The Drake Diamonds

Her breath caught in her throat, and the ache between her legs grew almost too torturous to bear. What was happening to her? The feeling that she’d had in the limo was coming back—the desire, the need. Only this time, she didn’t think she had the power to resist it. It was the shoes. They’d unearthed a boldness in her. Ophelia Baronova was struggling to break through, like cream rising to the top of a decadent dessert.

The shoes in her hands felt like a sign. A sign that she could have everything she wanted.

Just this once.

One last time.

Another dance. Another chance.

Intermission came too soon. Ophelia’s head was still filled with Mozart and dark decadence when the lights went up. She turned to face Artem and found him watching her again.

“What do you think?” he whispered, and the atypical hoarseness in his voice scraped her insides with shameless longing.

Just this once.

“I think when this is over—” she leaned closer, like a ballerina bending toward her partner “—I want to dance for you.”

Chapter Seven

A better man would have stopped her.

A better man would have asked the limo driver to take her back to her apartment instead of sitting beside her in silent, provocative consent as the car sped through the snowy Manhattan streets toward the Plaza. A better man wouldn’t have selected Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 21 once they’d reached the penthouse and she’d asked him to turn on some music.

But Artem wasn’t a better man. And he couldn’t have done things differently even if his overindulgent life had depended on it.

Instead he sat in the darkened suite watching as she slipped on the ballet shoes she’d chosen at Lincoln Center, and wound the long pink ribbons around her slender ankles. He could feel the music pulsing dead center in his chest. Or maybe that rhythmic ache was simply a physical embodiment of the anticipation that had taken hold of him since she’d leaned into him at intermission, eyes ablaze, face flushed with barely contained passion.

I want to dance for you.

Artem would hear those words in his darkest fantasies until the day he died.

“Are you ready, Mr. Drake?” Ophelia asked, settling in the center of the room with her heels together, toes pointing outward and willowy arms softly rounded.

So damned ready.

He nodded. “Proceed, Miss Rose.”

The lights of Fifth Avenue drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting colorful shadows between them. When Ophelia began to move, gliding with slow, sweeping footsteps, she looked almost like she was waltzing through the rainbow facets of a brilliant cut gemstone. Outside the windows, snow swirled against the glass in a hushed assault. But a slow-burning simmer had settled in Artem’s veins that the fiercest blizzard couldn’t have cooled. His penthouse in the sky had never seemed so far removed from the real world. Here, now, it was only the two of them. He and Ophelia. Nothing else.

No other people. No ghosts. No rules.

I want to dance for you.

The moment Ophelia rose up on tiptoe, Artem knew that whatever was transpiring before him wasn’t about ballet. This was more than dance. So much more. It was passion and heat and life. It was sex. Maybe even more than that.

The only thing Artem knew with absolute certainty was that sitting in the dark watching the adagio grace of Ophelia dancing for him was the single most erotic moment he’d ever experienced.

It was almost too much. The sultry swish of her ballerina dress, the exquisite bend of her back, the dizzying pink motion of her pointed feet—all of it. Artem had to fight against every impulse he possessed in order to stay put, to let her finish, when all he wanted was to rise out of his chair, crush his lips to hers and make love to her to the timeless strains of Mozart.

To keep himself from doing just that, he maintained a vise grip on the arms of the leather chair. Ophelia fluttered past him on tiptoe with her eyes closed and her lips softly parted, so close that the hem of her skirt brushed against his knee. Artem’s erection swelled to the point of pain. Had he been standing, his arousal would have crippled him. Dragged him to his knees. For a moment, he even thought he saw stars. Then he realized the flash of light came from the diamonds around Ophelia’s neck.

It didn’t occur to Artem to wonder about the shoes or how she’d known they would fit. Nor did he ask himself how she could move this way. Questioning anything about this moment would have been like questioning a miracle. A gift.

Because that’s what she’d given him.

