What The Magnate Wants: The Magnate's Mail-Order Bride / The Magnate's Marriage Merger / His Accidental Heir. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
her close again then bent her backward. Her spine arched and her head dipped to the floor, exposing the creamy, satin skin of her elegant neck, the slender column of her body. Their hips brushed as they swayed and then he snapped her upright so that their mouths touched. They breathed each other in and their gazes tangled.
Tension whipped between them. His body grew taut; need and craving pounded through him. He felt the pressure of it all licking through his blood. When he stepped with his left foot, she followed, her limbs seeming to loosen and grow molten, her movements more languid. The arm curled around his neck singed his flesh and her fingers burrowed into his hair, her nails raking his skin.
He steered her expertly, felt her respond to the lightest of touches, the smallest pressure. She seemed to surrender to the dance, to him, as her eyes closed and she let him lead her the way he wanted to.
Yet just when she looked defenseless, a staccato rhythm seemed to break her trance and she whirled around him, improvising mouthwatering steps as he stood rigid, watching. Wanting. He couldn’t tear his eyes off her. She held his hand then shimmied lower, her body sinuous. She rose slowly. Out of nowhere, her lips curved into a tempting smile, her expression full of promise.
His mouth dried and his tongue swelled. They cross-stepped for several more beats and the world fell away. His senses narrowed, homing in on the beautiful woman who didn’t back down when he pushed forward, who stood her ground and stalked him as well until at last, they stood, foreheads pressed together, breaths coming in fits and starts as the tango ended.
“Come home with me,” he commanded. Her eyes burned into his and dimly he heard another song, slower, strike up.
Her grip tightened on his. “Yes.”
Victory surged through him. He wanted to pick her up and carry her out of the crowd and downstairs to the waiting limo this minute. But he didn’t want to end her time at a work function without accomplishing one more key goal that her friend Jasmine had clearly laid out as an objective for the evening.
“Excellent.” He released her slowly, peering through the crowd to find the man who held Sofia’s professional future in his hands. “We’ll pay our regards to the man of the hour and then we’re free to spend the rest of the night however we choose.”
He felt her go still beside him. But she didn’t tremble or fidget the way she had earlier in the evening.
“Good idea.” She nodded. “I’ll say hello and then I’ll text Jasmine from the car to let her know about Delaney’s comment to me. I want to give Jasmine some advance notice if the reporter plans a story about the matchmaking mix-up.”
“I’ll ask my own public relations department to circulate some stories about our engagement, as well.”
That would lend their union all the more credibility. And for the first time Quinn found himself wondering what Sofia would say if he asked her to extend a fake engagement into a year-long marriage like his grandfather’s will stipulated...
But of course he wouldn’t do that. His grandfather’s terms were out of line and unfair. He needed to talk him into rewriting the will. Right now, he would keep his focus on Sofia.
They stood waiting while an older woman dressed in an exotically colored caftan finished her conversation with the famed choreographer. When Sofia turned worried eyes toward him, Quinn took great pleasure in skimming a touch along her hip. And discreetly lower. Her eyes went wide so that she was thoroughly distracted by the time the older woman bid Fortier good-night.
“Sofia Koslov.” The boyishly built Frenchman opened his arms wide. “My dear, I’ve been dying to meet you.”
Quinn released her so she could be swept into a hug he personally found too damn enthusiastic, but then, he might have thought as much about anyone who put their hands on a woman he wanted this badly.
“Welcome to New York, Mr. Fortier,” she greeted him. Her wooden delivery was an endearing sign of her nerves, Quinn realized.
He liked knowing things about this very private woman that other people didn’t.
“Call me Idris. I insist.” The man didn’t spare a glance for Quinn as his eyes raked over Sofia with what Quinn hoped was professional interest.
Her body was the medium for her dance, he reminded himself even as he ground his teeth together.
“Idris,” she corrected herself with quiet seriousness. “We are thrilled to host you at City Ballet. We are all excited to hear your plans for your new work.”
Quinn found himself hanging on her words, wanting her to succeed since it clearly meant so much to her.
“And I sincerely hope you will be the first to hear those plans, Sofia. I look forward to your audition.”
Before Sofia could reply, the celebrated choreographer turned to greet a young man who’d come to stand behind Sofia, effectively dismissing her.
Sofia tucked against Quinn’s side with gratifying ease, whispering, “Did I offend him?”
If she wasn’t so intent on securing the man’s good opinion, Quinn might have told her that—on the contrary—Fortier’s behavior had been rude. But he didn’t want her to worry.
“You were perfect,” he assured her honestly as he guided her through the crowd toward the coat check. “Jasmine would have been thrilled.”
“Speaking of Jasmine.” Sofia opened her purse and withdrew her phone. “I need to let her know what happened with that reporter.” She lowered her voice for his ears only. “We should be prepared if the woman releases a story about me using a matchmaker.”
Quinn nodded his agreement as he excused himself to retrieve their coats. But he already knew his plan B if the matchmaker story leaked. If anyone questioned the legitimacy of their engagement, it would pave the way to convince Sofia to marry him for a year and secure that damned inheritance anyhow.
Just in case.
Twenty minutes later Sofia watched the numbers light up above the elevator in Quinn’s building as they waited for the private conveyance.
Ten, nine, eight...
Quinn’s hand brushed the small of her back and circled, his touch burning her as it had on the dance floor. The white-gloved bellhop near the concierge desk spoke with a deliveryman wheeling in a silver cart full of insulated dishes—presumably a five-star meal from an area restaurant. Behind them, an elegantly attired elder gentleman strode through the building’s thick glass doors, the smell of diesel and roasting nuts carrying on the rush of crisp, evening air that trailed after him.
Was she out of her mind for being there?
Probably.
Their arrangement was for public events only, yet here she stood, ready—no, wanting this intimate privacy with Quinn.
Seven, six, five...
Every nerve ending had come alive since the moment he’d guided her through the most passionate dance she’d ever performed. Only, it hadn’t been a performance. Every unchoreographed move had been born out of the sensuous desire he’d incited. Never before had she completely let go that way and she felt so empowered. Impassioned.
Nearby, other elevators with more white-gloved attendants took patrons to their floors, but she and Quinn were waiting for the private one direct to his floor.
Four, three, two...
Yet she hadn’t come home with Quinn just because she was crazy with lust. She wanted to take this risk with him and open up as she had on the dance floor. He’d helped her navigate a stressful time in her life just as he’d led her through the tango—with certainty, command, giving as well as taking.
While she’d appreciated his strength and cool