Читать книгу His Ballerina Bride - Teri Wilson, Teri Wilson - Страница 9

Chapter One

They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Ophelia Rose had a tendency to disagree. Strongly.

Not that Ophelia had anything against diamonds per se. On the contrary, she adored them. Just two months ago, she’d earned an entire college degree in diamonds. Gemology, technically. Every piece of jewelry she’d designed for her final independent study project featured a diamond as its centerpiece. They were something of a pet jewel of hers. So naturally, working at Drake Diamonds was her dream job. It was her dream job now, anyway. Now that all vestiges of her former life had pretty much vanished.

Now that she’d been forced to start over.

She still loved diamonds. In truth, only certain diamonds had been getting on her nerves of late. Diamonds of the engagement variety. The level of stress that those particular gems were causing her was enough to make her seriously question their best-friend status. Unfortunately, engagement diamonds were something of an occupational hazard for someone who worked on the tenth floor of Drake Diamonds.

Ophelia pasted on a smile and focused on the glittering jewels in the display case before her and the way they dazzled beneath the radiant store lights. Breathe. Just breathe.

“This is the one. Princess cut. It’s perfect for you...” The man sitting across from Ophelia slipped a 2.3-carat solitaire onto the ring finger of the woman sitting beside him and cooed, “...princess.”

“Oh, stop. You’re going to make me cry again,” his fiancée said, gazing at the diamond on her hand. Sure enough, a lone tear slipped down her cheek.

Ophelia slid a box of rose-scented tissues toward the princess.

In the course of a typical workday, Ophelia went through at least two boxes of tissues. Twice that many on the weekend, along with countless flutes of the finest French champagne and dozens of delicate petits fours crafted to look like the distinctive Drake Diamonds blue gift box crowned with its signature white ribbon. Because shopping for an engagement ring at Drake Diamonds was an experience steeped in luxury, as it had been since 1830.

Her current customers couldn’t have cared less about the trappings, particularly the edible ones. Their champagne flutes were nearly full and the petits fours completely untouched. Ophelia was fairly certain the only things they wanted to consume were each other.

It made her heart absolutely ache.

Six months had passed since Ophelia’s diagnosis. She’d had half a year to accept her fate, half a year to come to terms with her new reality. She’d never be the girl with the diamond on her finger. She’d never be the bride-to-be. Multiple sclerosis was a serious, chronic illness, one that had altered every aspect of her existence. It had been difficult enough to let this uninvited guest turn her life upside down. She wouldn’t let it do the same to someone else. That much she could control.

She couldn’t dictate a lot of things about her new life. But her single status was one of them. And she was perfectly fine with it. She had enough on her plate with work, volunteering at the animal shelter and staying as healthy as possible. Not to mention coping with everything she’d left behind.

Still.

Being reminded on a daily basis of what she would never have was getting old.

“Look at that. It’s a perfect fit.” She smiled at the happy couple, and her throat grew tight. “Shall I wrap it for you?”

“Yes, please.” The besotted man’s gaze never left his betrothed. “In one of those fancy blue boxes?”

Ophelia nodded. “Of course. It’s my pleasure.”

She gathered the ring and the petits fours—which the bride declared were in flagrant violation of her wedding diet—and padded across the plush blue carpet of the sales floor toward the gift-wrap room. After dropping off the diamond ring, where it would be boxed, wrapped and tied with a bridal-white bow, she made her way to the kitchen to dispose of the tiny cakes.

She stopped and stared at the counter and the endless rows of pristine silver plates and champagne flutes. Once her current customers left, she’d be passing out another pair of fancy desserts. Another duo of champagne glasses. To yet another couple madly in love.

I can’t keep doing this.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to work in jewelry design, to sketch and create the pieces in those glittering display cases. Catering to the lovesick was definitely not the plan.

She knew she should be grateful. She had to start somewhere. As far as the sales team went, working on the tenth floor in Engagements was the most coveted position in the building. She simply needed to bide her time until she could somehow show upper management what she could do, and get transferred to the design department.

