by Teri Wilson
“Mr. Andrade, we meet at last.” Artem deftly sidestepped her and extended a hand toward Franco.
Mr. Andrade.
So it was him. She’d still been holding out the tiniest bit of hope for a hallucination. Or possibly a doppelganger. But that was an absurd notion. Men as handsome as Franco Andrade didn’t roam the Earth in pairs. His kind of chiseled bone structure was a rarity, something that only came around once in a blue moon. Like a unicorn. Or a fiery asteroid hurtling toward Earth, promising mass destruction on impact.
One of those two things. The second, if the rumors of his conquests were to be believed.
Who was she kidding? She didn’t need to rely on rumors. She knew firsthand what kind of man Franco Andrade was. It was etched in her memory with excruciating clarity. What she didn’t know was what he was doing here.
Was he the model for the new campaign? Impossible.
It had to be some kind of joke. Or possibly Artem’s wholly inappropriate attempt to manipulate her back into her old life.
Either way, for the second time in a matter of hours, she wanted to strangle her brother. He was the one who’d invited Franco here, after all. Perhaps joining the family business hadn’t been her most stellar idea.
As if she had any other options.
She pushed Artem’s reminders of her inadequate education and employment record out of her head and concentrated on the mortifying matter at hand. Where was that darn cuff link, anyway?
“Gotcha,” she whispered under her breath as she caught sight of a silver flash out of the corner of her eye.
But just as she reached for it, Franco Andrade’s ridiculously masculine form crouched into view. “Allow me.”
His words sent a tingle skittering through her. Had his voice always been so deliciously low? The man could recite the alphabet and bring women to their knees. Which would have made the fact that she was already in just such a position convenient, had it not been so utterly humiliating.
“Here.” He held out his hand. The cuff link sat nestled in the center of his palm. He had large hands, rough with calluses, a stark contrast to the finely tailored fit of his custom tuxedo.
Of course that tuxedo happened to be missing a tie, and his shirt cuffs weren’t even fastened. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed and tossed on his discarded Armani from the night before.
Then again, he most likely had.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, steadfastly refusing to meet his gaze.
“Wait.” He balled his fist around the cuff link and stooped lower to peer at her. “Do we know each other?”
“Nope.” She shook her head so hard she could practically hear her brain rattle. “No, I’m afraid we don’t.”
“I think we might,” he countered, stubbornly refusing to hand over the cuff link.
Fine. Let him keep it. She had better things to do, like help lovebirds snap selfies while trying on rings. Anything to extricate herself from the current situation.
She flew to her feet. “Everything seems in order here. I’ll just be going...”
“Diana, wait.” Artem was using his CEO voice. Marvelous.
She obediently stayed put, lest he rethink his promise and banish her to an eternity of working in Engagements.
Franco took his time unfolding himself to a standing position, as if everyone was happy to wait for him, the Manhattan sunset included.
“Mr. Andrade, I’m Artem Drake, CEO of Drake Diamonds.” Artem gestured toward Diana. “And this is my sister, Diana Drake.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said tightly and crossed her arms.
Artem shot her a reproachful glare. With no small amount of reluctance, she pasted on a smile and offered her hand for a shake.
Franco’s gaze dropped to her outstretched fingertips. He waited a beat until her cheeks flared with heat, then dropped the cuff link into her palm without touching her.
“El gusto es mio,” he said with just a hint of an Argentine accent.
The pleasure is mine.
A rebellious shiver ran down Diana’s spine.
That shiver didn’t mean anything. Of course it didn’t. He was a beautiful man, that was all. It was only natural for her body to respond to that kind of physical perfection, even though her head knew better than to pay any attention to his broad shoulders and dark, glittering eyes.
She swallowed. Overwhelming character flaws aside, Franco Andrade had always been devastatingly handsome...emphasis on devastating.
It was hardly fair. But life wasn’t always fair, was it? No, it most definitely wasn’t. Lately, it had been downright cruel.
Diana’s throat grew thick. She had difficulty swallowing all of a sudden. Then, somewhere amid the sudden fog in her head, she became aware of Artem clearing his throat.
“Shall we get started? I believe we’re chasing the light.” He introduced Franco to the photographer, who practically swooned on the spot when he turned his gaze on her.
Diana suppressed a gag and did her best to blend into the Drake-blue walls.
Apparently, any and all attempts at disappearing proved futile. As she tried to make an escape, Artem motioned her back. “Diana, join us please.”
She forced her lips into something resembling a smile and strode toward the window where the photographer was getting Franco into position with a wholly unnecessary amount of hands-on attention. The woman with the camera had clearly forgiven him for his tardiness. It figured.
Diana turned her back on the nauseating scene and raised an eyebrow at Artem, who was tapping away on his iPhone. “You needed me?”
He looked up from his cell. “Yes. Can you get Mr. Andrade fitted with some cuff links?”
