The Drake Diamonds

It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Very much.

“That’s actually Ophelia’s favorite cat you have there.” Beth smiled.

“She’s awfully sweet,” Artem’s date cooed.

Ophelia felt sick all of a sudden. What if Artem’s companion adopted it? Her cat? She took a deep breath and fought against the image that sprang to her mind of the woman and Artem in the back of a stretch limo with the white kitten nestled between them. Did everything in life have to be so unfair?

“Is it now?” Artem slid his gaze toward Ophelia. “Your favorite?”

She nodded. There was no sense denying it, especially since she had that odd transparent feeling again. Like he could see straight into her heart.

“I keep insisting Ophelia should adopt her.” An awkward smile creased Beth’s face. Artem’s date still had a firm grip on the kitten. Clearly, Beth was hinting that Ophelia needed to speak now or forever hold her peace.

She needed to get out of here before she did something monumentally stupid like snatch the kitten out of the woman’s arms.

“I should be going.” Ophelia stood and returned the tiny orange kitten to the incubator. “It was lovely seeing you again, Mr. Drake. Beth.”

She nodded at Artem’s date, whose name she still didn’t know, and kept her gaze glued to the floor so she wouldn’t have to see the kitten purring away in the woman’s arms.

Artem ignored Ophelia’s farewell altogether and looked right past her, toward Beth. “How much is the kitten? I’d like to purchase it for Miss Rose.”

What?

“That would be delightful, Mr. Drake. The adoption fee is fifty dollars, but of course we’ll waive it for one of our generous donors.” Beth beamed.

Artem plucked the kitten out of his date’s arms. Ophelia had to give the woman credit; she didn’t hesitate to hand over the cat, but kept a firm grip on Artem’s bicep. Ophelia felt like reassuring her. He’s all yours. She wasn’t going home with her former boss.

Nor was she going home with the kitten. “Mr. Drake, I need to have a word with you. Alone.”

Beth weaved her arm around Artem’s date’s elbow and peeled her away. “Come with me, dear. I’ll give you a tour of our facility.”

Beth gave Ophelia a parting wink as she ushered the woman out the door toward the large kennels. Surely she wasn’t trying to play matchmaker. That would have been absurd. Then again, everything about this situation was absurd.

Ophelia crossed her arms and glared at Artem. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He shrugged. “Buying you a cat. Consider it an early Christmas bonus. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“No.” She shook her head.

Was he insane? And did he have to stand there, looking so unbelievably hot in that tuxedo, while he stroked the kitten like he was Mr. December in a billionaires-with-baby-animals wall calendar?

“No?” His blue eyes went steely. Clearly, he’d never heard such a sentiment come out of a woman’s mouth before.

“No. Thank you. It’s a generous gesture, but...” She glanced at the kitten. Big mistake. Her delicate little nose quivered. She looked impossibly helpless and tiny snuggled against Artem’s impressive chest. How was Ophelia supposed to say no to that face? How was she supposed to say no to him? She cleared her throat. “...but no.”

He looked distinctly displeased.

Let him be angry. Ophelia would never even see him again. That’s what you thought this morning, too. She lifted her chin. “I really should be going. And you should get back to your date.”

“My date?” He smiled one of those suggestive smiles again, and Ophelia’s insides went instantly molten. Damn him. “Is that what this is about? You’re not jealous, are you, Miss Rose?”

Yes. To her complete and utter mortification, she was. She’d been jealous since he’d waltzed through the door with another woman on his arm. What had gotten into her?

She rolled her eyes. “Hardly.”

“I’m not quite sure I believe you.”

Ophelia sighed. “Why are you doing this?”

“What exactly is it that I’m doing?”

“Being nice.” She swallowed. She felt like crying all of a sudden, and she couldn’t. If she did, she might not ever stop. “Trying to buy me a cat.”

He shrugged. “The cat needs a home, and you like her. Why shouldn’t you have her?”

There were so many reasons that even if Ophelia wanted to list them all, she wouldn’t have known where to start. “I told you. I can’t.”

Artem angled his head. “Can’t or won’t?”

He’d thrown back at her her own words from their encounter at Drake Diamonds, which made Ophelia bite back a smile. The man was too charming for his own good. “Mr. Drake, as much as I’d love to, I cannot adopt that cat.”

He took a step closer to her, so close that Ophelia suddenly had trouble taking a breath, much less forming a valid argument for not taking the kitten she so desperately wanted. Then he reached for her hand, took it in his and placed it on the supple curve of the cat’s spine.

The kitty mewed in recognition, and Artem moved their linked hands through her silky soft fur in long, measured strokes. Ophelia had to bite her lip to keep from crying. Why was he doing this? Why did he care?

“She likes you,” he said. And as if he could read her mind, he added, “Something tells me you two need each other. You come here nearly every day. You want this kitten. You need her, but you won’t let yourself have her. Why not?”

