What The Magnate Wants

Right. Which meant he’d paid more than the ticket price that was almost half her annual salary. Like her father, Quinn belonged to a world of wealth and unreality. A world she had purposely avoided.

“Suffice it to say, we didn’t meet there.” She wished she’d worn warmer clothes for their walk. Her knees were feeling the effects of the cold.

“What if we say we met here? In the park? We bonded over rescuing a kid’s toy stuck in a tree last spring.” As a bicyclist churned through the growing snow cover, Quinn slid a protective arm around her, his hand an enticing warmth through her cape before his touch fell away again. “At least we don’t have to make up something fictional. We base it on today, but say it happened when I was walking home one evening and you were taking a break in the park.”

“That could work.” She nodded, locking down the time frame in her mind and trying to envision today’s scene in a different season. “Although I would never give a stranger I met in the park my contact information.”

“Maybe I started taking that route home every day, hoping to see you. Two weeks later, bingo. There you were again. We fell in love over the next few months, and that should be all we need to fill out Jasmine’s press release.” He slowed as they passed Central Park Zoo and headed toward Fifth Avenue. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she answered automatically. “Why?”

“You’re limping.”

“No I’m not.” She couldn’t be. Refused to be. She excelled at hiding injuries on stage. Perhaps she just didn’t give much thought to her gait in her private time. “Just hurrying to get home.”

She couldn’t read his expression in the dark.

“I should have insisted on a car. We’re almost there.”

“I’m fine. And if you can point me to the closest subway station? I thought there was one on Fifth?”

“Come inside and warm up first. I’ll drive you home.”

“That’s not necessary. As you pointed out, we have enough for the press release. I’ll send it over to Jasmine when I get home.”

“We haven’t firmed up plans for the Fortier reception.” As they emerged from the park, he crossed Fifth Avenue at East Sixty-First. “Besides, my building is right here. I can send out that release for you, and I’ll call you a car afterward.” He stopped outside the Pierre.

He lived in the hotel?

Of course he did. It was a gracious, old New York address with five-star service. The small part of her that was still her father’s daughter could already envision the kind of food room service provided here.

“Sofia.” Quinn lowered his voice as they stood under the awning in front of the building. “We’re committed to this course now. Let’s be sure we deliver a believable performance.”

“Believable because we show up for all of those public appearances as a couple?” She lowered her voice even more in deference to the doorman who was pulling open a cab door for a newcomer. “Or believable because we’re kissing in our spare time?”

Quinn seemed to weigh the idea carefully. “If you truly think that the kiss was a bad idea, we’ll make sure all future displays of affection are strictly for show and limit them to the public sphere.”

She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. Maybe a little of both.

“That might help.” At least then she’d be prepared before he kissed her again. She’d have her guard up. Her body would receive a warning before he stoked it to life with a mere flick of his tongue. “Thank you.”

“Will you come inside, then? We can have dinner sent up while we fill in the blanks for Jasmine and send out the statement.” Quinn had been both patient and reasonable.

Of course, he was only doing any of this for the sake of his business concerns, protecting the McNeill interests from the threats her father had made at the airport last night. She needed to remember that, even if his kisses told a different story. Quinn was simply more experienced. Worldly. Maybe even jaded. Some people could kiss solely for passion’s sake, not love, but she’d never been that kind of woman.

Or so she thought. Maybe she’d just never met a man she could truly feel passionate about? Unlike her friends, she’d never been a boy-crazy teenager. Her attention and love had always belonged to the stage.

“Okay,” she agreed, the chill in her bones making the decision for her, damn it. Or maybe it was the promise of something more delicious than the banana and crackers that awaited her at home.

It wasn’t Quinn’s fault she was far more attracted to him than she’d ever been to any man. Deep in thought as they entered the hotel, they rode a private, key-operated elevator to his floor. Even the elevator was opulent, inlaid with gold, and the deep rich scarlet carpet showed no signs of wear. The doors swished opened into a large foyer and a view through the living room to Central Park.

