The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

His temples throbbed as he stepped out of the car and caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the storefront window. He’d dressed the part of CEO in a charcoal Tom Ford suit, paired with a smooth silk tie in that dreadful Drake Diamond blue. Who are you?

“Good morning, Mr. Drake.” The store’s doorman greeted him with a tip of his top hat and a polite smile.

Standing on the sidewalk in the swirling snow, clad in a Dickensian overcoat and Drake-blue scarf, the doorman almost looked like a throwback to the Victorian era. Probably because the uniforms had changed very little since the store first opened its doors. Tradition ruled at Drake Diamonds, even down to how the doormen dressed.

“Good morning.” Artem nodded and strode through the door.

He made his way toward the elevator on the opposite side of the darkened showroom, his footsteps echoing on the gleaming tile floor. Then his gaze snagged on the glass showcase illuminated by a radiant spotlight to his right—home to the revered Drake Diamond.

He paused. Against its black velvet backdrop, the diamond almost appeared to be floating. The most brilliant star, shining in the darkest of nights.

He walked slowly up to the showcase, inspecting the glittering yellow stone mounted at the center of a garland necklace of white diamonds. Upon its discovery in a South African mine in the late 1800s, it had been the third largest yellow diamond in the world. Artem’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather bought it on credit before it had even been properly cut. Then he’d had it shaped and set in Paris—in a tiara of all things—before bringing it to New York and putting it on display in his new Fifth Avenue jewelry store. People had come from all over the country to see the breathtaking diamond. That single stone had put old man Drake’s little jewelry business on the map.

Would it really be so bad to let it go? Drake Diamonds was world famous now. Sure, tourists still flocked to the store and pressed their faces to the glass to get a glimpse of the legendary diamond. But would things really change if it were no longer here?

He glanced at the plaque beneath the display case. It gave the history of the diamond, its various settings and the handful of times it had actually been worn. The last sentence of the stone’s biography proclaimed it the shining star in the Drake family crown.

Artem swallowed, then looked back up at the diamond.

Ophelia’s face materialized before him. Waves of gilded hair, sparkling sapphire eyes and that lithe, swan-like neck...with the diamond positioned right at the place where her pulse throbbed with life.

He blinked, convinced he was seeing things. A mirage. A trick of the mind, like a cool pool of glistening water before a man who hasn’t had a drink in years.

It was no mirage. It was her.

Standing right behind him, only inches away, with her exquisite face reflected back at him in the pristine pane of glass. And damned if that diamond didn’t look as though it had been made just for her. Placed deep in the earth billions of years ago, waiting for someone to find it and slip it around her enchanting neck.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her blue eyes glittered beneath the radiant showroom lights, lighting designed to make gemstones shimmer and shine. Somehow she sparkled brighter than all of them.

Beautiful, indeed.

“Quite,” Artem said.

She moved to stand beside him, and her reflection slipped languidly away from the necklace. “Sometimes I like to come here and look at it, especially at times like this, when the store is quiet. Before all the crowds descend. I think about what it must have been like to wear something like this, back in the days when it was actually worn. It seems almost a shame that it’s become something of a museum piece, don’t you think?”

“I do, actually.” At the moment, it seemed criminal the diamond wasn’t draped around her porcelain neck. He could see her wearing it. The necklace and nothing else. He could imagine that priceless jewel glittering between her beautiful breasts, an image as real as the snow falling outside.

He shoved his hands in his pockets before he used them to press her against the glass and take her right there against the display case until the gemstone inside fell off its pedestal and shattered into diamond dust. The very idea of it made him go instantly hard.

And that’s when Artem knew.

Ophelia did, in fact, have something to do with his decision to stay on as head of Drake Diamonds. She may have had everything to do with it.

He ground his teeth and glared at her. He didn’t enjoy feeling out of control. About anything, but most especially about his libido. Artem was a better man than his father had been. He had to believe that.

