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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 (#u80db06c7-5be6-5214-9efd-65dbc552ef8f)
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—”
