as if Artem had something to say.
Artem let out a laugh. “Surely you’re not suggesting that he told me about it.”
His brother sighed. “I suppose not, although I wish he had. I wish someone had stopped him. It doesn’t matter, anyway. What’s done is done. The mine was a bust. It’s worthless, and now it’s put the business in a rather precarious position.”
“Precarious? Exactly how much did he spend on this mine?”
Dalton took too long to answer. He exhaled a slow, measured breath and finally said, “Three billion.”
“Three billion dollars.” Artem blinked. That was a lot of money. An astronomical amount, even to a man who lived on the eighteenth floor of the Plaza and flew his own Boeing business jet, which, ironically enough, Artem used for pleasure far more than he did for business. “The company has billions in assets, though. If not trillions.”
“Yes, but not all those assets are liquid. With the loss from the mine, we’re sitting at a twenty-five million dollar deficit. We need to figure something out.”
We. Since when did any of the Drakes consider Artem part of a we?
He should just get up and walk right out of Dalton’s office. He didn’t owe the Drakes a thing.
Somehow, though, his backside remained rooted to the spot. “What about the diamond?”
“The diamond? The Drake diamond?” Dalton shook his head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I know you’re not one for sentimentality, brother, but even you wouldn’t suggest that we sell the Drake diamond.”
Actually, he would. “It’s a rock, Dalton. A pretty rock, but a rock nonetheless.”
Dalton shook his head so hard that Artem thought it might snap clear off his neck. “It’s a piece of history. Our family name was built on that rock.”
Our family name. Right.
Artem cleared his throat. “How much is it worth?”
“It doesn’t matter, because we’re not selling it.”
“How much, Dalton? As your superior, I demand that you tell me.” It was a low blow. Artem would have liked to think that a small part of him didn’t get a perverse sort of pleasure from throwing his position in Dalton’s face, but it did. So be it.
“Fifty million dollars,” Dalton said. “But I repeat, it’s not for sale, and it never will be.”
Never.
If Artem had learned one thing since becoming acquainted with his father—since being “welcomed” into the Drake fold—it was that never was an awfully strong word. “That’s not your call, though, is it, brother?”
* * *
Ophelia hadn’t planned on stopping by the animal shelter on the way home from work. She had, after all, already volunteered three times this week. Possibly four. She’d lost count.
She couldn’t go home yet, though. Not after the day she’d had. Dealing with all the happily engaged couples was bad enough, but she was growing accustomed to it. She didn’t have much of a choice, did she? But the unexpected encounter with Artem Drake had somehow thrown her completely off-kilter.
It wasn’t only the embarrassment of getting caught inhaling one of the fifteen dollar petits fours that had gotten her so rattled. It was him. Artem.
Mr. Drake. Not Artem. He’s your boss, not your friend. Or anything else.
He wasn’t even her boss anymore, she supposed. Which was for the best. Obviously. She hadn’t exactly made a glowing first impression. Now she could start over with whoever took his place. So really, there was no logical reason for the acute tug of disappointment she’d felt when he’d told her about his plans to resign. None whatsoever.
There was also no logical reason that she’d kept looking around all afternoon for a glimpse of him as he exited the building. Nor for the way she’d gone all fluttery when she’d caught a flash of tuxedoed pant leg beyond the closing elevator doors after her shift had ended. It hadn’t been Artem, anyway. Just another, less dashing man dressed to the nines.
What was her problem, anyway? She was acting as though she’d never met a handsome man before. Artem Drake wasn’t merely handsome, though. He was charming.
Too charming. Dangerously so.
Ophelia had felt uncharacteristically vulnerable in the presence of all that charm. Raw. Empty. And acutely aware of all that she’d lost, all that she’d never have.
She couldn’t go home to the apartment she’d inherited from her grandmother. She couldn’t spend another evening sifting through her grandmother’s things—the grainy black-and-white photographs, her tattered pointe shoes. Her grandmother had been the only family that Ophelia had known since the tender age of two, when a car accident claimed the lives of her parents. Natalia Baronova had been more than a grandparent. She’d been Ophelia’s world. Her mother figure, her best friend and her ballet teacher.
She’d died a week before Ophelia’s diagnosis. As much as Ophelia had needed someone to lean on in those first dark days, she’d been grateful that the great Natalia Baronova, star ballerina of Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in the 1940s and ’50s, died without the knowledge that her beloved granddaughter would never dance again.
“Ophelia?” Beth, the shelter manager, shook her head and planted her hands on her hips as Ophelia slipped off her coat and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. “Again? I didn’t see your name on the volunteer schedule for this evening.”
“It’s not. But I thought you could use an extra pair of hands.” Ophelia flipped through the notebook that contained the animals’ daily feeding schedule.
“You know better than anybody we always need help around here, but surely you have somewhere else to be on a Friday night.”
Nowhere, actually. “You know how much I enjoy spending time with the animals.” Plus, the shelter was now caring for a litter of eight three-week-old kittens that had to be bottle-fed every three hours. The skimpy volunteer staff could barely keep up, especially now that the city was blanketed with snow. People liked to stay home when it snowed. And that meant at any given moment, one of the kittens was hungry.
Beth nodded. “I know, love. Just be careful. I’d hate for you to ruin that pretty dress you’re wearing.”
The dress had belonged to Ophelia’s grandmother. In addition to mountains of dance memorabilia, she’d left behind a gorgeous collection of vintage clothing. Like the apartment, it had been a godsend. When she’d been dancing, Ophelia had lived in a leotard and tights. Most days, she’d even worn her dance clothes to school, since she’d typically had to go straight from rehearsal to class at the New York School of Design. She couldn’t very well show up to work at Drake Diamonds dressed in a wraparound sweater, pink tights and leg warmers.
Neither could she simply go out and buy a whole new work wardrobe. Between her student loan bills and the exorbitant cost of the biweekly injections to manage her MS, she barely made ends meet. Plus there were the medical bills from that first, awful attack, before she’d even known why the vision out of her left eye sometimes 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