The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

At first, he simply couldn’t believe it. There wasn’t another woman in all of Manhattan who would dare do such a thing. No other woman had even had the chance. Artem had firm rules about sleepovers. He didn’t partake in them.

Until the other night.

Nothing about his involvement with Ophelia was ordinary, though, was it? Since the moment he’d first spotted her in the kitchen at Drake Diamonds, he’d found himself doing things he’d never before contemplated. Staying on as CEO. Adopting kittens. Exposing dark secrets. He scarcely recognized himself.

He sure hadn’t recognized the man who’d stormed through the penthouse suite, angrily searching for something. A sign, perhaps? Some leftover trinket, a bit of pink ribbon that would ensure that he hadn’t imagined the events of the night before. A reminder that it had all been real. That spellbinding dance. The intensity of their lovemaking...

Then he’d seen the newspaper lying on the dining table, and he’d known.

She’d been the cover story on Page Six, and the article had been less than discreet. Worse, Ophelia had clearly seen it before he’d had a chance to warn her. The newsprint had been wet with what he assumed were tears, the paper still damp as it trembled in his hands. He must have missed her getaway by a matter of seconds.

“Mr. Drake.” Without quite meeting his gaze, Ophelia nodded as she entered the room.

So they were back to formalities, were they? It took every ounce of his self-control not to remind her that the last time they’d seen one another, they’d both been naked. And gloriously sated.

Just imagining it made him go instantly hard, which did nothing to soothe his irritation.

“Miss Rose,” he said, sounding colder than he’d intended. “Or should I call you Miss Baronova?”

She went instantly pale. “I prefer Miss Rose.”

“Just checking.” Artem did his best impression of a careless shrug.

He did care, actually. That was the problem. He cared far too much.

Multiple sclerosis.

My God, how had he not known she was sick? How had he looked into those haunted eyes as he’d buried himself inside her and not realized it?

Artem was ashamed to admit that although he’d donated money to the National MS Society and even attended a few of their galas, his knowledge of the condition was less than thorough. He’d spent a good portion of the weekend online familiarizing himself with its symptoms and prognosis.

The article in Page Six had offered little hope and predicted that Ophelia would eventually end up in a wheelchair. Artem found this conclusion wholly beyond his comprehension. The idea that she would never dance again was impossible for him to accept. And it made the gift she’d given him all the more precious.

The story alleged she hadn’t danced at all since her diagnosis. Artem hadn’t needed to read those words to know it was true. There’d been something undeniably sacred about the ballet she’d performed for him. He could still see her spinning and twirling on pink satin tiptoes. As he slept, as he dreamed...even while he was awake. It was all he saw. Day and night.

Dalton had stood as she entered the room. “Good morning, Ophelia,” he said now.

“Good morning.” She aimed a smile at his brother. A smile that on the surface seemed perfectly genuine, but Artem could see the slight tremble in her lips.

He knew those lips. He knew how they tasted, knew what it felt like to bite into their pillowy softness.

Ophelia’s smile faded as she glanced at him, then quickly looked away. Being around him again clearly made her uncomfortable. Good. He’d felt distinctly uncomfortable every time he’d tried to call her since her disappearing act. He’d felt even more uncomfortable when his knocks on her apartment door had gone unanswered. He’d felt so uncomfortable he’d been tempted to tear the door off its hinges and demand she speak to him.

He could help her. Didn’t she know that? He could hire the best doctors money could buy. He could fix her...if only she’d let him.

Dalton cleared his throat. “We have a few things to discuss this morning.”

The understatement of the century perhaps. Although what could Artem actually say to Ophelia with Dalton present? Nothing. Not a damn thing.

Ophelia nodded wordlessly. As angry as he was, it killed him to see her this way. Quiet. Afraid. His arms itched to hold her, his body cried out for her, even if logically he knew it would never happen. She’d made that abundantly clear.

