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...