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The Magnate's Mail-Order Bride
Joanne Rock
A mix-and-match mock engagement?Ballerina Sofia Koslov's career is on the line when she's accosted at the airport by a rich, reckless playboy who thinks she's his mail-order bride!But the playboy's level-headed brother, Quinn McNeill, solves the media snafu with a switcheroo. He'll pretend to be her legitimate fiancé to protect her reputation – and to protect his family's business deals from her father's wrath. Sofia's one condition: they'll share the spotlight as a loving couple but won't share a bed. But soon Quinn's gentlemanly ways strike a chord, and Sofia's dying to renege on that condition and have a real fling…


A mix-and-match mock engagement?
Ballerina Sofia Koslov’s career is on the line when she’s accosted at the airport by a rich, reckless playboy who thinks she’s his mail-order bride! But the playboy’s levelheaded brother, Quinn McNeill, solves the media snafu with a switcheroo. He’ll pretend to be her legitimate fiancé to protect her reputation—and to protect his family’s business deals from her father’s wrath. Sofia’s one condition: they’ll share the spotlight as a loving couple but won’t share a bed. But soon Quinn’s gentlemanly ways strike a chord, and Sofia’s dying to renege on that condition and have a real fling...
Quinn’s blue eyes locked on her with an intensity that stirred an unexpected heat in her belly.
Even when she knew with 100 percent certainty it was all an act.
She licked her lips, her mouth gone suddenly dry. She should say something. Prevent this farce that no one would ever believe. But then again...hadn’t she promised herself she would make this a performance worth watching?
A show of passion?
“Now.” His gaze never left hers even as he continued to address the media. “I am going to ask you to check Ms. Koslov’s schedule for a new interview time tomorrow. Because tonight we have something private and wonderful to celebrate.”
The camerawoman gave a quiet squeal of excitement. A few people clapped halfheartedly. Sofia wondered how she’d ever dared to ask Quinn McNeill for a temporary fiancé. She couldn’t believe he’d granted her wish.
And not with his brother. But with Quinn himself as her fake groom.
The cameras captured every moment of this absurd dance as she clutched a bouquet in one hand while Quinn tucked the mysterious black velvet box into the other. Then, leaving no doubt as to his meaning, he slanted his lips over hers and kissed her.
* * *
The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride is part of the McNeill Magnates trilogy: Those McNeill men just have a way with women!
The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride
Joanne Rock


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Four-time RITA® Award nominee JOANNE ROCK has penned over seventy stories for Mills & Boon. An optimist by nature and a perpetual seeker of silver linings, Joanne finds romance fits her life outlook perfectly—love is worth fighting for. A former Golden Heart® Award recipient, she has won numerous awards for her stories. Learn more about Joanne’s imaginative Muse by visiting her website, www.joannerock.com (http://www.joannerock.com), or following @joannerock6 (https://mobile.twitter.com/JoanneRock6?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor) on Twitter.
To Maureen Wallace, the empathetic and efficient property manager on-site at the vacation rental where I finished this book. When construction work outside my rental made writing impossible, Maureen listened to my tale of woe and found another spot for me, making sure I could get work done the next day and have a gorgeous water view to boot! Thank you for going above and beyond to help.
Contents
Cover (#ube14550d-c062-59f2-8b7d-e89d100195c2)
Back Cover Text (#u653d3553-33e3-541e-9471-0bad4e9b7a51)
Introduction (#uc23322fd-adc5-57dc-b5b3-f53a968f3c1e)
Title Page (#ua5651a23-a0be-5f43-8df8-b7a945972cbc)
About the Author (#u5038e080-3fd7-520c-ba05-48fc7003e417)
Dedication (#u6629aa5e-6b56-5550-8d71-a9d12778f7fe)
One (#ulink_d92fe4f1-43b5-5935-b74e-adf85aeb73c1)
Two (#ulink_4c5ba17b-e420-5fca-987b-295c214e01b2)
Three (#ulink_73ab6973-f368-555b-98c7-21c4f3fd0f96)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_76379790-dd76-53f3-8682-3217bc1d9aa9)
“It’s no wonder her performances lack passion. Have you ever seen Sofia date anyone in all the time we’ve known her?”
Normally, Sofia Koslov didn’t eavesdrop. Yet hearing the whispered gossip stopped her in her tracks as she headed from the Gulfstream’s kitchen back to her seat for landing.
A principal dancer in the New York City Ballet, Sofia had performed a brief engagement with a small dance ensemble in Kiev last week. Her colleagues had been all too glad to join her when her wealthy father had offered his private plane for their return to the United States. But apparently the favor hadn’t won her any new allies. As one of the most rapidly promoted female dancers currently in the company, Sofia’s successes had ruffled feathers along the way.
She clutched her worn copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to her chest and peered toward her father’s seat at the front of the jet, grateful he was still engrossed in a business teleconference call. Vitaly Koslov had accompanied the troupe on the trip to the Ukraine, his birthplace. He’d used their rare time together as an opportunity to pressure Sofia about settling down and providing him with grandchildren who might be more interested in taking over his global empire than she’d been.
“That’s not fair, Antonia,” one of the other dancers in the circle of four recliners snapped, not bothering to lower her voice. “None of us has time to meet people during the season. I haven’t had a lover all year. Does that make me passionless when I go on stage?”
Sofia told herself she should walk back to her seat before the pilot told them to buckle up. But her feet stayed glued to the floor. She peered down at her notes on Shakespeare’s play, pretending to reread them for an upcoming role as Titania if anyone happened to notice her.
“But Sofia’s been with the company since ballet school and have we ever heard her name connected romantically with anyone?” Antonia Blakely had entered ballet school at the same time as Sofia, and had advanced to each level with the company faster than her. “Actually, her dad must agree that she’s turning into a dried-up old prune, because—get this.” She paused theatrically, having relied on showmanship over technical skill her entire career. Now, she lowered her voice even more. “I overheard her father talking to the matchmaker he hired for her.”
Sofia’s stomach dropped even though the plane hadn’t started its descent. She gripped the wooden door frame that separated the kitchen from the seating area. For over a year she’d resisted her father’s efforts to hire a matchmaking service on her behalf. But it was true—he’d stepped up the pressure during their visit to Ukraine, insisting she think about her family and her roots.
Marriage wasn’t even on her radar while her career was on the upswing. Would Dad have signed her up with his matchmaker friend without her approval? Her gaze flicked back to the proud billionaire who made a fortune by trusting his gut and never doubting himself for a second.
Of course he would proceed without her agreement. Betrayal slammed through her harder than an off-kilter landing.
“Seriously?” one of the other dancers asked. “Like a private matchmaker?”
“Of course. Rich people don’t use the same dating web sites as the rest of us. They try to find their own kind.” Antonia spoke with that irritating assurance shared by know-it-alls everywhere. “If Papa Koslov gets his way, there’ll be a rich boy ready and waiting for his precious daughter at the airport when we land.”
Sofia lifted a hand to her lips to hold back a gasp and a handful of curses. She wasn’t wealthy, for one thing. Her father might be one of the richest people in the world, but that didn’t mean she was, too. She had never even spent a night under his roof until after her mother’s death when Sofia was just thirteen. She’d followed her mother’s example in dealing with him, drawing that financial line and refusing his support a long time ago. Her father equated money with power, and she wouldn’t let him dictate her life. Ballet was her defiance—her choice of art over the almighty dollar.
