The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

He’d tried to avoid this scenario. Or any scenario that would put the two of them in a room together again. He really had. After their electrically charged meeting in his suite at the Plaza ten days ago, he’d kept to himself as much as possible. He’d barely stuck his head out of his office, despite the fact that every minute he spent between those wood-paneled walls, it seemed as though his father’s ghost was breathing down his neck. It was less than pleasant, to say the least. It had also been the precise reason he’d chosen to meet Ophelia in his suite to begin with.

He’d needed to get out. Away from the store, away from the portrait of his father that hung behind his desk.

Away from the prying eyes of his brother and the rest of the staff, most notably his secretary, who’d been his dad’s assistant for more than a decade before Artem had “inherited” her.

Not that he’d done anything wrong. Ophelia was an employee. There was no reason whatsoever why he shouldn’t meet with her behind closed doors. Doing so didn’t mean there was anything between them other than a professional relationship. Pure business. He hadn’t crossed any imaginary boundary line.

Yet.

He’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. Even if keeping that promise to himself meant that he was chained to his desk from now on. He needed to be able to look at himself in the mirror and know that he hadn’t become the thing he most despised.

His dad.

Of course, there was the matter of the cat. Artem supposed animal adoption wasn’t part of the ordinary course of business. But he could justify that to himself easily enough. Like he’d said, the kitten had been an early Christmas bonus. A little unconventional, perhaps, but not entirely inappropriate.

If he’d tried to deny that he wanted her, he’d have been struck down by a bolt of lightning. Wanting Ophelia didn’t even begin to cover it. He craved her. He needed her. His interest in her went beyond the physical. Beneath her strong exterior, there was a sadness about her that he couldn’t help but identify with. Her melancholy intrigued him, touched a part of him he seldom allowed himself to acknowledge.

Any and all doubt about how badly he needed to touch her had evaporated the moment she’d told him that she didn’t allow herself the pleasure of sexual companionship. Why would she share something so intimate with him? Even more important, why couldn’t he stop thinking about it?

Since their conversation, he’d thought of little else.

Something was holding her back. She’d been hurt somehow, and now she thought she was broken beyond repair. She wasn’t. She was magic. Hope lived in her skin. She just didn’t know it yet. But Artem did. He saw it in the porcelain promise of her graceful limbs. He’d felt it in the way she’d shivered at his touch.

If he’d indeed crossed a forbidden line, it had been the moment he’d reached out and cupped her face. Something electric had passed between them then. There’d been no denying it, which was undoubtedly why she’d promptly gathered her coat and fled.

Artem had made a mistake, but it could have been worse. Far worse. The list of things he’d wanted to do to her in that hotel room while the snow beat against the windows had been endless. He’d exercised more restraint than he’d known he’d possessed. The very idea of a woman like Ophelia remaining untouched was criminal.

Regardless, it wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. And since he could no longer trust himself to have a simple conversation with Ophelia without burying his hands in her wayward hair and kissing her pink peony mouth until she came apart in his hands, he would just avoid her altogether. It was the best way. The only way.

There was just one flaw with that plan. Ophelia’s jewelry designs were good. Too good to ignore. Drake Diamonds needed her, possibly as much as Artem did.

“Ophelia Rose?” Dalton frowned. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because she works here,” Artem said. “In Engagements.”

Dalton waved a hand at the sketches of what she’d called her ballerina diamonds. “She can do this, and we’ve got her working in sales?”

“You have her working in sales.” After all, Artem hadn’t had a thing to do with hiring her. “I’d like to move her to the design team, effective immediately. I’ve been going over the numbers. If we can fast-track the production of a new collection, we might be able to reverse some of the financial damage that Dad did when he bought the mine.”

Some. Not all.

If only they had more time...

“Provided it’s a success, of course,” Dalton said. “It’s a risk.”

“That it is.” But what choice did they have? He’d already investigated auctioning off the Drake Diamond. Even if he went through with it, they needed another course of action. A proactive one that would show the world Drake Diamonds wasn’t in any kind of trouble, especially not the sort of trouble they were actually in.

