The Man She Shouldn't Crave
Lucy Ellis
Not that kind of girl…When dating agency owner Rose Harkness approaches a world renowned ice hockey team with a daring PR proposal, it puts her man-handling skills to the ultimate test…especially when she realises that the best of the bunch, enigmatic owner Plato Kuragin, isn’t a man she can handle. At all.Wealth and sinful good-looks have given Plato rock-star privileges when it comes to women, but Rose refuses to become another groupie – no matter how her body burns for his expert touch. But after an outrageously sexy taste of the forbidden Rose is hooked – and her heart is in serious trouble…
Then he saw her.
She gazed unblinkingly back at him, and if the eyes were the window to the soul these eyes had the curtains open, the bed unmade and a woman lying naked, all hot and flushed and bothered. And waiting.
For him.
Oh, yeah, this was enough to take his mind off the team.
Big blue eyes, round cheeks dusted with rosy colour and a ruby curve of a mouth that made her look on the verge of a smile. He found his own mouth reluctantly returning that smile. She had a subtle fullness to her face that made him unaccountably think of Renaissance Madonnas.
She was a stunningly beautiful girl. In any era.
For a moment he allowed himself the fantasy of having her brought up to his suite. He’d have her run that accent over him on her knees, bury his hands in that thick dark hair. He’d …
… lost his goddamned mind.
About the Author
LUCY ELLIS has four loves in life: books, expensive lingerie, vintage films and big, gorgeous men who have to duck going through doorways. Weaving aspects of them into her fiction is the best part of being a romance writer. Lucy lives in a small cottage in the foothills outside Melbourne.
Recent titles by the same author:
UNTOUCHED BY HIS DIAMONDS
INNOCENT IN THE IVORY TOWER
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Man She
Shouldn’t
Crave
Lucy Ellis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Charlotte
CHAPTER ONE
SHE’D come all the way to Toronto to find herself a man. Just not this man.
Shoot! She hoped it wasn’t this man.
Yet, unable to help herself, Rose drank him in—along with every other woman in the room.
Broad, high cheekbones, long straight nose, wide sullen mouth and deepset eyes the colour of a night sky. His bored expression only highlighted the male beauty of his face. Undeniably the gene pool had blessed him. He stood far over six feet, his lean, muscular body clad in expensive dark threads that remained faithful to the strength of him and drew Rose’s attention to how essentially different the male body was from the female.
As if she’d needed reminding, but this man just seemed to be in your face about it.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have competition. A huddle of gorgeous young men, shifting in their suits, jostled either side of him. They were talking amongst themselves, one of them smirking at the cameras, another looking a little shy.
Rose could feel her face becoming flushed, but this wasn’t the moment to suffer an attack of nerves. She’d known what she was getting into when she’d first spotted the Wolves’ visit to Toronto in the daily newspaper. It was so high-profile it had leapt out of the sports section altogether and landed on ‘look at me’ page three along with a grainy photo of a couple of the team’s stars.
Rose cared about sport about as much as she was interested in stock prices, but what the featured article had very clearly told her was other women did care. They cared a great deal. Not about the sport—that was all statistics and injuries, sweat and testosterone. No, women were interested in what all red-blooded females the world over paid attention to: a good-looking man with a honed body who knew how to use it.
The Wolves had that in spades, as well as the addition of some very high-profile players. And then there was that Russian thing they had going on. Melancholy eyes and high broad cheekbones, and rich dark accents that rolled r’s like Formula One™-tuned tyres—hard and fast into the corners.
Rose liked to think she knew exactly what women wanted. She liked to think she was an expert. She—and the bank that held her loan—was depending on her expertise.
She wanted to prove to the world—or perhaps only to metropolitan Toronto—that she knew what women wanted in a man and how to get it.
Except she hadn’t reckoned on this man. He was talking quietly to the guy at his side, but his gaze kept sweeping the room, bored, moody.
Simmering, Rose decided, fanning herself with the programme the girl at the door had shoved into her unresisting hand.
It seemed the city’s press had turned up to hear what these young, built Russian athletes, uncomfortable in their suits, had to say. The Russian national ice hockey team was dominant in the sport, but this Siberian team had all the glamour of its owner, Plato Kuragin, whose personal wealth and notorious reputation existed apart from the team. With him was a former national team coach but not, Rose noted, the couple of players—twin brothers—the NHL here in Canada were keen to poach. More star Russian athletes had come out of the Wolves team than any other in the country.
Not that Rose cared—and she knew that neither did any of the other women in the room if they were honest. What mattered was that the guys were all hot. This press jaunt wasn’t about sport. It was about sex. Sex sold everything nowadays.
Women wanted them. Men wanted to be like them. She wanted a couple of ice hockey players to do a guest spot for her dating agency. It was publicity money couldn’t buy, and as she didn’t have very much money she intended to use charm to get what she wanted. A Southern woman’s greatest asset.