One day at a time. I can do this.

She could totally do it. But maybe all those happily engaged couples would be easier to stomach with a little cake.

Why not? No one was looking. Everyone was on the sales floor.

Ophelia had never been much of a rule breaker. She’d never broken any rules, come to think of it. Funny how being the good girl all her life hadn’t stopped her world from falling apart. Life wasn’t fair. She should have known that by now.

She closed her eyes and bit into one of the petits fours. As it melted in her mouth, she contemplated the healing powers of sugar and frosting. Cake might not be the best thing for the body, but at the moment, it was doing wonders for her battered soul.

Finally, she’d uncovered the one good thing about no longer being a professional ballet dancer. Cake. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bite of the sweet dessert. Not even on her birthday.

“My God, where have you been all my life?” she whispered.

“Excuse my tardiness,” a sultry male voice said in return.

Oh, God.

Ophelia’s eyes flew open.

Much to her dismay, the bemused retort hadn’t come from the petit four. It had come from her boss. Artem Drake, in the flesh. His tuxedo-clad, playboy flesh.

“Mr. Drake.” Her throat grew tight.

What was he even doing here? No one at Drake Diamonds had laid eyes on him since he’d inherited the company from his father. Unless the photos of him on Page Six counted.

And good grief. He was a thousand times hotter in person than he was on the internet. How was that even possible?

Ophelia took in his square chin, his dark, knowing gaze and the hint of a dimple in his left cheek, and went a little bit weak in the knees. The fit of his tuxedo was impeccable. As was the shine of his patent leather shoes. But it was the look on his face that nearly did her in. Like the cat who got the cream.

The man was decadence personified.

She swallowed. With great difficulty. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

She couldn’t be seen eating one of the Drake petits fours. They were for customers, not employees. Not to mention the mortification of being caught moaning suggestively at a baked good. She dropped it like a hot potato. It landed between them on the kitchen floor with a splat. A crumb bounced onto the mirror surface of one of Artem’s shoes.

What on earth was she doing?

He glanced down and lifted a provocative brow. Ophelia’s insides went all fluttery. Perfect. She’d already made an idiot of herself and now she was borderline swooning over an eyebrow. Her boss’s eyebrow.

“Oh, good,” he said, his deep voice heavily laced with amusement. “Thanks for clearing that up. For a minute, I thought I’d stumbled upon one of my employees eating the custom-made, fifteen-dollars-per-square-inch snacks that we serve our customers.”

Those petits fours were fifteen dollars apiece? That seemed insane, even for Drake Diamonds. They were good, but they weren’t that good.

Ophelia glanced at the tiny cake at her feet, and her stomach growled. Okay, maybe they were that good. “Um...”

“So what’s the story, then? Are you a runaway fiancée hiding in my kitchen?” His gaze flitted to the floor again. “Are those pretty feet of yours getting cold?”

“A fiancée? Me? No. Definitely not.” Once upon a time, yes. But that, like so many other things, had changed. “I mean, no. Just...no.”

Stop talking. She was making things so much worse, but she couldn’t seem to think straight.

Those pretty feet of yours...

“So you do work for me, then?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter, the perfect picture of elegant nonchalance.

What was he doing, wearing a tux at ten in the morning, anyway? On a weekday, no less. Was this some kind of billionaire walk of shame?

Probably. She thought about the countless photos she’d seen of him with young, beautiful women on his arm. Sometimes two or three at a time. Walk of shame. Definitely.

“I do,” she said. I do. I do. Wedding words. Her neck went instantly, unbearably hot. She cleared her throat. “I work in Engagements.”

The corner of his lips twitched. So he thought that was funny, did he? “And your name is?”

“Ophelia.” She paused. “Ophelia Rose.” At least she had her wits about her enough to identify herself by her actual, real last name and not the stage name she’d been using for the last eight years. Out of everything in her life that had changed, no longer calling herself Ophelia Baronova had been the most difficult to accept. As if that person really, truly no longer existed.

She doesn’t.