Every turn of her wrist, every fluid arm movement, every step of her pink satin feet was a priceless gift. Then she stopped directly in front of him and began a dizzying sequence of elaborate turns, and he swore he could feel the force of each jackknife kick of her leg dead center in his heart. He could no longer breathe.

Artem wasn’t sure how long Ophelia danced for him. Somehow it felt like both the longest moment of his life and, at the same time, the most fleeting. He only knew that when the music came to an end, she stood before him breathless and beautiful, with her breasts heaving and her porcelain skin glistening with exertion. And he knew that he’d never witnessed such beauty in his life. He doubted he ever would again.

Without breaking her gaze from his, Ophelia lowered herself into a deep curtsy. At last—at long last—Artem rose and closed the distance between them. As gently as he could manage while every cell in his body throbbed with desire, he took her hand in his and lifted her to her feet.

She rose up on the very tips of her toes, so that they were nearly eye level. When she smiled, it occurred to Artem that he’d never seen her so happy, so full of joy. Even her eyes danced.

He glanced down at her feet and the satiny pink ribbons that crisscrossed her ankles in a neat X.

“I used to be a dancer,” she whispered, by way of explanation.

Used to be? Used to be was ridiculous. Artem didn’t know what had happened in her past, but something clearly had. Something devastating. It didn’t matter what that something was. He wasn’t about to let it steal anything from her. Or make her believe she was anything else less than what she was.

“No.” He took her chin in his hand. “Ophelia, you are a dancer.”

Her eyes filled, and a single tear slipped down her lovely cheek. Artem wiped it away with the pad of this thumb.

He wished he had a bouquet of roses to place in her arms. Petals to scatter at her feet. She deserved that much. That much and more. But all he had to offer was the ovation rising in his soul. So he did what little he could. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss there.

“Artem.” With a waver in her voice, she took a backward step, out of his reach.

For a single, agonizing moment, he thought she was going to run away again. To glide right out of the penthouse on her pink-slippered feet. He wouldn’t let her. Not this time.

She didn’t run, though. Nor did she say a word.

She simply reached her lithe arms behind her and unfastened the bodice of her strapless gown. Artem felt like he lived and died a thousand petite morts in the time it took her dress to fall away. It landed on his floor in a whispery puff of tulle, right where it belonged, as far as he was concerned.

She was gloriously naked, save for the diamonds around her neck, just as he’d imagined. Only no fantasy could have prepared him for the exquisite sight of her delicate curves, her rose-tipped breasts and all that marble-white flesh set off to perfection by the glittering jewels and the pink satin ribbons wrapped round her legs.

“Ophelia, my God.” He swallowed. “You’re beautiful.”

* * *

Who is this woman I’ve become?

By putting on the shoes and dancing again, Ophelia had thought she could be her old self just for a moment. Just for a night. But this bold woman standing in front of Artem Drake and offering herself in every possible way wasn’t Ophelia Baronova any more than she was Ophelia Rose. This was someone she didn’t recognize. Someone she’d never had the courage to be.

Someone who actually believed Artem when he called her beautiful.

She felt beautiful, adorned in nothing but diamonds and pink satin shoes. Beautiful. And alive.

And aching.

She needed him to touch her. Really touch her. She needed it so much that she was on the verge of taking his hand and placing it exactly where she wanted it.

She stepped out of the pile of tulle on the floor and went to him, feeling his gaze hot on her exposed skin. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, rose up en pointe and touched her lips ever so gently to his.

Artem let out a long, agonized groan, and to Ophelia, the sound was sweeter than Mozart. She’d never had such an effect on a man before. She’d never considered herself capable of it. And now that she knew she could—on this man, in particular—it was like a drug. She wanted to see him lose control, for once. She wanted him as raw and needy as she felt.

She got her wish.

His tongue parted her lips and he kissed her violently. Hard enough to bruise her mouth. He pulled her against him, and it seemed wholly impossible that this could be their first kiss. Their lips were made for this. For worshipping one another.

God, was it supposed to feel this way? So deliciously dirty?

