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