Her father knew he couldn’t control her choices. Not even Vitaly Koslov in all his arrogance would arrange for her to meet a prospective date in front of twenty colleagues. Not after an exhausting overseas dance schedule and nine hours in the air across seven time zones. Would he?
A ringing noise distracted her from the question and she peered around, only to realize the chime came from her pocket. Her cell phone. She must not have shut it off for the plane ride. Withdrawing the device, she muted the volume, but not before half the dancers on the plane turned to stare. Including the group nearby who’d been gossiping about her.
None of them looked particularly shamefaced.
Sofia hurried toward an open seat and buckled into the wide leather chair for descent. She checked the incoming text on her phone while the pilot made the usual announcements about the landing.
Her closest friend, Jasmine Jackson, worked in public relations and had agreed to help Sofia with a PR initiative this year to take her dance career to the next level. Jasmine’s text was about the interview Sofia had agreed to for Dance magazine.
Reporter and one camera operator for Dance will meet you in terminal to film arrival. We want you to look like you’re coming off a successful world tour! Touch up your makeup and no yoga pants, please.
Panic crawled up her throat at the idea of meeting with the media now when she was exhausted and agitated about the other dancers’ comments. Still, she pulled out her travel duffel and fished around the bottom for her makeup bag to comply with Jasmine’s wise advice. Chances were good that Antonia had misinterpreted her father’s conversation anyhow. He might be high-handed and overbearing, but he’d known about the Dance magazine interview. She’d told him there was a chance the reporter would want to meet her at the airport. He wouldn’t purposely embarrass her.
Unless he fully intended to put her on the spot? Prevent her from arguing with him by springing a new man on her while the cameras rolled?
Impossible. She shook off the idea as too over the top, even for him. She already had the lip gloss wand out when her phone chimed with another message from Jasmine.
WARNING—the camera person freelances for the tabloids. I’m not worried about you, of course, but maybe warn the other dancers? Good luck!
The plane wheels hit the tarmac with a jarring thud, nearly knocking the phone from her hand. Capping the lip gloss, she knew no amount of makeup was going to cover up the impending disaster. If Antonia was correct about her father’s plans and some tabloid reporter captured the resulting argument between Sofia and her dad—the timing would be terrible. It would undermine everything she’d worked for in hiring a publicist in the first place.
Celebrated choreographer Idris Fortier was in town this week and he planned to create a ballet to premiere in New York. Sofia would audition for a feature role—as would every other woman on the plane. Competition could turn vicious at the slightest opportunity.
Maybe it already had.
Steeling herself for whatever happened in the terminal, Sofia took deep breaths to slow her racing heart. Forewarned was forearmed, right? She should consider herself fortunate that her gossipy colleague had given her a heads-up on her father’s plan. With cameras rolling for her interview, she couldn’t afford the slightest misstep. She could argue with him later, privately. But she wouldn’t sacrifice a good PR opportunity when she had the chance of a lifetime to be the featured dancer in a new Idris Fortier ballet.
She would think of this as a performance and she would nail it, no matter what surprises the public stage had to offer. That’s what she did, damn it.
And this time, no one would say her performance lacked passion.
* * *
“Don’t do something stupid because you’re angry.” Quinn McNeill tried to reason with his youngest brother as he strode beside him toward the terminal of the largest private airport servicing Manhattan. They’d shared a limo to Teterboro from the McNeill Resorts’ offices in midtown this afternoon even though Quinn’s flight to Eastern Europe to meet with potential investors didn’t leave for several hours. He’d canceled his afternoon meetings just to talk sense into Cameron.
“I’m not angry.” Cameron spread his arms wide, his herringbone pea coat swinging open as if to say he had nothing to hide. “Look at me. Do I look upset?”
With his forced grin, actually, yes. The men shared a family resemblance, their Scots roots showing in blue eyes and dark hair. But when Quinn said nothing, Cameron continued, “I’m going to allow Gramps to dictate my life and move me around like a chess piece so that I can one day inherit a share of the family business. Which I don’t really want in the first place except that he’s drilled loyalty into our heads and he doesn’t want anyone but a McNeill running McNeill Resorts.”
Last week, Quinn, Cameron and their other brother, Ian, had all been called into their grandfather’s lawyer’s office for a meeting that spelled out terms of a revised will that would split the shares of the older man’s global corporation into equal thirds among them. The news itself was no surprise since the McNeill patriarch had promised as much for years, grooming them for roles in his company even though each of them had gone on to develop their own business interests. Malcolm McNeill’s apathetic only son had taken a brief turn at the company helm and proven himself unequal to the task, so the older man had targeted the next generation to inherit.
None of them needed the promised inheritance. But Cam was the closest to their grandfather and felt the most pressure to buy into Malcolm McNeill’s vision for the future. And the catch was, each of them could only obtain his share of McNeill Resorts upon marriage, with the share reverting to the estate if the marriage ended sooner than twelve months.
Out of overinflated loyalty, Cameron seemed ready to tie the knot with a woman, sight-unseen, after choosing her from a matchmaker’s lineup of foreign women eager to wed. Either that, or he was hoping a ludicrous trip to the altar would make their grandfather realize what a bad idea this was and prompt him to call the whole thing off.
It had always been tough to tell with Cam. For Quinn’s part, he was content to take a wait-and-see approach and hope their grandfather changed his mind. The old man was still in good health. And he’d conveniently booked a trip to China after the meeting in his lawyer’s office, making it next to impossible to argue with him for at least a few more weeks.
“Cam, look at it this way. If it’s so important to Gramps that the company remain in family hands, he wouldn’t have attached this new stipulation.” Quinn ignored the phone vibrating in his pocket as he tried to convince his brother of the point.
“Gramps won’t live forever.” Cameron raised his voice as a jet took off overhead. “That will might be ludicrous, but it’s still a legal document. I don’t want the company to end up on the auction block for some investor to swoop in and divvy up the assets.”
“Neither do I.” Quinn’s coattails flapped in the gust of air from the nearby takeoff. “But I’d rather try to convince the stubborn old man that forcing marriage down our throats might backfire and create more instability in the company than anything.”
“Who says my marriage won’t be stable? I might be on to something, letting a matchmaker choose my bride. It’s not like I’ve had any luck finding Ms. Right on my own.”
Cameron had a reputation as a playboy, a cheerful charmer who wined and dined some of the world’s most beautiful women.
Quinn shook his head. “Since when have you tried looking for meaningful relationships?”
“I don’t want someone who is playing an angle.” Cameron scowled. “I meet too many women more interested in seeing what I can do for them.”
“This girl could be doing the same thing. Maybe you’re her ticket to permanent residence in the United States.” Shouldering his way through a small group of businessmen who emerged from the terminal building stumbling and laughing, Quinn opened the door and held it for his brother. “How much do you know about your bride? You’ve never even spoken to this woman. Does she even speak English?”
Where the hell was their master negotiator brother, Ian, for conversations like this? Quinn needed backup and the reasonable voice of the middle son who had always mediated the vastly different perspectives Cameron and Quinn held. But Ian was in meetings all day, leaving Quinn to talk his brother out of his modern-day, mail-order bride scheme.
