The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

“Thank you,” she said, glancing at the ticket stubs as he passed them back to Artem.

Artem kept his hand planted on the small of her back as he led her to the lobby bar. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to keep that hand from sliding down, over the dainty, delectable curve of her behind, in plain view of everyone.

Get ahold of yourself.

His hand had no business on her bottom. Not here, nor anyplace else. Things were so much simpler when he could stick to the confines of his office.

Just as Artem realized he’d begun to think of the corner office as his rather than his father’s, Ophelia turned to face him. Tulle billowed beneath his fingertips. He really needed to take his hands off her altogether. He would. Soon.

“I haven’t even asked what we’re seeing this evening. What’s the repertoire?” She frowned slightly, as if trying to remember something. Like she had a catalog of ballets somewhere in her pretty head.

Artem hadn’t the vaguest idea. Mrs. Burns had handed him an envelope containing the tickets as he’d walked out the door at five o’clock. He examined the ticket stubs and his jaw clenched involuntarily.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Artem?” Ophelia blinked up at him.

“Petite Mort,” he said flatly.

“Petite Mort,” she echoed, her cheeks going instantly pink. “Really?”

“Really.” He held up the ticket stubs for inspection.

She stared at them. “Okay, then. That’s certainly...interesting.”

He lifted a brow.

“Petite mort means ‘little death’ in French,” Ophelia said, with the seriousness of a reference librarian. She’d decided to tackle the awkwardness of the situation head-on, apparently. Much to Artem’s chagrin, he found this attitude immensely sexy. “It’s a euphemism for...”

“Orgasm.” Artem was uncomfortably hard. In the champagne line at the ballet. Marvelous. “I’m aware.”

What had he done to deserve this? Fate must be seriously pissed to have dealt him this kind of torturous hand. Of all the ballets...

Petite Mort.

He’d never seen this performance. In fact, he knew nothing about it. Perhaps it wasn’t as provocative as it sounded.

It didn’t matter. Not really. His thoughts had already barreled right where they didn’t belong. Now there was no stopping them. Not when he could feel the tender warmth of Ophelia’s body beneath the palm of his hand. Not when she was right there, close enough to touch. To kiss.

He looked at her, and his gaze lingered on the diamonds decorating the base of her throat. That’s where he wanted to kiss her. Right there, where he could feel the beat of her pulse under his tongue. There. And elsewhere.

Everywhere.

His jaw clenched again. Harder this time. Petite Mort. How was he supposed to sit in the dark beside Ophelia all night and not think about touching her? Stroking her. Entering her. How could he help but envision what she looked like when she came? Or imagine the sounds she made. Cries in the dark.

How could he not dream of the myriad ways in which he might bring about her little death? Her petite mort.

“Sir?” Somewhere in the periphery of Artem’s consciousness he was aware of a voice, followed by the clearing of a throat. “Mr. Drake?”

He blinked against the image in his head—Ophelia, beneath him, bare breasted in the moonlight, coming apart in his arms—and forced himself to focus on the bartender. They’d somehow already made it to the front of the line.

He forced a smile. “My apologies. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Can I get you anything, sir?” The bartender slid a pair of cocktail napkins across the counter, which was strewn with items for sale. Ballet shoes, posters, programs.

Artem glanced at the Petite Mort program and the photograph on its cover, featuring a pair of dancers in flesh-colored bodysuits, their eyes closed and limbs entwined. His brows rose, and he glanced at Ophelia to gauge her reaction, but her gaze was focused elsewhere. She wore a dreamlike expression, as if she’d gone someplace faraway.

Artem could only wonder where.

* * *

Ophelia had to be seeing things.

The pointe shoes on display alongside the Petite Mort programs and collectible posters couldn’t possibly be hers. Being back in the theater was messing with her head. She was suffering from some sort of nostalgia-induced delusion.

She forced herself to look away from them and focus instead on the bartender.

“I hope you enjoy the ballet this evening.” He smiled at her.

He looked vaguely familiar. What if he recognized her?

She smiled in return and held her breath, hoping against hope he didn’t know who she was.

“Mr. Drake?” The bartender didn’t give her a second glance as he directed his attention toward Artem.

Good. He hadn’t recognized her. She didn’t want her past colliding with her present. It was better to make a clean break. Besides, if anyone from Drake Diamonds learned who she was, they’d also find out exactly why she’d stopped dancing. She couldn’t take walking into the Fifth Avenue store and having everyone there look at her with pity.

Everyone or a certain someone?

She pushed that unwelcome question right out of her head. She shouldn’t be thinking that way about Artem. She shouldn’t be caressing his face in the back of limousines, and she shouldn’t be standing beside him at the ballet with his hand on the small of her back, wanting nothing more than to feel the warmth of that hand on her bare skin.

And the repertoire. Petite Mort.

My God.

She sneaked another glance at the pointe shoes, mainly to avoid meeting her date’s penetrating gaze. And because they were there. Demanding her attention. One shoe tucked into the other like a neat satin package, wound with pink ribbon.

They could have been anyone’s pointe shoes, and most probably were. The company always sold shoes that had been worn by the ballerinas. Pointe shoes that had belonged to the principal dancers sometimes went for as much as two-fifty or three hundred dollars, which provided a nice fund-raising boost for the company.

She told herself they weren’t hers. Why would her shoes be offered for sale when she was no longer performing, anyway?

Still. There was something so familiar about them. And she couldn’t help noticing they were the only pair that didn’t have an autograph scrawled across the toe.

Beside her, Artem placed their order. “Two glasses of Veuve Clicquot Rosé, please.”

He removed his hand from her back to reach for his wallet, and she knew it had to be her imagination, but Ophelia felt strangely unmoored by the sudden loss of his touch.

He looked at her, and as always it felt as though he could see straight inside her. Could he tell how fractured she felt? How being here almost made it seem like she was becoming the old Ophelia? Ophelia Baronova. “Anything else, darling?”