The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

“I don’t give a damn about your employment application, Ophelia.” He hated how terrified she looked all of a sudden. Like he might fire her on the spot, which was absurd. He wasn’t Dalton, for crying out loud.

“It’s just—” she swallowed “—complicated.”

Artem looked at her for a long moment, then positioned the shoe beside the other one on the nightstand and sat next to her on the bed. He could deal with complicated. He and complicated were lifelong friends.

He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, slowly, reverently, until the sheets slipped away and she was bared to him.

This was how he wanted her. Exposed. Open.

He didn’t need for her to tell him everything. It was enough to have this—this stolen moment, her radiant body, her passionate spirit. He didn’t give a damn about her name. Of all people, Artem knew precisely how little a name really meant.

“Please,” she whispered against his lips. “Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, cupping her breasts and lowering his head to take one of her nipples in a gentle, openmouthed kiss. She was so impossibly soft.

Tender and vulnerable.

As her breathing grew quicker, she wrapped her willowy legs around his waist and reached for him. “Please, Artem. I need you to...”

“I promise.” He slid his hands over her back and pulled her close. Her thighs spread wider, and she began to stroke him. Slow and easy. Achingly so.

She felt delicate in his embrace. As small and fragile as a music-box dancer. But it was the desperation in her voice that was an arrow to his heart.

It nearly killed him.

Which was the only explanation for what came slipping out next. “I’m not really a Drake, Ophelia.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he realized the gravity of what he’d done. He’d never confessed that truth to another living soul.

He should take it back. Now, before it was too late.

He didn’t. Instead, he braced for her reaction, not quite realizing he was holding his breath, waiting for her to stop touching him, exploring him...until she didn’t stop. She kept caressing him as her eyes implored him. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m a bastard,” he said. “In the truest sense of the word.”

“Don’t.” She kissed him, and there was acceptance in her kiss, in the intimate way she touched him. Acceptance that Artem hadn’t even realized he needed. “Don’t call yourself that.”

His father had used that word often enough. Once he’d found out about Artem’s existence, that is. “My real mother worked at Drake Diamonds. She was a cleaning woman. She died when I was five years old. Then I went to live in the Drake mansion.”

Dalton had been eight years old, and his sister Diana had been six. Overnight, Artem had found himself in a family of strangers.

Wouldn’t the tabloids have a field day with that information? It was the big, whopping family secret. And after keeping it hidden for his entire life, he’d just willingly disclosed it to a woman he’d known for a fortnight.

“Oh, Artem.” Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth and her hands kept moving, kept stroking.

And there was comfort in the pleasure she offered. Comfort and release.

Artem didn’t know her story. He didn’t have to. Ophelia was no stranger to loss. Her pain lived in the sapphire depths of her eyes. He could see it. She understood. Maybe that was even part of what drew him toward her. Perhaps the imposter in her had recognized the imposter in him.

But he couldn’t help being curious. Why the secrecy?

Slow down. Talk things through.

But he didn’t want to slow down. Couldn’t.

“Kitten,” he murmured, his breath growing ragged as he moved his hands up the supple arch of her spine.

She was so soft. So feminine. Like rose petals. And she felt so perfect in his arms that he didn’t want to revisit the past anymore. It no longer felt real.

Ophelia was the present, and she was real. Nothing was as authentic as the way she danced. Reality was the swell of her breasts against his chest. It was her tender voice as she whispered in his ear. It was her warm, wet center.

Then there were no more words, no more confessions. She was guiding him into her, taking him fully inside. All of him. His body, his need, his truths.

His past. His present.

Everything he was and everything he’d ever been.

* * *

He didn’t know what time it was when he finally heard the buzzing of his cell phone from inside the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, still in a heap on the floor. Pink opalescent light streamed through the windows, and he could hear police sirens and the rumble of taxicabs down below. The music of a Manhattan morning.

Artem wanted nothing more than to kiss his way down Ophelia’s body and wake her in the manner she so deserved, but before he could move a muscle the phone buzzed again. Then again.

And yet again.

Artem sighed mightily, slid out of bed and reached for his tuxedo jacket. He fished his phone from the pocket and frowned when he caught his first glimpse of the screen. Twenty-nine missed calls.

Every last one of them was from his brother.