It was why she hadn’t approached the Wolves management team with her request. She had decided to put her man-handling skills to the ultimate test.
Except the best of the bunch, Mr Tall, Bored and Built, was the one footing the bill, and Rose suddenly knew she was in a lot of trouble—because feminine instinct told her Plato Kuragin wasn’t a man she could handle. At all.
Rose had never seen a man less in need of a dating agency. He was built like an athlete, but everything about him asserted authority and power. She didn’t have to be told who he was. Oh, yes, this was the guy who would cause her some trouble.
Well, her daddy hadn’t raised a quitter, and that was why she was standing here in the middle of a media scrum in Toronto’s Dorrington Hotel with that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
People were firing questions at him in Russian and English, and although she didn’t understand much of it she heard every word said in the deep, deliberate voice from up front. Wanting to get another look at him, Rose shuffled sideways in an effort to detach herself from the scrum.
‘Pardon. Sorry. Just a sec—sorry.’
This wasn’t strictly necessary—in fact understated to the point of invisible was supposed to be her modus operandi—but she now had an uninterrupted view. A daunting view.
Thank God he wasn’t in her plan. She could not possibly approach this man.
And then she realised he’d stopped speaking. He was looking at her. His eyes, so deep and intense in their regard, were riveted on hers, and what she saw in them had a direct effect on her breathing. As in it completely stopped.
He angled his big muscular body towards her and what broke the spell, Rose realised, was the fact that she’d stepped towards him. Just fractionally, but clearly enough for him to notice.
Also enough to step on the back of the shoe of the woman in front of her, who said something rude. And then the facilitator standing on the podium made a gesture towards her and said, ‘Anglisti? English?’
A microphone was shoved in front of her face. Rose looked down at it and back up into those spectacular, mesmerising eyes that were … Why was he looking at her like that?
Ask a question, Rose. He wants you to ask him a question.
Her throat, already dry and unaccountably scratchy, was constricted. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. From somewhere her voice came, all high and breathy and really, really Texan.
‘Are y’all single?’
CHAPTER TWO
PLATO was not a fan of the media, but he knew how to play their game. You turned up; you used the publicity; you told them nothing.
Not that it would stop the tabloid reports, but it might deflect somewhat from the constant stream of drivel emanating from his last five-minute girlfriend about blondes and orgies on super-yachts. The bath of vintage champagne a burlesque dancer was supposed to have performed in at his recent twenty-eighth birthday celebration was the most current story doing the rounds. Yet, despite that last report actually being true, there was something belittling about seeing it all strung out like so many coloured lights—as if in the end this was his net worth. Lurid entertainment for the masses.
His media profile, however, helped out the team, and he had turned up today to give the coach and the boys the benefit of his press exposure.
It was a simple meet-and-greet before the match, but his mind was elsewhere. He’d spent this morning at a local gaol as his lawyers went through the paperwork to get two of his best players out of the cells. They were both currently holed up in a hotel room with Security. He didn’t trust them on their own. But it was only a matter of time before the story broke.
For the time being, though, he needed to keep a cap on it.
Then he saw her.
She gazed unblinkingly back at him, and if eyes were the windows to the soul these eyes had the curtains wide open, the bed unmade and a woman lying bare naked, all hot and flushed and bothered. And waiting.
For him.
Oh, yeah, this was enough to take his mind off the team.
Big blue eyes, round cheeks dusted with rosy colour, and a ruby curve of a mouth that made her look on the verge of a smile. He catalogued every one of her attributes and found his own mouth predictably returning that smile. Until this moment he’d had nothing to smile about all day. Things had just turned around.
Plato found himself standing a little straighter, with purpose edging back his shoulders. She was an angel, he thought, amused at his own susceptibility. The subtle fullness of her face made him unaccountably think of Renaissance Madonnas.
Da, a stunningly beautiful girl. In any era.
Aware she had completely stolen away his attention from the event at hand, he asked for her question.
For a moment her blank expression had him about to redirect to someone else, but then the little goddess licked her sweet ruby lips, opened her mouth, and asked the only question that needed no answer.
The entire world knew he was single.
At this moment, thanks to the disgruntled ex-girlfriend, he was possibly the most single man on the planet.
As the room reacted with laughter the girl, goal achieved, gazed levelly back at him.
Wealth and good-looks had given him rock star privileges when it came to women—privileges he was no longer so quick to indulge in. But she was not to know that. For a moment he allowed himself the fantasy of having her brought up to his suite. He’d have her run that accent over him on her knees, bury his hands in that thick dark hair. He’d …
… lost his goddamned mind.
Another question came at him. This time something about the national team. He could answer that in his sleep—which was just as well because Blue Eyes was making her way to the front of the room and she had taken his full attention with her.