All around him, the airport seethed with activity as flights landed and drivers rushed in to handle baggage for people who never paused in their cell phone conversations.
Cameron led them toward the customs area where international flights checked in at one of two counters.
“I know her name is Sofia and that she’s Ukrainian. Her file said she was marriage-minded, just like me.” Cam pulled out his phone and flashed the screen under Quinn’s nose. “That’s her.”
A picture of a beautiful woman filled the screen, her features reflecting the Eastern European ideal with high cheekbones and arched eyebrows that gave her a vaguely haughty look. With her bare shoulders and a wealth of beaded necklaces, however, the photo of the gray-eyed blonde bombshell had a distinctly professional quality.
Quinn felt as if he’d seen her somewhere before. A professional model, maybe?
“This is probably just a photo taken from a foreign magazine and passed off as her. Photography like that isn’t cheap. And did you pay for a private flight for this woman to come over here?” Not that it was his business how his brother spent his money. But damn.
Even for Cameron, that seemed excessive.
“Hell, no. She arranged her own flight. Or maybe the matchmaker did.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter, but he’d obviously given this whole idea zero thought. Or thought about it only when he was angry with their grandfather. “Plus she’s Ukrainian.” He stressed the word for emphasis. “I figured she might be a help once you secure the Eastern European properties. Always nice to have someone close who speaks the language, and maybe Gramps will put me in charge of revamping the hotels once I’ve passed the marriage test.” He said this with a perfectly straight face.
He had to be joking. Any second now Cameron would say “to hell with this” and walk out. Or laugh and walk out. But he wasn’t going to greet some foreigner fresh off an international flight and propose.
Not even Cameron would go that far. Quinn put a hand on his brother’s chest, halting him for a second.
“Do not try to pass off this harebrained idea as practical in any way.” They shared a level gaze for a moment until Cameron pushed past, his focus on something outside on the tarmac.
Quinn’s gaze went toward a handful of travelers disembarking near the customs counter. One of the women seemed to have caught her scarf around the handrail of the air stairs.
“That might be her now.” Cameron’s eyes were on the woman, as well. “I wish I’d brought some flowers.” Pivoting, he jogged over to a counter decorated with a vase full of exotic blooms near the pilots’ club.
Vaguely, Quinn noticed Cameron charming the attendant into selling him a few of the purple orchids. But Quinn’s attention lingered on the woman who had just freed her pink printed scarf from the handrail. Although huge sunglasses covered half her face, with her blond hair and full, pouty lips, she resembled the woman in the photo. About twenty other people got off that same plane, a disproportionately high number of them young women.
Concern for his brother made him wary. The woman’s closest travel companion appeared to be a slick-looking guy old enough to be her father. The man held out a hand to help her descend the steps. She was waif-thin and something about the way she carried herself seemed very deliberate. Like she was a woman used to being the center of attention. Quinn was missing something here.
“She’s tiny.” Cameron had returned to Quinn’s side. “I didn’t think to ask how tall she was.”
Quinn’s brain worked fast as he tried to refit the pieces that didn’t add up. And to do it before the future Mrs. McNeill made it past the customs agent.
The other women in front of her sped through the declarations process.
“So who is supposed to introduce the two of you?” Quinn’s bad feeling increased by the second. “Your matchmaker set up a formal introduction, I hope?” He should be going over his notes for his own meeting overseas tonight, not worrying about who would introduce his foolish brother to a con artist waiting to play him.
But how many times had Cameron stirred up trouble with one impulsive decision or another then simply walked away when things got out of hand, leaving someone else to take care of damage control?
“No one.” Cameron shrugged. “She just texted me what time to meet the plane.” He wiped nonexistent lint off his collar and rearranged the flowers, a glint of grim determination in his eyes.
“Cam, don’t do this.” Quinn didn’t understand rash people. How could he logically argue against this proposal when no logic had gone into his brother’s decision in the first place? “At least figure out who she really is before you drag her to the nearest justice of the peace.” They both watched as the woman tugged off her sunglasses to speak with the customs agent, her older travel companion still hovering protectively behind her.
“Sofia’s photo was real enough, though. She’s a knockout.” Cameron’s assessment sounded as dispassionate and detached as if he’d been admiring a painting for one of the new hotels.
Quinn, on the other hand, found it difficult to remain impassive about the woman. There was something striking about her. She had a quiet, delicate beauty and a self-assured air in her perfect posture and graceful walk. And to compound his frustrations with his brother, Quinn realized what he was feeling for Cameron’s future bride was blatant and undeniable physical attraction.
Cameron clapped a hand on his shoulder and moved toward the gate. “Admit it, Sofia is exactly as advertised.”
Before Quinn could argue, a pair of women approached the doors leading outside. They were clearly waiting for someone. Both wore badges that dangled from ribbons around their necks, and one hoisted a professional-looking camera.
Reporters?
Cameron held the door for them and followed them out.
And like a train wreck that Quinn couldn’t look away from, he watched as Cameron greeted the slender Ukrainian woman with a bouquet of flowers and—curse his eyes—a velvet box. He’d brought a ring? With his customary charm, Cameron bowed and passed Sofia the bouquet. Just in time for the woman with the camera to fix her lens on the tableaux.
Quinn rushed toward the scene—wanting to stop it and knowing it was too late. Had Cameron called a friend from the media? Had he wanted this thing filmed to be sure their grandfather heard about it? Whatever mess Cam was creating for himself, Quinn had the sinking feeling he’d be the one to dig him out of it.
Cold, dry, winter wind swept in through the door and blasted him in the face at the same time Cameron’s words hit his ears.
“Sofia, I’ve been waiting all day to meet my bride.”
Two (#ulink_27e493a7-4540-5364-aa34-cb987b791739)
Sofia had mentally prepared to be approached by a suitor. She had not expected a marriage proposal.
In all the years she’d danced Balanchine on toes that bled right through the calluses, all the times she’d churned out bravura fouetté turns fearing she’d fall in front of a live audience, she’d never been so disoriented as she was staring up at the tall, dark-haired man bearing flowers and...a ring?
The way she chose to handle this encounter would surely be recorded for posterity and nitpicked by those who would love nothing more than to see her make a misstep offstage. Or lose a chance at the lead in Fortier’s first new ballet in two years.
In the strained silence, the wind blew Sofia’s scarf off her shoulders to smother half her face. She could hear Antonia whispering behind her back. And giggling.
“For pity’s sake, man, let’s take this inside.” Sofia’s father was the first to speak.
Vitaly Koslov maintained his outward composure, but Sofia knew him well enough to hear the surprise in his tone. Was it possible he hadn’t foreseen such a rash action from a suitor when he arranged for a matchmaker for her without her consent? The more she thought about it, the more she fumed. How dare this man corner her with his marriage offer in a public place?
She stepped out of the wind into the bright lobby, wishing she could just keep on walking out the front exit. But the camerawoman still trailed her. Sofia needed to wake up and get on top of this before a silly airport proposal took the focus of the Dance magazine story away from her dancing.
“Ladies.” Sofia turned a performer’s smile on the reporters, willing away her exhaustion with the steely determination that got her through seven-hour rehearsals. “I’m so sorry. I forgot I have a brief personal appointment. If you would be so kind as to give me a few moments?”