Because what would happen if Ophelia had another attack?

No, not if. When. Her illness was officially called relapsing-remitting MS, characterized by episodic, clearly defined attacks, each one more neurologically devastating than the last. Ophelia never knew when the next one would come. A year from now? A month? A day? What would she do with the cat then, when she was too sick to care for it?

The kitten purred, and the sensation vibrated warmth through Ophelia’s hand, still covered with Artem’s. God, this was tortuous. She jerked her hand away. “Mr. Drake, I—”

Before she could say another word of protest, he cut her off. “I’ll adopt the cat. You take care of her for me, and I’ll give you your meeting,” he said.

His voice had lost any hint of empathy. He sounded angry again, as if she’d forced him into making such a suggestion.

“My meeting?” She swallowed. It would have been an offer too good to be true, if it were possible. Thank God it wasn’t. “And how are you going to arrange such a meeting, now that you no longer work at Drake Diamonds?”

“I’m a Drake, remember?” As if she could forget. “And there’s been a change of plans. I do, in fact, still work there.”

“Oh,” she said, stunned. “I don’t understand.”

He offered no explanation, just handed her the kitten.

She held out her arms without thinking. What was happening? She hadn’t agreed to his ludicrous proposition, had she? “Wait. If you didn’t resign, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means I’m still your boss.” He turned on his heel and brushed past her toward the kennels. He was leaving, just like that? He paused with his hand on the door. “Take that cat home with you, Miss Rose. I trust I’ll see you tomorrow in my office?”

She couldn’t let him manipulate her like this. At best, it was unprofessional. At worst...well, she didn’t even want to contemplate the worst-case scenario. She could not take the kitten, no matter how much she wanted to. Even temporarily. She couldn’t be Artem Drake’s cat sitter. She absolutely couldn’t.

He stood there staring at her with his penetrating gaze, as if they were engaged in some sort of sexy staring contest.

One that Ophelia had no chance of winning.

“Fine.”

Chapter Three

Artem arrived at Drake Diamonds the next morning before the store even opened, which had to be some kind of personal record. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there during off-hours. If he ever had.

Dalton, on the other hand, had been making a regular practice of it for most of his life. In recent years, for work. Naturally. But back when they’d been teenagers, when Dalton had been more human and less workaholic robot, Artem’s brother had gotten caught with a girlfriend in the middle of the night, in the middle of the first-floor showroom, in flagrante delicto.

It remained Artem’s favorite story about his brother, even if it marked the moment when he’d discovered that Dalton had been the only Drake heir who’d been entrusted with a key to the family business while still in prep school.

He wished it hadn’t mattered. But it had. In truth, it still did, even though those feelings had nothing to do with the business itself.

He’d never had any interest in hanging around the shop on Fifth Avenue. To the other Drakes, it was a shrine. To the world, it was a historic institution. Drake Diamonds had been part of the Manhattan landscape since its crowded, busy streets teemed with horse-drawn carriages. To young Artem, it had always simply been his father’s workplace.

And now it was his. Same building, same office, same godforsaken desk.

What was he doing? Dalton didn’t need him. Not really. Wasn’t his brother in a better position to save the company? Dalton was the one familiar with the ins and outs of the business. His bedroom in Lenox Hill was probably wallpapered with balance sheets.

All Dalton’s life, he’d worn his position as a Drake like a mantle, whereas to Artem it had begun to feel like a straitjacket. Now that his father was gone, there was no reason why he couldn’t simply shrug it off and move on with his life. In addition to his recent promotion, he’d been left a sizable inheritance. Sizable enough that he could walk away from his PR position with the company and never again have his photo taken at another dull social event if he so chose. There was no reason in the world he should willingly get out of bed at an ungodly predawn hour so he could walk to the store and sit behind his father’s desk.

Yet here he was, climbing out of the back of his black town car on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.

He told himself that his decision to stay on as CEO, at least temporarily, had nothing to do with Ophelia. Because that would be preposterous.

Yes, she was lovely. Beyond lovely, with her fathomless eyes, hair like spun gold and her willowy, fluid grace. And yes, he’d lost more sleep than he cared to admit thinking about what it would feel like to have those impossibly graceful legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself inside her.

Her simplest gestures utterly beguiled him. Innocent movements, like the turn of her wrist, made him want to do wholly inappropriate things. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her wrists like a diamond cuff bracelet, pin her arms over her head and trace the exquisite length of her neck with his tongue. He wanted that more than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

Artem was no stranger to passion. He’d experienced desire before, but not like this. Nothing like this.

He found it frustrating. And quite baffling, particularly when he found himself doing things like sitting behind a desk, adopting animals and dismissing a perfectly good date, choosing instead to go home and get in bed before midnight. Alone.

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.