She was bold. He had to give her that. A member of his security team intercepted her, and from the corner of his eye he watched as she remonstrated with the man.
Then a sharp-eyed rep from the Moscow Times lifted a hand, and the questions zeroed in on the rumour that Sasha Rykov would be signing with a Canadian team. Plato’s attention swerved back to doing an effective job of spin to keep the question at the forefront of everyone’s mind. As long as the press were asking about Rykov they wouldn’t be asking any uncomfortable questions about the absence of two of their best players.
The coach, Anatole Medvedev, fielded the next question, and after several more it was meet-and-greet time. He made it a practice to keep moving in these situations, keeping any interaction brief. There were corporate sponsors and a lot of journalists. He’d keep his eyes on the boys. A few of them were still wet behind the ears, but the language barrier would solve any concerns about an info leak.
Blue Eyes had vanished, taking his sexual fantasy with her.
Feeling a little shaky after her encounter with the big, bad boss of the Wolves, Rose looked around the room, knowing it was better to get this done fast—kind of like pulling a tooth. All she needed was two definite takers.
It crossed her mind that it still wasn’t too late. She could walk out of here, go home, forget about the publicity. She was uncomfortably aware her behaviour could be perceived as a little underhand. But this was about more than her business. It was about the women’s shelter where she volunteered, and where she hoped to be able to offer more than just her professional counsel. If Date with Destiny was the success she hoped it could be, there was a real chance come the end of the year, when the lease on the shelter came up, that they could move to larger, better premises.
And there was no way she was going to get even one of these players on side through legitimate avenues. She’d tried. No one would speak to her.
On a less important but personal level, today was also about firming up her confidence in herself. If she could do this—if she could take on an entire Russian ice hockey team with a bit of charm and a line of chat—she could finally put the past into a box and ship it to Utah. She was done with being that unhappy, humiliated girl who had fled Houston two years ago.
She spotted a couple of team members gripping wineglasses like life jackets, clearly cut off by the language barrier. They would have been easy pickings—they reminded her of herself once—but they weren’t the ones she wanted. She wanted confident, a bit brash, hard to pin down. Those were the guys who would sell her business.
It was absurd, but it was human nature. You always wanted what you couldn’t have. A guy who had the world at his feet, who could have any woman, who could walk away at any time, was not long-term material. That was certainly not the type of guy she wanted on her books. Too much hard work.
But they were perfect for publicity purposes.
She just realised she’d described Plato Kuragin to a tee. Not that she would be approaching him any time soon. She was confident, but she wasn’t delusional.
Her plan was to send a couple of these hockey boys out on dates, add a film crew to the mix, and pull in a favour with a local TV producer who was the friend of a friend who had assured her a spot if she could pull it off.
Now she only had to find a couple of photogenic specimens and run her little pick-up spiel by them.
She had a lot of competition. There were some seriously gorgeous women here. But attracting a man’s attention had less to do with looks and more to do with confidence—and it helped to have a plan.
She fixed herself in front of the dark-haired athlete she’d seen earlier, smirking for the press corps.
‘Oh, my, nobody move!’ She made a helpless gesture, lifted her gaze so that they made definite eye contact, and then dropped to her knees. ‘My contact lens!’ she wailed.
The guy dropped to his haunches and cast his gaze around on the floor—but mainly had a good long look at the shape of her bottom and thighs outlined by her crouching position. A few minutes of pointless searching and she was coming to her feet and holding out her hand.
‘Rose.’
‘Sasha.’
She was aware they were being surreptitiously watched by a couple of women, and Rose knew she’d made a good choice. She thanked him, made sure she kept eye contact because guys liked confidence, bemoaned how fuzzy the world suddenly looked and asked him how he was enjoying Toronto.
It only took a few minutes before she had his vital statistics: enthusiastic, a bit dull, and possessing less confidence around women than his outer swagger would suggest. But he had the face of an angel. It wasn’t hard to scrawl her cell number on his hand, and she added her name: ‘Rose’. He didn’t look bright enough to remember it if she simply left her trademark drawing of the flower.
It was her signature strategy. Handing out business cards would be intimidating to some of these boys, and likely to go straight into the bin. The coy girl who pressed ink to their palm was going to be remembered.
Everyone was sceptical about a young woman setting up her first business on such a flimsy premise as matchmaking, but Rose knew her youth was on her side. She came across as unthreatening, unserious, and to some of these men as a bit of harmless fun. The fact she had been doing this since she was eight years old and considered herself an old hand at it was her secret weapon.
After all, she had managed to find a wife for her father, and two of her four brothers, and several of her girlfriends were happily settled with men Rose had helped them land.
It was a little different when she was doing the landing, keeping a smile on her face despite the bite of her heels and the uncomfortable warmth of her wool suit, and every time she approached a new face her heart began to pound.