Ophelia blinked up at him with those melancholy eyes that made his chest ache, seemingly oblivious to the self-control it required for Artem to have a simple conversation with her. “Is it true that it’s only been worn by three women? Or is that just an urban myth?”

“Yes, it’s true.” He nodded. A Hollywood star, a ballerina back in the forties and Diana Kincaid Drake. Only three. That fact was so much a part of Drake mythology that Artem wouldn’t have been able to forget it even if he’d tried.

“I see,” she whispered, her eyes fixed dreamily on the diamond. She almost looked as though she were trying to see inside it, to the heart of the stone. Its history.

Then she blinked, turned her back on the necklace and focused fully on Artem, her trance broken. “About our meeting...”

“Ah, yes. Our meeting.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dalton making his entrance through the store’s revolving door. Artem lowered his voice, although he wasn’t quite sure why. He had nothing to hide. “Shall I assume my kitten is tucked snug inside your home, Miss Rose?”

“Yes.” Her cheeks went pink, and her bow lips curved into a reluctant smile.

So he’d been right. She’d wanted that kitten all along. Needed it, even though she’d acted as though he’d been forcing it on her.

He’d done the right thing. For once in his life.

“So.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I make an appointment with your assistant so I can show you my designs?”

“What did you name her?” he asked.

Ophelia blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The kitten.” Somewhere in the periphery, Artem saw the curious expression on his brother’s face and ignored it altogether. “Have you given her a name yet?”

“Oh.” Her flush deepened a shade, as pink as primroses. “I named her Jewel.”

For some reason, this information took the edge off Artem’s frustration. Which made no sense whatsoever. “Then I suppose you and I have business to discuss, Miss Rose. I’ll have my assistant get you the details.” He gave her a parting nod and headed to the elevator, where Dalton stood waiting. Watching.

Somehow it felt as if their father was watching, too.

* * *

Ophelia stood poised on the black-and-white marble terrace while snowflakes whipped in the frosty wind. Despite the chill in the air, she hesitated.

“Welcome to the Plaza, miss.” A doorman dressed in a regal uniform, complete with gold epaulettes on his shoulders, bowed slightly and pulled the door open for her with gloved hands.

A hotel. Artem Drake had summoned her to a hotel. Granted, the Plaza was the most exclusive hotel in Manhattan, if not the world, but still.

A hotel.

Did he think she was going to sleep with him? Surely not. She was worried over nothing. He was probably waiting for her in the tearoom or something. Although, as refined as he might be, Ophelia couldn’t quite picture him taking afternoon tea.

“Thank you.” She nodded politely at the doorman. After all, this wholly awkward scenario wasn’t his fault. She wondered if she was supposed to tip him for opening the door for her. She had no clue.

Crossing the threshold into the grand lobby of the Plaza was like entering another world. Another decade. She felt like she’d walked into an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. The decor was opulent, gilded with an art deco flavor reminiscent of Jay Gatsby.

Ophelia found it breathtakingly beautiful. If she’d known such a place existed less than a mile from her workplace, she would have been coming here every afternoon with her sketchbook and jotting down ideas. Drawings of geometric pieces with zigzag rows of gemstones that mirrored the glittering Baccarat chandeliers and the gold inlaid design on the gleaming tile floor.

Maybe she’d do those designs. If this meeting went as well as she hoped, maybe she’d end up with a job in the design department and she could come here and sketch to her heart’s content. And maybe she’d actually see some of her designs come to fruition instead of just taking up space in her portfolio.

She tightened her grip on her slim, leather portfolio. It was Louis Vuitton. Vintage. Another treasure she’d found in her grandmother’s belongings. It had been filled to bursting with old photographs from Natalia Baronova’s time at the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. Ophelia had spent days studying those photos when she’d come home from her time in the hospital.

In the empty hours when she once would have been at company rehearsal dancing until her toes bled, she’d relived her grandmother’s legendary career instead. Those news clippings, and the faded photographs with her grandmother’s penciled notations on the back, had kept Ophelia going. She’d lost her health, her family, her job. Her life. All she’d had left was school and her grandmother’s memories.