“Believable because we show up for all of those public appearances as a couple?” She lowered her voice even more in deference to the doorman who was pulling open a cab door for a newcomer. “Or believable because we’re kissing in our spare time?”
Quinn seemed to weigh the idea carefully. “If you truly think that the kiss was a bad idea, we’ll make sure all future displays of affection are strictly for show and limit them to the public sphere.”
She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. Maybe a little of both.
“That might help.” At least then she’d be prepared before he kissed her again. She’d have her guard up. Her body would receive a warning before he stoked it to life with a mere flick of his tongue. “Thank you.”
“Will you come inside, then? We can have dinner sent up while we fill in the blanks for Jasmine and send out the statement.” Quinn had been both patient and reasonable.
Of course, he was only doing any of this for the sake of his business concerns, protecting the McNeill interests from the threats her father had made at the airport last night. She needed to remember that, even if his kisses told a different story. Quinn was simply more experienced. Worldly. Maybe even jaded. Some people could kiss solely for passion’s sake, not love, but she’d never been that kind of woman.
Or so she thought. Maybe she’d just never met a man she could truly feel passionate about? Unlike her friends, she’d never been a boy-crazy teenager. Her attention and love had always belonged to the stage.
“Okay,” she agreed, the chill in her bones making the decision for her, damn it. Or maybe it was the promise of something more delicious than the banana and crackers that awaited her at home.
It wasn’t Quinn’s fault she was far more attracted to him than she’d ever been to any man. Deep in thought as they entered the hotel, they rode a private, key-operated elevator to his floor. Even the elevator was opulent, inlaid with gold, and the deep rich scarlet carpet showed no signs of wear. The doors swished opened into a large foyer and a view through the living room to Central Park.
The apartment took up an entire floor.
She should have guessed from the engagement ring she still wore that he would live this way. His family owned a resort chain, while he himself managed a hedge fund. Exactly the kind of man she would have never envisioned herself with. But in spite of the multimillion-dollar views, his apartment was decorated with tasteful restraint. Coffee-toned walls were a warm backdrop for sleek, gray furnishings punctuated with some rust-colored accents—a vase, matched roman shades that covered the top third of the huge windows. Comfortable and attractive, the room pulled her forward as Quinn switched on the fireplace and put in a call to the hotel’s kitchen.
An hour later, picking over the remains of her chicken fricassee while seated on a giant leather couch that wrapped around a corner of Quinn’s apartment, Sofia had to admit she felt glad to be there. The snow had stopped outside the living room windows, but peering down into the park with all the street lamps lit was sort of like looking into a dollhouse with hundreds of different tiny rooms. He was putting the finishing touches on the press release on his laptop. A fire crackled in the fireplace, warming her feet and knees, and she’d even accepted a throw blanket made of the softest cashmere ever.
With silent apologies to her mother, Sofia decided that no one truly soulless would help a scrappy thirteen-year-old retrieve a toy. Or help Sofia carry off a mad scheme to pretend to have a fiancé. Quinn was an exception to her mother’s rule about rich people.
“Just confirming...when did we know we were in love?” Quinn had taken the easy chair diagonally across from her, maintaining a professional amount of space between them.
“How about when you ordered the chicken fricassee for me?” she offered, trying to stick to the truth the way he’d showed her earlier.
“No one could blame you for being wooed by the food here.” He quit typing and peered over at her in the firelight.
They hadn’t put any other lights on in this room, although there was a glow from the kitchen. Sofia had been enjoying looking outside and the view was easier to appreciate with less light behind her.
“Dancers are perpetually starving,” she admitted. “So I’m more susceptible than most to good food.”
“Why are you always starving?” Quinn set aside the laptop long enough to clear their plates and set the dishes on a serving cart that had been delivered half an hour ago.
“It’s a figure of speech. I expend a great deal of energy, for one thing. And, for another, the body preferred by most directors is very slender.”
The topic had come under more debate over the last few years with a move to recognize healthy bodies of all sizes in dance. But ballet was rooted in traditions on every level, and she didn’t know any company that truly embraced this philosophy yet.
“I’m surprised. I would think the moves require a great deal of strength.”
“They do. But we need to build that strength in different ways. Repetition of lighter weights, for example.”
“But why?” He took the seat closer to her now, sharing the couch even though he was a couple feet away. He’d brought his laptop with him but hadn’t opened it yet.
“Choreographers like a company of dancers that are all roughly the same size and build. There’s more symmetry to it when we all move.”
“And you’d still get that if you all agree to be ten pounds heavier. And wouldn’t more muscle minimize injury?”
“Yes and no. Some say a lighter frame puts less strain on the joints.”
“You can’t eat enough. You work constantly. You’re subject to intra-squad jostling for position—so much so you’re willing to fake an engagement to keep your detractors quiet.” He counted off the negatives on his fingers. “So if you’re willing to go through all that, I have to think there’s one hell of an upside for you.”
“There is.” She shifted positions, straightening as she warmed to her subject. “I watched Sleeping Beauty with my mother as a child. It was a performance in the middle of nowhere—a tiny troupe traveling through Prague. And I was captivated by Aurora like any other little girl who attends the ballet.” Sliding off the couch, she moved to an open spot on the floor to show him. “I thought the dancer was the most beautiful and elegant woman in the world.” She took a position for the Rose Adagio dance in her stocking feet, imagining a princely suitor before her as she mimicked Aurora’s questioning pose with one leg raised and curved behind her. “When she took the roses from each of her four suitors...” She mimed the action, having danced the role many times herself. “I knew I wanted to be her. Not just Aurora, but the dancer who brought her to life.”
Quinn’s blue gaze tracked the movement of her arched foot as she lifted it in the exaggerated extension that her Russian teachers had stressed. The warmth in his eyes—his attention to her body—did not inspire the same feelings as when she captured an audience’s imagination on stage. This felt personal in a way that heated her skin and made her all too aware of her appearance.
Not just her body, which was perpetually displayed in dance. But the stroke of her braid against one arm. The rush of air past her lips as her breath caught.
“So you dance for the love of it. Because it was your dream.” He kept the conversation focused, which she appreciated since she’d forgotten what they were talking about for a moment, distracted by the sparks that crackled between them.
“I have never wanted to do anything else.” Which was why she feared the end of her career, a moment that could sneak up on her on any given night, with her body constantly battling injuries.
She needed to reach the