Today was all about Date with Destiny, but in the days leading up to this, as she’d formulated her plan, something else had been growing alongside it. Right now it was gnawing at her, and if she was honest with herself turning up today was about much more than business. There was a recklessness in choosing to go this route that turned it into the bold move she needed to make. She had played it safe for four years under the watchful eyes of her fiancå’s ambitious family, and where had that got her? What did it say about her matchmaking skills when she was twenty-six and still single …?
No, she was going to put herself on the line—for the business but more importantly for herself—and if pesky doubts were already crowding in she’d just ignore them.
But so far, so good, and she hoped the results would be at least one phone call later today. Then she could make her approach.
Plato watched as Blue Eyes cut a swathe through his boys. Every time he looked around she was with a different player. What in the hell was she up to? Although given a couple of seconds he could guess.
He was on the move away from the CEO of one of the brands the boys would be wearing on their shirts on Saturday when he heard a soft, twangy ‘Hey …’ Against his better judgement he halted, turned, made a gesture to his security officer, who was barring her path.
A big smile crossed her lovely face and up came some serious dimples. He hadn’t expected those. He had expected the approach, however.
He could see all of her now. She was wearing a double-breasted blue and black plaid wool jacket and a knee-length matching fitted skirt. A pair of long shapely legs in black tights plunged down into aqua coloured high heels. Vaguely he understood this was some form of retro fashion statement. Her dark hair was pulled back severely from her face, but it only served to draw attention to those big eyes, that lush mouth, the slightly upturned nose and the apple-round curve of her cheeks and gently rounded chin, echoing the curves below.
And she had some serious curves. She was all woman.
‘Y’all didn’t answer my question,’ she said brightly.
This was going to kill him. ‘Not as single as you’d probably like, detka,’ he said.
She crossed the space between them.
‘I get that you probably don’t want to talk right now,’ she said rapidly.
Up close, she was not quite as confident as she had initially appeared. Her gaze cut shyly away as he looked down at her, but instinct and experience with women told him it was a calculated gesture.
She looked back up, a determined glint in her eyes, and waved a gold pen. ‘Can I give you my cell number?’
He chuckled and reluctantly turned away. She was beautiful and persistent.
To his surprise he felt her hand close over his forearm. If she’d been a man his security detail would have been all over her, but they’d seen the exchange. Women approached him all the time. He was unfailingly polite, but definite. He did the chasing.
‘Please,’ she said, flashing those dimples as if she wasn’t accosting the man everyone in this room wanted to talk to but just a random guy in the street.
She took his hand and he let her, curious to see what she was up to. Her touch was gentle, as soft and female as the rest of her looked.
She waved the pen. ‘Promise not to wash it off.’
He allowed her to ink several digits across his palm.
‘My name is Rose Harkness,’ she said sweetly, suddenly all eyes and sincerity, ‘and I’ve got a business proposition for you. Call me.’
Business proposition? Was that what they were calling it these days?
He didn’t bother to glance at the number, but he did take a last look at what he was leaving behind. A year ago he might have taken her up on the offer, and even now he was tempted to take her along with him. She ticked all the boxes: beautiful, built, no strings. But he wasn’t doing one-nighters with women any more, and he wasn’t letting her ricochet through his team either. He shrugged, gave her a wink and kept moving.
As he stepped into the service elevator with the Wolves coach, Anatole Medvedev, and his head of security, he said, ‘Make sure that woman is turned out of the hotel. She’s got an agenda.’
That went well, thought Rose. At least she’d got all her lines out. For a moment her vocal cords had seized up when Plato Kuragin had run his critical gaze over her. A man who dated supermodels and actresses and other women without bottoms to speak of. She’d been too overwhelmed even to check his reaction. Yet she’d stood her ground, she’d run her line by him, and he’d seemed to enjoy it—although there was a fine line between an unusual approach and ending up sounding like a groupie.
The athletes had been easy—a couple a bit standoffish, but for the most part receptive, and they seemed like nice guys.
Plato Kuragin—he was something else entirely. She’d been high on confidence when she’d approached him, taken one look into those rain-over-stone dark grey eyes and lost the plot. Plato Kuragin was not going to line up to be Date with Destiny’s poster-boy. No, she’d approached him because she could. Because she was a red-blooded woman and she couldn’t resist.
Of all the monumentally stupid spur-of-the-moment decisions. She had come very close to blowing it, and she knew darn well why. Pesky hormones. But there was also this irresistible pull to behave a little recklessly. She’d approached the players for the business, but she’d fronted up to their big, bad boss because she could. Because the new Rose was all about being bold and brave.