“Oh, but we’ve got such a good story going.” The slim, delicately built reporter was surely a former dancer herself. She smiled with the same cobra-like grace of so many of Sofia’s colleagues—a frightening show of sweetness that could precede a venomous strike. “Sofia, you never mentioned someone special in your life in our preliminary interview.”
The camera turned toward the man who’d just proposed to her and the even more staggeringly handsome man beside him—another dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger, who wasn’t as absurdly tall as her suitor. They had to be related. The second man’s blue eyes were darker, frank and assessing. And he had a different kind of appeal from the well-muscled male dancers she worked with daily who honed their bodies for their art. Thicker in the shoulders and arms, he appeared strong enough to lift multiple ballerinas at once. With ease.
Tearing her eyes from him, she pushed aside the wayward thoughts. Then she promised the reporter the best incentive she could think of to obtain the respite she needed.
“If I can have a few moments to speak privately with my friend, you can film my audition for Idris Fortier.” Sofia recalled the magazine had been angling for a connection to the famous choreographer. As much as she didn’t want that moment on public record—especially if she failed to capture the lead role—she needed to get those cameras switched off now.
Her father wasn’t going to run this show.
After a quick exchange of glances, the reporter with the camera lowered the lens and the pair retreated to a leather sofa in the almost empty waiting area. In the meantime, the rest of the troupe who had traveled with Sofia lingered.
“May we have a moment, ladies?” her father asked the bunch. And though some pouting followed, they went and joined the reporters, leaving Sofia and her father with the tall man, still holding a ring box, and his even more handsome relation.
Belatedly she realized she had mindlessly taken the orchids the stranger had offered her. She could only imagine how she looked in the pictures and video already captured by the magazine’s photographer.
The same woman her publicist warned her moonlighted for the paparazzi. How fast would her story make the rounds?
“Sofia.” The tall man leaned forward into her line of vision. “I’m Cameron McNeill. I hope our matchmaker let you know I’d be here to take you home?” Even now, he didn’t lower his voice, but he had a puzzled expression.
She resisted the urge to glare at her father, afraid the reporter could use a long range-lens to film this conversation. Instead, Sofia gestured to some couches far removed from the others, but her suitor didn’t budge as he studied her.
His companion, still watching her with those assessing blue eyes, said something quietly in the tall man’s ear. A warning? A note of caution? He surreptitiously checked his phone.
“How do I know that name? McNeill?” Her father’s chin jutted forward in challenge.
“Dad, please.” After a life on stage studying the nuances of expressions to better emote in dance, Sofia knew how easily body language could tell a story. Especially to her fellow dancers. “May I?” Without waiting for an answer she turned back to Cameron. “Could we sit down for a moment?”
Her father snapped his fingers before anyone moved.
“McNeill Resorts?”
As soon as he uttered the words, the quiet man at Cameron’s shoulder stepped forward with an air of command. He seemed a more approachable six foot two, something she could guess easily given the emphasis on paring the right dance partners in the ballet. Sofia’s tired mind couldn’t help a moment’s romantic thought that this man would be a better fit for her. Purely from a dance perspective, of course.
He wore the overcoat and suit of a well-heeled Wall Street man, she thought. Yet there was a glint in his midnight-blue eyes, a fierceness she recognized as a subtler brand of passion.
Like hers.
“Vitaly Koslov?” Just by stepping forward into the small, awkward group, he somehow took charge. “I’m Quinn McNeill. We spoke briefly at the Met Gala two years ago.”
A brother, she thought.
A very enticing brother. One who hadn’t approached her with a marriage proposal in front of a journalist’s camera. She approved of him more already, even as she wondered what these McNeill men were about.
She needed to think quickly and carefully.
“Sofia’s got family in New York,” Cameron informed Quinn, as if picking up a conversation they’d been in the middle of. “I knew she wasn’t some kind of mail-order bride.” He smiled down at Sofia with a grin too practiced for her taste. “The reporters must be doing some kind of story on you? I saw their media badges were from Dance magazine.”
“Mail-order bride?” Her father’s raised voice made even a few seen-it-all New Yorkers turn to stare, if only for a second. “I’ll sue your family from here to Sunday, McNeill, if you’re insinuating—”
“I knew she wasn’t looking for a green card,” Cameron argued, pulling out his phone while Sofia wished she could start this day all over again. “It was Quinn who thought that our meeting was a scam. But I got her picture from my matchmaker—”
“There’s been a mix-up.” Quinn stood between the two men, making her grateful she hadn’t pulled the referee duty herself. “I told my brother as much before we realized who Sofia was.”
Sofia couldn’t decide if she was more incensed that she’d been mistaken for a bride for hire or that one of them wanted to marry her based on a photo. But frustration was building and the walls damn well had ears. She peered around nervously.
“Who is she?” Cameron asked Quinn, setting the conspicuous velvet box on a nearby table. Sofia felt all the eyes of her fellow dancers drawn to it like a magnet even from halfway across the waiting area.
“Sofia Koslov, principal dancer with the New York City Ballet.” He passed Cameron his phone. He’d pulled up her photo and bio—she recognized it from the company web site. “Her father is the founder of Self-Sale, the online auction house, and one of the most powerful voices in Ukraine, where I’m trying to purchase that historic hotel.”
The two brothers exchanged a meaningful look, clearly wary of her father’s international influence.
While Cameron whistled softly and swiped a finger along the device’s screen, Sofia’s father looked ready to launch across the sofa and strangle him. Maybe her dad was regretting his choice of matchmaker already. Sofia certainly regretted his arrogant assumption that he could arrange her private life to suit him.
“You call that a mix-up?” Her father’s accent thickened, a sure sign he was angry. “Why the hell would you think she needed a green card when she is an American citizen?” Her father articulated his words with an edge as he got in Quinn McNeill’s face. “Do you have any idea how quickly I can bury your hotel purchase if I choose to, McNeill? If you think I’m going to let this kind of insult slide—”
“Of course not.” Quinn didn’t flinch. “We’ll figure out something—”
Sofia missed the rest of the exchange as Cameron leaned closer to speak to her.
“You’re really a ballerina?” He asked the question kindly enough, but there was a wariness in his eyes that Sofia had seen many times from people who equated “ballerina” with “prima donna.” Or “diva.”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin, feeling defensive and wondering if Quinn could overhear them as he continued to speak in low tones with her father. The older brother drew her eye in a way men seldom did. And was it her tired imagination or did his gaze return to her often, as well? “I competed for years to move into a top position with one of the most rigorous and respected companies in the world.”
Men never apologized for focusing on their careers. Why should she?
Cameron nodded but made no comment. She sensed him rethinking his marriage proposal in earnest. Not that it mattered—obviously a wedding wasn’t happening. But how to dig herself out of this mess for the sake of the cameras and her peers? If she wasn’t so drained from the long flight and the demanding practice schedule of this tour, maybe her brain would come up with a plausible, graceful way to extricate herself.
She noticed the members of her dance troupe moving steadily closer, no doubt trying to overhear what was going on in this strange powwow. Every last one of them had their phones in hand. She could almost imagine the tweets.
Will Sofia Koslov be too busy with her new fiancé to give her full attention to Fortier?
The dance world would go nuts. A flurry of speculation would ensue. Would Fortier decide he didn’t want to work with a woman who didn’t devote all of her free time to dance?
