What The Magnate Wants. Joanne Rock
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new fire. “Because I have no idea what you mean.”
In a blink, he shifted positions, releasing her hand so he could bracket her shoulders between his arms, pinning her without touching her. He held her gaze, lowering himself closer until his chest came within inches of her breasts. Even with her dress and cape between them, he could see their gentle swell.
He spoke softly in her ear.
“Distraction.” He articulated it clearly so there would be no mistake. “I could kiss you somewhere that wouldn’t mess you up. A spot along the curve of your lovely neck, maybe.” His eyes wandered over her, assessing the possibilities. “Or beneath your hair.”
A shiver ran through her while his breath warmed the space between her skin and his mouth. Careful not to touch her, he let the idea take hold. If nothing else, he felt damn certain just this conversation would rewire her thoughts for a while, taking them off the choreographer she was so anxious to impress.
The notion satisfied him. A lot.
“That is a crazy idea,” she whispered back. “Letting you kiss me might give me more heart palpitations than I was having before.”
He wanted a taste of her. So. Badly.
“But the heart palpitations I could give you would be the pleasurable kind.” Dragging his attention off the rapid pulse at her throat, he heard her quick intake of breath, saw her eyelids flutter once. Twice.
“You are way too sure of yourself, Quinn McNeill.” Her hands lifted, hovering near his shoulders as if she debated touching him there.
He willed her palms closer.
“No. I’m sure of what’s between us even though you don’t want to acknowledge it.”
“We’re only pretending,” she insisted, her eyebrows furrowing as the limo slowed to another stop, jostling her closer to him. She braced her palms on his chest. Torture. Pure torture.
He hoped their destination was another hour away because he was locking that limo door if anyone tried to open it now.
“I only agreed to pretend because I was attracted to you to start with.” The words were out of his mouth. He couldn’t take them back, and what surprised him was he didn’t want to.
“What are you saying?” She shook her head, squinting as she tried to process. “Next month, this will be all over—”
“I know.” Gently he edged her wrap back and smoothed aside a few locks of silky hair that curled around her neck and rested against the fur-lined hood. “But until then, I want this.”
Pressing his lips to the curve of her shoulder, he soaked in the warmth and fragrance unique to this woman. Sweet and musky at the same time, her scent made him instantly hard. Not moving, he wanted to take his cue from her, only advancing this game as far as she’d let him.
When her hands finally landed on his shoulders, for a moment he thought she might push him away. Instead her fingers tunneled under his open coat, then farther inside his jacket, splaying out over his tuxedo shirt until he could feel the soft scrape of her short nails through the cotton.
The sensation raked over his senses, arousing a fierceness in him that had no place in a limo five minutes before a party. He opened his mouth to taste her, lick her, nip her. His chest grazed her breasts, her delicate curves arching hard against him as she pressed deeper into him.
Her response was everything he wanted, everything he could have hoped for, and the damn reception of hers was just a minute farther up the road. But his heart slammed in his chest in a victory dance, his body too caught up in the feel of hers to get the message that this was not the time to take all he wanted.
Damn. Damn.
“Sofia.” He kissed her neck below her ear, bit the tender earlobe just above her earring and forced himself to lean back. “We’re here.”
Games and lies, Sofia reminded herself later that night while Quinn fielded another question about their relationship from the reporter who wanted to do a follow-up interview with her and her fiancé. They were seated in a private room off the skylight lounge where City Ballet was holding the party for Idris Fortier, the music from a chamber orchestra filtering in through the open door along with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses and the rumble of conversation.
The space was crowded and warm, especially for those who danced.
Or those who were overwrought with the sensual steam of longing.
Quinn and Sofia had been dealing in games and lies all week, so she could hardly be upset with her handsome, charming date for spinning a moving tale about how he fell in love watching her dance. She’d signed off on the story, after all. She’d agreed that it was easier to root the lies in some element of truth so they had shared memories to trot out at moments like this.
How could she fault Quinn now for being a much better liar than her, especially since she was the one who’d pressed for the pretend engagement?
“But I won’t take the focus away from Sofia’s dancing,” Quinn was saying as they sat side by side on a black leather sofa in the sparse, modern room full of bistro tables and areas for private conversations. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let her finish up the interview.” He turned toward her, his tuxedo not showing a single crease as he stood and kissed her hand. “Save me the first dance when you finish?”
His blue eyes had a teasing light. It bothered her that he was good at this, rousing suspicions of his motives no matter that he claimed to be attracted to her.
“Of course. Thank you.” She smiled up at him, playing her part but knowing she wasn’t as skilled as he was. And her body still hadn’t completely recovered from the kisses in the limousine.
If he hadn’t pulled away when he had back in the vehicle, she would have sacrificed the most beautiful gown she’d ever worn to press herself against all that raw masculine strength and follow where the attraction led.
“Your future husband was one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, Sofia,” the reporter—Delaney—observed. The woman’s eyes followed Quinn as he strode out the open door into the party in the lounge. “The McNeill heirs are rich, charming and exceedingly good-looking.” She tore her eyes from Quinn as she picked up her digital tablet where she’d been taking notes. “His brother must have made quite an impression on you when he proposed at the airport. But I’m surprised you dated Quinn for so long without meeting Cameron? Cameron tends to be the most visible of the three.”
Sofia fought back nerves, not wanting to drop the ball after Quinn had set her up so skillfully to talk about something else.
“That may be, but I don’t have much time outside of ballet for socializing. What time I do have, I spend with Quinn. But I’d prefer to talk about work, if you have any questions for me.”
Delaney pursed her lips in a frown.
“Very well.” She changed screens on the tablet. “Perhaps you’d like to address your critics. Your work has been called mechanical and without artistry. What makes you think you will capture the leading role in the Fortier project when the choreographer is such a decided fan of mood and emotion in his work?”
The biting tone of the query told Sofia just how much she’d accidentally offended the reporter by asking to change the subject. Maybe she should have asked Jasmine to be here for this follow-up interview to help smooth over awkward moments and ensure Sofia didn’t embarrass herself. But it cost enough just to have Jasmine set up these kinds of appointments, and she had attended a video interview earlier in the week.
The upside of all the press coverage was that she ought to have a great feature piece by the time they were finished, right?
“I strive every day to balance the