Comfortably seated in the bar of the hotel, Rose took out her cell and set it down where she could see it. It was always possible one of the athletes would call her whilst she was still in the hotel. She hoped so. Then she could have the conversation on neutral ground. She ordered a soft drink and busied herself making notes on how she was going to sell Date with Destiny to her first caller.
Instead her pen began making circles on the page, and she found herself recalling how Plato Kuragin had smiled at her—as if she was the only woman in the room—and how imposing he was close up.
He had to be at least six foot six. She’d barely reached his chin in her heels, and the forearm she’d grasped had been twice as broad as her own, covered in golden hairs that glinted under the bright chandelier lights of the reception room. The callused, roughened palm she’d held could have enclosed her hand entirely. Those labourer’s hands didn’t fit the image she had of him as a playboy tycoon, with models—usually of the blonde Scandinavian kind—draped around his neck. That big, muscle-honed body didn’t come from sitting behind a desk or lying on the deck of a super-yacht all day long. And it didn’t come from a gym either. He looked like a guy who used his body.
Rose propped her elbows up on the table and planted her chin in her hands. She had plenty of time to contemplate that body …
‘Excuse me, miss.’
Rose looked up to find two men in hotel uniforms standing over her. Her usual ready smile evaporated as she listened to their request that she leave the hotel.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You were observed accosting several of our visiting international guests earlier this evening. Mr Kuragin has personally requested your removal.’
Rose blinked. ‘What? Why?’
An uneasy feeling slid down Rose’s spine even as the man cleared his throat.
‘Procurement is not something our hotel turns a blind eye to, madam.’
Rose’s mouth fell open. ‘You think I’m a hooker?’
After that there wasn’t much conversation. Just a security officer marching her none too gently through the lobby.
Outside the light had started to dwindle and the sleet to fall. As Rose walked the four blocks to where she had left her car she tried not to take any of it personally. This wasn’t about her; it was about the business.
Really, Rose? her conscience niggled. Because she knew it wasn’t the whole truth of the matter. There was a fine line between being bold and behaving with reckless abandon, and she suspected she’d come down a little too heavily on the latter side.
Walking a little faster, she told herself she was new at putting herself out there. She was bound to make mistakes. Often being bold and brash meant you didn’t get quite what you bargained for. She certainly hadn’t banked on being evicted from the hotel for soliciting!
Not that she regretted one bit acting on her impulses for once. No, sirree. Playing it too careful had got her nowhere thus far. She folded her arms protectively around herself. Besides, you needed a thick skin in the service industry.
Except something hopeful had been lit inside her when Plato Kuragin had smiled at her. She’d got the erroneous impression he was interested. Which just showed how delusional she was.
Okay, it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Although it was kind of disconcerting to discover that the only man you had met in for ever who got your pulse racing and your body temperature tipping over into tropical had assumed you were in a different kind of service industry, and informed the hotel management you were a hooker!
CHAPTER THREE
‘HIYA, Rose, no date tonight?’
Her elderly neighbour in the adjoining townhouse on George Street greeted her at the gate. It was after six, and cold and dark, but Rita Padalecki had a small ageing dog who needed regular trips to the garden.
‘No, Mrs Padalecki, not tonight.’
‘I keep hoping for you, Rose.’
Rose smiled, opening her front door. She wondered what Mrs Padalecki would say if she told her she’d been turned out of a hotel tonight for procurement? She knew what her father and brothers would say. You’re packing up and coming back home.
Fortunately her family didn’t need to know any more than her sweet, elderly neighbour. No, refreshingly, she could keep that little blip on her radar to herself.
She headed upstairs, kicking off her heels as she dropped onto the end of her bed and fired up her laptop. She wanted to get this onto her blog before she turned in for the evening.
Met the Wolves ice hockey team today. Ladies, they are all single. Learned some curious facts about Russia, pucks and how to drink vodka. Unfortunately Grigori and Ivan Sazanov were in the land of the missing. If you see any gorgeous Russian men looking lost, send them our way. Study up on your ice hockey, girls.
She smiled at her own silliness and posted the photo she had taken of Sasha Rykov. She’d told him she wanted to use it on her blog and he’d shrugged and smiled. Then again, Plato Kuragin had shrugged and smiled—and look where that had left her. On the pavement with a scarlet letter on her back.
Right, that’s enough. Forget Plato Kuragin. Remember how well the rest of the day went and give yourself props for fronting up and taking a chance.
She shut the lid on her laptop and padded off barefoot to run a bath.
Half an hour later Rose emerged into her bedroom, wet hair wrapped in a handtowel. She was too tired to prepare anything, so rang and ordered a pizza from her local, picking at the remains of a Danish she’d had this morning as she did so. Carrying a cold glass of white wine in one hand and a book in the other, she made herself comfortable on the sofa and kept her phone in sight. No bites yet, but she remained hopeful.
Plato skimmed the printout his security adviser had handed him.
