but she couldn’t think about it right now. Because thinking about it would mean it was really happening.
Then after lunch, Mrs. Burns was back a third time, with instructions for Ophelia to arrive promptly at Artem’s suite at the Plaza at seven o’clock. Drake Diamonds would send a car to pick her up a half hour prior.
Ophelia wanted to ask why on earth it was necessary to convene at his penthouse beforehand. Honestly, couldn’t they just meet at Lincoln Center? But all this back and forth with Mrs. Burns was starting to get ridiculous.
Maybe one day, in addition to her office, her drafting table and her computer, Ophelia would eventually have her own secretary. Then there would be no need to communicate with Artem at all. They could simply talk to one another through their assistants. No lingering glances. No aching need in the pit of her stomach every time he looked at her. No butterflies.
Better yet, no temptation.
* * *
Artem glanced at the vintage Drake Diamonds tank watch strapped round his wrist. It read 7:05. Ophelia was late.
Brilliant.
He’d been on edge for days, and her tardiness was doing nothing to help his mood.
For once in his life, he’d exercised a modicum of self-control. He’d done the right thing. He’d kept his distance from Ophelia Rose. Other than one evening when he’d spied her looking at the Drake Diamond after hours, he hadn’t allowed himself to even glance in her direction.
And he’d never been so bloody miserable.
She’d seemed so pensive standing in the dark, staring at the diamond, her face awash in a kaleidoscope of cool blues and moody violets reflected off the stone’s surface. What was it about that diamond? If the prospect didn’t sound so ridiculous, Artem would have believed it had cast some sort of spell over her. She’d looked so beautiful, so sad, that he’d been unable to look away as the prisms of color moved over her porcelain skin.
And when amethyst teardrops had slid down her lovely face, he’d been overcome by a primal urge to right whatever wrong had caused her sorrow. Then she’d seen him, and her expression had closed like a book. Thinking about it as he paced the expanse of his suite, he could almost hear the ruffle of pages. Poetic verse hiding itself away. Sonnets forever unread.
And now?
Now she was late. It occurred to him she might not even show. Artem Drake, stood up by his evening companion. That would be a first. It was laughable, really.
He had never felt less like laughing.
As he poured himself a drink, a knock sounded on the door. Finally.
“You’re late,” he said, swinging the door open.
“Am I fired?” With a slow sweep of her eyelashes, Ophelia lifted her gaze to meet his, and Artem’s breath caught in this throat.
She’d gathered her blond tresses into a ballerina bun—fitting, he supposed—exposing her graceful neck and delicate shoulders, wrapped in a white fur stole tied closed between her breasts with a pearly satin bow. Her dress was blush pink, the color of ballet slippers, and flowed into a wide tulle skirt that whispered and swished as she walked toward him.
Never in his life had he gazed upon a woman who looked so timelessly beautiful.
Seeing her—here, now, in her glorious flesh—took the edge off his irritation. He felt instantly calmer somehow. This was both a good thing and a very bad one.
He shot a glance at the security guard from Drake Diamonds standing quietly in the corner of the room, and thanked whatever twist of fate had provided a chaperone for this moment. His self-control had already worn quite thin. And as stunning as he found her dress, it would have looked even better as a puff of pink on the floor of his bedroom.
“Fired? No. I’ll let it slide this time.” He cleared his throat. “You look lovely, Miss Rose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drake.” Her voice went breathy. As soft as the delicate tulle fabric of her dress.
She’d been in the room for less than a minute, and Artem was as hard as granite. It was going to be an undoubtedly long night.
“Come,” he said, beckoning her to the long dining table by the window.
Since they were already behind schedule, he didn’t waste time on pleasantries. And chaperone or no chaperone, he needed to get her out of this hotel room before he did something idiotic.
“Artem?” Ophelia’s eyes grew wide as she took in the assortment of jewelry carefully arranged on black velvet atop the table. A Burmese ruby choker with eight crimson, cushion-cut stones and a shimmering band of baguettes and fancy-cut diamonds. A bow-shaped broach of rose-cut and old European-cut diamonds with carved rock crystal in millegrain and collet settings. A necklace of single-cut diamonds alternating with baroque-shaped emerald cabochon drops. And so on. Every square inch of the table glittered.
Ophelia shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen any of these pieces before.”
“They’re from the company vault,” Artem explained. “Hence the security detail.” He nodded toward the armed guard standing silently in the corner of the room.
Ophelia followed his gaze, took in the security officer and looked back up at Artem. “But you’re the CEO.”
“I am indeed.” CEO. Artem was beginning to get accustomed to the title, which in itself was cause for alarm. This was supposed to be temporary. “Insurance regulations require an armed guard when assets in excess of one million dollars leave the premises. Think of him as a bodyguard for the diamonds.”
The security guard gave a subtle nod of his head.
Ophelia raised a single, quizzical brow. “A million dollars?”
“Of course, if I’d known what you’d planned on wearing tonight, I could have selected just one appropriate item instead of transforming my suite into the equivalent of Elizabeth Taylor’s jewelry box.”
“Oh.” She flushed a little.
Had she been any other woman, Artem would have suspected her coyness to be an act. A calculated, flirtatious maneuver. But Ophelia wasn’t just any other woman.
He’d seen her at the office. At work, she was bright, confident and earnest. Far more talented than she realized. And always so serious. Serious, with that ever-present hint of melancholy.
But whenever they were alone together, her composure seemed to slip. And by God, was it a turn-on.
Artem liked knowing he affected her in such a way. He liked knowing he was the one who’d put the pretty pink glow in her cheeks. He liked seeing her blossom like a flower. A lush peony in full bloom.
Hell, he loved it all.
“Wait.” Ophelia blinked. “These aren’t for me.”
“Yes, Ophelia, they are. For tonight, anyway. Just a little loan from the store.” He shrugged one shoulder, as if he did this sort of thing every night, for every woman he stepped
