The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

Last night had been more than physical. So much more. She’d danced for him. She’d shown him a part of herself that was now hers and hers alone. A tender, aching secret. And in return, he’d revealed himself to her. The real Artem Drake. How many people knew that man?

Ophelia swallowed around the lump in her throat. Not very many, if anyone, really. She was certain. She’d seen the truth in the sadness of his gaze, felt it in the honesty of his touch. She hadn’t expected such brutal honesty. She hadn’t been prepared for it. She hadn’t thought she would fall. But that’s exactly what had happened, and the descent had been exquisite.

How could she bring herself to walk away when she’d already lost so much?

She blinked back the sting of tears and took a deep breath, noting the way her body felt. Sore, but in a good way. Like she’d exercised parts of herself she hadn’t used in centuries. Her legs, her feet. Her heart.

It beat wildly, with the kind of breathless abandon she’d experienced only when she danced. And every cell in her body, every lost dream she carried inside, cried out, Encore, encore! She closed her eyes and could have sworn she felt rose petals falling against her bare shoulders.

One more day. One more night.

Just one.

With him.

She would allow herself that encore. Then when the weekend was over, everything would go back to normal. Because it had to.

She sat up, searching the suite for signs of Artem. His clothes were still pooled on the floor, as were hers. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the soothing cadence of his voice. Like music.

A melody of longing coursed through her, followed by a soft knock on the door.

“Artem,” Ophelia called out, wrapping herself in the chinchilla blanket at the foot of the bed.

No answer.

“Mr. Drake,” a voice called through the door. “Your breakfast, sir.”

Breakfast. He must have gotten up to order room service. She slid out of bed and padded to the door, catching a glimpse of her reflection in a sleek, silver-framed mirror hanging in the entryway. She looked exactly as she felt—as though she’d been good and thoroughly ravished.

Her cheeks flared with heat as she opened the door to face the waiter, dressed impeccably in a white coat, black trousers and bow tie. If Ophelia hadn’t already been conscious of the fact she was dressed in only a blanket—albeit a fur one—the sight of that bow tie would have done the trick. She’d never felt so undressed.

“Good morning.” She bit her lip.

“Miss.” Unfazed, the waiter greeted her with a polite nod and wheeled a cart ladened with silver-domed trays into the foyer of the suite. Clearly, he’d seen this sort of thing before.

Possibly even in this very room, although Ophelia couldn’t bring herself to dwell on that. Just the idea of another woman in Artem’s bed sent a hot spike of jealousy straight to her heart.

He doesn’t belong to you.

He doesn’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to him. One more night. That’s all.

She took a deep breath and pulled the chinchilla tighter around her frame as the waiter arranged everything in a perfect tableau on the dining room table. From the looks of things, Artem had ordered copious amounts of food, coffee and even mimosas. A vase of fragrant pink peonies stood in the center of the table and the morning newspapers were fanned neatly in front of them.

“Mr. Drake’s standard breakfast.” The young man waved at the dining area with a flourish. “May I get you anything else, miss?”

This was Artem’s standard breakfast? What must it be like to live as a Drake?

Ophelia couldn’t even begin to imagine. Nor did she want to. She would never survive that kind of pressure, not to mention the ongoing, continual scrutiny by the press...having your life on constant display for the entire world to see. Last night had been frightening enough, and she hadn’t even been the center of attention. Not really. The press, the people...they’d been interested in the jewelry. And Artem, of course. She’d just been the woman on Artem Drake’s arm. There’d been one reporter who had looked vaguely familiar, but she hadn’t directed a single question at her. Ophelia had been unduly paranoid, just as she had with the bartender.

“Miss?” the waiter said. “Perhaps some hot tea?”

“No, thank you. This all looks...” Her gaze swept over the table and snagged on the cover of Page Six.

Was that a photo of her, splashed above the fold? She stared at it in confusion, trying to figure out why in the world they would crop Artem’s image out of the picture. Only his arm was visible, reaching behind her waist to settle his hand on the small of her back. A wave of dread crashed over her as she searched the headline. And then everything became heart-sickeningly clear.

“Miss?” the waiter prompted again. “You were saying?”

Ophelia blinked. She was too upset to cry. Too upset to even think. “Um, oh, yes. Thank you. Everything looks wonderful.”

She couldn’t keep her voice from catching. She couldn’t seem to think straight. She could barely even breathe.

The waiter excused himself, and Ophelia sank into one of the dining room chairs. A teardrop landed in a wet splat on her photograph. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun to cry.

Everything looks wonderful.

She’d barely been able to get those words out. Nothing was wonderful. Nothing at all.

She closed her eyes and still she saw it. That awful headline. She probably always would. In an instant, the bold black typeface had been seared into her memory.

Fallen Ballet Star Ophelia Baronova Once Again Steps into the Spotlight...

Fallen ballet star. They made it sound like she’d died.

You did. You’re no longer Ophelia Baronova. You’re Ophelia Rose now, remember?

And now everyone would know. Everyone. Including Artem. Maybe he already did.

He’d promised to keep her identity a secret. Surely he wasn’t behind this. Bile rose up the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, along with the last vestiges of the careful, anonymous life she’d managed to build for herself after her diagnosis.

She felt faint. She needed to lie down. But most importantly, she needed to get out of here.

One more night.

Her chest tightened, as if the pretty pink ribbons on her ballet shoes had bound themselves around her heart. There wouldn’t be another night.

Not now.

Not ever.

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

Beneath the conference table, Artem’s hands clenched in his lap as he sat and watched Ophelia walk into the room on Monday morning. He felt like hitting something. The wall, maybe. How good would it feel to send his fist flying through a bit of Drake Diamonds drywall?

Damn good.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been as angry as he had when he’d finally ended the call with Dalton and strode back to the bedroom, only to find his bed empty. No Ophelia. No more ballet shoes on his night table. Just a lonely, glittering strand of diamonds left behind on the pillow.

He’d been gone a matter of minutes, and she’d left. Without a word.