She slid against him, reveling in the sensation of his wool tuxedo against her bare skin. Her eyes fluttered open as his mouth moved lower, biting and licking its way down her neck until he found her nipples. She cried out when he took her breast in his mouth, and a hot ribbon of need seemed to unspool from her nipple to between her legs. In the glossy surface of the snow-battered window, she caught a glimpse of their reflection and was stunned by what she saw—her bare body writhing against Artem, who had yet to shed a single article of clothing.

Before she could bring herself to feel an ounce of shame, he gathered her in his arms and carried her to his massive bed, that blanketed wonderland that had so intimidated her the first time she’d been here. Had it been only fourteen days ago that they’d sworn to one another they had no desire to sleep together?

She’d been lying then. Lying through her teeth. Ophelia had wanted this since the moment she’d set eyes on Artem Drake. No, not this. Not exactly. Because she hadn’t known anything like this existed.

She struggled to catch her breath as Artem set her down on the impossibly soft sheets. Then he leaned over her and kissed her again, with long, slow thrusts of his tongue now, as if his body was telling her they had all the time in the world and he intended to make good use of every wanton second. As his hands found her hair and unwound her ballerina bun, she couldn’t stop touching his face—his perfect cheekbones, his chiseled jaw and that secret place where his dimple flashed in those rare, unguarded moments when he smiled. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen, looking down at her as if he’d been waiting for this moment as long as she had. It hardly seemed possible.

He wound a finger in the diamonds around her neck and grinned as wickedly as the devil himself. “My grace.”

Ophelia balled the sheets in her fists, for fear she might float away. Everything seemed to be happening so fast, yet somehow not quickly enough. She wasn’t sure how long she could survive the heavenly warmth flowing through her. It was beginning to bear down on her. Hot and insistent. Then Artem moved his hand lower, and lower still, drawing a tremulous, invisible line down her body, until with a gentle touch he parted her and slipped his fingers inside her.

“Oh,” she purred, in a voice she’d never heard come out of her mouth.

“Ophelia, open your eyes. Look at me.”

She obeyed and found him watching her, his gaze filled with dark intention. His hand began moving faster. Harder, until she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

Before she knew what was happening, he’d begun kissing his way down her body. And were those really her breasts, arching obscenely toward his mouth? And were those her thighs, pressed together, holding his hand in place?

Yes, yes they were. Artem’s touch had made her a slave to sensation. She’d lost all ability to control her body, this body she’d once moved with such perfect precision.

Then his mouth was poised over her center, and she found she couldn’t breathe for wanting.

“Please,” she whimpered. Oh, please.

She wasn’t even sure what she was begging for. Just some kind of relief from this exquisite torture.

“Shh,” Artem murmured, and his breath fluttered over her, causing a fresh wave of heat to pool between her legs. It was excruciating. “I’m here, kitten.”

Kitten.

Oh, God.

He pressed a tender kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, and the graze of his five o’clock shadow against her sensitive, secret places nearly sent her over the edge.

Then his mouth was on her, kissing, licking, tasting, and it was too much. She suddenly felt too exposed, too vulnerable. She was drowning in pleasure, and she knew that if she let it pull her under, there would be no turning back. No forgetting.

How could she return to normal life after this? How could she live the rest of her life alone, knowing what she was missing?

“Relax, kitten,” Artem said in a hoarse whisper. He sounded every bit as wild and desperate as she felt. “I want to see you come. Let go.”

He slipped a finger inside her again and she closed her eyes, tangled her fingers in his hair and held on for dear life. She didn’t want to lose this moment to worry and fear. She wanted to stay. Here.

In this bed.

With this man.

So she did it. She let go. And the instant she stopped fighting it and let the blissful tide sweep her away, she shattered.

Stars exploded behind her eyes and she went completely and utterly liquid. She felt like she was blossoming from the very center of her being, and for the first time, the concept of petite mort made sense. Little death. Because it was like she’d died and gone someplace else. Somewhere dreamlike and enchanted. She could feel herself throbbing against Artem’s hand, and it seemed as though he held her entire life force, every heartbeat she’d ever had, in the tips of his fingers.