She stared blankly at him. “Um, me?”
“Yes, you.” He shrugged. “What’s with the attitude? I thought you’d be pleased. I’m talking to the same person who just stormed into my office demanding a different job than working in Engagements, right?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
She longed to return to her dreadful post, but if she did, Artem would never take her seriously. Not after everything she’d said earlier.
“Cuff links.” She nodded. “I’m on it.”
She could do this. She absolutely could. She was Diana Drake, for crying out loud. She had a reputation all over the world for being fearless.
At least, that’s what people used to say about her. Not so much anymore.
Just do it and get it over with. You’ll never see him again after today. Those days are over.
She squared her shoulders, grabbed a pair of cuff links and marched toward the corner of the room that had been roped off for the photo shoot, all the while fantasizing about the day when she’d be the one in charge of this place. Or at least not at the very bottom of the food chain.
Franco leaned languidly against the window while the photographer tousled his dark hair, ostensibly for styling purposes.
“Excuse me.” Diana held up the cuff links—18-carat white-gold knots covered in black pavé diamonds worth more than half the engagement rings in the room. “I’ve got the jewels.”
“Excellent,” the photographer chirped. “I’ll grab the camera and we’ll be good to go.”
She ran her hand through Franco’s hair one final time before sauntering away.
If Franco noticed the sudden, exaggerated swing in her hips, he didn’t let it show. He fixed his gaze pointedly at Diana. “You’ve come to dress me?”
“No.” Her face went instantly hot. Again. “I mean, yes. Sort of.”
The corner of his mouth tugged into a provocative grin and he offered her his wrists.
She reached for one of his shirt cuffs, and her mortification reached new heights when she realized her hands wer
e shaking.
Will this day ever end?
“Be still, mi cielo,” he whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear.
Mi cielo.
She knew the meaning of those words because he’d whispered them to her before. Back then, she’d clung to them as if they’d meant something.
Mi cielo. My heaven.
They hadn’t, though. They’d meant nothing to him.
Neither had she.
“I’m not yours, Mr. Andrade. Never have been, never will be.” She glared at him, jammed the second cuff link into his shirt with a little too much force and dropped his wrist. “We’re finished here.”
Why did she have the sinking feeling that she might be lying?
Chapter Two
Diana Drake didn’t remember him. Or possibly she did, and she despised him. Franco wasn’t altogether sure which prospect was more tolerable.
The idea of being so easily forgotten didn’t sit well. Then again, being memorable hadn’t exactly done him any favors lately, had it?
No, he thought wryly. Not so much. But it had been a hell of a lot of fun. At least, while it had lasted.
Fun wasn’t part of his vocabulary anymore. Those days had ended. He was starting over with a clean slate, a new chapter and whatever other metaphors applied.
Not that he’d had much of a choice in the matter.
He’d been fired. Let go. Dumped from the Kingsmen Polo Team. Jack Ellis, the owner of the Kingsmen, had finally made good on all the ultimatums he’d issued over the years. It probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Franco knew he’d pushed the limits of Ellis’s tolerance. More than once. More than a few times, to be honest.
But he’d never let his extracurricular activities affect his performance on the field. Franco had been the Kingsmen’s record holder for most goals scored for four years running. His season total was always double the number of the next closest player on the list.
Which made his dismissal all the more frustrating, particularly considering he hadn’t actually broken any rules. This time, Franco had been innocent. For probably the first time in his adult life, he’d done nothing untoward.
The situation dripped with so much irony that Franco was practically swimming in it. He would have found the entire turn of events amusing if it hadn’t been so utterly frustrating.
“Mr. Andrade, could you lift your right forearm a few inches?” the photographer asked. “Like this.”
She demonstrated for him, and Franco dragged his gaze away from Diana Drake with more reluctance than he cared to consider. He hadn’t been watching her intentionally. His attention just kept straying in her direction. Again and again, for some strange reason.
She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Then again, beautiful women were a dime a dozen in his world. There was something far more intriguing about Diana Drake than her appearance.
Although it didn’t hurt to look at her. On the contrary, Franco rather enjoyed the experience.
She stood at one of the jewelry counters arranging and rearranging her tiny row of cuff links. He wondered if she realized her posture gave him a rather spectacular view of her backside. Judging by the way she seemed intent on ignoring him, he doubted it. She wasn’t posing for his benefit, like, say, the photographer seemed to be doing. Franco could tell when a woman was trying to get his attention, and this one wasn’t.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about her that captivated him until she stole a glance at him from across the room.
The memory hit him like a blow to the chest.
Those eyes...
Until he’d met Diana, Franco had never seen eyes that color before—deep violet. They glittered like amethysts. Framed by thick ebony lashes, they were in such startling contrast with her alabaster complexion that he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away. Even now.
And that was a problem. A big one.
“Mr. Andrade,” the photographer repeated. “Your wrist.”
