occasion when he did, he’d seemed to see right through her. And morning after morning, he kept showing up on Page Six. A different day, a different woman on his arm. It was a never-ending cycle. The man went through women like water.
Which made it all the more frustrating that every time Ophelia closed her eyes, she heard his voice. And all those bewitching things he’d said to her.
A woman needs to be adored, Ophelia. She needs to be cherished, worshipped.
Touched.
Ophelia had even begun to wonder if maybe he was right. Maybe she did need those things. Maybe the ache she felt every time she found herself in the company of Artem Drake was real. It certainly felt real. Every electrifying spark of arousal had shimmered as real as a blazing blue diamond.
Then she’d remembered the look on Jeremy’s face when she’d told him about her diagnosis—the small, sad shake of his head, the way he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. There’d been no need for him to tell her their affair was over. He’d done so, anyway.
Ophelia had sat quietly on the opposite side of his desk, barely hearing him murmur things like, too much, burden and not ready for this. The gravity of his words hadn’t even registered until later, when she’d left his office.
Because for the duration of Jeremy’s breakup speech, all Ophelia’s concentration had been focused on not looking at the framed poster on the wall behind him—the company’s promotional poster for the Giselle production, featuring Ophelia herself standing en pointe, draped in ethereal white tulle, clutching a lily. She wasn’t sure if it was poetic or cruel that her final role had been the ghost of a woman who’d died of a broken heart.
That was exactly how she’d felt for the past six months. Like a ghost of a woman. Invisible. Untouchable.
But when Artem had said those things to her, when he’d reached out and cupped her face, everything had changed. His touch had somehow summoned her from the grave.
She’d embodied Giselle’s resurrected spirit dancing in the pale light of the moon, without so much as slipping her foot into a ballet shoe. Her body felt more alive than it ever had before. Liquid warmth pooled in her center. Delicious heat danced through every nerve ending in her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her pointed toes. She’d been inflamed. Utterly enchanted. If she’d dared open her mouth to respond, her heart would have leaped up her throat and fallen right at Artem’s debonair feet.
So she’d done the only thing she could do. The smart thing, the right thing. She’d run.
She’d simply turned around and bolted right out the door of his posh Plaza penthouse. She hadn’t even bothered to collect her designs, those intricate colored pencil sketches she’d labored over for months.
She needed to get them back. She would get them back. Just as soon as she could bring herself to face Artem again. As soon as she could forget him. Clearly, he’d forgotten about her.
That’s what you wanted. Remember?
“Miss Rose?”
Ophelia looked up from the glass case where she’d been carefully aligning rows of platinum engagement rings against a swath of Drake-blue satin. Artem’s secretary, the one who’d given her the instructions to meet him at the Plaza a week and a half ago, stood on the other side, hands crossed primly in front of her.
Ophelia swallowed and absolutely forbade herself to fantasize that she was being summoned to the hotel again. “Yes?”
“Mr. Drake has requested a word with you.”
A rebellious flutter skittered up Ophelia’s thighs. She cleared her throat. “Now?”
The secretary nodded. “Yes, now. In his office.”
Not the hotel, his office. Right. That was good. Proper.
It required superhuman effort to keep the smile on her face from fading. “I see.”
“Follow me, please.”
Ophelia followed Artem’s secretary across the showroom floor, around the corner and down the hall toward the corporate offices. They passed the kitchen with its bevy of petits fours atop gleaming silver plates, and Ophelia couldn’t help but feel a little wistful.
She took a deep breath and averted her gaze. At least all this was about to end, and she could go back to the way things were before he’d ever walked in on her scarfing down cake. She assumed the reason for this forced march into his office was to retrieve her portfolio.
Although wouldn’t it have been easier to simply have someone return it to her on his behalf? Then they wouldn’t have been forced to interact with one another at all. He’d never cross Ophelia’s mind again, except when Jewel purred and rubbed up against her ankles. Or when she saw him looking devastatingly hot in the society pages of the newspaper every morning. Or the other million times a day she found herself thinking of him.
“Here you go.” Artem’s secretary pushed open the door to his office and held it for her.
Ophelia stepped inside. For a moment she was so awestruck by the full force of Artem’s gaze directed squarely at her for the first time since the Plaza that the fact they weren’t alone didn’t even register.
“Miss Rose,” he said. For a millisecond, his focus drifted to her mouth, then darted back to her eyes.
Ophelia’s limbs went languid. There was no legitimate reason to feel even the slightest bit aroused, but she did. Uncomfortably so.
She pressed her thighs together. “Mr. Drake.”
He stood and waved a hand at the man sitting opposite him, whom Ophelia had finally noticed. “I’d like to introduce you to my brother, Dalton Drake.”
Dalton rose from his chair and shook her hand. Ophelia had never thought Dalton and Artem looked much alike, but up close she could see a faint family resemblance. They had the same straight nose, same chiseled features. But whereas Dalton’s good looks seemed wrapped in dark intensity, Artem’s devil-may-care expression got under her skin. Every time.
It was maddening.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rose,” he said, in a voice oddly reminiscent of his brother’s, minus the timbre of raw sexuality.
Ophelia nodded, unsure what to say.
What was going on? Why was Dalton here, and why were her sketches spread out on the conference table?
“Please, have a seat.” Dalton gestured toward the chair between him and Artem.
Ophelia obediently sat down, flanked on either side by Drakes. She took a deep breath and steadfastly avoided looking at Artem.
“We’ve been discussing your work.” Dalton waved a hand at her sketches. “You have a brilliant artistic eye. It’s lovely work, Miss Rose. So it’s our pleasure to welcome you to the Drake Diamonds design team.”
Ophelia blinked, unable to comprehend what she was hearing.
Artem hadn’t forgotten about her, after all. He’d shown her designs to Dalton, and now they were giving her
