The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride. Teri Wilson
shouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Logic, however, had little to do with the torturous ache he felt when he placed his hand on the small of her back or cupped her elbow as they walked up the broad steps to the entrance of Lincoln Center. Logic certainly wasn’t behind the surge of arousal he’d felt when he’d placed the diamonds around her graceful neck. Logic hadn’t swirled between them in the backseat of the car. That had been something else entirely. Some forbidden form of alchemy.
The fulfillment of what had nearly happened in the limousine tormented him. The kiss that wasn’t even a kiss. The look in her eyes, though. That look had been as intimate as if she’d touched her lips to his. Perhaps even more so.
He could still feel the riotous beat of her pulse as he’d traced the curve of her elegant neck with his fingertips. Most of all, he could still see the glimmer in her sapphire eyes as she’d reached out to touch his face. Eyes filled with insatiable need. Sweet, forbidden hunger that rivaled the ravenous craving he’d been struggling against since the moment he’d caught her eating that silly cake.
God, what was wrong with him? He was a grown man. A man of experience. He shouldn’t be feeling this wound up over a woman he barely knew, particularly one whom he had no business sleeping with.
On some level he loathed to acknowledge, he wondered if what he was experiencing was in any way similar to what his father had felt any of the myriad times he’d strayed. But Artem knew that wasn’t the case. His father had been a selfish bastard, with little or no respect for his wedding vows. End of story. Artem wasn’t even married, for God’s sake. With good reason. He didn’t have any intention of repeating the past.
Besides, this attraction he felt for Ophelia was different in every possible way. She was different.
Maybe it was her vulnerability that he found so intriguing. Or perhaps it was her unexpected ballsy streak. Either way, this strange pull they felt toward one another was without precedent. That much had become clear in the back of the limousine. With a single touch of her hand on his face, he’d known that she felt it, too. Whatever this was.
And now here they were, in the grand lobby of Lincoln Center, surrounded by people and cameras and blinding flashbulbs. Yet for all the distractions, Artem’s senses were aware of one thing and one thing only—the whisper-thin fabric of her lovely dress beneath his hand as he guided her through the crowd. Just a fine layer of tulle between his flesh and hers.
It was enough to drive a man mad.
He somehow managed to answer a few more questions from lingering reporters before handing the usher their tickets and moving beyond the press of the crowd into the inner lobby.
“Welcome, Mr. Drake.” The usher smiled, then nodded at Ophelia. “Good evening, miss.”
“Thank you,” she said, glancing at the ticket stubs as he passed them back to Artem.
Artem kept his hand planted on the small of her back as he led her to the lobby bar. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to keep that hand from sliding down, over the dainty, delectable curve of her behind, in plain view of everyone.
Get ahold of yourself.
His hand had no business on her bottom. Not here, nor anyplace else. Things were so much simpler when he could stick to the confines of his office.
Just as Artem realized he’d begun to think of the corner office as his rather than his father’s, Ophelia turned to face him. Tulle billowed beneath his fingertips. He really needed to take his hands off her altogether. He would. Soon.
“I haven’t even asked what we’re seeing this evening. What’s the repertoire?” She frowned slightly, as if trying to remember something. Like she had a catalog of ballets somewhere in her pretty head.
Artem hadn’t the vaguest idea. Mrs. Burns had handed him an envelope containing the tickets as he’d walked out the door at five o’clock. He examined the ticket stubs and his jaw clenched involuntarily.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Artem?” Ophelia blinked up at him.
“Petite Mort,” he said flatly.
“Petite Mort,” she echoed, her cheeks going instantly pink. “Really?”
“Really.” He held up the ticket stubs for inspection.
She stared at them. “Okay, then. That’s certainly...interesting.”
He lifted a brow.
“Petite mort means ‘little death’ in French,” Ophelia said, with the seriousness of a reference librarian. She’d decided to tackle the awkwardness of the situation head-on, apparently. Much to Artem’s chagrin, he found this attitude immensely sexy. “It’s a euphemism for...”
“Orgasm.” Artem was uncomfortably hard. In the champagne line at the ballet. Marvelous. “I’m aware.”
What had he done to deserve this? Fate must be seriously pissed to have dealt him this kind of torturous hand. Of all the ballets...
Petite Mort.
He’d never seen this performance. In fact, he knew nothing about it. Perhaps it wasn’t as provocative as it sounded.
It didn’t matter. Not really. His thoughts had already barreled right where they didn’t belong. Now there was no stopping them. Not when he could feel the tender warmth of Ophelia’s body beneath the palm of his hand. Not when she was right there, close enough to touch. To kiss.
He looked at her, and his gaze lingered on the diamonds decorating the base of her throat. That’s where he wanted to kiss her. Right there, where he could feel the beat of her pulse under his tongue. There. And elsewhere.
Everywhere.
His jaw clenched again. Harder this time. Petite Mort. How was he supposed to sit in the dark beside Ophelia all night and not think about touching her? Stroking her. Entering her. How could he help but envision what she looked like when she came? Or imagine the sounds she made. Cries in the dark.
How could he not dream of the myriad ways in which he might bring about her little death? Her petite mort.
“Sir?” Somewhere in the periphery of Artem’s consciousness he was aware of a voice, followed by the clearing of a throat. “Mr. Drake?”
He blinked against the image in his head—Ophelia, beneath him, bare breasted in the moonlight, coming apart in his arms—and forced himself to focus on the bartender. They’d somehow already made it to the front of the line.
He forced a smile. “My apologies. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Can I get you anything, sir?” The bartender slid a pair of cocktail napkins across the counter, which was strewn with items for sale. Ballet shoes, posters, programs.
Artem glanced at the Petite Mort program and the photograph on its cover, featuring a pair of dancers in flesh-colored bodysuits, their eyes closed and limbs entwined. His brows rose, and he glanced at Ophelia to gauge her reaction, but her gaze was focused elsewhere. She wore a dreamlike expression, as if she’d gone someplace faraway.
Artem could only wonder where.
* * *
Ophelia had to be seeing things.
The pointe shoes on display alongside the Petite Mort programs and collectible posters couldn’t possibly be hers. Being back in the theater was messing with her head. She was suffering from some sort of nostalgia-induced delusion.
She forced herself to look away from them and focus instead on the bartender.
“I hope you enjoy the ballet this evening.” He smiled at her.
He looked vaguely familiar. What if he recognized her?
She smiled in return and held her breath, hoping against hope he didn’t know who she was.
“Mr. Drake?” The bartender