Читать книгу The Drake Diamonds - Teri Wilson - Страница 15

Chapter Five

Ophelia looked down at the ring clamp that held her favorite ballerina engagement design. Not a sketch. An actual ring that she’d designed and crafted herself.

It was really happening. She was a jewelry designer at Drake Diamonds, with her own office overlooking Fifth Avenue, her own drafting table and her own computer loaded with state-of-the-art 3-D jewelry design software. She hadn’t used such fancy equipment since her school days, but after spending the morning getting reacquainted with the technology, it was all coming back to her. Which was a good thing, since she clearly wasn’t going to get any help from the other members of the design team.

She recognized the dubious expressions on the faces of the other designers. They looked at her the same way the ballet company members had when Jeremy had chosen her as the lead in Giselle. Once again, everyone assumed her relationship with the boss was the reason she’d been promoted. Except this time, she had no connection with her boss whatsoever.

At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

She did her best to forget about office politics. She had a job to do, after all.

In fact, she’d been so busy adapting to her new reality that she’d almost managed to forget that she was scheduled to attend the ballet with Artem on Friday night. Almost. The fact that she wasn’t experiencing daily panic attacks in anticipation of stepping into the grand lobby of Lincoln Center was due to good old-fashioned denial. She could almost pretend their “date” wasn’t actually going to happen, since Artem had gone back to keeping his distance.

She’d seen him a grand total of one time since their meeting with Dalton. Just once—late at night after the store had closed. Ophelia had stopped to look at the Drake Diamond before she’d headed home to feed Jewel. She hadn’t planned on it, but as she’d crossed the darkened showroom, her gaze had been drawn toward the stone, locked away in its lonely glass case. Protected. Untouched.

She’d begun to cry, for some silly reason, as she’d gazed at the gem, then she’d looked up and spotted Artem watching from the shadows. She’d thought she had, anyway. Once she’d swept the tears from her eyes, she’d realized there had been no one else there. Just her. Alone.

Her day-to-day communication at the office was mostly with Dalton. On the occasions when Artem needed something from her, he sent his secretary, Mrs. Burns, in his stead. So when Mrs. Burns walked into Ophelia’s office on Friday morning, she wasn’t altogether surprised.

Until the secretary, hands clasped primly at her waist, stated the reason for her visit. “Mr. Drake would like to know what you’re wearing.”

The ring clamp in Ophelia’s hand slipped out of her grasp and landed on the drafting table with a clatter. “Excuse me?”

Four days of nothing. No contact whatsoever, and now he was trying to figure out what she was wearing? Did he expect her to take a selfie and send it to him over the Drake Diamonds company email?

Mrs. Burns cleared her throat. “This evening, Miss Rose. He’d like to know what you’re planning to wear to the ballet. I believe you’re scheduled to accompany him tonight to Lincoln Center.”

Oh. That.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Ophelia nodded and tried to look as though she hadn’t just jumped to an altogether ridiculous assumption. Again.

Maybe the fact that she kept misinterpreting Artem’s intentions said more about her than it did about him. It did, she realized, much to her mortification. It most definitely did. And what it said about her, specifically, was that she was hot for her boss. Her kitten-buying, penthouse-dwelling, tuxedo-wearing playboy of a boss.

Ugh.

She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, every woman on the island of Manhattan—and undoubtedly a good number of the men—would have willingly leaped into Artem Drake’s bed. There was a big difference between the infatuated masses and Ophelia, though. They could sleep with whomever they wanted.

Ophelia could not. Not with Artem. Not with anyone. The fact that doing so would likely put her fancy new job in jeopardy was only the tip of the iceberg.

“Miss Rose?” Mrs. Burns eyed her expectantly over the top of her glasses.

Ophelia sighed. “Honestly, why does he even care what I wear?”

“Mr. Drake didn’t share his reasoning with me, but I assume his logic has something to do with the fact that you’re a representative of Drake Diamonds now. All eyes will be on you this evening.”

All eyes will be on you.

Oh, God. Ophelia hadn’t even considered the fact that she’d be photographed on Artem’s arm. At the ballet, of all places. What if someone recognized her? What if they printed her stage name in the newspaper?

Then everyone would know. Artem would know.

She swallowed. “Mrs. Burns, do you suppose it’s really necessary for me to be there?”

The older woman looked at Ophelia like she’d just sprouted an extra head. “The appearance is part of the publicity plan for the new collection. The collection that you designed.”