He adjusted his posture and shot her an apologetic wink. The photographer’s cheeks went pink, and he knew he’d been forgiven. Franco glanced at Diana again, just in time to see her violet eyes rolling in disgust.
A problem. Most definitely.
He had no business noticing any woman right now, particularly one who bore the last name Drake. He was on the path to redemption, and the Drakes were instrumental figures on that path. As such, Diana Drake was strictly off-limits.
So it was a good thing she clearly didn’t want to give him the time of day. What a relief.
Right.
Franco averted his gaze from Diana Drake’s glittering violet eyes and stared into the camera.
“Perfect,” the photographer cooed. “Just perfect.”
Beside her, Artem Drake nodded. “Yes, this is excellent. But maybe we should mix it up a little before we lose the light.”
The photographer lowered her camera and glanced around the showroom, filled with engagement rings. You couldn’t swing a polo mallet in the place without hitting a dozen diamond solitaires. “What were you thinking? Something romantic, maybe?”
“We’ve done romantic.” Artem shrugged. “Lots of times. I was hoping for something a little more eye-catching.”
The photographer frowned. “Let me think for a minute.”
A generous amount of furtive murmuring followed, and Franco sighed. He’d known modeling wouldn’t be as exciting as playing polo. He wasn’t an idiot. But he’d been on the job for less than an hour and he was already bored out of his mind.
He sighed. Again.
His eyes drifted shut, and he imagined he was someplace else. Someplace that smelled of hay and horses and churned-up earth. Someplace where the ground shook with the thunder of hooves. Someplace where he never felt restless or boxed in.
The pounding that had begun in his temples subsided ever so slightly. When he opened his eyes, Diana Drake was standing mere inches away.
Franco smiled. “We meet again.”
Diana’s only response was a visible tensing of her shoulders as the photographer gave her a push and shoved her even closer toward him.
“Okay, now turn around. Quickly before the sun sets,” the photographer barked. She turned her attention toward Franco. “Now put your arms around her. Pull her close, right up against your body. Yes, like that. Perfect!”
Diana obediently situated herself flush against him, with her lush bottom fully pressed against his groin. At last things were getting interesting.
Maybe he didn’t hate modeling so much, after all.
Franco cleared his throat. “Well, this is awkward,” he whispered, sending a ripple through Diana’s thick dark hair.
He tried his best not to think about how soft that hair felt against his cheek or how much her heady floral scent reminded him of buttery-yellow orchids growing wild on the vine in Argentina.
“Awkward?” Diana shot him a glare over her shoulder. “From what I hear, you’re used to this kind of thing.”
He tightened his grip on her tiny waist. “And here I thought you didn’t remember me.”
“You’re impossible,” Diana said under her breath, wiggling uncomfortably in his arms.
“That’s not what you said the last time we were in this position.”
“Oh, my God, you did not just say that.” This was the Diana Drake he remembered. Fiery. Bold.
“Nice.” Artem strode toward them, nodding. “I like it. Against the sunset, you two look gorgeous. Edgy. Intimate.”
Diana shook her head. “Artem, you’re not serious.”
“Actually, I am. Here.” He lifted his hand. A sparkling diamond and sapphire necklace dangled from it with a center stone nearly as large as a polo ball. “Put this around your neck, Diana.�
��
Diana crossed her arms. “Really, I’m not sure I should be part of this.”
“It’s just one picture out of hundreds. We probably won’t even use it. The campaign is for cuff links, remember? Humor me, sis. Put it on.” He arched a brow. “Besides, I thought you were interested in exploring other career opportunities around here.”
She snatched the jewels out of his hands. “Fine.”
Career opportunities?
“You’re not working here, are you?” Franco murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear.
Granted, her last name was Drake. But why on earth would she give up a grand prix riding career to peddle diamonds?
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she said primly.
“Why? If memory serves, you belong on a medal stand. Not here.”
“Why do you care?” she asked through clenched teeth as the photographer snapped away.
Good question. “I don’t.”
“Fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. He did care, damn it. He shouldn’t, but he did.
He would have given his left arm to be on horseback right now, and Diana Drake was working as a salesgirl when she could have been riding her way to the Olympics. What was she thinking? “It just seems like a phenomenal waste of talent. Be honest. You miss it, don’t you?”
Her fingertips trembled and she nearly dropped the necklace down her blouse.
Franco covered her hands with his. “Here, let me help.”
“I can do it,” she snapped.
Franco sighed. “Look, the faster we get this picture taken, the faster all this will be over.”
He bowed his head to get a closer look at the catch on the necklace, and his lips brushed perilously close to the elegant curve of her neck. She glanced at him over her shoulder, and for a sliver of a moment, her gaze dropped to his mouth. She let out a tremulous breath, and Franco could have sworn he heard a kittenish noise escape her lips.
Her reaction aroused him more than it should have, which he blamed on his newfound celibacy.
