went blurry or why her fingers occasionally felt numb. Sometimes she left rehearsal with such crippling fatigue she felt as if she were walking through Jell-O. She’d blamed it on the stress of dealing with her grandmother’s recent illness. She’d blamed it on the rigorous physical demands of her solo role in the company production of Giselle. Mostly, though, she’d simply ignored her symptoms because she couldn’t quite face the prospect that something was seriously wrong. Then one night she’d fallen out of a pirouette. Onstage, midperformance. The fact that she’d been unable to peel herself off the floor had only made matters worse.
And now she’d never perform again.
Sometimes, in her most unguarded moments, Ophelia found herself pointing her toes and moving her foot in the familiar, sweeping motion of a rond de jambe. Then she’d close her eyes and remember the sickening thud as she’d come down on the wooden stage floor. She’d remember the pitying expressions on the faces of her fellow dancers and the way the crimson stage curtains had drawn closed on the spectacle with a solemn hush. Her career, her life, everything she’d worked for, had ended with that whisper of red velvet.
She had every reason to be grateful, though. She had a nice apartment in Manhattan. She had clothes on her back and a job. She’d even had the forethought to enroll in school while she’d been dancing, because she’d known that the day would come when she’d be unable to dance for a living. She just hadn’t realized that day would come so soon. She’d thought she’d had time. So much time. Time to dance, time to love, time to dream.
She’d never planned on spending her Friday nights feeding kittens at an animal shelter, but it wasn’t such a bad place to be. She actually enjoyed it quite a bit.
“I’ll be careful, Beth. I promise.” Ophelia draped a towel over the front of her dress and reached into the cabinet above a row of cat enclosures for a bottle and a fresh can of kitten formula.
As she cracked the can open and positioned it over the tiny bottle, her gaze flitted to the cage in the corner. Her hand paused midpour when she realized the wire pen was empty.
“Where’s the little white kitten?” she asked, fighting against the rapidly forming lump in her throat.
“She hasn’t been adopted, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Beth cast her a knowing glance. “She’s getting her picture taken for some charity thing.”
“Oh.” Ophelia hated herself for the swell of relief that washed over her. The shelter’s mission was to find homes for all their animals, after all. Everyone deserved a home. And love. And affection.
The lump in her throat grew tenfold. “That’s too bad.”
“Is it?” Beth lifted a sardonic brow.
Ophelia busied herself with securing the top on the bottle and lifting one of the squirming kittens out of the pen lined with a heating pad that served as a makeshift incubator. “Of course it is.”
She steadfastly refused to meet Beth’s gaze, lest she give away her true feelings on the matter, inappropriate as they were.
But there was no fooling Beth. “For the life of me, I don’t know why you won’t just adopt her. Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate your help around here. But I have a sneaky suspicion that the reason you came by tonight has more to do with visiting your fluffy friend than with feeding our hungry little monsters. You’re besotted with that cat.”
“And you’re exaggerating.” The orange kitten in Ophelia’s hand mewed at a volume that belied its tiny size. Ophelia nestled the poor thing against her chest, and it began suckling on the bottle at once. “Besides, I told you. I can’t have a pet. My apartment doesn’t allow them.”
It was a shameless lie. But how else was she supposed to explain her reluctance to adopt an animal she so clearly adored?
The truth was that she’d love to adopt the white Persian mix. She’d love coming home to the sound of its dainty feet pattering across the floor of her empty apartment. If the cat could come live with her, Ophelia would let it sleep at the foot of her bed, and feed it gourmet food from a can. If...
But she couldn’t do it. She was in no condition to let anyone depend on her for their survival. Not even an animal. She was a ticking time bomb with an unknown deadline for detonation.
Ophelia braced herself for an ardent sales pitch. Beth obviously wasn’t buying the excuses she’d manufactured. Fortunately, before Beth went into full-on lecture mode, they were interrupted by none other than the adorable white cat they’d been discussing. The snow-white feline entered the room in the arms of a statuesque woman dressed in a glittering, sequined floor-length dress.
Ophelia was so momentarily confused to see a woman wearing an evening gown at the animal shelter that at first she didn’t seem to notice that the sequin-clad Barbie was also on the arm of a companion. And that companion was none other than Artem Drake.
Him.
Again? Seriously?
She could hardly believe her eyes. What on earth was he doing here?
For some ridiculous reason, Ophelia’s first instinct was to hide. She didn’t want to see him again. Especially here. Now. When he had a glamorous supermodel draped all over him and Ophelia was sitting in a plastic chair, chest covered in stained terry cloth while she bottle-fed a yelping orange tabby. And, oh, God, he was dressed in another perfect tuxedo. Had the man come strutting out of the womb in black tie?
She wondered what he’d look like in something more casual, a pair of soft faded jeans, maybe. Shirtless. Heck, as long as she was fantasizing, bottomless. Then she wondered why, exactly, she was wondering about such things.
“My, my, who do we have here?” Artem tilted his head.
Ophelia had been so busy dreaming of what he had going on beneath all that sleek Armani wool that she’d neglected to make herself invisible. Super.
“Um...” She struggled for something to say as his gaze dropped to her chest. Her nipples went tingly under his inspection, until she realized he was looking at the kitten, not her. Of course.
Why, oh, why hadn’t she gone straight home after work?
He lifted his gaze so that he was once again looking her directly in the eyes. “Miss Rose, we meet again.”
“You two know each other?” Beth asked, head swiveling back and forth between Ophelia and Artem.
Ophelia shook her head and centered all her concentration on not being attracted to him, while the orange kitten squirmed against her chest. “No, not really,” she said.
“Why, yes. Yes, we do,” Artem said at that exact instant.
The grin on his face was nothing short of suggestive. Or maybe that was just his default expression. Resting playboy face.
Heat pooled in her center, much to her mortification and surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced anything remotely resembling desire. Unless this morning in the kitchen of Drake Diamonds counted. Which, if she was being honest, it most definitely did.
Beth frowned. Artem’s date lifted an agitated brow.
Ophelia clarified the matter before Ms. Supermodel got the wrong idea and thought she was one of his sexual conquests, which no doubt were plentiful. “We’ve met. But we don’t actually know one another.” Not at all.
Artem directed his attention toward Beth and, by way of explanation, said, “Miss Rose works for me.”
Worked, past tense, since he’d resigned from his family’s business. Who did that, anyway?
“Drake Diamonds.” Beth nodded. “Of course. Ophelia’s told me all about it. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what a treasure you’ve found in her. She’s one of our best volunteers. Such a hard worker.”
“A hard worker,” Artem echoed, with only a subtle hint of sarcasm in his smoky voice.