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His temples throbbed as he stepped out of the car and caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the storefront window. He’d dressed the part of CEO in a charcoal Tom Ford suit, paired with a smooth silk tie in that dreadful Drake Diamond blue. Who are you?
“Good morning, Mr. Drake.” The store’s doorman greeted him with a tip of his top hat and a polite smile.
Standing on the sidewalk in the swirling snow, clad in a Dickensian overcoat and Drake-blue scarf, the doorman almost looked like a throwback to the Victorian era. Probably because the uniforms had changed very little since the store first opened its doors. Tradition ruled at Drake Diamonds, even down to how the doormen dressed.
“Good morning.” Artem nodded and strode through the door.
He made his way toward the elevator on the opposite side of the darkened showroom, his footsteps echoing on the gleaming tile floor. Then his gaze snagged on the glass showcase illuminated by a radiant spotlight to his right—home to the revered Drake Diamond.
He paused. Against its black velvet backdrop, the diamond almost appeared to be floating. The most brilliant star, shining in the darkest of nights.
He walked slowly up to the showcase, inspecting the glittering yellow stone mounted at the center of a garland necklace of white diamonds. Upon its discovery in a South African mine in the late 1800s, it had been the third largest yellow diamond in the world. Artem’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather bought it on credit before it had even been properly cut. Then he’d had it shaped and set in Paris—in a tiara of all things—before bringing it to New York and putting it on display in his new Fifth Avenue jewelry store. People had come from all over the country to see the breathtaking diamond. That single stone had put old man Drake’s little jewelry business on the map.
Would it really be so bad to let it go? Drake Diamonds was world famous now. Sure, tourists still flocked to the store and pressed their faces to the glass to get a glimpse of the legendary diamond. But would things really change if it were no longer here?
He glanced at the plaque beneath the display case. It gave the history of the diamond, its various settings and the handful of times it had actually been worn. The last sentence of the stone’s biography proclaimed it the shining star in the Drake family crown.
Artem swallowed, then looked back up at the diamond.
Ophelia’s face materialized before him. Waves of gilded hair, sparkling sapphire eyes and that lithe, swan-like neck...with the diamond positioned right at the place where her pulse throbbed with life.
He blinked, convinced he was seeing things. A mirage. A trick of the mind, like a cool pool of glistening water before a man who hasn’t had a drink in years.
It was no mirage. It was her.
Standing right behind him, only inches away, with her exquisite face reflected back at him in the pristine pane of glass. And damned if that diamond didn’t look as though it had been made just for her. Placed deep in the earth billions of years ago, waiting for someone to find it and slip it around her enchanting neck.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her blue eyes glittered beneath the radiant showroom lights, lighting designed to make gemstones shimmer and shine. Somehow she sparkled brighter than all of them.
Beautiful, indeed.
“Quite,” Artem said.
She moved to stand beside him, and her reflection slipped languidly away from the necklace. “Sometimes I like to come here and look at it, especially at times like this, when the store is quiet. Before all the crowds descend. I think about what it must have been like to wear something like this, back in the days when it was actually worn. It seems almost a shame that it’s become something of a museum piece, don’t you think?”
“I do, actually.” At the moment, it seemed criminal the diamond wasn’t draped around her porcelain neck. He could see her wearing it. The necklace and nothing else. He could imagine that priceless jewel glittering between her beautiful breasts, an image as real as the snow falling outside.
He shoved his hands in his pockets before he used them to press her against the glass and take her right there against the display case until the gemstone inside fell off its pedestal and shattered into diamond dust. The very idea of it made him go instantly hard.
And that’s when Artem knew.
Ophelia did, in fact, have something to do with his decision to stay on as head of Drake Diamonds. She may have had everything to do with it.
He ground his teeth and glared at her. He didn’t enjoy feeling out of control. About anything, but most especially about his libido. Artem was a better man than his father had been. He had to believe that.