And still he lapped and stroked, prolonging her pleasure, until it began to build again. Which seemed wholly unbelievable. She wouldn’t survive it again. So soon? Was that even possible?

“Artem,” she protested, even as she arched beneath him, seeking it again, that place of impossible light. Wanting him to take her there.

“Yes, kitten?” He pressed a butterfly-soft kiss to her belly and stood.

Ophelia had come completely apart, and there he was. Still fully dressed in a tuxedo, with his bow tie crooked just a fraction of an inch. He looked like he could have just walked out of a black-tie board of directors meeting...aside from the impressive erection straining the confines of his fly.

Ophelia swallowed. Hard. She needed to see him, to feel him.

Now.

She rose up on her knees and ran her hands over the expanse of his muscular chest. He cupped her breasts and pressed a kiss to her hair as she slid her palms under his lapels and pushed his jacket down his arms. It landed on the floor with a soft thud.

“Are you undressing me, Miss Rose?” he growled, and bent to take a nipple in his mouth. That crimson ribbon of need unwound inside her again, and she arched into him.

“I am.” She sighed, dispensing with his shirt as quickly as she could manage. One of his cuff links flew off and bounced across the floor. Neither of them batted an eye.

She had no idea what she was doing. She’d never undressed a man in her life, but she was no longer nervous, hesitant or the slightest bit bashful. He’d unlocked something in her. Something no man had ever come close to discovering. Something wild and free.

She unzipped his fly and slid her hand inside, freeing him. He was hard—harder than she’d imagined he could possibly be—and big. Intimidatingly big. But the weight of his erection in her hands sent a thrill skittering up her spine.

She linked her gaze with Artem’s and stroked him. He moaned, and his eyes went dark. Dreamy. Bedroom eyes, she thought. Watching him watch her as she pleasured him made her head spin. As if she’d done too many pirouettes. Ophelia’s pulse pounded in the hollow of her throat, right where Princess Grace’s diamonds nestled.

When she bent to take him in her mouth, Artem’s hands found her hair. He wound her curls around his fingers and she could feel a shudder pass through him as surely as if it had passed through her own body. After this, after tonight, they would be tied to one another. Forever. Years from now, when her condition grew worse and she could no longer dance or even walk, she would remember this night. She would remember that she had once been cherished and adored. And when she closed her eyes and came back to this bed in her dreams, the face she would see in those stolen moments would be Artem’s.

He might forget her someday. He probably would. There would be other women in his life, other mistresses. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that making love to her would change anything for him.

But it would change everything for her. It already had. He already had.

“Oh, kitten...” He hissed, and his fists tightened their grip on her hair.

She looked at up him. She wanted to etch this moment in memory. To somehow make it permanent.

He pulled her back up to her knees on the bed and rested his forehead against hers. “I need to be inside you,” he whispered.

A knot lodged in her throat. Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, she nodded. Yes, yes please.

Then he was on top of her, covering her with the heat of his perfectly hard, perfectly male body. He stroked her face and kissed her closed eyelids as his arousal nudged at her center.

Ophelia had expected passion. She’d expected frenzy. And Artem had given her those things in spades. But this unexpected tenderness was more than she could bear. Then he groaned as he pushed inside, and she realized exactly how unprepared she’d been for the dangers of making love to Artem Drake.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Remember.

Remember.

Remember.

Then with a mighty thrust, he pushed the rest of the way inside and Ophelia knew there would be no forgetting.

How could she ever forget the way the muscular planes of his beautiful body felt beneath her fingertips, or the glimmer of pleasured pain in his dark eyes, or the catch in her throat when at last he entered her? And the fullness, the exquisite fullness. She felt complete. Whole. Healed.

She knew it didn’t make sense, and yet somehow it did. With Artem moving inside her, everything made sense. Because in that moment of sweet euphoria, nothing else mattered. Not her past, not her future, not even her disease. Nothing and no one else existed. Just she and Artem.

Which was the sort of thing someone in love would think.