‘What in the hell is this?’
‘Rose Red’s blog. The woman you asked us to run a check on—Rose Harkness. This is what came up. She posted it thirty minutes ago.’
‘Rose Red? What’s that? Her working name?’
‘She runs a website—a dating agency.’
Plato looked up swiftly. Was that what they were calling it nowadays? ‘Do you have an address for her?’
‘We do. How would you like it handled?’
Discreetly. For some reason his mind replayed the way she had cut her gaze away when she was speaking to him, as if shoring up her courage, and it interfered with his first thought which was to have his legal team make a threatening phone call.
‘Nyet, I’ll handle this myself. E-mail me the address. I take it she’s in central Toronto?’
‘The old district. Nice area.’
He didn’t doubt that. There had been something classy about her. Less to do with the suit and more to do with the way she had infiltrated that room, sweet and sassy, but low-key. A woman with a mission but not drawing attention to herself.
He picked up the printout again. It was innocuous enough, but it drew attention to the very thing he didn’t want questions about: the absence of the Sazanov brothers. Also, Anatole had told him she’d spoken to nearly all the boys and given them her number.
He should let Security deal with this. There was no reason for him to get involved … other than the smudged line of digits still faintly visible on his left hand, the invitation in her blue eyes and the unreasonable desire he still had to take her up on it.
He was in the Ferrari and driving downtown when he acknowledged that the shape of that ruby-red mouth and the promise in those baby blues had a little more to do with it. The sat nav took him to a quiet tree-lined street with traditional gabled townhouses close to the kerb. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. A residential home in a nice neighbourhood.
An elderly lady peered at him over the low railing fence as he strode up the path to the front door of number seventeen.
‘She’s home,’ chirped the woman helpfully. ‘And who are you, dear?’
Plato stopped, frowned. ‘Plato Kuragin,’ he said simply.
‘Foreign,’ said the woman. ‘She’s never had any foreign gents here before. When did you meet?’
When did they …? ‘This afternoon,’ he drawled. ‘It’s cold, madam, shouldn’t you be inside?’
‘It’s Wiggles. He needs to do his business before bed. This afternoon, you say? Well, you’re a quick worker. Mind you be good to her. She’s a sweet girl, our Rose. I don’t like this business she’s in. I think it hardens a girl, makes her cynical. I should have asked—are you a date or a client? It’s confusing with her running the agency from home.’
Plato wasn’t given a chance to reply as Wiggles chose that moment to come hurtling across the garden and into the house. Plato had a glimpse of something resembling a grey streak, and the elderly lady, with a little cry of surprise, vanished after him.
Plato rapped the lion’s-head door knocker. Hard.
The light went on and the door opened, and for a moment Plato forgot what he was doing there, on a doorstep in an inner suburban neighbourhood of Toronto, chasing down a woman who might or might not be a lady of the night and being door-stepped by her elderly neighbour and a dog called Wiggles.
Texas Rose stood on the threshold in a red silk robe with definitely some serious black silk and lace something underneath. Faint music he identified as Ravel’s Bolåro was coming from another room, and in the downlights of the hallway the interior of her home hinted at a cavern of sensual delight. But the comparisons with a bordello ended there.
Her head was wrapped in a white towel and her face was scrubbed bare, so that her nose looked a little pink, and she was holding out a twenty-dollar bill that retreated as she took in his presence.
‘You’re not pizza,’ she said faintly.
‘Nyet,’ he said, wondering if the boys at the pizzeria threw dice to see which one got to deliver to Texas Rose. ‘Can I come in?’
She gazed back at him, looking as flummoxed as he was feeling but no doubt for different reasons.
He had been expecting this, but also he hadn’t. Hell, he didn’t know what he’d expected. All he knew was that he should turn around right now, get back in his car and drive away, and forget this had ever happened.
Except in that moment her towel turban slipped and, despite her attempt to keep it in place, damp, dark hair spilled out. All of a sudden he became aware of her nipples peaking against soft fabric, and the stroke of her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip. It all seemed to happen at once and he stepped forward, definitely going in.
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ she said, backing up.
‘Nyet,’ he agreed, ‘it’s probably a very bad idea.’ He watched the outline of her breasts shift beneath that silk. She wasn’t wearing a bra. His mind went blank. The most powerful surge of lust shot through him.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes. No.’
She was staring at him warily, and it took a moment for her alarm to penetrate his thick fog of desire. What in the hell was he doing?
‘I’m here to speak to you,’ he said, clearing his voice, as if that sorted it all out.
She looked so appalled by the idea that it brought him back to reality. ‘Miss Harkness,’ he said with exaggerated formality, ‘you crashed that press conference today. We can either do this on the doorstep, or sitting down like a civilised man and woman.’
The tone of command seemed to do the trick.