Her stomach cramped as she went cold inside. That would be so incredibly unfair. But it didn’t take much to lose a lead role. It was all about what Fortier wanted.
“And you were not actively seeking a husband?” Cameron asked the question with a straight face.
Did he not realize she’d forgotten him completely? Her eyes ventured over to Quinn, hoping the man truly had an idea about how to fix this, the way he’d assured her father.
“No,” she told him honestly. “I didn’t even know my father had hired a matchmaker until shortly before we landed. He signed me up without permission.”
“Then I apologize, Ms. Koslov, if I’ve caused you any embarrassment in my haste to find a bride.” Cameron lifted her hand and put it to his lips, planting a kiss on the back of her knuckles. The gesture had the flair of a debonair flirt rather than any real sentiment. “My brother warned me not to rush into this. And, once again, it seems the ever-practical Quinn had a good point.”
He straightened as if to leave, making her realize she would be on her own to explain this to the reporters. And the dance community. But she didn’t blame Cameron. She blamed her father.
“You were really willing to marry someone without even talking to them?” She couldn’t imagine what would drive him to propose to a stranger out of the blue.
“I was leaving it in the hands of professionals.” He shrugged. “But next time, I will at least call the bride ahead of time. Good luck with your dancing, Sofia.” He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “Quinn’s flight doesn’t take off for a few hours. If you need help with the reporters, my brother has a gift for keeping a cool head. He’ll know what to do.”
“You’re...leaving?”
“I only came to the airport to see you. It’s Quinn who has a flight out.” He nodded toward his brother, who had captured the full attention of her father. “But he’ll come up with a plan to help you with the reporters first. He’s the expert at making the McNeills look good. I’m the brother who seems to stir up all the trouble.”
It didn’t occur to her to stop Cameron McNeill as he pivoted and stalked away from her, the necks of her traveling companions all craning to follow his progress through the airport terminal. She noticed other women doing the same thing.
But then, these McNeill men were uncommonly handsome.
The whole thing felt too surreal. And now the two reporters turned from the large windows on the other side of the terminal and headed her way again. The sick feeling returned in the pit of her stomach. She should have been using this time to come up with a plan. Maybe she could tell the reporters that the proposal had all been a joke?
Except she’d trip over any story she tried to concoct. Unlike her PR consultant, Sofia was not a master of putting the right spin on things. Besides, her colleagues’ words about her not dating still circled around in her head.
About her lack of passion.
What would they say now that her suitor had ditched her publicly?
Her father and Quinn McNeill converged on her.
“You should listen, Sofia. McNeill has a fair plan.” Vitaly nodded his satisfaction at whatever they’d decided.
Fear spiked in her chest as the reporters drew closer. These men didn’t understand her world or the backlash this little drama would cause. How could she win the part in the Fortier ballet while her whole dance company gossiped gleefully about her five-minute marriage offer?
“No. I will handle this.” She looked to Quinn McNeill. “I need to save face. To come up with something that doesn’t make it look like I’ve been jilted—” Hell, she didn’t know what she needed. She couldn’t even explain herself to Quinn. How would she ever make sense in front of the reporters?
Quinn’s blue eyes gave away exactly nothing. Whereas his younger brother was all charm and flirtation, this man’s level stare was impossible to read. He seemed at ease, however. He leaned closer to her to speak softly while her father discreetly checked his watch, positioning himself between her and the oncoming dancers.
“Your father is livid at my brother’s antics.” Quinn’s voice was like a warm stroke against her ear. It gave her a pleasant shiver in spite of her nervousness. “I’d like to appease him, but it’s more important to me that you’re not embarrassed by this. How can I help?”
She blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Ideally, I’d like a fiancé for the next three weeks until I have a ballet part on lockdown.” As soon as the words tumbled out, of course, she realized that was impossible. Cameron McNeill was already gone.
But Quinn did not look deterred. He nodded.
“Whatever I say, please know that it’s just for show.” His hand landed on her spine, a heated touch that seeped right through her mohair cape. “We’ll give a decoy statement to the media and then you and I can iron out some kind of formal press release afterward. But I can have you happily engaged and out of here in less than five minutes. Just follow my lead.”
She didn’t even have time to meet his eyes and see for herself his level of sincerity, because the cameras were rolling again, the bright light in her eyes. Excited whispering from the other dancers provided an uncomfortable background music for whatever performance Quinn McNeill was about to give.
Strange that, when her reputation hung in the balance, the main thing she noticed was how his hand palmed the small of her back with a surety and command even a dancing master would appreciate.
Her father hung back as the flashing red light on the Nikon handheld swung her way. Blinking while her eyes adjusted, she thought she saw her father reclaim the velvet ring box Cameron had left behind and hand it to Quinn. Which made sense, she supposed. The brother of empty gestures left a diamond behind while the practical brother reclaimed it. Hadn’t Cameron assured her Quinn would take care of everything?
“Ladies.” Quinn’s voice took on a very different quality as he turned to the camera and the small audience of her colleagues who clutched their cell phones, surely eager to send out updates on this little drama. “Forgive me for spiriting away Sofia earlier. In my eagerness to see her again, I failed to remember her interview with the magazine. I didn’t mean for a private moment to be caught on film.”
Sofia could almost hear the collective intake of breath. Or was that her own? Her stomach twisted, fearing what he might say next while at the same time she couldn’t make herself interrupt. Like any strong partner, he led with authority.
Besides, he said it was only for show.
“Where is your brother?” one of the reporters asked. “He said he couldn’t wait to meet his bride.”
No doubt they’d all been surfing the internet to figure out who Cameron and Quinn were.
“My brother was teasing. Cameron hadn’t met Sofia yet and, in the way brothers sometimes do...” He deployed a charming grin of his own, one even more disarming than his brother’s had been, only now she realized how practiced the gesture could be. “Cam only said that to rattle me on the day he knew I was going to ask her something very important myself.”
Quinn turned to her now, his blue eyes locking on her with an intensity that speared right down to her belly to stir an unexpected heat. Even when she knew with one hundred percent certainty it was all an act.
“He just so happened to have a ring in his pocket?” the reporter asked, gaze narrowed to search out the truth.
“I had no idea he brought an old ring of our mother’s from home,” Quinn continued easily. “Then he grabbed some flowers from the customer service desk.” He pointed out a half-empty vase nearby. “Trust me when I tell you, my brother doesn’t lack for a sense of humor—a somewhat twisted one.”
Even Sofia found herself wondering about his story. Quinn looked convincing enough, especially when he gazed down at her as if she was the only woman in the world.
She licked her lips, her mouth gone suddenly dry. She should say something. Prevent this farce that no one would ever believe. But then again...hadn’t she promised herself she would make this a performance worth watching?
A show of passion?
“Now—” his gaze never left hers even as he continued to address the media “—I am going to ask you to check Ms. Koslov’s schedule for a new interview time tomorrow. Because tonight, we have something private and wonderful to celebrate.”
Somewhere behind that bright light the camerawoman gave a quiet squeal of excitement while someone else—a colleague from the ballet company, no doubt—made a huff of disappointment. That the story hadn’t panned out how she’d wanted? Or that she’d have to wait until tomorrow for answers? A few people clapped halfheartedly. The dancers who had hoped for a scandal were clearly disappointed while Sofia wondered how she’d ever dared to ask Quinn McNeill for a temporary fiancé. She couldn’t believe he’d granted her wish.
