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...
He couldn’t quite seem to shake those words from his consciousness. They overshadowed any regret he felt. “You mentioned Page Six. Tell me they’re not doing a piece on this.”
Not yet.
He needed time. Time to figure out what the hell was going on. Time to get behind the story and dictate the way it would be presented. Time to protect himself.
And yes, time to protect Ophelia, too. From what, he wasn’t even sure. But given the heartache he’d seen in her eyes when she’d asked him to keep her stage name a secret, she wasn’t prepared for that information to become public. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
Tragic ballerina...
He’d made her a promise. And even if her truth was infinitely more complicated than he’d imagined, he would keep that promise.
“Why on earth would you want me to tell you such a thing? The whole point of your appearance at the ballet last night was to create buzz around the new collection.”
“Yes, I know. But...” Artem’s voice trailed off.
But not like this.
“The story is set to run this morning. It’s their featured piece. They called me last night and asked for a comment, which I gave them, since you were unreachable.”
Because he’d been making love to Ophelia.
“You can thank me later. We couldn’t buy this kind of publicity if we tried. It’s a pity about her illness, though. Truly. I would never have guessed she was sick.”
Artem’s throat closed like a fist. He didn’t hear another word that came out of his brother’s mouth. Dalton might have said more. He probably did. Artem didn’t know. And he didn’t care. He’d heard the only thing that mattered.
Ophelia was sick.
* * *
Ophelia woke in a dreamy, luxurious haze, her body arching into a feline stretch on Artem’s massive bed. Without thinking, she pointed her toes and slid her arms into a port de bras over the smooth surface of the bedsheets, as if she still did so every morning.
It had been months since she’d allowed her body to move like this. In the wake of her diagnosis, she’d known that she still could have attended ballet classes. Just because she could no longer dance professionally didn’t mean she had to give it up entirely. She could still have taken a class every so often. Perhaps even taught children.
She’d known all this in her head. Her head, though, wasn’t the problem. The true obstacle was her battered and world-weary heart.
How could she have slid her feet into ballet shoes knowing she’d never perform again? Ballet had been her love. Her whole life. Not something that could be relegated to an hour or so here and there. She’d missed it, though. God, how she’d missed it. Like a severed limb. And now, only now—tangled in bedsheets and bittersweet afterglow—did she realize just how large the hole in her life had become in these past few months. But as much as she’d needed ballet, she’d need this more. This.
Him.
She’d needed to be touched. To be loved. She’d needed Artem.
And now...
Now it had to be over.
She squeezed her eyes closed, searching for sleep, wishing she could fall back into the velvet comfort of night. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready for the harsh light of morning or the loss that would come with the rising sun. She wasn’t ready for goodbye.
This couldn’t happen again. It absolutely could not. No amount of wishing or hoping or imagining could have prepared her for the reality of Artem making love to her. Now she knew. And that knowledge was every bit as crippling as her physical ailments.
I’m not really a Drake, Ophelia.
Last night had been more than physical. So much more. She’d danced for him. She’d shown him a part of herself that was now hers and hers alone. A tender, aching secret. And in return, he’d revealed himself to her. The real Artem Drake. How many people knew that man?
Ophelia swallowed around the lump in her throat. Not very many, if anyone, really. She was certain. She’d seen the truth in the sadness of his gaze, felt it in the honesty of his touch. She hadn’t expected such brutal honesty. She hadn’t been prepared for it. She hadn’t thought she would fall. But that’s exactly what had happened, and the descent had been exquisite.
How could she bring herself to walk away when she’d already lost so much?
She blinked back the sting of tears and took a deep breath, noting the way her body felt. Sore, but in a good way. Like she’d exercised parts of herself she hadn’t used in centuries. Her legs, her feet. Her heart.
It beat wildly, with the kind of breathless abandon she’d experienced only when she danced. And every cell in her body, every lost dream she carried inside, cried out, Encore, encore! She closed her eyes and could have sworn she felt rose petals falling against her bare shoulders.
One more day. One more night.
Just one.
With him.
She would allow herself that encore. Then when the weekend was over, everything would go back to normal. Because it had to.
She sat up, searching the suite for signs of Artem. His clothes were still pooled on the floor, as were hers. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the soothing cadence of his voice. Like music.
A melody of longing coursed through her, followed by a soft knock on the door.
“Artem,” Ophelia called out, wrapping herself in the chinchilla blanket at the foot of the bed.
No answer.
“Mr. Drake,” a voice called through the door. “Your breakfast, sir.”
Breakfast. He must have gotten up to order room service. She slid out of bed and padded to the door, catching a glimpse of her reflection in a sleek, silver-framed mirror hanging in the entryway. She looked exactly as she felt—as though she’d been good and thoroughly ravished.
Her cheeks flared with heat as she opened the door to face the waiter, dressed impeccably in a white coat, black trousers and bow tie. If Ophelia hadn’t already been conscious of the fact she was dressed in only a blanket—albeit a fur one—the sight of that bow tie