Ophelia blinked up at him with those melancholy eyes that made his chest ache, seemingly oblivious to the self-control it required for Artem to have a simple conversation with her. “Is it true that it’s only been worn by three women? Or is that just an urban myth?”
“Yes, it’s true.” He nodded. A Hollywood star, a ballerina back in the forties and Diana Kincaid Drake. Only three. That fact was so much a part of Drake mythology that Artem wouldn’t have been able to forget it even if he’d tried.
“I see,” she whispered, her eyes fixed dreamily on the diamond. She almost looked as though she were trying to see inside it, to the heart of the stone. Its history.
Then she blinked, turned her back on the necklace and focused fully on Artem, her trance broken. “About our meeting...”
“Ah, yes. Our meeting.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dalton making his entrance through the store’s revolving door. Artem lowered his voice, although he wasn’t quite sure why. He had nothing to hide. “Shall I assume my kitten is tucked snug inside your home, Miss Rose?”
“Yes.” Her cheeks went pink, and her bow lips curved into a reluctant smile.
So he’d been right. She’d wanted that kitten all along. Needed it, even though she’d acted as though he’d been forcing it on her.
He’d done the right thing. For once in his life.
“So.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I make an appointment with your assistant so I can show you my designs?”
“What did you name her?” he asked.
Ophelia blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The kitten.” Somewhere in the periphery, Artem saw the curious expression on his brother’s face and ignored it altogether. “Have you given her a name yet?”
“Oh.” Her flush deepened a shade, as pink as primroses. “I named her Jewel.”
For some reason, this information took the edge off Artem’s frustration. Which made no sense whatsoever. “Then I suppose you and I have business to discuss, Miss Rose. I’ll have my assistant get you the details.” He gave her a parting nod and headed to the elevator, where Dalton stood waiting. Watching.
Somehow it felt as if their father was watching, too.
* * *
Ophelia stood poised on the black-and-white marble terrace while snowflakes whipped in the frosty wind. Despite the chill in the air, she hesitated.
“Welcome to the Plaza, miss.” A doorman dressed in a regal uniform, complete with gold epaulettes on his shoulders, bowed slightly and pulled the door open for her with gloved hands.
A hotel. Artem Drake had summoned her to a hotel. Granted, the Plaza was the most exclusive hotel in Manhattan, if not the world, but still.
A hotel.
Did he think she was going to sleep with him? Surely not. She was worried over nothing. He was probably waiting for her in the tearoom or something. Although, as refined as he might be, Ophelia couldn’t quite picture him taking afternoon tea.
“Thank you.” She nodded politely at the doorman. After all, this wholly awkward scenario wasn’t his fault. She wondered if she was supposed to tip him for opening the door for her. She had no clue.
Crossing the threshold into the grand lobby of the Plaza was like entering another world. Another decade. She felt like she’d walked into an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. The decor was opulent, gilded with an art deco flavor reminiscent of Jay Gatsby.
Ophelia found it breathtakingly beautiful. If she’d known such a place existed less than a mile from her workplace, she would have been coming here every afternoon with her sketchbook and jotting down ideas. Drawings of geometric pieces with zigzag rows of gemstones that mirrored the glittering Baccarat chandeliers and the gold inlaid design on the gleaming tile floor.
Maybe she’d do those designs. If this meeting went as well as she hoped, maybe she’d end up with a job in the design department and she could come here and sketch to her heart’s content. And maybe she’d actually see some of her designs come to fruition instead of just taking up space in her portfolio.
She tightened her grip on her slim, leather portfolio. It was Louis Vuitton. Vintage. Another treasure she’d found in her grandmother’s belongings. It had been filled to bursting with old photographs from Natalia Baronova’s time at the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. Ophelia had spent days studying those photos when she’d come home from her time in the hospital.
In the empty hours when she once would have been at company rehearsal dancing until her toes bled, she’d relived her grandmother’s legendary career instead. Those news clippings, and the faded photographs with her grandmother’s penciled notations on the back, had kept Ophelia going. She’d lost her health, her family, her job. Her life. All she’d had left was school and her grandmother’s memories.
