The Magnate's Mail-Order Bride

“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.