The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

Ophelia had clung to those memories, studied those images until she made them her own by incorporating what she saw into her jewelry designs. The result was an inspired collection that she knew would be a success...if only someone would give her a chance and look at them.

She took a deep breath. If there was any fairness at all in the world, this would be her moment. And that someone would be Artem Drake.

“May I help you, miss?” A man in a pristine white dinner jacket and tuxedo pants smiled at her from behind the concierge desk.

“Yes, actually. I’m meeting someone here. Artem Drake?” She glanced toward the dazzling atrium in the center of the lobby, where tables of patrons sipped glasses of champagne and cups of tea beneath the shade of elegant palm fronds. Artem was nowhere to be seen.

She fought the sinking feeling in her stomach. It doesn’t mean anything. He could simply be running late.

“Mr. Drake is in penthouse number nine. This key will give you elevator access to the eighteenth floor.” The concierge slid a discreet black card key across the desk.

Ophelia stared at it. She’d never been so bitterly disappointed. Finally, finally, she’d thought she’d actually spotted a light at the end of the very dark tunnel that had become her life. But no. There was no light. Just more darkness. And a man who thought she’d meet him at a hotel on her lunch hour just to get ahead.

The irony was that’s exactly what everyone in the company had thought when she’d begun dating Jeremy, the director. The other dancers had rolled their eyes whenever she’d been cast in a lead role. As if she hadn’t earned it. As if she hadn’t been dancing every day until her toes bled through the pink satin of her pointe shoes.

It hadn’t been like that, though. She’d cared for Jeremy. And he’d cared for her, too. Or so she’d thought.

“Miss?” The concierge furrowed his brow. “Is there something else you need?”

Yes, there is. Just a glimmer of hope, if you wouldn’t mind...

“No.” She shook her head woodenly, and reached for the card key. “Thank you for your help.”

She marched toward the elevator, her kitten heels echoing off the gold-trimmed walls of the palatial lobby. She didn’t know why she was so upset. Or even remotely surprised. She’d seen all those photos of Artem in the newspaper, out every night with a different woman on his arm. Of course he’d assumed she’d want to sleep with him. She was probably the only woman in Manhattan who didn’t.

Except she sort of did.

If she was honest with herself—painfully honest—she had to admit that the thought of sex with Artem Drake wasn’t exactly repulsive. On the contrary.

She would never go through with it, of course. Not now. Especially not now. Not ever. It was just difficult to think about Artem without thinking about sex, especially since she went weak in the knees whenever he looked at her with those penetrating eyes of his. Eyes that gave her the sense that he could see straight into her aching, yearning center. Eyes that stirred chaos inside her. Bedroom eyes. And now she was on her way to meet him. In an actual bedroom.

Bed or no bed, she would not be sleeping with him.

The elevator stopped on the uppermost floor. She squared her shoulders and stepped out, prepared to search for the door to penthouse number nine.

She didn’t have to look very hard. It was the only door on the entire floor.

He’d rented a hotel room that encompassed the entire floor? She rolled her eyes and wondered if all his dates got such royal treatment. Then she reminded herself that this was a business meeting, not a date.

If she had any sense at all, she’d turn around and walk directly back to Drake Diamonds. But before she could talk herself into leaving, the door swung open and she was face-to-face with Mr. Bedroom Eyes himself.

“Mr. Drake.” She smiled in a way that she hoped conveyed professionalism and not the fact that she’d somehow gone quite breathless.

“My apologies, Miss Rose. I’m on the phone.” He opened the door wider and beckoned her inside. “Do come in.”

Ophelia had never seen such a large hotel room. She could have fit three of her apartments inside it, and it was absolutely stunning, decorated in cool grays and blues, with sleek, modern furnishings. But the most spectacular feature was its view of Central Park. Horse drawn carriages lined the curb alongside the snow-covered landscape. In the distance, ice skaters moved in a graceful circle over the pond.