‘Where are my manners?’ she said rapidly. ‘Of course. Won’t you come on in, Mr Kuragin?’
The sudden switch from open-mouthed alarm to Southern hospitality was too abrupt for his liking.
As was the sway of those hips as she preceded him down the narrow hall. He could see the outline of her bottom shifting under the silk, a little too wide and round for current fashion, but he had lost interest in contemporary standards of the female form the moment she opened that door. Texas Rose had one of those lush bodies found in paintings of nineteenth-century odalisques. He had a few of them hanging on the walls in his home in Moscow. Slender, but stacked in all the right places.
He followed her into a small front room from which the music was emanating. He noted the drawn drapes, the functional but pretty furniture, the place on the sofa where she had obviously been sitting: a red cashmere throw disturbed, a half-glass of wine, a book and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. Not the accoutrements of a woman who was regularly entertaining men.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, with a degree of formality at odds with her deshabillå state.
He noted her cheeks were scorched red, and one of her hands was clenching at the ribbon tie that kept her robe vaguely cloaking what lay beneath: the full glory of those stupendous breasts.
‘If you’ll excuse me? I won’t be a moment.’
‘I don’t excuse you, and I want you to sit down.’ When she jumped he added, ‘Now.’
The bark in his voice had come from nowhere, but this woman and this routine she was performing was getting to him. Who in the hell did she think she was? Turning up at the Dorrington, making doe-eyes at the boys and then dragging him across town, offering up tantalising glimpses of a truly epic female body and then faking this I must preserve my modesty act …
Her eyes flew wide and her other hand darted up to crisscross her breasts with her arms. It was a classic ‘woman in peril’ gesture, and it almost convinced him he’d overreacted, was in fact completely in the wrong.
‘I want to get changed, Mr Kuragin. And you’re a guest in my house …’
‘Nyet, I’m not one of your guests, Rose. Speaking of which—your neighbour was very informative.’
‘Mrs Padalecki? You spoke to her?’ Something in her expression eased a little.
‘As I said, informative. You run your agency from your home?’
‘Yes,’ Rose said slowly, edging towards the sofa.
‘You are zoned for this?’
‘Zoned?’
He watched curiously as she made a snatch for the red cashmere throw and held it up under her chin, effectively shielding herself. He wanted to tell her it was unnecessary. He had no intention of sampling the merchandise. But that would have been a lie, he acknowledged ruefully. His intentions were being felt all too painfully—it was just he had no intention of acting on them.
‘I am not familiar with the Canadian laws,’ he said steadily, ‘but that can be remedied. I could be your worst nightmare, Rose.’
All the colour that had been so charmingly lighting up her face drained away. ‘If you don’t get out of my house I’m calling the police.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Mrs Padalecki will call the police.’
‘Your neighbour seemed to think I was a client … or a date. Sounds as if men are in and out of here all the time.’
He picked up the book lying on the table between them. Madame Bovary.
He frowned.
‘Get out!’ Her voice cracked and for the first time he noticed her hands were trembling.
‘Sit down, Rose. I’m here to discuss your little foray into the world of ice hockey. You can either do it with me, or with my legal team.’
Her lashes fluttered. ‘Your legal—legal team?’ She sat down abruptly on the sofa. ‘You’re here to talk about what happened today?’
‘Da,’ he said brusquely, annoyed at how vulnerable she suddenly appeared as relief coloured her voice.
‘Oh.’ She released a breath. Her shoulders, however, remained stiff little jolts of wariness.
Plato glanced around the room. This wasn’t a den of iniquity. It was a comfortable home. A woman’s home. There were framed photographs on ledges, frilly-edged lamps, and a gorgeous girl huddled in a red cashmere throw gazing up at him as if he’d staged a home invasion.
It wasn’t a familiar experience for him, but he finally acknowledged he might have overreacted. She swiped her bottom lip with that little pink tongue again and he had a fairly good idea why he’d overreacted. Sexual energy wasn’t just moving at a rate of knots through his body, it was thrumming in the air between them. Bolåro, reaching its crescendo even on a low volume, wasn’t helping.
‘Can you turn that off?’ he growled.
She blinked rapidly, reaching across the table for the remote. The sudden silence was almost worse.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ Rose said softly.
Da. Sit down. Don’t loom over her. Keep this brief and to the point. Then get the hell out of here.
As he lowered his big body into a far too fragile armchair across from her she took the opportunity to push back some of the heavy, curling damp hair that was falling forward over her shoulder, drawing attention to the creaminess of her skin visible between the throw and her robe. Peignoir, he thought distractedly. That was what they were called, those flimsy little veils women wore to make men think about what was underneath. He didn’t need help with that thinking. Those curves and hollows were burned into his retinas.
‘If this is about what happened with Security I want you to know, Mr Kuragin, seeing you’ve already threatened me with legal action, I could sue you for defamation.’
