The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

“No.” She shook her head.

Was he insane? And did he have to stand there, looking so unbelievably hot in that tuxedo, while he stroked the kitten like he was Mr. December in a billionaires-with-baby-animals wall calendar?

“No?” His blue eyes went steely. Clearly, he’d never heard such a sentiment come out of a woman’s mouth before.

“No. Thank you. It’s a generous gesture, but...” She glanced at the kitten. Big mistake. Her delicate little nose quivered. She looked impossibly helpless and tiny snuggled against Artem’s impressive chest. How was Ophelia supposed to say no to that face? How was she supposed to say no to him? She cleared her throat. “...but no.”

He looked distinctly displeased.

Let him be angry. Ophelia would never even see him again. That’s what you thought this morning, too. She lifted her chin. “I really should be going. And you should get back to your date.”

“My date?” He smiled one of those suggestive smiles again, and Ophelia’s insides went instantly molten. Damn him. “Is that what this is about? You’re not jealous, are you, Miss Rose?”

Yes. To her complete and utter mortification, she was. She’d been jealous since he’d waltzed through the door with another woman on his arm. What had gotten into her?

She rolled her eyes. “Hardly.”

“I’m not quite sure I believe you.”

Ophelia sighed. “Why are you doing this?”

“What exactly is it that I’m doing?”

“Being nice.” She swallowed. She felt like crying all of a sudden, and she couldn’t. If she did, she might not ever stop. “Trying to buy me a cat.”

He shrugged. “The cat needs a home, and you like her. Why shouldn’t you have her?”

There were so many reasons that even if Ophelia wanted to list them all, she wouldn’t have known where to start. “I told you. I can’t.”

Artem angled his head. “Can’t or won’t?”

He’d thrown back at her her own words from their encounter at Drake Diamonds, which made Ophelia bite back a smile. The man was too charming for his own good. “Mr. Drake, as much as I’d love to, I cannot adopt that cat.”

He took a step closer to her, so close that Ophelia suddenly had trouble taking a breath, much less forming a valid argument for not taking the kitten she so desperately wanted. Then he reached for her hand, took it in his and placed it on the supple curve of the cat’s spine.

The kitty mewed in recognition, and Artem moved their linked hands through her silky soft fur in long, measured strokes. Ophelia had to bite her lip to keep from crying. Why was he doing this? Why did he care?

“She likes you,” he said. And as if he could read her mind, he added, “Something tells me you two need each other. You come here nearly every day. You want this kitten. You need her, but you won’t let yourself have her. Why not?”

Because what would happen if Ophelia had another attack?

No, not if. When. Her illness was officially called relapsing-remitting MS, characterized by episodic, clearly defined attacks, each one more neurologically devastating than the last. Ophelia never knew when the next one would come. A year from now? A month? A day? What would she do with the cat then, when she was too sick to care for it?

The kitten purred, and the sensation vibrated warmth through Ophelia’s hand, still covered with Artem’s. God, this was tortuous. She jerked her hand away. “Mr. Drake, I—”

Before she could say another word of protest, he cut her off. “I’ll adopt the cat. You take care of her for me, and I’ll give you your meeting,” he said.

His voice had lost any hint of empathy. He sounded angry again, as if she’d forced him into making such a suggestion.

“My meeting?” She swallowed. It would have been an offer too good to be true, if it were possible. Thank God it wasn’t. “And how are you going to arrange such a meeting, now that you no longer work at Drake Diamonds?”

“I’m a Drake, remember?” As if she could forget. “And there’s been a change of plans. I do, in fact, still work there.”

“Oh,” she said, stunned. “I don’t understand.”

He offered no explanation, just handed her the kitten.

She held out her arms without thinking. What was happening? She hadn’t agreed to his ludicrous proposition, had she? “Wait. If you didn’t resign, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means I’m still your boss.” He turned on his heel and brushed past her toward the kennels. He was leaving, just like that? He paused with his hand on the door. “Take that cat home with you, Miss Rose. I trust I’ll see you tomorrow in my office?”

She couldn’t let him manipulate her like this. At best, it was unprofessional. At worst...well, she didn’t even want to contemplate the worst-case scenario. She could not take the kitten, no matter how much she wanted to. Even temporarily. She couldn’t be Artem Drake’s cat sitter. She absolutely couldn’t.

He stood there staring at her with his penetrating gaze, as if they were engaged in some sort of sexy staring contest.

One that Ophelia had no chance of winning.

“Fine.”

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

Artem arrived at Drake Diamonds the next morning before the store even opened, which had to be some kind of personal record. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there during off-hours. If he ever had.

Dalton, on the other hand, had been making a regular practice of it for most of his life. In recent years, for work. Naturally. But back when they’d been teenagers, when Dalton had been more human and less workaholic robot, Artem’s brother had gotten caught with a girlfriend in the middle of the night, in the middle of the first-floor showroom, in flagrante delicto.

It remained Artem’s favorite story about his brother, even if it marked the moment when he’d discovered that Dalton had been the only Drake heir who’d been entrusted with a key to the family business while still in prep school.

He wished it hadn’t mattered. But it had. In truth, it still did, even though those feelings had nothing to do with the business itself.

He’d never had any interest in hanging around the shop on Fifth Avenue. To the other Drakes, it was a shrine. To the world, it was a historic institution. Drake Diamonds had been part of the Manhattan landscape since its crowded, busy streets teemed with horse-drawn carriages. To young Artem, it had always simply been his father’s workplace.

And now it was his. Same building, same office, same godforsaken desk.

What was he doing? Dalton didn’t need him. Not really. Wasn’t his brother in a better position to save the company? Dalton was the one familiar with the ins and outs of the business. His bedroom in Lenox Hill was probably wallpapered with balance sheets.

All Dalton’s life, he’d worn his position as a Drake like a mantle, whereas to Artem it had begun to feel like a straitjacket. Now that his father was gone, there was no reason why he couldn’t simply shrug it off and move on with his life. In addition to his recent promotion, he’d been left a sizable inheritance. Sizable enough that he could walk away from his PR position with the company and never again have his photo taken at another dull social event if he so chose. There was no reason in the world he should willingly get out of bed at an ungodly predawn hour so he could walk to the store and sit behind his father’s desk.

Yet here he was, climbing out of the back of his black town car on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.

He told himself that his decision to stay on as CEO, at least temporarily, had nothing to do with Ophelia. Because that would be preposterous.

Yes, she was lovely. Beyond lovely, with her fathomless eyes, hair like spun gold and her willowy, fluid grace. And yes, he’d lost more sleep than he cared to admit thinking about what it would feel like to have those impossibly graceful legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself inside her.

Her simplest gestures utterly beguiled him. Innocent movements, like the turn of her wrist, made him want to do wholly inappropriate things. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her wrists like a diamond cuff bracelet, pin her arms over her head and trace the exquisite length of her neck with his tongue. He wanted that more than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

Artem was no stranger to passion. He’d experienced desire before, but not like this. Nothing like this.

He found it frustrating. And quite baffling, particularly when he found himself doing things like sitting behind a desk, adopting animals and dismissing a perfectly good date, choosing instead to go home and get in bed before midnight. Alone.