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.