His Ballerina Bride. Teri Wilson

dessert, which Artem supposed made perfect sense. “Can’t or won’t?”

      He shrugged. “I guess you could say both.”

      She opened her lovely mouth to protest, and Artem held up a hand to stop her. “Miss Rose, before you waste any more of your precious time, there’s something you should know. I’m resigning.”

      She went quiet for a beat. A beat during which Artem wondered what had prompted him to tell this total stranger his plans before he’d even discussed them with his own flesh and blood. He blamed it on his hangover. Or possibly the sad, haunted look in Ophelia’s blue eyes. Eyes the color of Kashmir sapphires.

      It didn’t seem right to let her think he could help her when he’d never even see her again.

      “Resigning?” She frowned. “But you can’t resign. This is Drake Diamonds, and you’re a Drake.”

      Not the right Drake. “I’m quitting my family business, not my family.” Although the thought wasn’t without its merits, considering he’d never truly been one of them. Not the way Dalton and their sister, Diana, had.

      “But your father left you in charge.” Her voice had gone as soft as feathers. Feathers. A bird. That’s what she reminded him of—a swan. A stunning, sylphlike swan. “That matters.”

      He shook his head. She had no clue what she was talking about, and he wasn’t about to elaborate. He’d already said too much. And frankly, it was none of her business. “I assure you, this is for the best. I might add that it’s also confidential.”

      “Oh, I won’t tell anyone.”

      “I know you won’t.” He pointed at the petit four that she’d scraped up off the floor, still resting in her palm. “You’ll keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. Does that sound fair, princess?”

      His news wouldn’t be a secret for long, anyway. Dalton’s office was right down the hall. If Artem hadn’t heard Ophelia’s sensual ode to cake and made this spontaneous detour, the deed would already be done.

      He’d enjoyed toying with her, but now their encounter had taken a rather vexing turn. As much as he liked the thought of half an hour behind closed doors with those lithe limbs and willowy grace, the meeting she so desperately wanted simply wasn’t going to happen. Not with him, anyway.

      Maybe Dalton would meet with her. Maybe Artem would suggest it. I quit. Oh, and by the way, one of the sales associates wants to design our next collection...

      Maybe not.

      “Okay, then. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Drake.” She offered him her free hand, and he took it. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

      That last part came out as little more than a whisper, just breathy enough for Artem to know that Ophelia Rose with the sad sapphire eyes knew a little something about loss herself.

      “Thank you.” Her hand felt small in his. Small and impossibly soft.

      Then she withdrew her hand and squared her shoulders, and the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability he’d witnessed was replaced with the cool confidence of a woman who’d practically thrown cake at him and then asked for a meeting to discuss a promotion. There was that ballsy streak again. “One last thing, Mr. Drake.”

      He suppressed a grin. “Yes?”

      “Don’t call me princess.”

       Chapter Two

      “Really, Artem?” Dalton aimed a scandalized glance at Artem’s unbuttoned collar and loosened bow tie. “That penthouse where you live is less than three blocks away. You couldn’t be bothered to go home and change before coming to work?”

      Artem shrugged and sank into one of the ebony wing chairs opposite Dalton’s desk. “Don’t push it. I’m here, aren’t I?”

      Present and accounted for. Physically, at least. His thoughts, along with his libido, still lingered back in the kitchen with the intriguing Miss Rose.

      “At long last. It’s been two months since Dad died. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Dalton twirled his pen, a Montblanc. Just like the one their father had always used. It could have been the same one, for all Artem knew. That would have been an appropriate bequest.

      Far more appropriate than leaving Artem in charge of this place when he’d done nothing more than pass out checks and attend charity galas since he’d been on the payroll.

      The only Drake who spent less time in the building than he did was their sister, Diana. She was busy training for the Olympic equestrian team with her horse, which was appropriately named Diamond.

      Artem narrowed his gaze at his brother. “I’ve been busy.”

      “Busy,” Dalton said flatly. “Right. I think I remember reading something about that in Page Six.”

      “And here I thought you only read the financial pages. Don’t tell me you’ve lowered yourself to reading Page Six, brother.”

      “I have to, don’t I? How else would I keep apprised of your whereabouts?” The smile on Dalton’s face grew tight.

      A dull ache throbbed to life in Artem’s temples, and he remembered why he’d put off this meeting for as long as he had. It wasn’t as if he and Dalton had ever been close, but at least they’d managed to be cordial to one another while their father was alive. Now it appeared the gloves were off.

      The thing was, he sympathized with Dalton. Surely his older brother had expected to be next in line to run the company. Hell, everyone had expected that to be the case.

      He didn’t feel too sorry for Dalton, though. He was about to get exactly what he wanted. Besides, Artem would not let Dalton ruin his mood. He’d had a pleasant enough evening at the symphony gala, which had led to a rather sexually satisfying morning.

      Oddly enough, though, it had been the unexpected encounter with Ophelia Rose that had put the spring in his step.

      He found her interesting. And quite lovely. She would have made it almost tolerable to come to work every day, if he had any intention of doing such a thing. Which he didn’t.

      “Has it occurred to you that having the Drake name in the papers is good PR?” Artem said blithely.

      “PR. Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” Dalton rolled his eyes.

      It took every ounce of Artem’s self-restraint not to point out how badly his brother needed to get laid. “I didn’t come here to discuss my social life, Dalton. As difficult as you might find it to believe, I’m ready to discuss business.”

      Dalton nodded. Slowly. “I’m glad to hear that, brother. Very glad.”

      He’d be even happier once Artem made his announcement. So would Artem. He had no desire to engage in this sort of exchange on a daily basis. He was a grown man. He didn’t need his brother’s input on his lifestyle. And he sure as hell didn’t want to sit behind a desk all day at a place where he’d never been welcomed when his father had been alive.

      According to the attorneys, his father had changed the provisions of his will less than a week before he’d died. One might suppose senility to be behind the change, if not for the fact that his dad had been too stubborn to lose his mind. Shrewd. Cold. And sharp as a tack until the day he passed.

      “Listen,” Artem said. “I don’t know why Dad left me in charge. It’s as much of a mystery to me as it is to you.”

      “Don’t.” Dalton shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. You’re here. That’s a start. I’ve had Dad’s office cleaned out. It’s yours now.”

      Artem went still. “What?”

      Dalton shrugged one shoulder. “Where