Right. Of course it was necessary for her to go. She should want to be there.

The frightening thing was that part of her did want to be there. She wanted to hear the whisper of pointe shoes on the stage floor again. She wanted to smell the red velvet curtain and feel the cool kiss of air-conditioning in the wings. She wanted to wear stage makeup—dramatic black eyeliner and bright crimson lips. One last time.

She just wasn’t sure her heart could take it. Not to mention the fact that she’d be revisiting her past alongside Artem. She didn’t want to feel vulnerable in front of him. Nothing good could come from that.

But she didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, did she?

She did, however, have the power to deny his ridiculous request. “Tell Mr. Drake he’ll know what I’m wearing when he sees me tonight. Not to worry. I’m fully capable of dressing myself in an appropriate manner for the ballet.”

Artem’s secretary seemed to stifle a grin. “I’ll certainly pass that message along.”

Of course, an hour later, Mrs. Burns was back in Ophelia’s office with a second request regarding her fashion plans for the evening. Again Ophelia offered no information. She was sure she’d find something appropriate in Natalia’s old things, but she couldn’t think about it right now. Because thinking about it would mean it was really happening.

Then after lunch, Mrs. Burns was back a third time, with instructions for Ophelia to arrive promptly at Artem’s suite at the Plaza at seven o’clock. Drake Diamonds would send a car to pick her up a half hour prior.

Ophelia wanted to ask why on earth it was necessary to convene at his penthouse beforehand. Honestly, couldn’t they just meet at Lincoln Center? But all this back and forth with Mrs. Burns was starting to get ridiculous.

Maybe one day, in addition to her office, her drafting table and her computer, Ophelia would eventually have her own secretary. Then there would be no need to communicate with Artem at all. They could simply talk to one another through their assistants. No lingering glances. No aching need in the pit of her stomach every time he looked at her. No butterflies.

Better yet, no temptation.

* * *

Artem glanced at the vintage Drake Diamonds tank watch strapped round his wrist. It read 7:05. Ophelia was late.

Brilliant.

He’d been on edge for days, and her tardiness was doing nothing to help his mood.

For once in his life, he’d exercised a modicum of self-control. He’d done the right thing. He’d kept his distance from Ophelia Rose. Other than one evening when he’d spied her looking at the Drake Diamond after hours, he hadn’t allowed himself to even glance in her direction.

And he’d never been so bloody miserable.

She’d seemed so pensive standing in the dark, staring at the diamond, her face awash in a kaleidoscope of cool blues and moody violets reflected off the stone’s surface. What was it about that diamond? If the prospect didn’t sound so ridiculous, Artem would have believed it had cast some sort of spell over her. She’d looked so beautiful, so sad, that he’d been unable to look away as the prisms of color moved over her porcelain skin.

And when amethyst teardrops had slid down her lovely face, he’d been overcome by a primal urge to right whatever wrong had caused her sorrow. Then she’d seen him, and her expression had closed like a book. Thinking about it as he paced the expanse of his suite, he could almost hear the ruffle of pages. Poetic verse hiding itself away. Sonnets forever unread.

And now?

Now she was late. It occurred to him she might not even show. Artem Drake, stood up by his evening companion. That would be a first. It was laughable, really.

He had never felt less like laughing.

As he poured himself a drink, a knock sounded on the door. Finally.

“You’re late,” he said, swinging the door open.

“Am I fired?” With a slow sweep of her eyelashes, Ophelia lifted her gaze to meet his, and Artem’s breath caught in this throat.

She’d gathered her blond tresses into a ballerina bun—fitting, he supposed—exposing her graceful neck and delicate shoulders, wrapped in a white fur stole tied closed between her breasts with a pearly satin bow. Her dress was blush pink, the color of ballet slippers, and flowed into a wide tulle skirt that whispered and swished as she walked toward him.

Never in his life had he gazed upon a woman who looked so timelessly beautiful.

Seeing her—here, now, in her glorious flesh—took the edge off his irritation. He felt instantly calmer somehow. This was both a good thing and a very bad one.

He shot a glance at the security guard from Drake Diamonds standing quietly in the corner of the room, and thanked whatever twist of fate had provided a chaperone for this moment. His self-control had already worn quite thin. And as stunning as he found her dress, it would have looked even better as a puff of pink on the floor of his bedroom.

“Fired? No. I’ll let it slide this time.” He cleared his throat. “You look lovely, Miss Rose.”