Ophelia bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Artem Drake crossed his arms. “I suppose that makes me your boss.”

This was getting weird.

“Come now, Ophelia Rose. Don’t look so sad. I’m not going to fire you for biting into temptation.” One corner of Mr. Drake’s perfect mouth lifted into a half grin. “Literally.”

Clearly, he knew a thing or two about temptation. How was it possible for a man to so fully embody sex?

“Good.” She forced a smile. Being fired hadn’t actually crossed her mind, although she supposed it should have. It was just kind of difficult to take Artem seriously, since he hadn’t darkened the door of Drake Diamonds in the entire time she’d worked there. But if he thought the sadness behind her eyes was because she was afraid of him, so be it. That was fine. Better, actually. She wasn’t about to bare her messed-up soul to her employer.

Her employer...

When would she have another opportunity to talk to Artem Drake one-on-one? Never, probably. Because she sure wasn’t planning on sneaking off to the kitchen anymore. And who knew when he’d show up again? She had to make the most of this moment. If she didn’t, she’d regret it. Just as soon as she went back out on the sales floor among all those engaged couples.

It was now or never.

But maybe she should scrape the cake off the floor first.

* * *

Artem Drake was having difficulty wrapping his mind around the fact that the goddess of a woman who’d just dropped to her knees in front of him worked for him. But to be fair, the concept of anyone in this Fifth Avenue institution answering to him was somewhat laughable.

Granted, his last name was on the front of the building. And the gift bags. And those legendary blue boxes. But he’d never had much to do with running the place. That had been his father’s job. And now that his father was gone, the responsibility should fall on the shoulders of his older brother, Dalton. Dalton lived and breathed Drake Diamonds. Dalton spent so much time here that he had a foldout sofa in his office. Hell, Artem didn’t even have an office.

Nor did he have any idea how much those silly little cakes cost. He’d pulled a number out of thin air. And now he’d nearly made the goddess cry. Maybe he was cut out to run the place, after all. His dad had loved making people cry.

Besides, goddess wasn’t quite the right word. There was something ethereal about her. Delicate. Unspeakably graceful. She had a neck made for diamonds.

Which sounded exactly like something his father would say.

“Stand up,” Artem said, far more harshly than he’d intended. But if she didn’t get up off her knees, he wouldn’t have any hope of maintaining an ounce of professional behavior.

She finished dabbing at the mess with a napkin and stood, her motions so effortlessly fluid that the air around her seemed to dance. “Yes, sir.”

He rather liked the sir business. But he needed to do what he’d come here to do and get the hell out of this place. He pushed away from the counter and straightened his cuff link. Singular. One of them had managed to go missing since the symphony gala the night before. Maybe he’d pick up a new pair on his way out. After he’d waved the proverbial white flag in his brother’s face.

He cleared his throat. “While this has been interesting, to say the least, I have some business to attend to. And I’m sure you have work to do, as well.”

Could he sound more ridiculous? I have some business to attend to. And I’m sure you have work to do, as well. He’d never spoken like that in his life. Dalton, yes. All the time. That’s probably how he spoke to his girlfriends.

“Wait,” Ophelia blurted, just as he took a step toward the door. “Please, Mr. Drake. Sir.”

He turned. “Yes, Miss Rose?”

“I’d like to schedule a meeting with you. At your convenience, of course.” She lifted her chin, and her neck seemed to lengthen.

God, that neck. Artem let his gaze travel down the length of it to the delicate dip between her collarbones. A diamond would look exquisite nestled right there, set off by her perfect porcelain skin. Artem had never seen such a beautiful complexion on a woman. She almost looked as though she’d never set foot outdoors. Like she was crafted of the purest, palest marble. Like she belonged in a museum rather than here. What in God’s name was she doing working behind a jewelry counter, anyway?

He lifted his gaze back to her face, and her cheeks went rosebud pink. “A meeting? With me?”

He’d heard worse ideas.

“Yes. A business meeting,” she said crisply. “I have some design ideas I’d like to present. I know I work in sales at the moment, but I’m actually a trained gemologist.”