And not with his brother but with Quinn himself as her fake groom.
The cameras captured every moment of this absurd dance as she clutched the bouquet in one hand while Quinn tucked the mysterious black-velvet box into the other. Then, leaving no doubt as to his meaning, he slanted his lips overs hers and kissed her.
Three (#ulink_e842c498-fa6c-5c44-bb9c-80d41d79a3c7)
Normally, Quinn McNeill knew how to stick to the talking points. He’d delivered enough unwelcome news to investors during his father’s failed tenure as the McNeill Resorts’ CEO that Quinn had a knack for staying on script.
But all bets were off, it seemed, when an exotic beauty fit into his arms as if she’d been made for him. One moment he’d been delivering the cover story to explain Cam’s behavior and still give Sofia Koslov a fiancé. The next, he was drowning in her wide gray eyes, her full lips luring him into a minty-flavored kiss that made the mayhem of the airport fade away.
This was so not the plan he’d come up with to smooth over business relations with Sofia’s ticked-off and powerful Ukrainian father. He’d told Vitaly Koslov he would publicly apologize and explain away the proposal as a joke between friends. But when Quinn had seen the panic on Sofia’s face, he’d known his only option was to help her in whatever way she needed.
Although, it occurred to him as he kissed her...
What if she’d meant she wanted that fake engagement with his brother?
Forcing himself to edge back slowly, Quinn peered down at her kissed-plump lips and flushed cheeks. She couldn’t have possibly meant she wanted anything to do with Cameron. Not after that kiss.
Still, he’d just complicated things a whole lot by claiming her as his own.
“So you’re engaged to Ms. Koslov?” one of the reporters asked him while the other one flipped off the power button on her camera.
“A full statement will be issued tomorrow morning,” Vitaly Koslov snapped before Quinn could respond, the older man’s patience clearly worn thin as he shot a dark glare at Quinn.
The hotel deals he was working on in Kiev and Prague were now seriously compromised. The man had threatened to block the sales by any means necessary if Quinn didn’t smooth things over with the media, and Quinn was guessing that taking Cameron’s place as Sofia’s suitor wasn’t what Vitaly Koslov had in mind.
Right now, however, Quinn had promised the man to get his daughter out of the terminal and home as quickly and privately as possible.
“Come with me,” Quinn whispered in Sofia’s ear, a few strands of silky hair brushing his cheek as he bent to shoulder her bag for her. “Your father will divert them. We are too happy and in love to pay attention to anyone else.”
He started walking toward the exit, hoping she would continue to play her part in this charade. She did just that, moving with quick, efficient steps and glancing up at him in a way that was more than just affectionate.
Hell. Those gazes sizzled.
“How fortunate we are,” she muttered dryly. Her tone was at odds with the way she was looking at him, making him realize what a skilled actress she was.
Had the kiss been for show, too? He liked to think he could tell the difference.
“I regret that we have to do this. I hope my brother at least had the decency to apologize before he made his escape.” Quinn had already texted his pilot to reschedule his own flight, a delay that would add to the considerable expense of closing this deal that might never happen anyhow.
He held the door for Sofia and flagged the first limo he spotted, handing off her luggage to the driver to stow. The wind plastered her cape to Quinn’s legs, bringing with it the faint scent of a subtle perfume.
“He did apologize.” She tucked the mohair wrap tighter around herself, waiting on the curb while the driver opened the door and she relayed the address of her apartment. “He told me he was sorry right before he assured me you’d take care of everything.” She slid to the far side of the vehicle, distancing herself from him. “Tell me, Quinn, how often do you step in to claim his discarded fiancées?”
He understood that she was frustrated, so he told himself not to be defensive.
“This would be a first,” he replied lightly, taking the seat on the opposite side of the limo. “I tried to talk him out of hunting for a wife in this drastic manner, but he was determined.”
The driver was already behind the wheel and steering the vehicle toward the exit. Darkness had fallen while they were inside the terminal.
“It would not have been so awkward if there hadn’t been any media present.” She seemed to relax a bit as she leaned deeper into the leather seat, pulling the pink scarf off her neck to wrap it around one hand. “Then again, maybe it would have been since I had the rest of the dance ensemble with me and there are those who would love nothing more than a chance to undermine my position in the company.”
“Your father told me that you were recently promoted to principal.” He only had a vague knowledge of the ballet, having attended a handful of events for social purposes. “Does that always put a target on a dancer’s back?”
“Only if your name is mentioned for a highly sought-after part in a new ballet to premiere next year. Or if you rise through the ranks too quickly. Or if your father sponsors a gala fund-raiser and angles for you to be featured prominently in the program.” She wound the scarf around her other hand, weaving it through her fingers. “Then, no matter how talented you are, the rumor persists that you only achieved your position because of money.”
In the glow from the streetlights, he watched her delicate wrists as she anxiously fumbled with the scarf. She hadn’t been this skittish back in the airport. Did he make her nervous? Or was she only allowing herself the show of nerves now that she was out of the spotlight?
He found himself curious about her even though he should be focusing on the details of their brief, pretend engagement and not ruminating on her life. Her kiss.
“You move in a competitive world.” It was something he understood from the business he managed outside of McNeill Resorts since his bigger income stream came from his work as a hedge fund manager. His every financial move was watched and dissected by his rivals and second-guessed by nervous investors.
“The competition led me to hire a PR firm at my own expense, which is costly, considering a dancer’s salary. But they secured the feature for me in Dance magazine.”
He had no idea what a professional ballerina earned, but the idea that she’d hired a publicity firm suggested a strong investment in her career. Quinn found it intriguing that she would pay for that herself considering her father’s wealth.
That wasn’t all he found intriguing. The spike of attraction he felt for her—a heat that had intensified with that kiss—surprised him. He’d been adamantly opposed to his grandfather’s marriage ultimatum and yet he’d found himself jumping into the fray today to claim Sofia for his own.
Not just for McNeill Resorts. Also so Cameron couldn’t have her.
As soon as he’d seen her today, he’d felt an undeniable sexual interest. No, hunger.
“I realize that my brother created an awkward situation and you have every right to be frustrated.”
“And yet you helped me out of a tricky situation when I was tongue-tied and nervous, so thank you for that.” She settled her hands in her lap and stared out the window at the businesses lining either side of Interstate 17 heading south toward Manhattan. “I have a difficult audition ahead of me and I know I wouldn’t have been able to focus on it if the debacle in the airport was the topic on everyone’s lips.” She gave him a half smile. “If I didn’t have a fiancé, everyone would badger me about what happened. But since I actually do? I don’t think anyone will quiz me about it. Sadly, my competitors are more interested in my failures than my successes.”
He understood. He just hoped her father would support her wishes regarding their charade.