But she wasn’t in love with him. She couldn’t be in love. With anyone. Least of all Artem Drake.

This was lust. This was desire. It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Could it?

No. Please no. No, no, no.

“Yes,” Artem groaned, gazing down at her with an intensity that made her heart feel like it was ripping in half. Two pieces. Before and after.

“Yes,” she whispered in return, and she felt herself nodding as she undulated beneath him, even as she told herself it wasn’t true.

You don’t love him. You can’t.

She could feel Artem’s heartbeat crashing against hers. She was free-falling again, lost in sensation and liquid pleasure. Her breath grew quicker and quicker still. She looked into his eyes, yearning, searching, and found they held the answers to all the questions she’d ever had. Somewhere behind him, snow whirled in dreamlike motion as he reached between their joined bodies to stroke her.

“Die with me, Ophelia,” he whispered.

La petite mort.

Die with me.

With those final words, she perished once again and fell alongside Artem Drake into beautiful oblivion.

Chapter Eight

Artem slept like the dead.

Hours later, he woke to find Ophelia’s shapely legs entwined with his and the pink ballet shoes still on her feet. Moonlight streamed through the windows, casting her porcelain skin in a luminescent glow. He felt as though he had a South Sea pearl resting in his arms.

What in the world had happened? He’d done the one thing he’d vowed he wouldn’t do.

He wound a lock of Ophelia’s hair around his fingers and watched the snow cast dancing shadows over her bare body. God, she was beautiful. Artem had seen a lot of beauty in his life—dazzling diamonds, precious gemstones from every corner of the earth. But nothing he’d ever experienced compared to holding Ophelia in his arms. She was infinitely more beautiful than the diamonds that still decorated her swan-like neck. Thinking about it made his chest ache in a way that would have probably worried him if he allowed himself to think about it too much.

There would be time for thinking later. Later, when he had to sit across a desk from her at Drake Diamonds and not reach for her. Later, when all eyes were on the two of them and he’d have to pretend he hadn’t been inside her. Later, when he walked into his office and saw the portrait of his father.

He wasn’t Geoffrey Drake. Artem may have crossed a line, but that didn’t make him his father. He refused to let himself believe such a thing. Especially not now, with Ophelia’s golden mane spilled over his pillow and her heart beating softly against his.

He let his gaze travel the length of her body, taking its fill. Arousal pulsed through him. Fast and hard. What had gotten into him? She’d reduced him to a randy teenager. Insatiable.

He should let her rest awhile. And should remove the pointe shoes from her feet so she could walk come morning.

He slipped out of bed, trying not to wake her, and gingerly took one of her feet in his hands. He untied the ribbon from around her ankle, and the pink satin slipped like water through his fingers. As gently as he could, he slid the shoe off her foot. She let out a soft sigh, but within seconds her beautiful breasts once again rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of sleep.

Artem cradled the pointe shoe in his hands for a moment, marveling at how something so lovely and delicate in appearance could support a woman standing on the tips of her toes. He closed his eyes and remembered Ophelia moving and turning across his living room. Poetry in motion.

He opened his eyes, set her shoe down on the bedside table and went to work removing the other one. It slipped off as quietly and easily as the first.

As he turned to place it beside its mate he caught a glimpse of something inside. Script that looked oddly like handwriting. He took a closer look, folding back the edges of pink satin to expose the shoe’s inner arch.

Sure enough, someone had written something there.

Giselle, June 1. Ophelia Baronova’s final performance.

Artem grew very still.

Ophelia Baronova?

Ophelia.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. That he knew with the utmost certainty. It wasn’t exactly a commonplace name. Besides, it explained why the shoes had fit. How she’d known she could dance in them. On some level, he’d known all along. Tonight hadn’t been some strange balletic Cinderella episode. These were Ophelia’s shoes. They always had been.

It explained so much, and at the same time, it raised more questions.

He studied the sublimely beautiful woman in his bed. Who was she? Who was she really?

He fixed his gaze once again on the words carefully inscribed in the shoe.

Baronova.