“Thank you, Mr. Drake.” Her voice went breathy. As soft as the delicate tulle fabric of her dress.

She’d been in the room for less than a minute, and Artem was as hard as granite. It was going to be an undoubtedly long night.

“Come,” he said, beckoning her to the long dining table by the window.

Since they were already behind schedule, he didn’t waste time on pleasantries. And chaperone or no chaperone, he needed to get her out of this hotel room before he did something idiotic.

“Artem?” Ophelia’s eyes grew wide as she took in the assortment of jewelry carefully arranged on black velvet atop the table. A Burmese ruby choker with eight crimson, cushion-cut stones and a shimmering band of baguettes and fancy-cut diamonds. A bow-shaped broach of rose-cut and old European-cut diamonds with carved rock crystal in millegrain and collet settings. A necklace of single-cut diamonds alternating with baroque-shaped emerald cabochon drops. And so on. Every square inch of the table glittered.

Ophelia shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen any of these pieces before.”

“They’re from the company vault,” Artem explained. “Hence the security detail.” He nodded toward the armed guard standing silently in the corner of the room.

Ophelia followed his gaze, took in the security officer and looked back up at Artem. “But you’re the CEO.”

“I am indeed.” CEO. Artem was beginning to get accustomed to the title, which in itself was cause for alarm. This was supposed to be temporary. “Insurance regulations require an armed guard when assets in excess of one million dollars leave the premises. Think of him as a bodyguard for the diamonds.”

The security guard gave a subtle nod of his head.

Ophelia raised a single, quizzical brow. “A million dollars?”

“Of course, if I’d known what you’d planned on wearing tonight, I could have selected just one appropriate item instead of transforming my suite into the equivalent of Elizabeth Taylor’s jewelry box.”

“Oh.” She flushed a little.

Had she been any other woman, Artem would have suspected her coyness to be an act. A calculated, flirtatious maneuver. But Ophelia wasn’t just any other woman.

He’d seen her at the office. At work, she was bright, confident and earnest. Far more talented than she realized. And always so serious. Serious, with that ever-present hint of melancholy.

But whenever they were alone together, her composure seemed to slip. And by God, was it a turn-on.

Artem liked knowing he affected her in such a way. He liked knowing he was the one who’d put the pretty pink glow in her cheeks. He liked seeing her blossom like a flower. A lush peony in full bloom.

Hell, he loved it all.

“Wait.” Ophelia blinked. “These aren’t for me.”

“Yes, Ophelia, they are. For tonight, anyway. Just a little loan from the store.” He shrugged one shoulder, as if he did this sort of thing every night, for every woman he stepped out with. Which he most definitely did not. “Choose whichever one you like. More than one if you prefer.”

Ophelia’s hand fluttered to her neck with the grace of a thousand butterflies. “Really?”

“You’re representing Drake Diamonds,” he said, by way of explanation.

“I suppose I am.” She gave a little tilt of her head, then there it was—the smile he’d been waiting for. More dazzling than the treasure trove of jewels at her disposal. “I think a necklace would be lovely.”

She pulled at the white satin bow of her little fur jacket. At last. Artem’s fingers had been itching to do that since she’d crossed the threshold. He hadn’t. Obviously. The diamonds he could explain. Undressing her in any fashion would have stepped over that boundary line that he was still determined not to cross.

He wondered if his father had been at all cognizant of that line. Had he thought, even once, about the ramifications of his actions? Or had he taken what he wanted without regard to what would happen to his family, his business, his legacy?

Artem’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to think about his father. Not now. He didn’t want to think about how he himself represented everything that was wrong with the great Geoffrey Drake. Artem Drake was nothing but a living, breathing mistake of the highest order.

And his father was always there, wasn’t he? A larger than life presence. A ghost haunting those he’d left behind.

Artem was tired of being haunted. It was exhausting. Tonight he wanted to live.

He gave Ophelia a quiet smile. “A necklace it is, then.”

* * *

Ophelia had never felt so much like Cinderella. Not even two years ago when she’d danced the lead role in the company’s production of the fairy tale.

As for jewels, from the outrageously opulent selection at Artem’s penthouse, she’d chosen a necklace of diamond baguettes set in platinum that wrapped all the way around her neck in a single, glittering strand. It fit almost like a choker, except in front it split into three strands, each punctuated with large, brilliant cut diamonds. The overall effect was somehow dazzling, yet delicate.

