—working on a fishing boat was not for the weak or puny—but he seemed taller, more powerful.

But the biggest change was in his attitude, in his posture, in the sardonic tilt of his chin.

Her eyes flew across his face, and she could find nothing of the young man who loved to make her laugh, whose eyes lightened with affection, whose mobile mouth twitched with amusement. This was a harder, tougher, icier version of the Jens she’d known...

As devastatingly attractive, a thousand times more dangerous.

She placed her hand on her heart. Had her fertile imagination conjured up his presence? She squeezed her eyes tight, then lifted her lids and blinked. Nope, Jens Nilsen hadn’t disappeared, he wasn’t a mirage. She took in his designer dark grey suit, the pale green shirt, his perfectly knotted tie, and the pocket handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. Black-framed glasses gave him an added layer of intimidation, something he didn’t need.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome one of our institution’s patrons, Jens Nilsen, the esteemed and pre-eminent collector of Scandinavian, particularly Norwegian, art. At a private viewing this afternoon Mr Nilsen made a bid for, and acquired, M J Slater’sDecay and Decorationseries, four images in total, for an undisclosed amount.’

Maja couldn’t pull her eyes off Jens. He was a force field she couldn’t resist. She drank him in, clocking his changes, noticing what remained the same. His presence was a magnet, and she couldn’t disconnect...

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