The apartment took up an entire floor.

She should have guessed from the engagement ring she still wore that he would live this way. His family owned a resort chain, while he himself managed a hedge fund. Exactly the kind of man she would have never envisioned herself with. But in spite of the multimillion-dollar views, his apartment was decorated with tasteful restraint. Coffee-toned walls were a warm backdrop for sleek, gray furnishings punctuated with some rust-colored accents—a vase, matched roman shades that covered the top third of the huge windows. Comfortable and attractive, the room pulled her forward as Quinn switched on the fireplace and put in a call to the hotel’s kitchen.

An hour later, picking over the remains of her chicken fricassee while seated on a giant leather couch that wrapped around a corner of Quinn’s apartment, Sofia had to admit she felt glad to be there. The snow had stopped outside the living room windows, but peering down into the park with all the street lamps lit was sort of like looking into a dollhouse with hundreds of different tiny rooms. He was putting the finishing touches on the press release on his laptop. A fire crackled in the fireplace, warming her feet and knees, and she’d even accepted a throw blanket made of the softest cashmere ever.

With silent apologies to her mother, Sofia decided that no one truly soulless would help a scrappy thirteen-year-old retrieve a toy. Or help Sofia carry off a mad scheme to pretend to have a fiancé. Quinn was an exception to her mother’s rule about rich people.

“Just confirming...when did we know we were in love?” Quinn had taken the easy chair diagonally across from her, maintaining a professional amount of space between them.

“How about when you ordered the chicken fricassee for me?” she offered, trying to stick to the truth the way he’d showed her earlier.

“No one could blame you for being wooed by the food here.” He quit typing and peered over at her in the firelight.

They hadn’t put any other lights on in this room, although there was a glow from the kitchen. Sofia had been enjoying looking outside and the view was easier to appreciate with less light behind her.

“Dancers are perpetually starving,” she admitted. “So I’m more susceptible than most to good food.”

“Why are you always starving?” Quinn set aside the laptop long enough to clear their plates and set the dishes on a serving cart that had been delivered half an hour ago.

“It’s a figure of speech. I expend a great deal of energy, for one thing. And, for another, the body preferred by most directors is very slender.”

The topic had come under more debate over the last few years with a move to recognize healthy bodies of all sizes in dance. But ballet was rooted in traditions on every level, and she didn’t know any company that truly embraced this philosophy yet.

“I’m surprised. I would think the moves require a great deal of strength.”

“They do. But we need to build that strength in different ways. Repetition of lighter weights, for example.”

“But why?” He took the seat closer to her now, sharing the couch even though he was a couple feet away. He’d brought his laptop with him but hadn’t opened it yet.

“Choreographers like a company of dancers that are all roughly the same size and build. There’s more symmetry to it when we all move.”

“And you’d still get that if you all agree to be ten pounds heavier. And wouldn’t more muscle minimize injury?”

“Yes and no. Some say a lighter frame puts less strain on the joints.”

“You can’t eat enough. You work constantly. You’re subject to intra-squad jostling for position—so much so you’re willing to fake an engagement to keep your detractors quiet.” He counted off the negatives on his fingers. “So if you’re willing to go through all that, I have to think there’s one hell of an upside for you.”

“There is.” She shifted positions, straightening as she warmed to her subject. “I watched Sleeping Beauty with my mother as a child. It was a performance in the middle of nowhere—a tiny troupe traveling through Prague. And I was captivated by Aurora like any other little girl who attends the ballet.” Sliding off the couch, she moved to an open spot on the floor to show him. “I thought the dancer was the most beautiful and elegant woman in the world.” She took a position for the Rose Adagio dance in her stocking feet, imagining a princely suitor before her as she mimicked Aurora’s questioning pose with one leg raised and curved behind her. “When she took the roses from each of her four suitors...” She mimed the action, having danced the role many times herself. “I knew I wanted to be her. Not just Aurora, but the dancer who brought her to life.”