Over the course of the past ten days, while Artem had been actively trying to forget Ophelia, he’d been doing his level best to come up with a way to overcome the mine disaster. It had been an effective distraction. Almost.

Time and again, he’d found himself coming back to Ophelia’s designs, running his hands along those creamy-white pages of cold-press drawing paper. Obviously, given the attraction he felt toward Ophelia, promoting her was the last thing he should do. Right now, he could move about the store and still manage to keep a chaste distance between them. Working closely with her was hardly an ideal option.

Unfortunately, it happened to be the only option.

“Let’s do it,” Dalton said.

In the shadow of his father’s portrait, Artem nodded his agreement.

* * *

Ten days had passed since Ophelia had shown Artem her jewelry designs. Ten excruciating days, during which she’d seen him coming and going, passing her in the hall, scarcely acknowledging her presence. He’d barely even deigned to look at her. On the rare occasion when he did, he’d seemed to see right through her. And morning after morning, he kept showing up on Page Six. A different day, a different woman on his arm. It was a never-ending cycle. The man went through women like water.

Which made it all the more frustrating that every time Ophelia closed her eyes, she heard his voice. And all those bewitching things he’d said to her.

A woman needs to be adored, Ophelia. She needs to be cherished, worshipped.

Touched.

Ophelia had even begun to wonder if maybe he was right. Maybe she did need those things. Maybe the ache she felt every time she found herself in the company of Artem Drake was real. It certainly felt real. Every electrifying spark of arousal had shimmered as real as a blazing blue diamond.

Then she’d remembered the look on Jeremy’s face when she’d told him about her diagnosis—the small, sad shake of his head, the way he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. There’d been no need for him to tell her their affair was over. He’d done so, anyway.

Ophelia had sat quietly on the opposite side of his desk, barely hearing him murmur things like, too much, burden and not ready for this. The gravity of his words hadn’t even registered until later, when she’d left his office.

Because for the duration of Jeremy’s breakup speech, all Ophelia’s concentration had been focused on not looking at the framed poster on the wall behind him—the company’s promotional poster for the Giselle production, featuring Ophelia herself standing en pointe, draped in ethereal white tulle, clutching a lily. She wasn’t sure if it was poetic or cruel that her final role had been the ghost of a woman who’d died of a broken heart.

That was exactly how she’d felt for the past six months. Like a ghost of a woman. Invisible. Untouchable.

But when Artem had said those things to her, when he’d reached out and cupped her face, everything had changed. His touch had somehow summoned her from the grave.

She’d embodied Giselle’s resurrected spirit dancing in the pale light of the moon, without so much as slipping her foot into a ballet shoe. Her body felt more alive than it ever had before. Liquid warmth pooled in her center. Delicious heat danced through every nerve ending in her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her pointed toes. She’d been inflamed. Utterly enchanted. If she’d dared open her mouth to respond, her heart would have leaped up her throat and fallen right at Artem’s debonair feet.

So she’d done the only thing she could do. The smart thing, the right thing. She’d run.

She’d simply turned around and bolted right out the door of his posh Plaza penthouse. She hadn’t even bothered to collect her designs, those intricate colored pencil sketches she’d labored over for months.

She needed to get them back. She would get them back. Just as soon as she could bring herself to face Artem again. As soon as she could forget him. Clearly, he’d forgotten about her.

That’s what you wanted. Remember?

“Miss Rose?”

Ophelia looked up from the glass case where she’d been carefully aligning rows of platinum engagement rings against a swath of Drake-blue satin. Artem’s secretary, the one who’d given her the instructions to meet him at the Plaza a week and a half ago, stood on the other side, hands crossed primly in front of her.

Ophelia swallowed and absolutely forbade herself to fantasize that she was being summoned to the hotel again. “Yes?”

“Mr. Drake has requested a word with you.”

A rebellious flutter skittered up Ophelia’s thighs. She cleared her throat. “Now?”