Ophelia had clung to those memories, studied those images until she made them her own by incorporating what she saw into her jewelry designs. The result was an inspired collection that she knew would be a success...if only someone would give her a chance and look at them.
She took a deep breath. If there was any fairness at all in the world, this would be her moment. And that someone would be Artem Drake.
“May I help you, miss?” A man in a pristine white dinner jacket and tuxedo pants smiled at her from behind the concierge desk.
“Yes, actually. I’m meeting someone here. Artem Drake?” She glanced toward the dazzling atrium in the center of the lobby, where tables of patrons sipped glasses of champagne and cups of tea beneath the shade of elegant palm fronds. Artem was nowhere to be seen.
She fought the sinking feeling in her stomach. It doesn’t mean anything. He could simply be running late.
“Mr. Drake is in penthouse number nine. This key will give you elevator access to the eighteenth floor.” The concierge slid a discreet black card key across the desk.
Ophelia stared at it. She’d never been so bitterly disappointed. Finally, finally, she’d thought she’d actually spotted a light at the end of the very dark tunnel that had become her life. But no. There was no light. Just more darkness. And a man who thought she’d meet him at a hotel on her lunch hour just to get ahead.
The irony was that’s exactly what everyone in the company had thought when she’d begun dating Jeremy, the director. The other dancers had rolled their eyes whenever she’d been cast in a lead role. As if she hadn’t earned it. As if she hadn’t been dancing every day until her toes bled through the pink satin of her pointe shoes.
It hadn’t been like that, though. She’d cared for Jeremy. And he’d cared for her, too. Or so she’d thought.
“Miss?” The concierge furrowed his brow. “Is there something else you need?”
Yes, there is. Just a glimmer of hope, if you wouldn’t mind...
“No.” She shook her head woodenly, and reached for the card key. “Thank you for your help.”
She marched toward the elevator, her kitten heels echoing off the gold-trimmed walls of the palatial lobby. She didn’t know why she was so upset. Or even remotely surprised. She’d seen all those photos of Artem in the newspaper, out every night with a different woman on his arm. Of course he’d assumed she’d want to sleep with him. She was probably the only woman in Manhattan who didn’t.
Except she sort of did.
If she was honest with herself—painfully honest—she had to admit that the thought of sex with Artem Drake wasn’t exactly repulsive. On the contrary.
She would never go through with it, of course. Not now. Especially not now. Not ever. It was just difficult to think about Artem without thinking about sex, especially since she went weak in the knees whenever he looked at her with those penetrating eyes of his. Eyes that gave her the sense that he could see straight into her aching, yearning center. Eyes that stirred chaos inside her. Bedroom eyes. And now she was on her way to meet him. In an actual bedroom.
Bed or no bed, she would not be sleeping with him.
The elevator stopped on the uppermost floor. She squared her shoulders and stepped out, prepared to search for the door to penthouse number nine.
She didn’t have to look very hard. It was the only door on the entire floor.
He’d rented a hotel room that encompassed the entire floor? She rolled her eyes and wondered if all his dates got such royal treatment. Then she reminded herself that this was a business meeting, not a date.
If she had any sense at all, she’d turn around and walk directly back to Drake Diamonds. But before she could talk herself into leaving, the door swung open and she was face-to-face with Mr. Bedroom Eyes himself.
“Mr. Drake.” She smiled in a way that she hoped conveyed professionalism and not the fact that she’d somehow gone quite breathless.
“My apologies, Miss Rose. I’m on the phone.” He opened the door wider and beckoned her inside. “Do come in.”
Ophelia had never seen such a large hotel room. She could have fit three of her apartments inside it, and it was absolutely stunning, decorated in cool grays and blues, with sleek, modern furnishings. But the most spectacular feature was its view of Central Park. Horse drawn carriages lined the curb alongside the snow-covered landscape. In the distance, ice skaters moved in a graceful circle over the pond.