Artem should have been fine with that. He should have been relieved. He didn’t want a relationship. Never had. He didn’t want marriage or, God forbid, children. His own childhood had been messed up enough to turn him off the idea for life. Even if he did want a relationship, she was still his employee. And Artem was not his father, recent behavior notwithstanding.

But sitting an arm’s length away from Ophelia right now felt like torture. He felt anything but fine.

“I’d like to propose a new marketing campaign for the ballerina collection now that certain, ah, facts have come to light.” Dalton nodded.

So he was going right in for the kill, was he? Artem’s fists clenched even tighter.

“A new marketing campaign?” Ophelia’s eyes went wide, and the panic Artem saw in their sapphire depths took the edge off his anger and softened it a bit. Changed it to something that felt more like sorrow. Deep, soul-shaking sorrow.

“Yes. I’m thinking a print campaign. Artful black-and-white shots, perhaps even a few television commercials, featuring you, of course.”

“Me?” She swallowed, and Artem traced the movement up and down the slender column of her throat.

For a moment, he was transfixed. Caught in a memory of his mouth moving down Ophelia’s neck. In his mind, he heard the soft shudder of a moan. He felt the tremulous beat of her pulse beneath his tongue. He saw a sparkling flash of diamonds against porcelain skin. Then he blinked, and he was back in the conference room, with Ophelia appraising him coolly from the opposite side of the table.

If only Dalton weren’t present. Artem would tell her exactly how enraged he felt about being ghosted. Or maybe he’d simply lay her down on the smooth oak surface of the table and use his mouth on her until she shattered.

Perhaps he’d do both those things.

But Dalton was most definitely there, and he was talking again. Going on about advertisements in the Sunday Times and a special catalog for the holidays. “You’ll wear ballet shoes, of course. And a tutu.”

Finally, finally, Ophelia looked at Artem. Really looked at him. If he’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of brokenness in her gaze before he’d known about her MS, it would have been unmistakable now. Somewhere in the sapphire depths of her gaze, he saw a plea. Someone needed to put a stop to what was happening.

The things Dalton was proposing were out of the question. How could his brother fail to understand that dressing the part of what she could no longer be would kill Ophelia? Artem could almost hear the sound of her heart breaking.

He cleared his throat. “Dalton...”

But his brother wasn’t about to be dissuaded so easily. Clearly, he’d been mulling over new marketing strategies all weekend. “You’ll wear the Drake Diamond, of course. I’d like to get it reset in your tiara design as soon as possible. You’ll be the face of Drake Diamonds. Your image will be on every bus and in every subway station in New York. Possibly even a billboard in Times Square. Now I know you haven’t performed in a while, but if you could dance for just a bit, just long enough to tape a commercial segment, we’d be golden.”

Artem couldn’t believe his ears. Now Dalton was asking Ophelia to dance? No. Just no. Ballet was special to her. Far too special to be exploited, even if it meant saving Drake Diamonds. Maybe Dalton wasn’t capable of understanding just what it meant to her, since he’d never seen her dance. But Artem had.

He knew. He knew what it felt like to go breathless at the sight of her arabesque. He knew how just the sight of her arched foot could cause a man to ache with longing. Artem would carry that knowledge to his grave.

And Dalton expected her to dance for him? In a television commercial, of all things?

Ophelia would never agree to it. Never. Even if she did, Artem wouldn’t let her.

Over his dead fucking body.

* * *

Ophelia did her best to look at Dalton and focus on what he was saying, as ludicrous and terrifying as it was, but he was beginning to look a bit blurry around the edges.

Not now. Please not now.

She hadn’t even managed to get back to her own apartment on Saturday morning before her MS symptoms began to make themselves felt. She’d taken a cab rather than the subway, afraid of being spotted in public in her ball gown from the night before. The same ball gown she was wearing on the front page of the morning newspaper. As she’d sat in the backseat of the taxi, biting her lip and staring at the snow swirling out the window while she’d tried not to cry, she’d felt a strange numbness creeping over her.