Artem wasn’t sure why he found this news so surprising, but he did. Few people surprised him. He wished more of them did. Ophelia Rose was becoming more intriguing by the minute.

She was also his employee, at least for the next ten minutes or so. He shouldn’t be thinking about her neck. Or the soft swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of the vintage sea-foam dress she wore. Or what her delicate bottom would feel like in the palms of his hands. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of the images that were currently running through his mind.

“A gemologist? Really?” he said, somehow keeping his gaze fixed on her face. God, he deserved a medal for such restraint.

She nodded. “I’ve have a degree from the New York School of Design. I graduated with honors.”

“Then congratulations are in order. Perhaps even a celebration.” He just couldn’t help himself. “With cake.”

Her blush deepened a shade closer to crimson. “Honestly, I’d rather have that meeting. Just half an hour of your time to show you my designs. That’s all I need.”

She was determined. He’d give her that. Determined and oh-so-earnest.

And rather bold, now that he thought about it. He had, after all, just walked in on her shoving cake in her mouth. Cake meant for lovebirds prepared to drop thousands of dollars for a Drake diamond. She had a ballsy streak. Sexy, he mused.

Artem wondered how much he was paying her. He hadn’t a clue. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

She took a step closer to him, and he caught a whiff of something warm and sweet. Vanilla maybe. She smelled like a dessert, which Artem supposed made perfect sense. “Can’t or won’t?”

He shrugged. “I guess you could say both.”

She opened her lovely mouth to protest, and Artem held up a hand to stop her. “Miss Rose, before you waste any more of your precious time, there’s something you should know. I’m resigning.”

She went quiet for a beat. A beat during which Artem wondered what had prompted him to tell this total stranger his plans before he’d even discussed them with his own flesh and blood. He blamed it on his hangover. Or possibly the sad, haunted look in Ophelia’s blue eyes. Eyes the color of Kashmir sapphires.

It didn’t seem right to let her think he could help her when he’d never even see her again.

“Resigning?” She frowned. “But you can’t resign. This is Drake Diamonds, and you’re a Drake.”

Not the right Drake. “I’m quitting my family business, not my family.” Although the thought wasn’t without its merits, considering he’d never truly been one of them. Not the way Dalton and their sister, Diana, had.

“But your father left you in charge.” Her voice had gone as soft as feathers. Feathers. A bird. That’s what she reminded him of—a swan. A stunning, sylphlike swan. “That matters.”

He shook his head. She had no clue what she was talking about, and he wasn’t about to elaborate. He’d already said too much. And frankly, it was none of her business. “I assure you, this is for the best. I might add that it’s also confidential.”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know you won’t.” He pointed at the petit four that she’d scraped up off the floor, still resting in her palm. “You’ll keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. Does that sound fair, princess?”

His news wouldn’t be a secret for long, anyway. Dalton’s office was right down the hall. If Artem hadn’t heard Ophelia’s sensual ode to cake and made this spontaneous detour, the deed would already be done.

He’d enjoyed toying with her, but now their encounter had taken a rather vexing turn. As much as he liked the thought of half an hour behind closed doors with those lithe limbs and willowy grace, the meeting she so desperately wanted simply wasn’t going to happen. Not with him, anyway.

Maybe Dalton would meet with her. Maybe Artem would suggest it. I quit. Oh, and by the way, one of the sales associates wants to design our next collection...

Maybe not.

“Okay, then. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Drake.” She offered him her free hand, and he took it. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

That last part came out as little more than a whisper, just breathy enough for Artem to know that Ophelia Rose with the sad sapphire eyes knew a little something about loss herself.

“Thank you.” Her hand felt small in his. Small and impossibly soft.

Then she withdrew her hand and squared her shoulders, and the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability he’d witnessed was replaced with the cool confidence of a woman who’d practically thrown cake at him and then asked for a meeting to discuss a promotion. There was that ballsy streak again. “One last thing, Mr. Drake.”

He suppressed a grin. “Yes?”

“Don’t call me princess.”