Bile rose to the back of his throat as he remembered the last time Dalton had blown up his phone like this. That had been two months ago, the night of their father’s heart attack. By the time Artem had returned Dalton’s calls, Geoffrey Drake had been dead for more than four hours.

He dialed his brother’s number and strode naked across the suite, shutting himself in his small home office so he wouldn’t wake Ophelia.

Dalton answered on the first ring. “Artem. Finally.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wondering why Dalton sounded as cheerful as he did. Artem wasn’t sure he’d ever heard his brother this relaxed. Relaxing wasn’t exactly the elder Drake’s strong suit.

“Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. In fact, everything is right.” He paused. Long enough for alarm bells to start sounding in the back of Artem’s consciousness. Something seemed off. “You, my brother, are a genius.”

Now he was really suspicious. Dalton wasn’t prone to flattery where Artem was concerned. Although he had to admit genius had a better ring to it than bastard. “What’s going on, Dalton? Go ahead and tell me in plain English. I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Busy? At this hour? I doubt that.” Artem could practically hear Dalton’s eyes rolling. At least something was normal about this conversation. “I’m talking about the girl.”

Artem’s throat closed. He raked a hand through his hair and involuntarily glanced in the direction of the bed. “To whom are you referring?”

The girl.

Dalton was talking about Ophelia. Artem somehow just knew. He didn’t know why, or how, but hearing Dalton refer to her so casually rubbed him the wrong way.

“Ophelia, of course. Your big discovery.” Dalton let out a laugh. “She’s not who we think she is, brother.”

So the cat was out of the bag. How in the world had Dalton discovered her real name?

“I know.” But even as he said it, he had the sickening feeling he didn’t know anything. Anything at all.

“You know?” Dalton sounded only mildly surprised. “Oh. Well, that’s good, I suppose. Although you could have told me about her connection to the Drake Diamond before I had to hear about it from a reporter at Page Six.”

Artem froze.

The Drake Diamond? Page Six? What the hell was he talking about?

“I can’t believe we’ve had Natalia Baronova’s granddaughter working for us this entire time,” Dalton said. “You did a good thing when you recommended her designs. A really good thing. Like I said, genius.”

Baronova. No wonder the name had rung a bell. “You mean the ballerina who wore the Drake Diamond back in the forties? That Natalia Baronova?”

“Of course. Is there another famous ballerina named Natalia Baronova?” Dalton laughed again. He was starting to sound almost manic.

“Ophelia is Natalia Baronova’s granddaughter,” Artem said flatly, once he’d put the pieces together.

He remembered how passionately she’d spoken about the stone, the dreamy expression in her eyes when he’d spied her looking at it, and how ardently she’d tried to prevent him from selling it.

Why hadn’t she told him?

I can explain.

But she hadn’t explained, had she? She’d just said that Baronova had been a stage name. She’d said things were complicated. Worse, he’d let her get away with it. He’d actually thought her name didn’t matter. Of course, that was before he’d known her family history was intertwined with his family business.

Artem had never hated Drake Diamonds so much in his life. He’d never much cared for it before and had certainly never wanted to be in charge of it. He could remember as if he’d heard them yesterday his father’s words of welcome when he’d come to live in the Drake mansion.

I will take care of you. You’re my responsibility and you will never want for anything, least of all money, but Drake Diamonds will never be yours. Just so we’re clear, you’re not really a Drake.

Artem had been five years old. He hadn’t even known what the new man he called Father had even meant when he said, “Drake Diamonds.” Oh, but he’d learned soon enough.

He should have tendered his resignation as CEO just like he’d planned. It had been a mistake. All of it. He’d stayed because of her. Because of Ophelia. He hadn’t wanted to admit it then, but he could now. Now that he’d tasted her. Now that they’d made love.

It was bad enough that she had any connection to Drake Diamonds at all. But now to hear that she had a connection to the diamond... Worse yet, he had to hear it from his brother.

He should have pushed. He should have known something was very wrong when she’d mentioned her employment application. He should have demanded to know exactly whom he’d taken to bed.

Instead he’d told her things she had no business knowing. Of course, she had no business in his bed, either. She was an employee. Just as his mother had been all those years ago.

Pain bloomed in Artem’s temples. He’d been at the helm of Drake Diamonds for less than three months and already history had repeated itself. Because you repeated it.

