Unfazed, the waiter greeted her with a polite nod and wheeled a cart ladened with silver-domed trays into the foyer of the suite. Clearly, he’d seen this sort of thing before.
Possibly even in this very room, although Ophelia couldn’t bring herself to dwell on that. Just the idea of another woman in Artem’s bed sent a hot spike of jealousy straight to her heart.
He doesn’t belong to you.
He doesn’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to him. One more night. That’s all.
She took a deep breath and pulled the chinchilla tighter around her frame as the waiter arranged everything in a perfect tableau on the dining room table. From the looks of things, Artem had ordered copious amounts of food, coffee and even mimosas. A vase of fragrant pink peonies stood in the center of the table and the morning newspapers were fanned neatly in front of them.
“Mr. Drake’s standard breakfast.” The young man waved at the dining area with a flourish. “May I get you anything else, miss?”
This was Artem’s standard breakfast? What must it be like to live as a Drake?
Ophelia couldn’t even begin to imagine. Nor did she want to. She would never survive that kind of pressure, not to mention the ongoing, continual scrutiny by the press...having your life on constant display for the entire world to see. Last night had been frightening enough, and she hadn’t even been the center of attention. Not really. The press, the people...they’d been interested in the jewelry. And Artem, of course. She’d just been the woman on Artem Drake’s arm. There’d been one reporter who had looked vaguely familiar, but she hadn’t directed a single question at her. Ophelia had been unduly paranoid, just as she had with the bartender.
“Miss?” the waiter said. “Perhaps some hot tea?”
“No, thank you. This all looks...” Her gaze swept over the table and snagged on the cover of Page Six.
Was that a photo of her, splashed above the fold? She stared at it in confusion, trying to figure out why in the world they would crop Artem’s image out of the picture. Only his arm was visible, reaching behind her waist to settle his hand on the small of her back. A wave of dread crashed over her as she searched the headline. And then everything became heart-sickeningly clear.
“Miss?” the waiter prompted again. “You were saying?”
Ophelia blinked. She was too upset to cry. Too upset to even think. “Um, oh, yes. Thank you. Everything looks wonderful.”
She couldn’t keep her voice from catching. She couldn’t seem to think straight. She could barely even breathe.
The waiter excused himself, and Ophelia sank into one of the dining room chairs. A teardrop landed in a wet splat on her photograph. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun to cry.
Everything looks wonderful.
She’d barely been able to get those words out. Nothing was wonderful. Nothing at all.
She closed her eyes and still she saw it. That awful headline. She probably always would. In an instant, the bold black typeface had been seared into her memory.
Fallen Ballet Star Ophelia Baronova Once Again Steps into the Spotlight...
Fallen ballet star. They made it sound like she’d died.
You did. You’re no longer Ophelia Baronova. You’re Ophelia Rose now, remember?
And now everyone would know. Everyone. Including Artem. Maybe he already did.
He’d promised to keep her identity a secret. Surely he wasn’t behind this. Bile rose up the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, along with the last vestiges of the careful, anonymous life she’d managed to build for herself after her diagnosis.
She felt faint. She needed to lie down. But most importantly, she needed to get out of here.
One more night.
Her chest tightened, as if the pretty pink ribbons on her ballet shoes had bound themselves around her heart. There wouldn’t be another night.
Not now.
Not ever.
Beneath the conference table, Artem’s hands clenched in his lap as he sat and watched Ophelia walk into the room on Monday morning. He felt like hitting something. The wall, maybe. How good would it feel to send his fist flying through a bit of Drake Diamonds drywall?
Damn good.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been as angry as he had when he’d finally ended the call with Dalton and strode back to the bedroom, only to find his bed empty. No Ophelia. No more ballet shoes on his night table. Just a lonely, glittering strand of diamonds left behind on the pillow.
He’d been gone a matter of minutes, and she’d left. Without a word.
At first, he simply couldn’t believe it. There wasn’t another woman in all of Manhattan who would dare do such a thing. No other woman had even had the chance. Artem had firm rules about sleepovers. He didn’t partake in them.
Until the other night.
Nothing about his involvement with Ophelia was ordinary, though, was it? Since the moment he’d first spotted her in the kitchen at Drake Diamonds, he’d found himself doing things he’d never before contemplated. Staying on as CEO. Adopting kittens. Exposing dark secrets. He scarcely recognized himself.
He sure hadn’t recognized the man who’d stormed through the penthouse suite, angrily searching for something. A sign, perhaps? Some leftover trinket, a bit of pink ribbon that would ensure that he hadn’t imagined the events of the night before. A reminder that it had all been real. That spellbinding dance. The intensity of their lovemaking...
Then he’d seen the newspaper lying on the dining table, and he’d known.
She’d been the cover story on Page Six, and the article had been less than discreet. Worse, Ophelia had clearly seen it before he’d had a chance to warn her. The newsprint had been wet with what he assumed were tears, the paper still damp as it trembled in his hands. He must have missed her getaway by a matter of seconds.
“Mr. Drake.” Without quite meeting his gaze, Ophelia nodded as she entered the room.
So they were back to formalities, were they? It took every ounce of his self-control not to remind her that the last time they’d seen one another, they’d both been naked. And gloriously sated.
Just imagining it made him go instantly hard, which did nothing to soothe his irritation.
“Miss Rose,” he said, sounding colder than he’d intended. “Or should I call you Miss Baronova?”
She went instantly pale. “I prefer Miss Rose.”
“Just checking.” Artem did his best impression of a careless shrug.
He did care, actually. That was the problem. He cared far too much.
Multiple sclerosis.
My God, how had he not known she was sick? How had he looked into those haunted eyes as he’d buried himself inside her and not realized it?
Artem was ashamed to admit that although he’d donated money to the National MS Society and even attended a few of their galas, his knowledge of the condition was less than thorough. He’d spent a good portion of the weekend online familiarizing himself with its symptoms and prognosis.
The article in Page Six had offered little hope and predicted that Ophelia would eventually end up in a wheelchair. Artem found this conclusion wholly beyond his comprehension. The idea that she would never dance again was impossible for him to accept. And it made the gift she’d given him all the more precious.
The