Quinn’s blue gaze tracked the movement of her arched foot as she lifted it in the exaggerated extension that her Russian teachers had stressed. The warmth in his eyes—his attention to her body—did not inspire the same feelings as when she captured an audience’s imagination on stage. This felt personal in a way that heated her skin and made her all too aware of her appearance.

Not just her body, which was perpetually displayed in dance. But the stroke of her braid against one arm. The rush of air past her lips as her breath caught.

“So you dance for the love of it. Because it was your dream.” He kept the conversation focused, which she appreciated since she’d forgotten what they were talking about for a moment, distracted by the sparks that crackled between them.

“I have never wanted to do anything else.” Which was why she feared the end of her career, a moment that could sneak up on her on any given night, with her body constantly battling injuries.

She needed to reach the top of her field now—as quickly as possible—to achieve the fame necessary to parlay the experience into success afterward. And she needed to dance the starring role for Fortier to make that happen.

“Ballet is your passion.” Quinn let the word simmer between them for a long moment before returning his attention to the laptop. “And I think I know when we fell in love.”

He began typing.

“You do?” Her heartbeat stuttered in her chest. She forced herself to sit back down and resume normal conversation in spite of the nerve endings flickering to life all over her body.

Too late she realized she had sat closer to him than she’d been before. She told herself that was only so she could peer over his shoulder at whatever it was he was typing. She caught a hint of his male scent, something clean like soap or aftershave that made her want to breathe deeply.

“It was the first time I saw you dance.” His fingers paused on the keyboard, the sudden quiet seeming to underscore the moment and stirring to life a whole host of complicated feelings.

His words should not affect her this way. Especially since they were spinning tall tales for the media and not discussing anything remotely real.

“Name the performance. I’ll tell the whole world how your movements on the stage captured me. When I watched you dance, I saw how passion guides you and knew we were a match.”

“You toy with me,” she accused, scuttling back to her previous position on the couch. “Your words are like your kisses—all for show. But I find them confusing.”

“I’m not toying with you.” He passed her the laptop. “You should read this over.”

How could she concentrate on the words when her blood ran too hot and she kept imagining the way his eyes had followed her body while she danced?

“I’m sure it’s fine.” She set the laptop on the couch between them. “Jasmine will review it before she sends it out.”

“Sofia?” He moved the laptop to the coffee table, edging closer. “I don’t know how else to approach this to make you more comfortable. But you wanted to put on this show. I’m trying to help you.”

His voice, deep and masculine, sent a shiver through her.

“Thank you. But I would prefer if this remained a performance for the benefit of others. I don’t want to play at the game when we are alone.” She felt his nearness in the same way that she knew without looking where her dance partner would be at all times. Except that was practiced, a trick she’d learned through study and repetition. With Quinn, her cells seemed to seek out his presence, attuning themselves to him without her even thinking about it.

“The only reason I kissed you in the park is because I’m attracted to you. I won’t pretend otherwise.” With a shuddering breath, his eyes, which a moment ago blazed with heat, seemed to ember as his voice lilted with resignation. “But I can put a rein on that, and I have.”

“How? How do you put a rein on it, as you say?” She wondered if he had tricks of his own. Something she might learn for herself.

“It’s not easy. And it gets tougher the longer I’m with you.” He lifted his hand toward her face the way he’d done in the snowfall right before he’d kissed her. But then he lowered his fingers again, hand falling to his side. “We have an agreement, however, and I’ll do what it takes to see it through. If that means we play this your way, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep my hands to myself unless we’re in public.”

“The way we will be on Friday.” At the reception for Idris Fortier. Her first real public appearance with Quinn as a couple, and it would be a major moment in her career.

Butterflies fluttered through her belly at the thought of being on this man’s arm all evening. Feeling his hand at her waist or grazing her hip through a thin evening gown.

Pretending to be in love.

Her lips tingled as she wondered if he would kiss her.