“Yet tonight’s events leave you a loophole, Sofia, if you want to give a statement that you refused me.” He hadn’t thought about it until now, but just because he’d implied he was asking for her hand didn’t mean she would necessarily accept. “If you change your mind about this, I can have someone work on a statement for the press that expresses my admiration for you, my disappointment in your refusal—”
“Expedient for you, but not for me.” She tipped her head to the window, her expression weary. He noticed the pale purple shadows beneath her eyes. “Just because I issue a statement that says it’s over doesn’t mean there won’t be questions about my love life given the backstabbing in my company this season. An abrupt breakup when everyone wants a story could make the press start digging into how we met. And until I know the truth about where Cameron got my contact information, I’m not comfortable letting the media look too closely at how we connected. I never wanted anything to do with a matchmaker, and I’m concerned that whoever my father hired posted my information in a misleading way. I don’t understand why your brother thought I was Ukrainian. Or why he didn’t know I was a dancer.”
“We could work on a cover story—”
“I am exhausted and my body thinks it’s midnight after the time I spent in Kiev. I have rehearsal tomorrow at ten and what I need is sleep, not a late-night study session to keep a cover story straight.” She folded her arms and squared her shoulders, as if readying herself for an argument.
Did she realize how many complications would arise if they continued this fictional engagement? He’d really thought she would jump at the chance to say she’d turned down his proposal. But then again, he couldn’t deny a surge of desire at the prospect of seeing her again.
“I’m willing to continue with the appearance of an engagement if that’s simpler for you.” He wanted to right the mess Cameron had made. And this time, it wasn’t for Cameron’s sake.
It was for Sofia’s.
“It would be easier for me.” She twisted some of her windblown blond hair behind her ear and he noticed a string of five tiny pearls outlining the curve. “Just for three more weeks. A month, at most, until the rumor mill in my company settles down. I need to get through that important audition.”
She glanced his way for the first time in miles and caught him staring.
“Of course,” he agreed, mentally recalibrating his schedule to accommodate a woman in his life. He would damn well hand off the trip to Kiev to Cameron or Ian since Quinn would need to remain in New York. “In that case, maybe we should draw up a contract outlining the terms of the arrangement.”
With Vitaly Koslov threatening to block his business in Eastern Europe, Quinn needed to handle this as carefully as he would any complicated foreign acquisition.
“Is that wise?” Frowning, she withdrew a tin of mints from her leather satchel and fished a couple out, offering him one. “A paper trail makes it easier for someone to discover our secret.”
He took a mint, his eye drawn to her mouth as her lips parted. He found himself thinking about that kiss again. The way she’d tasted like mint then, too. And how an engagement would lead to more opportunities to touch her. The idea of a fake fiancée didn’t feel like an imposition when he looked at it that way. Far from it.
“Quinn?” Her head tipped sideways as she studied him, making him realize he’d never responded. “If you really think we need the protection of a legally binding contract—”
“Not necessarily.” He should keep this light. Friendly. Functional. “But we’ll want to be sure both of our interests are protected and that we know what we’re getting into.”
“A prenup for a false engagement.” She shook her head. “Only in New York.”
“Your father will want to ensure your reputation emerges unscathed,” he reminded her.
The limo driver hit the brakes suddenly, making them both lurch forward. On instinct, Quinn’s arm went out, restraining her. It was purely protective, until that moment when he became aware of his forearm pinned against her breasts, his hand anchored to her shoulder under the fall of silky hair.
A soft flush stole over her cheeks as he released her and they each settled back against their respective seat cushions. The awkward moment and the unwelcome heat seemed to mock his need to put the terms of this relationship in writing.
“That’s fine,” she agreed quickly, as if she couldn’t end the conversation fast enough. “If you want to draw up something, I will sign it and you can be sure I will not cause a fuss when we end the engagement.”
She wrapped her mohair cape more tightly around her slight figure, the action only reminding him of her graceful curves and the way she’d felt against him.
Damn. His body acted as though it’d been months since he’d been with a woman when...
Now that he thought about it, maybe it had been that long since he’d ended a relationship with Portia, the real-estate developer who’d tried to sell him a Park Avenue penthouse. In the end, Quinn hadn’t been ready to leave the comfort of the Pierre, a hotel he’d called home for almost a decade. He hadn’t been ready for Portia, either, who’d been more interested in being a New York power couple than she had been in him.
Somehow he’d avoided dating since then and that had been...last year. Hell. No wonder the slightest brush of bodies was making him twitchy. Gritting his teeth against the surge of hunger, he told himself to stay on track. Focused. To clean up his brother’s mess and move on.
The sooner they got through the next month, the better.
* * *
Sofia breathed through the attraction the same way she’d exhale after a difficult turn. She ignored the swirl of distracting sensations, calling on a lifetime’s worth of discipline.
She controlled her body, not the other way around. And she most definitely would not allow handsome Quinn McNeill to rattle her with his touch. Or with his well-timed kisses that were just for show, even if the one she’d experienced had felt real enough.
With an effort, she steered him back toward their conversation, needing his captivating eyes to be on something besides her.
“I’m curious about the plan you developed with my father. I’m certain it didn’t involve us being engaged.” She would rather know before her father contacted her. Her powerful parent would never stop interfering with her life, insisting he knew best on everything from which public relations firm should promote her career to hiring a matchmaker she didn’t want.
They’d butted heads on everything since her mother had died of breast cancer during Sofia’s teens, ending her independence and putting her under the roof of a cold, controlling man. Until then, she and her mother had lived a bohemian lifestyle all over the US and Europe, her mom painting while she danced. When her mother died, she’d been too young to strike out alone and her father had been determined to win her over with his wealth and the opportunities it could afford.
She’d wanted no part of it. Until he’d found that magic carrot—ballet school in St. Petersburg, Russia, an opportunity she truly couldn’t ignore. But she’d been paying for the privilege in so many ways since then, her debt never truly repaid.
“He wanted me to write off Cam’s behavior as a private joke between old friends.” Quinn shifted conversational gears easily. “But I’m sure he’ll be glad that your preferences were considered.”
“Vitaly has never concerned himself with my preferences.” She already dreaded the phone call from him she knew was coming. He would be angry with her, for certain. But she needed to remind him that he wasn’t the injured party here. “But he is not the only one affected by his decision to hire a matchmaker without my permission. I need to call him and demand he have that contract terminated immediately. I don’t want my photo and profile posted anywhere else.”
“Would you like me to tell him?” Quinn asked. She must have appeared surprised because he quickly added, “I don’t mean to overstep. But he and I have unfinished business and I plan to find out exactly where Cameron found your profile. I’m not sure who is at fault for the miscommunication between your matchmaker and his, but I plan to look into it as a matter of legal protection for McNeill Resorts since your father threatened to sue at one point.”
Sofia sighed. “I’m ninety percent sure that was just blustering, but I honestly don’t blame you. And since I’d rather not speak to my father when I’m so upset with him, I’d actually be grateful if you would handle it.”
It was a sad commentary on her relationship with her father that, while she hardly knew Quinn, she was already certain he would deal with her dad more effectively.
“Consider it done. And for what it’s worth, he seemed to care a great deal about you when I spoke with him.” Quinn said the words carefully. Diplomatically. No wonder Cameron relied on him to take care of sticky situations. “But I’m most concerned about your expectations going forward.” He narrowed his gaze as he turned back toward her. “For instance, how often we need to be seen together in public. If we’re going to do this, we’ll need to coordinate dates and times.”
“Really?” She was too tired and overwhelmed by the events of the evening to maintain the pragmatic approach now that it was just the two of them. “Although it’s been a while since I dated, I’m sure that we managed to schedule outings without a lot of preplanning. Why don’t I just text you tomorrow?”
