The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

He wondered if his father had been at all cognizant of that line. Had he thought, even once, about the ramifications of his actions? Or had he taken what he wanted without regard to what would happen to his family, his business, his legacy?

Artem’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to think about his father. Not now. He didn’t want to think about how he himself represented everything that was wrong with the great Geoffrey Drake. Artem Drake was nothing but a living, breathing mistake of the highest order.

And his father was always there, wasn’t he? A larger than life presence. A ghost haunting those he’d left behind.

Artem was tired of being haunted. It was exhausting. Tonight he wanted to live.

He gave Ophelia a quiet smile. “A necklace it is, then.”

* * *

Ophelia had never felt so much like Cinderella. Not even two years ago when she’d danced the lead role in the company’s production of the fairy tale.

As for jewels, from the outrageously opulent selection at Artem’s penthouse, she’d chosen a necklace of diamond baguettes set in platinum that wrapped all the way around her neck in a single, glittering strand. It fit almost like a choker, except in front it split into three strands, each punctuated with large, brilliant cut diamonds. The overall effect was somehow dazzling, yet delicate.

It wasn’t until Artem had fastened it around her neck that he’d told her the necklace had once belonged to Princess Grace of Monaco. Ophelia had been concentrating so hard on not reacting to the warm graze of his fingertips against her skin that she’d barely registered what he’d said. Now, as she sat beside him in the sleek black limousine en route to Lincoln Center, her hand kept fluttering to her throat.

She was wearing Princess Grace’s necklace. How was that even possible?

She wished her grandmother were alive to see her right now. Ordinarily, she never let herself indulge in such wishes. Natalia Baronova’s heart would break if she knew about the illness that had ended her granddaughter’s dance career. But wouldn’t she get a kick out of seeing Ophelia dressed in one of her grandmother’s vintage gowns, wearing Grace Kelly’s jewelry?

She smiled and her gaze slid toward Artem, who was watching her with great intensity.

“Allow me?” he asked, reaching for the bow on her faux fur stole.

Ophelia gave him a quiet nod as he tugged on the end of the satin ribbon. He loosened the bow and opened the stole a bit. Just enough to offer a glimpse of the spectacular diamonds around her neck.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.”

Ophelia swallowed, unable to move, unable to even breathe while he touched her. She’d dropped her guard. Only for a moment. And now...

Now he was no more than a breath away, and she could see her reflection in the cool blue of his irises. He had eyes like a tempest, and there she was, right at the center of his storm. Looking beautiful and happy. Full of life and hope. So much like her old self—the girl who’d danced through life, unfettered and unafraid—that she forgot all the reasons why she shouldn’t kiss this man. This man who had such a way of reminding her of who she used to be.

Her heart pounded hard in her chest, so hard she was certain he could hear it. She parted her lips and murmured Artem’s name as she reached to cup his chiseled jaw. His eyes locked with hers and a surge of heat shot straight to her lower body. She licked her lips, and there was no more denying it. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted Artem’s kiss and more. So much more.

His fingertips slid from her stole to her neck, down her throat to her collarbone. There was a reverence in his touch, like a blessing. And those words that had haunted her so came flooding back.

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

“Mr. Drake, sir, we’ve arrived.” The limo’s intercom buzzed, and the driver’s voice startled some sense back into Ophelia.

What was she doing?

She was letting a silly diamond necklace confuse her and make her think something had changed when, in fact, nothing had. She was still sick. And she always would be.

“I’m sorry.” She removed her hand from Artem’s face and slid across the leather seat, out of his reach. “I shouldn’t have... I’m sorry.”

“Ophelia,” he said, with more patience in his tone than she’d ever heard. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. She wasn’t okay.

As if she needed a reminder, Lincoln Center loomed in her periphery. Inside that building, dancers with whom she’d trained less than a year ago were getting ready to perform, winding pink ribbons around their ankles in dressing rooms filled with bouquets of red roses. Jeremy, the man who’d once asked her to marry him, was inside that building, too. Only he was no longer watching her go through her last-minute series of pliés and port de bras. He was watching someone else do those things. He was kissing someone else’s cheek in the final moments before the curtain went up. Another dancer. An able-bodied girl. One who wouldn’t have to be carried off the stage when she fell down because she’d lost her balance. One who could do more than three pirouettes before her vision went blurry. One who wouldn’t have to give herself injections twice a week and be careful not to miss her daily 8000 IU of vitamin D.

