Lonely?
“Beautiful,” he whispered, and reached to cup her cheek with his hand.
It was the most innocent of touches, but at that first brush of Artem Drake’s skin against hers, Ophelia knew she was in trouble.
So very much trouble.
It took Dalton less than a minute to confirm what Artem already knew.
“These designs are exceptional.” Dalton bent over the round conference table in the corner of their father’s office—now Artem’s office—to get a closer look at Ophelia’s sketches. “Whose work did you say this was?”
Artem shifted in his chair. “Ophelia Rose.”
Even the simple act of saying her name awakened his senses. He was restless, uncomfortably aroused, while doing nothing but sitting across the table from his brother looking at Ophelia’s sketches. He experienced this nonsensical reaction every time she crossed his mind. It was becoming a problem. A big one.
He’d tried to avoid this scenario. Or any scenario that would put the two of them in a room together again. He really had. After their electrically charged meeting in his suite at the Plaza ten days ago, he’d kept to himself as much as possible. He’d barely stuck his head out of his office, despite the fact that every minute he spent between those wood-paneled walls, it seemed as though his father’s ghost was breathing down his neck. It was less than pleasant, to say the least. It had also been the precise reason he’d chosen to meet Ophelia in his suite to begin with.
He’d needed to get out. Away from the store, away from the portrait of his father that hung behind his desk.
Away from the prying eyes of his brother and the rest of the staff, most notably his secretary, who’d been his dad’s assistant for more than a decade before Artem had “inherited” her.
Not that he’d done anything wrong. Ophelia was an employee. There was no reason whatsoever why he shouldn’t meet with her behind closed doors. Doing so didn’t mean there was anything between them other than a professional relationship. Pure business. He hadn’t crossed any imaginary boundary line.
Yet.
He’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. Even if keeping that promise to himself meant that he was chained to his desk from now on. He needed to be able to look at himself in the mirror and know that he hadn’t become the thing he most despised.
His dad.
Of course, there was the matter of the cat. Artem supposed animal adoption wasn’t part of the ordinary course of business. But he could justify that to himself easily enough. Like he’d said, the kitten had been an early Christmas bonus. A little unconventional, perhaps, but not entirely inappropriate.
If he’d tried to deny that he wanted her, he’d have been struck down by a bolt of lightning. Wanting Ophelia didn’t even begin to cover it. He craved her. He needed her. His interest in her went beyond the physical. Beneath her strong exterior, there was a sadness about her that he couldn’t help but identify with. Her melancholy intrigued him, touched a part of him he seldom allowed himself to acknowledge.
Any and all doubt about how badly he needed to touch her had evaporated the moment she’d told him that she didn’t allow herself the pleasure of sexual companionship. Why would she share something so intimate with him? Even more important, why couldn’t he stop thinking about it?
Since their conversation, he’d thought of little else.
Something was holding her back. She’d been hurt somehow, and now she thought she was broken beyond repair. She wasn’t. She was magic. Hope lived in her skin. She just didn’t know it yet. But Artem did. He saw it in the porcelain promise of her graceful limbs. He’d felt it in the way she’d shivered at his touch.
If he’d indeed crossed a forbidden line, it had been the moment he’d reached out and cupped her face. Something electric had passed between them then. There’d been no denying it, which was undoubtedly why she’d promptly gathered her coat and fled.
Artem had made a mistake, but it could have been worse. Far worse. The list of things he’d wanted to do to her in that hotel room while the snow beat against the windows had been endless. He’d exercised more restraint than he’d known he’d possessed. The very idea of a woman like Ophelia remaining untouched was criminal.
Regardless, it wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. And since he could no longer trust himself to have a simple conversation with Ophelia without burying his hands in her wayward hair and kissing her pink peony mouth until she came apart in his hands, he would just avoid her altogether. It was the best way. The only way.
There was just one flaw with that plan. Ophelia’s jewelry designs were good. Too good to ignore. Drake Diamonds needed her, possibly as much as Artem did.
“Ophelia Rose?” Dalton frowned. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because she works here,” Artem said. “In Engagements.”
Dalton waved a hand at the sketches of what she’d called her ballerina diamonds. “She can do this, and we’ve got her working in sales?”
“You have her working in sales.” After all, Artem hadn’t had a thing to do with hiring her. “I’d like to move her to the design team, effective immediately. I’ve been going over the numbers. If we can fast-track the production of a new collection, we might be able to reverse some of the financial damage that Dad did when he bought the mine.”
Some. Not all.
If only they had more time...
“Provided it’s a success, of course,” Dalton said. “It’s a risk.”
“That it is.” But what choice did they have? He’d already investigated auctioning off the Drake Diamond. Even if he went through with it, they needed another course of action. A proactive one that would show the world Drake Diamonds wasn’t in any kind of trouble, especially not the sort of trouble they were actually in.
Over the course of the past ten days, while Artem had been actively trying to forget Ophelia, he’d been doing his level best to come up with a way to overcome the mine disaster. It had been an effective distraction. Almost.
Time and again, he’d found himself coming back to Ophelia’s designs, running his hands along those creamy-white pages of cold-press drawing paper. Obviously, given the attraction he felt toward Ophelia, promoting her was the last thing he should do. Right now, he could move about the store and still manage to keep a chaste distance between them. Working closely with her was hardly an ideal option.
Unfortunately, it happened to be the only option.
“Let’s do it,” Dalton said.
In the shadow of his father’s portrait, Artem nodded his agreement.
* * *
Ten days had passed since Ophelia had shown Artem her jewelry designs. Ten excruciating