His short bark of laughter surprised her as the limo descended into the Lincoln Tunnel toward Manhattan. Shadows crossed his face in quick succession in spite of the tinted windows.
“Fair enough. But maybe we could find a time to speak tomorrow. I’d like to be sure we agree on a story about how we met since you’ll be talking to the media.”
A stress headache threatened just from thinking about how carefully she would have to walk through that minefield, but damn it, she’d worked too hard to land that feature in Dance magazine to allow her pretend love life to steal all the spotlight.
“I have a rehearsal tomorrow at ten and I’ll be jet-lagged and foggy-headed before that.” She could barely think straight now to hammer out the details. “What if I just avoid reporters until we speak later in the day?”
Tomorrow’s challenges would be difficult enough. She couldn’t believe she’d also offered for Dance magazine to film her private audition with Idris Fortier the following week. She would be stressed enough that day without having her mistakes captured on video.
“This news might travel fast.” He frowned, clearly disliking the idea of waiting. “But I understand about jet lag making conversation counterproductive in the morning. Can I pick you up after rehearsal then?”
His voice slid past her defenses for a moment; the question was the kind of thing a lover might ask her. Was it certifiable to spend so much time with him this month? He was the antithesis of the kind of men she normally dated—artists and bohemians who moved in vastly different worlds from the Koslov family dynasty. Quinn, on the other hand, was the kind of polished, powerful captain of industry who liked to rule the world according to his whim. The tendency was apparent from the moment he’d strode into her personal drama today and quietly taken over.
His assistance had been valuable, without question. But would she regret letting herself get close to a man like that? Especially one with such unexpected appeal?
“After rehearsal will work.” She steadied herself as the limo driver jammed on the gas, trying to make some headway down Fifth Avenue despite the rush-hour traffic. “I’ll be done by four. Do you know where the theater is?”
“Of course.” He shifted his long legs in front of him, his open overcoat brushing her thigh when he moved. “Is there a side door? Somewhere to make a more discreet exit?”
She crossed her legs, shifting away from him.
“Good idea. There’s a coffee shop on Columbus Avenue.” She checked the address on her phone and shared it with him as the car finally turned down Ninth Street in the East Village where she lived. Her phone continued to vibrate every few minutes, reminding her that the whole world would have questions for her in the morning.
“Do you live alone?” he asked as the car rolled to a stop outside her building.
The question shouldn’t surprise her since the neighborhood wasn’t the kind of place where hedge fund managers made their home. Her father hated this place, routinely trying to entice her into rooms at the Plaza or a swank Park Avenue place.
“Yes.” Her spine straightened as if she was standing in front of the ballet barre. “I love it here.”
He got out of the car to walk her to the door while the driver retrieved her bag. In the time it took her to find her keys in her purse, two older men stumbled out of a local bar, boisterous and loud. She noticed that Quinn kept an eye on them until they passed the entrance to her building.
“Thanks for the ride.” She opened the front door and stood in the entryway, very ready to dive into bed.
Alone, obviously. Although the thought of diving into bed with Quinn sent a warm wave of sexual interest through her.
“I’m walking you to your apartment door,” he insisted, eyes still scanning the street out front that was filled with more bars than residences.
Too weary to argue, she gave a clipped nod and led the way through the darkened corridor toward the elevator. She was vaguely aware that he had taken her bags from the limo driver and was carrying them for her. A few moments later, arriving at apartment 5C, Quinn stepped inside long enough to settle her luggage in the narrow foyer. Strange how much smaller her apartment seemed with him in it. She watched as his blue gaze ran over the row of pendant lamps illuminating the dark hardwood floor and white grass-cloth walls covered with dozens of snapshots of ballet performances and backstage photos.
Maybe it was a sudden moment of self-consciousness that made her grab her cell phone when it vibrated again for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes. Checking the screen, she realized the incoming texts weren’t from curious colleagues or her father.
Half were from the publicity firm she’d hired. The other half were from the ballet mistress. A quick scan of the content told her they were all concerned about the same thing—social media speculation had suggested she wasn’t serious about the Fortier ballet and was focusing on her personal life. She felt her muscles tighten and tense as if she were reading a review of a subpar performance, the stress twisting along her shoulders and squeezing her temples.
“Is everything all right?” Quinn’s voice seemed distant compared to the imagined shout of the all-caps text messages.
“You were right. News of our engagement traveled quickly.” Swallowing hard, she set the phone on an antique cabinet near the door. “My publicist urged me to wear an engagement band tomorrow to forestall questions until she writes the press release.” Anger blazed through her in a fresh wave, shaking her out of her exhaustion. “It is a sad statement on my achievements that a lifetime of hard work is overshadowed by a rich man’s proposal.”
She wrenched off her scarf and fumbled with the buttons on her cape, anger making her movements stiff.
“It’s because of your achievements that anyone is interested in your private life,” Quinn reminded her quietly, reaching for the oversize buttons and freeing them.
She might have protested his sudden nearness, but in an instant he was already behind her, lifting the mohair garment from her shoulders to hang it on the wrought-iron coatrack.
“It still isn’t fair,” she fumed, although she could feel some of her anger leaking away as Quinn’s words sank into her agitated mind. He had a point. A surprisingly thoughtful one. “No man would ever be badgered to wear a wedding ring to quiet his colleagues about his romantic status.”
“No.” He dug into his coat pocket and took out the small, dark box that had caused such havoc at Teterboro. “But since you’ve been put in a tremendously awkward position, maybe we should see what Cameron had in mind for his proposal.”
He held out the box. The absurdity of the night struck her again as she stared at it. Who would have suspected when she boarded her plane in Kiev so many hours ago that she would be negotiating terms of an engagement with a total stranger in her apartment before bedtime?
“Why not? It’s not like I’m going to be able to sleep now with all this to worry me.” Shrugging, she backed deeper into her apartment, flipping on a metal floor lamp arching over the black leather sofa. “Come in, if you like. I haven’t been home in three weeks so it feels nice to see my own things. I’m glad to be home even if it has been a crazy day.”
She gestured toward the couch, taking a seat on the vintage steamer trunk that served as a coffee table.
“Only for a minute.” He didn’t remove his coat, but he did drop down onto the black leather seat. “I know you must be ready for bed.” Their eyes connected for the briefest of moments before he glanced back at the ring box. “But let’s take a look.”
He levered open the black-velvet top to reveal a ring that took her breath away.
Quinn whistled softly. “You’re sure you never met my brother before today?”
“Positive.” Her hand reached for the ring without her permission, the emerald-cut diamond glowing like a crystal ball lit from within. A halo of small diamonds surrounded the central one, and the double band glittered with still more of them. “It can’t possibly be real with so many diamonds. Although it looks like platinum.”
“It is platinum.” He sounded certain. “My brother goes all-in when he makes a statement.” Gently he pried the ring from the box. “And given how much trouble his statement caused you today, I think it’s only fair you wear it tomorrow.”
Dropping the box onto the couch cushion, he held the ring in one hand and took her palm in the other. The shock of his warm fingers on her skin caught her off guard.
“I can’t wear that.” She sat across from him, their knees bumping while his thumb rested in the center of her palm.

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