“Yes.” His gaze dipped to her mouth as if he could read her mind. “I’m already looking forward to it.”

Seven

Tossing generous handfuls of Epsom salt into the tub, Sofia ran the hot water, anticipating the effects of the bath. Her muscles ached and it was only Wednesday.

As she let the water fill the tub, she pumped toning soap onto her hands and then her face, before splashing water from the faucet to wash away a day of sweat and stress. A candle flickered on the sink’s countertop, sending a soothing scent of lavender into the air. When she was a small girl, her mother would always burn lavender candles after a long day. Although only a small connection to life before her mom passed away, the fragrance still relaxed her.

And she needed that now more than ever.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Washing the rest of the soap from her face, Sofia tried to focus on preparing for the private audition for Idris Fortier in less than a week. That should be her sole thought.

But instead thoughts of Quinn pushed into her head. It had been two nights since they’d walked through the park and a day since her interview with Dance magazine where she’d relayed the love story she and Quinn had manufactured. The details seemed all too real. And she kept replaying their brief time together. His lips, his touch. How she was attracted to him, though she knew better.

Even after her bath, she was frustrated as hell. She stepped out of the tub, water dripping from her body onto a bath mat, and tested her knee carefully. And, thank heaven, it held. It felt better if not perfect. She shrugged on a short, fluffy bathrobe and yanked the tie into a knot.

Patting her face dry with a semi-plush hand towel, she examined her reflection in the mirror. She could do this. She could nail the audition and be the star that Idris Fortier wanted for his next ballet. That connection would do so much for her. Give her career legs after her physical ones quit giving her the lift and height she needed on her jumps.

Stashed on the corner of the countertop was a collection of reviews from the most reputable critics about Fortier’s last ballet. Jasmine had sent this particular stack over to her apartment. When Sofia had an audition on her radar, she always poured over press releases and reviews, trying to glean a better sense of her audience.

Sifting through the documents once more, a headline caught her eye.

Affair.

She eased herself down onto the edge of the tub and put her feet back in the water as she devoured the article. Apparently the choreographer had had an affair with the star of his last production. The weight of that information unsettled her.

Her phone chirped, startling her. Pulling it out of the pocket of her robe, she glanced at the screen.

Quinn.

“Hello.” Heart fluttering, she felt a mixture of excitement and nerves crash in her chest.

“Hello, Sofia.” His voice incited a flush of warmth over her skin beneath the robe.

“Quinn.” His name felt like an endearment on her tongue. “Hello,” she said again. To cover her surprise.

She closed her eyes and saw him there—with her—in the tub. Her mouth went dry.

“I thought you might like an update about the matchmaker situation,” he continued.

Something that felt an awful lot like disappointment pounded in tandem with her heartbeat. Had she really just wanted him to call for no reason? If this faux engagement was going to work, she’d have to keep her emotions in check.

“Of course. Tell me.” The news clipping about Idris’s affair was still in her hand; she stared at it while Quinn’s baritone voice filled the speaker, willing her pulse back to normal.

She hadn’t called her father since announcing her engagement at the airport, despite how angry she’d been with him at the time. That night, she’d been too exhausted to do battle with him, and Quinn had told her he would take care of making sure her dating profile was removed from wherever it had been posted.

“I’m not sure if I mentioned that Cameron’s matchmaker is Mallory West. He contacted her for an explanation the day after he proposed to you.”

The name meant nothing to Sofia, but as her dancing peers had noted, she wasn’t part of the Manhattan singles scene.

“Did she say where she got my flight information?” She had thought about that more than once. How could Cameron’s matchmaker have known her arrival time in New York, while her father claimed to be ignorant of Cam’s appointment to meet her?

She dipped her hand into the bubbles in the tub, skimming her fingers across the soapy tops.

“She told Cameron she would look into it.” Quinn’s voice was as potent as his touch. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him beside her. “But since then, her phone has been disconnected and her email generates an autoreply that she’s out of the country on an extended trip.”