“Natalia Baronova’s granddaughter. I know. That’s what I just said.” Dalton cleared his throat. “I’ve set up a meeting for first thing Monday morning. You. Me. Ophelia. We’ve got a lot to discuss, starting with the plans for the Drake Diamond.”

A meeting with Dalton and Ophelia? First thing Monday morning? Spectacular. “There’s nothing to talk about. We’re selling it. My mind is made up.”

“Since when?” Dalton sounded decidedly less thrilled than he had five minutes ago.

“Since now.” It was time to start thinking with his head. Past time. The company needed that money. It was a rock. Nothing more.

“Come on, Artem. Think things through. We could turn this story into a gold mine. We’ve got a collection designed by Natalia Baronova’s granddaughter, the tragic ballerina who was forced to retire early. Those ballerina rings are going to fly out of our display cases.”

Tragic ballerina? He glanced at the closed door that led to the suite’s open area, picturing Ophelia, naked and tangled in his sheets. Perfect and beautiful.

Then he thought about the sad stories behind her eyes and grew quiet.

“I’ll crunch the numbers. It might not be necessary to sell the diamond,” Dalton said. “Sleep on it.”

Artem didn’t need to sleep on it. What he needed was to get off the phone and back into the bedroom so he could get to the bottom of things.

Tragic ballerina...

He couldn’t quite seem to shake those words from his consciousness. They overshadowed any regret he felt. “You mentioned Page Six. Tell me they’re not doing a piece on this.”

Not yet.

He needed time. Time to figure out what the hell was going on. Time to get behind the story and dictate the way it would be presented. Time to protect himself.

And yes, time to protect Ophelia, too. From what, he wasn’t even sure. But given the heartache he’d seen in her eyes when she’d asked him to keep her stage name a secret, she wasn’t prepared for that information to become public. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Tragic ballerina...

He’d made her a promise. And even if her truth was infinitely more complicated than he’d imagined, he would keep that promise.

“Why on earth would you want me to tell you such a thing? The whole point of your appearance at the ballet last night was to create buzz around the new collection.”

“Yes, I know. But...” Artem’s voice trailed off.

But not like this.

“The story is set to run this morning. It’s their featured piece. They called me last night and asked for a comment, which I gave them, since you were unreachable.”

Because he’d been making love to Ophelia.

“You can thank me later. We couldn’t buy this kind of publicity if we tried. It’s a pity about her illness, though. Truly. I would never have guessed she was sick.”

Artem’s throat closed like a fist. He didn’t hear another word that came out of his brother’s mouth. Dalton might have said more. He probably did. Artem didn’t know. And he didn’t care. He’d heard the only thing that mattered.

Ophelia was sick.

* * *

Ophelia woke in a dreamy, luxurious haze, her body arching into a feline stretch on Artem’s massive bed. Without thinking, she pointed her toes and slid her arms into a port de bras over the smooth surface of the bedsheets, as if she still did so every morning.

It had been months since she’d allowed her body to move like this. In the wake of her diagnosis, she’d known that she still could have attended ballet classes. Just because she could no longer dance professionally didn’t mean she had to give it up entirely. She could still have taken a class every so often. Perhaps even taught children.

She’d known all this in her head. Her head, though, wasn’t the problem. The true obstacle was her battered and world-weary heart.

How could she have slid her feet into ballet shoes knowing she’d never perform again? Ballet had been her love. Her whole life. Not something that could be relegated to an hour or so here and there. She’d missed it, though. God, how she’d missed it. Like a severed limb. And now, only now—tangled in bedsheets and bittersweet afterglow—did she realize just how large the hole in her life had become in these past few months. But as much as she’d needed ballet, she’d need this more. This.

Him.

She’d needed to be touched. To be loved. She’d needed Artem.

And now...

Now it had to be over.

She squeezed her eyes closed, searching for sleep, wishing she could fall back into the velvet comfort of night. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready for the harsh light of morning or the loss that would come with the rising sun. She wasn’t ready for goodbye.

This couldn’t happen again. It absolutely could not. No amount of wishing or hoping or imagining could have prepared her for the reality of Artem making love to her. Now she knew. And that knowledge was every bit as crippling as her physical ailments.

I’m not really a Drake, Ophelia.

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

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.

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.