Ophelia walked right up to the closest window and looked down on the busy Manhattan streets below. Everything seemed so faraway. The yellow taxicabs looked like tiny toy cars, and she could barely make out the people bundled in dark coats darting along the crowded sidewalks with their scarves trailing behind them like ribbons. Snow danced against the glass in a dizzying waltz of white, drifting downward, blanketing the city below. The effect was rather like standing inside a snow globe. Absolutely breathtaking.
“Um-hmm. I see,” muttered Artem, standing a few feet behind her with his cell phone pressed against his ear.
Ophelia turned and found him watching her.
He didn’t so much talk to whoever was on the other end as much he talked at them. He sounded rather displeased, but even so, he never broke eye contact with her throughout the call. “Despite the fact that this seems a rather...questionable...time to make such a donation, we must honor our commitment. I know you don’t like to involve yourself with the press, brother, but think about the headlines if we backed out. Not pretty. And might I add, it would be my face they’d print a photo of alongside the negative chatter. So that’s my final decision.”
The person on the receiving end of his tirade was clearly Dalton. Ophelia felt guilty about overhearing such a conversation, so she averted her gaze. No sooner had she looked away than she caught sight of an enormous bed looming behind Artem.
My God, it’s a behemoth.
She’d never seen such a large bed. It could have fit a dozen people.
Her face went hot, and she looked away. But as Artem wrapped up his call, her gaze kept returning to the bed and its sumptuous, creamy-white linens.
“Again, my apologies.” Artem tossed his phone on the nearby sectional sofa and walked toward her. “Please, let me take your coat. Do make yourself comfortable.”
She took a step out of his reach. “Mr. Drake, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong impression.”
“Do I?” He stopped less than an arm’s length away, just close enough to send a wave of awareness crashing over her, while at the same time not quite crossing the boundary of respectability. “And what impression is that?”
“This.” She waved a shaky hand around the luxurious room, trying—and failing—to avoid looking at the bed.
Artem followed her gaze. When he turned back toward her, an angry knot throbbed in his jaw. He lifted an impetuous brow. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Miss Rose. Do you care to elaborate?”
“This room. And that bed.” Why, oh, why, had she actually mentioned the bed? “When I said I wanted to show you my designs, that was precisely what I meant. I’ve no idea why you arranged to rent this ridiculous suite. The hourly rate for this room must be higher than my yearly salary. It’s absurd, and thoroughly inappropriate. I have no interest in sleeping with you. None. Zero.”
She really wished she hadn’t stammered on the last few words. She would have preferred to sound at least halfway believable.
Artem’s eyes flashed. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes.” She ordered her feet to walk straight to the door and get out of there. Immediately. They willfully disobeyed.
“I live here, Miss Rose. This is my home. I did not, as you so boldly implied, procure a rent-by-the-hour room in which to ravage you on your lunch break.” He paused, glaring at her for full effect.
He lived here? In a penthouse at the Plaza?
Of course he did.
Ophelia had never been so mortified in her life. She wanted to die.
Artem took another step closer. She could see the ring of black around the dreamy blue center of his irises, a hidden hint of darkness. “For starters, if my intention was to ravage you, I would have set aside far more than an hour in which to do so. Furthermore, I’m your employer. You are my employee. Despite whatever you may have heard about my father, sleeping with the staff is not the way I intend to do business. Occasionally, the apple does, in fact, fall farther from the tree than you might imagine.”
Ophelia had no idea what he was talking about, but apparently she’d touched a nerve. For the first time since setting eyes on Artem Drake—her boss, as he took such pleasure in pointing out time and time again—he looked less than composed. He raked an angry hand through his hair, mussing it. He almost looked like he’d just gotten out of bed.
Stop. God, what was wrong with her? She should not be thinking about Artem in bed. Absolutely, definitely not. Yet somehow, that was the one and only thought in her head. Artem, dark and passionate, tossing her onto the mammoth-sized bed behind him. The weight of him pressing down on her as he kissed her, entered her...
Her throat grew tight. “Good, because I have no interest whatsoever in sleeping with my boss.”
Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt. Never again.
