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.”
