Joanne Rock - What The Magnate Wants

“I have a rehearsal tomorrow at ten and I’ll be jet-lagged and foggy-headed before that.” She could barely think straight now to hammer out the details. “What if I just avoid reporters until we speak later in the day?”

Tomorrow’s challenges would be difficult enough. She couldn’t believe she’d also offered for Dance magazine to film her private audition with Idris Fortier the following week. She would be stressed enough that day without having her mistakes captured on video.

“This news might travel fast.” He frowned, clearly disliking the idea of waiting. “But I understand about jet lag making conversation counterproductive in the morning. Can I pick you up after rehearsal then?”

His voice slid past her defenses for a moment; the question was the kind of thing a lover might ask her. Was it certifiable to spend so much time with him this month? He was the antithesis of the kind of men she normally dated—artists and bohemians who moved in vastly different worlds from the Koslov family dynasty. Quinn, on the other hand, was the kind of polished, powerful captain of industry who liked to rule the world according to his whim. The tendency was apparent from the moment he’d strode into her personal drama today and quietly taken over.

His assistance had been valuable, without question. But would she regret letting herself get close to a man like that? Especially one with such unexpected appeal?

“After rehearsal will work.” She steadied herself as the limo driver jammed on the gas, trying to make some headway down Fifth Avenue despite the rush-hour traffic. “I’ll be done by four. Do you know where the theater is?”

“Of course.” He shifted his long legs in front of him, his open overcoat brushing her thigh when he moved. “Is there a side door? Somewhere to make a more discreet exit?”

She crossed her legs, shifting away from him.

“Good idea. There’s a coffee shop on Columbus Avenue.” She checked the address on her phone and shared it with him as the car finally turned down Ninth Street in the East Village where she lived. Her phone continued to vibrate every few minutes, reminding her that the whole world would have questions for her in the morning.

“Do you live alone?” he asked as the car rolled to a stop outside her building.

The question shouldn’t surprise her since the neighborhood wasn’t the kind of place where hedge fund managers made their home. Her father hated this place, routinely trying to entice her into rooms at the Plaza or a swank Park Avenue place.

“Yes.” Her spine straightened as if she was standing in front of the ballet barre. “I love it here.”

He got out of the car to walk her to the door while the driver retrieved her bag. In the time it took her to find her keys in her purse, two older men stumbled out of a local bar, boisterous and loud. She noticed that Quinn kept an eye on them until they passed the entrance to her building.

“Thanks for the ride.” She opened the front door and stood in the entryway, very ready to dive into bed.

Alone, obviously. Although the thought of diving into bed with Quinn sent a warm wave of sexual interest through her.

“I’m walking you to your apartment door,” he insisted, eyes still scanning the street out front that was filled with more bars than residences.

Too weary to argue, she gave a clipped nod and led the way through the darkened corridor toward the elevator. She was vaguely aware that he had taken her bags from the limo driver and was carrying them for her. A few moments later, arriving at apartment 5C, Quinn stepped inside long enough to settle her luggage in the narrow foyer. Strange how much smaller her apartment seemed with him in it. She watched as his blue gaze ran over the row of pendant lamps illuminating the dark hardwood floor and white grass-cloth walls covered with dozens of snapshots of ballet performances and backstage photos.

Maybe it was a sudden moment of self-consciousness that made her grab her cell phone when it vibrated again for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes. Checking the screen, she realized the incoming texts weren’t from curious colleagues or her father.

Half were from the publicity firm she’d hired. The other half were from the ballet mistress. A quick scan of the content told her they were all concerned about the same thing—social media speculation had suggested she wasn’t serious about the Fortier ballet and was focusing on her personal life. She felt her muscles tighten and tense as if she were reading a review of a subpar performance, the stress twisting along her shoulders and squeezing her temples.

“Is everything all right?” Quinn’s voice seemed distant compared to the imagined shout of the all-caps text messages.

“You were right. News of our engagement traveled quickly.” Swallowing hard, she set the phone on an antique cabinet near the door. “My publicist urged me to wear an engagement band tomorrow to forestall questions until she writes the press release.” Anger blazed through her in a fresh wave, shaking her out of her exhaustion. “It is a sad statement on my achievements that a lifetime of hard work is overshadowed by a rich man’s proposal.”

She wrenched off her scarf and fumbled with the buttons on her cape, anger making her movements stiff.

“It’s because of your achievements that anyone is interested in your private life,” Quinn reminded her quietly, reaching for the oversize buttons and freeing them.

She might have protested his sudden nearness, but in an instant he was already behind her, lifting the mohair garment from her shoulders to hang it on the wrought-iron coatrack.

“It still isn’t fair,” she fumed, although she could feel some of her anger leaking away as Quinn’s words sank into her agitated mind. He had a point. A surprisingly thoughtful one. “No man would ever be badgered to wear a wedding ring to quiet his colleagues about his romantic status.”

“No.” He dug into his coat pocket and took out the small, dark box that had caused such havoc at Teterboro. “But since you’ve been put in a tremendously awkward position, maybe we should see what Cameron had in mind for his proposal.”

He held out the box. The absurdity of the night struck her again as she stared at it. Who would have suspected when she boarded her plane in Kiev so many hours ago that she would be negotiating terms of an engagement with a total stranger in her apartment before bedtime?

“Why not? It’s not like I’m going to be able to sleep now with all this to worry me.” Shrugging, she backed deeper into her apartment, flipping on a metal floor lamp arching over the black leather sofa. “Come in, if you like. I haven’t been home in three weeks so it feels nice to see my own things. I’m glad to be home even if it has been a crazy day.”

She gestured toward the couch, taking a seat on the vintage steamer trunk that served as a coffee table.

“Only for a minute.” He didn’t remove his coat, but he did drop down onto the black leather seat. “I know you must be ready for bed.” Their eyes connected for the briefest of moments before he glanced back at the ring box. “But let’s take a look.”

He levered open the black-velvet top to reveal a ring that took her breath away.

Quinn whistled softly. “You’re sure you never met my brother before today?”

“Positive.” Her hand reached for the ring without her permission, the emerald-cut diamond glowing like a crystal ball lit from within. A halo of small diamonds surrounded the central one, and the double band glittered with still more of them. “It can’t possibly be real with so many diamonds. Although it looks like platinum.”

“It is platinum.” He sounded certain. “My brother goes all-in when he makes a statement.” Gently he pried the ring from the box. “And given how much trouble his statement caused you today, I think it’s only fair you wear it tomorrow.”