The Magnate's Mail-Order Bride Read online

  A mix-and-match mock engagement?

  Ballerina Sofia Koslov’s career is on the line when she’s accosted at the airport by a rich, reckless playboy who thinks she’s his mail-order bride! But the playboy’s levelheaded brother, Quinn McNeill, solves the media snafu with a switcheroo. He’ll pretend to be her legitimate fiancé to protect her reputation—and to protect his family’s business deals from her father’s wrath. Sofia’s one condition: they’ll share the spotlight as a loving couple but won’t share a bed. But soon Quinn’s gentlemanly ways strike a chord, and Sofia’s dying to renege on that condition and have a real fling...

  Quinn’s blue eyes locked on her with an intensity that stirred an unexpected heat in her belly.

  Even when she knew with 100 percent certainty it was all an act.

  She licked her lips, her mouth gone suddenly dry. She should say something. Prevent this farce that no one would ever believe. But then again...hadn’t she promised herself she would make this a performance worth watching?

  A show of passion?

  “Now.” His gaze never left hers even as he continued to address the media. “I am going to ask you to check Ms. Koslov’s schedule for a new interview time tomorrow. Because tonight we have something private and wonderful to celebrate.”

  The camerawoman gave a quiet squeal of excitement. A few people clapped halfheartedly. Sofia wondered how she’d ever dared to ask Quinn McNeill for a temporary fiancé. She couldn’t believe he’d granted her wish.

  And not with his brother. But with Quinn himself as her fake groom.

  The cameras captured every moment of this absurd dance as she clutched a bouquet in one hand while Quinn tucked the mysterious black velvet box into the other. Then, leaving no doubt as to his meaning, he slanted his lips over hers and kissed her.

  * * *

  The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride is part of the McNeill Magnates trilogy: Those McNeill men just have a way with women!

  Dear Reader,

  It’s been a long time since I lived in Manhattan, but I’ll never forget the energy of the city or the sense of being surrounded by people striving to achieve their dreams. New York represents the highest level of excellence in so many fields—from high finance to fashion and art.

  Ballerina Sofia Koslov is one of those ambitious few who find a niche in this competitive city. As a principal dancer in one of the world’s premiere companies, she has a lot to lose if she doesn’t stay focused. But when a playboy billionaire proposes marriage in front of the media, she can’t help but be distracted. Enter the billionaire’s brother—equally wealthy but far more practical Quinn McNeill. Quinn offers a cover story for the media and whisks her out of the public eye.

  Now Sofia can prepare for her next audition. Except she can’t get Quinn off her mind. Especially when his suggestion for a fake engagement puts her in his compelling company far too often. It’s the most exciting engagement of her life until Sofia discovers the real reason that all the McNeill magnates want to wed!

  I hope you’ll join me for more books in my new series, starting next month with The Magnate’s Marriage Merger.

  Happy reading!

  Joanne Rock

  JOANNE ROCK

  The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride

  Four-time RITA® Award nominee Joanne Rock has penned over seventy stories for Harlequin. An optimist by nature and a perpetual seeker of silver linings, Joanne finds romance fits her life outlook perfectly—love is worth fighting for. A former Golden Heart® Award recipient, she has won numerous awards for her stories. Learn more about Joanne’s imaginative Muse by visiting her website, joannerock.com, or following @joannerock6 on Twitter.

  Books by Joanne Rock

  Harlequin Superromance

  Heartache, TN

  Promises Under the Peach Tree

  Nights Under the Tennessee Stars

  Dances Under the Harvest Moon

  Whispers Under a Southern Sky

  Harlequin Desire

  Bayou Billionaires

  His Secretary’s Surprise Fiancé

  Secret Baby Scandal

  The McNeill Magnates

  The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com, or joannerock.com, for more titles.

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  To Maureen Wallace, the empathetic and efficient property manager on-site at the vacation rental where I finished this book. When construction work outside my rental made writing impossible, Maureen listened to my tale of woe and found another spot for me, making sure I could get work done the next day and have a gorgeous water view to boot! Thank you for going above and beyond to help.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Excerpt from A Beauty for the Billionaire by Elizabeth Bevarly

  One

  “It’s no wonder her performances lack passion. Have you ever seen Sofia date anyone in all the time we’ve known her?”

  Normally, Sofia Koslov didn’t eavesdrop. Yet hearing the whispered gossip stopped her in her tracks as she headed from the Gulfstream’s kitchen back to her seat for landing.

  A principal dancer in the New York City Ballet, Sofia had performed a brief engagement with a small dance ensemble in Kiev last week. Her colleagues had been all too glad to join her when her wealthy father had offered his private plane for their return to the United States. But apparently the favor hadn’t won her any new allies. As one of the most rapidly promoted female dancers currently in the company, Sofia’s successes had ruffled feathers along the way.

  She clutched her worn copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to her chest and peered toward her father’s seat at the front of the jet, grateful he was still engrossed in a business teleconference call. Vitaly Koslov had accompanied the troupe on the trip to the Ukraine, his birthplace. He’d used their rare time together as an opportunity to pressure Sofia about settling down and providing him with grandchildren who might be more interested in taking over his global empire than she’d been.

  “That’s not fair, Antonia,” one of the other dancers in the circle of four recliners snapped, not bothering to lower her voice. “None of us has time to meet people during the season. 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 en
tire 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 the promised inheritance. But Cam was the closest to their grandfather and felt the most pressure to buy into Malcolm McNeill’s vision for the future. And the catch was, each of them could only obtain his share of McNeill Resorts upon marriage, with the share reverting to the estate if the marriage ended sooner than twelve months.

  Out of overinflated loyalty, Cameron seemed ready to tie the knot with a woman, sight-unseen, after choosing her from a matchmaker’s lineup of foreign women eager to wed. Either that, or he was hoping a ludicrous trip to the altar would make their grandfather realize what a bad idea this was and prompt him to call the whole thing off.

  It had always been tough to
tell with Cam. For Quinn’s part, he was content to take a wait-and-see approach and hope their grandfather changed his mind. The old man was still in good health. And he’d conveniently booked a trip to China after the meeting in his lawyer’s office, making it next to impossible to argue with him for at least a few more weeks.

  “Cam, look at it this way. If it’s so important to Gramps that the company remain in family hands, he wouldn’t have attached this new stipulation.” Quinn ignored the phone vibrating in his pocket as he tried to convince his brother of the point.

  “Gramps won’t live forever.” Cameron raised his voice as a jet took off overhead. “That will might be ludicrous, but it’s still a legal document. I don’t want the company to end up on the auction block for some investor to swoop in and divvy up the assets.”

  “Neither do I.” Quinn’s coattails flapped in the gust of air from the nearby takeoff. “But I’d rather try to convince the stubborn old man that forcing marriage down our throats might backfire and create more instability in the company than anything.”

  “Who says my marriage won’t be stable? I might be on to something, letting a matchmaker choose my bride. It’s not like I’ve had any luck finding Ms. Right on my own.”

  Cameron had a reputation as a playboy, a cheerful charmer who wined and dined some of the world’s most beautiful women.

  Quinn shook his head. “Since when have you tried looking for meaningful relationships?”

  “I don’t want someone who is playing an angle.” Cameron scowled. “I meet too many women more interested in seeing what I can do for them.”

  “This girl could be doing the same thing. Maybe you’re her ticket to permanent residence in the United States.” Shouldering his way through a small group of businessmen who emerged from the terminal building stumbling and laughing, Quinn opened the door and held it for his brother. “How much do you know about your bride? You’ve never even spoken to this woman. Does she even speak English?”