It wasn’t until Artem had fastened it around her neck that he’d told her the necklace had once belonged to Princess Grace of Monaco. Ophelia had been concentrating so hard on not reacting to the warm graze of his fingertips against her skin that she’d barely registered what he’d said. Now, as she sat beside him in the sleek black limousine en route to Lincoln Center, her hand kept fluttering to her throat.

She was wearing Princess Grace’s necklace. How was that even possible?

She wished her grandmother were alive to see her right now. Ordinarily, she never let herself indulge in such wishes. Natalia Baronova’s heart would break if she knew about the illness that had ended her granddaughter’s dance career. But wouldn’t she get a kick out of seeing Ophelia dressed in one of her grandmother’s vintage gowns, wearing Grace Kelly’s jewelry?

She smiled and her gaze slid toward Artem, who was watching her with great intensity.

“Allow me?” he asked, reaching for the bow on her faux fur stole.

Ophelia gave him a quiet nod as he tugged on the end of the satin ribbon. He loosened the bow and opened the stole a bit. Just enough to offer a glimpse of the spectacular diamonds around her neck.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.”

Ophelia swallowed, unable to move, unable to even breathe while he touched her. She’d dropped her guard. Only for a moment. And now...

Now he was no more than a breath away, and she could see her reflection in the cool blue of his irises. He had eyes like a tempest, and there she was, right at the center of his storm. Looking beautiful and happy. Full of life and hope. So much like her old self—the girl who’d danced through life, unfettered and unafraid—that she forgot all the reasons why she shouldn’t kiss this man. This man who had such a way of reminding her of who she used to be.

Her heart pounded hard in her chest, so hard she was certain he could hear it. She parted her lips and murmured Artem’s name as she reached to cup his chiseled jaw. His eyes locked with hers and a surge of heat shot straight to her lower body. She licked her lips, and there was no more denying it. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted Artem’s kiss and more. So much more.

His fingertips slid from her stole to her neck, down her throat to her collarbone. There was a reverence in his touch, like a blessing. And those words that had haunted her so came flooding back.

A woman needs to be adored, Ophelia. She needs to be cherished, worshipped.

“Mr. Drake, sir, we’ve arrived.” The limo’s intercom buzzed, and the driver’s voice startled some sense back into Ophelia.

What was she doing?

She was letting a silly diamond necklace confuse her and make her think something had changed when, in fact, nothing had. She was still sick. And she always would be.

“I’m sorry.” She removed her hand from Artem’s face and slid across the leather seat, out of his reach. “I shouldn’t have... I’m sorry.”

“Ophelia,” he said, with more patience in his tone than she’d ever heard. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. She wasn’t okay.

As if she needed a reminder, Lincoln Center loomed in her periphery. Inside that building, dancers with whom she’d trained less than a year ago were getting ready to perform, winding pink ribbons around their ankles in dressing rooms filled with bouquets of red roses. Jeremy, the man who’d once asked her to marry him, was inside that building, too. Only he was no longer watching her go through her last-minute series of pliés and port de bras. He was watching someone else do those things. He was kissing someone else’s cheek in the final moments before the curtain went up. Another dancer. An able-bodied girl. One who wouldn’t have to be carried off the stage when she fell down because she’d lost her balance. One who could do more than three pirouettes before her vision went blurry. One who wouldn’t have to give herself injections twice a week and be careful not to miss her daily 8000 IU of vitamin D.

A girl who wasn’t broken.

Not that she missed Jeremy. She didn’t. She’d confused her feelings for him with her love of dance. If she’d ever had a proper lover, that lover was ballet. Ballet had fed her soul. And now? Now she was starving. Her body needed to move. As did her heart. Her soul.

Artem reached for her hand, but she shook her head and fixed her gaze out the car window, where a group of paparazzi were gathered with cameras poised at the ready.

She couldn’t let him touch her again. If she did, there was no telling what she’d do. She was too raw, too tender, too hungry. And Artem Drake was too...

...too much.

She’d just have to pretend, wouldn’t she? She’d have to act as though the way he looked at her and the things he said didn’t make her want to slip out of her fancy dress and slide naked into his lap right there in the back of the Drake Diamonds limousine.

Artem looked at her. Long and hard, until her hands began to shake from the effort it took to keep pretending she was fine. The driver cleared his throat, and Artem finally directed his gaze past her, toward the photographers waiting on the other side of the glass.

“Showtime,” he muttered.

Yeah. Ophelia swallowed around the lump in her throat. Showtime.