Sofia forced her eyes open, thinking about that bit of peculiar news. Her cheeks puffed with a hefty exhale. “What do you think it means?”

“For now, it simply means that she is a dead end in our hunt for information. I’m sorry, Sofia. But I will continue having my IT technician hunt for any sign of her online. And, for what it’s worth, he’s seen no traces of a dating profile for you online, so I think the matchmaker your father hired made good on her promise to pull it down.”

“At least that part is good news.” She really needed to call her father and ask him more about the situation herself, if only to find out whom he’d hired to help her with her dating prospects. She would feel better once she told that person in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t interested.

“It is. And we’ll figure out the rest of it, Sofia,” Quinn assured her before his tone shifted and his voice got lower. “But that isn’t the only thing we have to figure out.”

“No?” Sensations tripped down her spine at that sexy rasp in his voice. “What else should we be discussing?”

A half laugh sounded from the other end of the call and nothing else, no background noise, just him. He must be somewhere private. Alone. “Something more fun. So, Sofia, what kind of dress should I buy you to wow and woo the crowds at Idris Fortier’s reception on Friday? Do you have a favorite boutique?”

Buy her a dress? The gesture was sweet. But it was too much. Far too much.

“That is kind of you, but definitely not necessary.” Still, she imagined what he would choose for her. What it would be like to slide on a garment handpicked by Quinn?

“I’ll take you shopping anywhere you’d like.”

She tried not to think about the beautiful things a man like Quinn McNeill could afford.

“You are thoughtful, Quinn, but I can’t accept more gifts.” She felt guilty enough about wearing that massive diamond on her left hand, but he’d convinced her the ring was a necessity. “And I already have something in mind.” She didn’t mean for her voice to sound so clipped.

“Are you nervous?” he pressed, the deep tones of his whiskey-rich voice warming her moist body.

Her instincts kicked in; she could tell he was interested. He actually wanted to know.

“A bit. I... I just...” Her voice trailed off. Social gatherings and big parties were not her thing. She disliked superficial small talk, preferring meatier conversations.

Music.

Dancing.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I’m terrible at galas. And around large masses of humanity in general.”

“Seriously?” Surprise colored his voice. “But you dance in front of large audiences.”

“Yes, seriously. I have stage fright in social scenarios where I’m forced to talk. But when I’m on stage, ballet feels like poetry, like breath. It’s different. Completely different.” Chewing her lip, she felt a ball of anxiety begin to form.

Deep breath.

“Luckily for you, I’m quite the pro at these galas. I’ll be there to guide and help you, if you want to follow my lead, that is.”

“If you can speak in coherent sentences, you’ll be one step ahead of me. I’m notoriously awkward in interviews. Jasmine has tried to coach me, but I get very tense.”

“I hope that having me there helps. But either way, we’ll get through it. And if you want to leave early, I’ll give everyone the impression that it’s my fault because I can’t wait to have you all to myself.”

The images that came to mind heated her skin all over again. So much so, she needed to pull her feet out of the hot water.

“How generous of you,” she observed, feeling tongue-tied already but for a very different reason.

“I do what I can.” The smile in his voice came right through the call. “So can I ask what you plan on wearing?”

A playful tone from him? Now, wasn’t that a surprise. Smiling, she glanced out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, eyeing her closet where she had exactly nothing appropriate.

While her father would have loved to write her monthly checks or set up a trust fund for his sole heir, she’d resisted all of his efforts to share his wealth with her in any way. Her mother had always blamed him for his refusal to focus on the things that really mattered in life. Like love. Family. Art. All the things that mattered most to Sofia.

She would do without a dress.

“Something stunning,” she told Quinn finally, wondering if she could get something on loan from the costume department.

“Something sexy?” He pressed and she heard his smile through the phone.

“Extremely,” she said, forgetting that she was supposed to keep herself in check around him.

Chuckling, his voice was low like a whispered promise. “I look forward to seeing every sexy inch of you on Friday.”