Ophelia walked right up to the closest window and looked down on the busy Manhattan streets below. Everything seemed so faraway. The yellow taxicabs looked like tiny toy cars, and she could barely make out the people bundled in dark coats darting along the crowded sidewalks with their scarves trailing behind them like ribbons. Snow danced against the glass in a dizzying waltz of white, drifting downward, blanketing the city below. The effect was rather like standing inside a snow globe. Absolutely breathtaking.

“Um-hmm. I see,” muttered Artem, standing a few feet behind her with his cell phone pressed against his ear.

Ophelia turned and found him watching her.

He didn’t so much talk to whoever was on the other end as much he talked at them. He sounded rather displeased, but even so, he never broke eye contact with her throughout the call. “Despite the fact that this seems a rather...questionable...time to make such a donation, we must honor our commitment. I know you don’t like to involve yourself with the press, brother, but think about the headlines if we backed out. Not pretty. And might I add, it would be my face they’d print a photo of alongside the negative chatter. So that’s my final decision.”

The person on the receiving end of his tirade was clearly Dalton. Ophelia felt guilty about overhearing such a conversation, so she averted her gaze. No sooner had she looked away than she caught sight of an enormous bed looming behind Artem.

My God, it’s a behemoth.

She’d never seen such a large bed. It could have fit a dozen people.

Her face went hot, and she looked away. But as Artem wrapped up his call, her gaze kept returning to the bed and its sumptuous, creamy-white linens.

“Again, my apologies.” Artem tossed his phone on the nearby sectional sofa and walked toward her. “Please, let me take your coat. Do make yourself comfortable.”

She took a step out of his reach. “Mr. Drake, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong impression.”

“Do I?” He stopped less than an arm’s length away, just close enough to send a wave of awareness crashing over her, while at the same time not quite crossing the boundary of respectability. “And what impression is that?”

“This.” She waved a shaky hand around the luxurious room, trying—and failing—to avoid looking at the bed.

Artem followed her gaze. When he turned back toward her, an angry knot throbbed in his jaw. He lifted an impetuous brow. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Miss Rose. Do you care to elaborate?”

“This room. And that bed.” Why, oh, why, had she actually mentioned the bed? “When I said I wanted to show you my designs, that was precisely what I meant. I’ve no idea why you arranged to rent this ridiculous suite. The hourly rate for this room must be higher than my yearly salary. It’s absurd, and thoroughly inappropriate. I have no interest in sleeping with you. None. Zero.”

She really wished she hadn’t stammered on the last few words. She would have preferred to sound at least halfway believable.

Artem’s eyes flashed. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yes.” She ordered her feet to walk straight to the door and get out of there. Immediately. They willfully disobeyed.

“I live here, Miss Rose. This is my home. I did not, as you so boldly implied, procure a rent-by-the-hour room in which to ravage you on your lunch break.” He paused, glaring at her for full effect.

He lived here? In a penthouse at the Plaza?

Of course he did.

Ophelia had never been so mortified in her life. She wanted to die.

Artem took another step closer. She could see the ring of black around the dreamy blue center of his irises, a hidden hint of darkness. “For starters, if my intention was to ravage you, I would have set aside far more than an hour in which to do so. Furthermore, I’m your employer. You are my employee. Despite whatever you may have heard about my father, sleeping with the staff is not the way I intend to do business. Occasionally, the apple does, in fact, fall farther from the tree than you might imagine.”

Ophelia had no idea what he was talking about, but apparently she’d touched a nerve. For the first time since setting eyes on Artem Drake—her boss, as he took such pleasure in pointing out time and time again—he looked less than composed. He raked an angry hand through his hair, mussing it. He almost looked like he’d just gotten out of bed.

Stop. God, what was wrong with her? She should not be thinking about Artem in bed. Absolutely, definitely not. Yet somehow, that was the one and only thought in her head. Artem, dark and passionate, tossing her onto the mammoth-sized bed behind him. The weight of him pressing down on her as he kissed her, entered her...

Her throat grew tight. “Good, because I have no interest whatsoever in sleeping with my boss.”

Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt. Never again.