A girl who wasn’t broken.

Not that she missed Jeremy. She didn’t. She’d confused her feelings for him with her love of dance. If she’d ever had a proper lover, that lover was ballet. Ballet had fed her soul. And now? Now she was starving. Her body needed to move. As did her heart. Her soul.

Artem reached for her hand, but she shook her head and fixed her gaze out the car window, where a group of paparazzi were gathered with cameras poised at the ready.

She couldn’t let him touch her again. If she did, there was no telling what she’d do. She was too raw, too tender, too hungry. And Artem Drake was too...

...too much.

She’d just have to pretend, wouldn’t she? She’d have to act as though the way he looked at her and the things he said didn’t make her want to slip out of her fancy dress and slide naked into his lap right there in the back of the Drake Diamonds limousine.

Artem looked at her. Long and hard, until her hands began to shake from the effort it took to keep pretending she was fine. The driver cleared his throat, and Artem finally directed his gaze past her, toward the photographers waiting on the other side of the glass.

“Showtime,” he muttered.

Yeah. Ophelia swallowed around the lump in her throat. Showtime.

Chapter Six (#u480fde13-6669-5c69-acd7-44a4a02c15ad)

Artem smiled for the cameras. He made polite small talk. He answered questions about the press release that Dalton had issued earlier in the day announcing the new Drake Diamonds Dance collection. He did everything he always did in his capacity as public relations front man for the company.

It was business as usual. With one very big exception—this time, Ophelia stood beside him.

He’d been attending events like this one for the better part of his adult life, and rarely had he done so alone. Having a pretty woman on his arm went with the territory. Logically, Ophelia’s presence shouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Logic, however, had little to do with the torturous ache he felt when he placed his hand on the small of her back or cupped her elbow as they walked up the broad steps to the entrance of Lincoln Center. Logic certainly wasn’t behind the surge of arousal he’d felt when he’d placed the diamonds around her graceful neck. Logic hadn’t swirled between them in the backseat of the car. That had been something else entirely. Some forbidden form of alchemy.

The fulfillment of what had nearly happened in the limousine tormented him. The kiss that wasn’t even a kiss. The look in her eyes, though. That look had been as intimate as if she’d touched her lips to his. Perhaps even more so.

He could still feel the riotous beat of her pulse as he’d traced the curve of her elegant neck with his fingertips. Most of all, he could still see the glimmer in her sapphire eyes as she’d reached out to touch his face. Eyes filled with insatiable need. Sweet, forbidden hunger that rivaled the ravenous craving he’d been struggling against since the moment he’d caught her eating that silly cake.

God, what was wrong with him? He was a grown man. A man of experience. He shouldn’t be feeling this wound up over a woman he barely knew, particularly one whom he had no business sleeping with.

On some level he loathed to acknowledge, he wondered if what he was experiencing was in any way similar to what his father had felt any of the myriad times he’d strayed. But Artem knew that wasn’t the case. His father had been a selfish bastard, with little or no respect for his wedding vows. End of story. Artem wasn’t even married, for God’s sake. With good reason. He didn’t have any intention of repeating the past.

Besides, this attraction he felt for Ophelia was different in every possible way. She was different.

Maybe it was her vulnerability that he found so intriguing. Or perhaps it was her unexpected ballsy streak. Either way, this strange pull they felt toward one another was without precedent. That much had become clear in the back of the limousine. With a single touch of her hand on his face, he’d known that she felt it, too. Whatever this was.

And now here they were, in the grand lobby of Lincoln Center, surrounded by people and cameras and blinding flashbulbs. Yet for all the distractions, Artem’s senses were aware of one thing and one thing only—the whisper-thin fabric of her lovely dress beneath his hand as he guided her through the crowd. Just a fine layer of tulle between his flesh and hers.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

He somehow managed to answer a few more questions from lingering reporters before handing the usher their tickets and moving beyond the press of the crowd into the inner lobby.

“Welcome, Mr. Drake.” The usher smiled, then nodded at Ophelia. “Good evening, miss.”