‘Izvenitye? Pardon?’
‘You told the hotel security I was soliciting!’
He shrugged. ‘Those are your words, Rose. I told my chief of security you had an agenda.’
As she grappled to come to terms with the fact that Plato Kuragin was in her house—the Plato Kuragin, of the killer looks, killer financial skills and, if the tabloids she’d skimmed through in her research were to believed, similarly honed skills with the opposite sex—Rose became aware right there and then she’d lost a little ground. She did have an agenda. She had quite a big agenda.
She just hadn’t factored in this man taking any sort of interest in it. But then you did target him too, Rose, a little voice niggled. And now this has happened and what are you going to do about it?
It was just she’d never expected him in a million years to call. That he had turned up at her home was off the scale. But he was talking about legal teams and threatening legal action and … and he was looking at her mouth again. Did she have crumbs on her lips? She thought hungrily of the half-eaten Danish on her kitchen bench.
Aware her panic levels had dropped sufficiently for her to be thinking about food again, Rose wondered why she had thought Plato Kuragin had nefarious intentions.
It was the way he had stormed into her house, she reasoned, refusing to let her dress, welding those stunning dark eyes to her body as if heat-seeking the bits he liked. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. He was notorious for dating specifically Scandinavian blondes, with mile-high legs and breasts that, thanks to plastic surgery, sat up and saluted. Her curves were of the ordinary woman variety, round and placed exactly where nature intended them. It was her night gear that had made him take a second look.
Forced to dress conservatively during the day, she indulged herself in beautiful lingerie underneath. And a little ultrafeminine part of her psyche was ever such a tiny bit pleased that she’d wowed him. But she stuffed that thought away, along with those other pesky fantasies about him scooping her into his arms and carrying her upstairs to have his way with her.
Surreptitiously she lifted one hand to brush away any Danish crumbs that lingered on her lips. His eyes grew even more heavy lidded and Rose swallowed—hard.
‘The result of your scurrilous accusation is I was escorted out of the hotel. It was very embarrassing …’ She trailed off, realising he wouldn’t be particularly interested in her feelings.
‘I’m sure you’ll recover.’
‘I don’t know why you’re so sure. You don’t know me. I could be very sensitive.’
He gave her an arrested look and for a spinning moment it occurred to Rose that he might think she was referring to something else. More personal.
‘No doubt,’ he drawled, and she could feel the hot colour sweeping up her chest like a tide. ‘But not on this subject. After all, you were trawling the boys this afternoon. Not the actions of a shrinking violet, detka.’
Rose’s mouth fell open. ‘I was what?’
‘Trawling. Throwing out a net behind a boat and seeing what you can drag in.’
‘I know what trawling is, and it has insulting connotations.’
‘Da, but it is accurate.’
His expression was stone-cold accusation, and Rose’s hard-won confidence took a tumble. She gathered her manners around her like defences. ‘Did your mama raise you to talk to ladies with that mouth?’ she demanded, trying not to let him see how upset she was.
Plato had the searing thought that his mother had been too busy working herself into the ground and drinking herself to death to mind what her street-smart young son was getting up to, but he pushed that aside as he stared down Texas. He couldn’t remember any woman in the past who’d pulled him up on his manners. Mostly they were too busy trying to hold his attention. Apart from her little show this afternoon, Tex hadn’t done anything other than defend herself since he’d turned up at her door. She actually looked a little wounded, and he had the unlikely thought that he was going too hard on her.
Da—right. The woman who had sashayed around that room today with her little gold pen wasn’t hiding her light under a bushel.
She probably had the hide of a rhinoceros, even if her skin did look translucent as glass. Chert, he could see the shadow of a pale blue vein running along her throat from here, and there would be more tributaries of fine blue veins at her ankles, her wrists, the inner curves of her body.
She was really quite delicately built—which got lost in the sumptuous scale of the rest of her, cloaked now from his view. He checked the drift of his thoughts under that throw. He wasn’t going there.
The Wolves players weren’t going there either.
Why that should raise a low, primitive growl in his subconscious he wasn’t going to investigate. He snapped himself brutally out of the reverie.
Being ejected from hotels was an occupational hazard for a woman like this. How old was she? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? The lifestyle wasn’t showing on her yet …
‘Aren’t you a little bit old for groupie tactics?’
Rose stiffened. Old? Old? ‘I’m twenty-six,’ she retaliated, then cursed herself for handing out personal information. It made all of this far too intimate.
‘Da—older than half the boys.’
Trying not to feel as if she was halfway to her pension, Rose responded frostily, ‘It’s the modern era. Age is irrelevant.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, princess.’
Rose’s mouth fell open, and if she hadn’t been so precariously positioned, and intimidated because of it, she would have leapt up and slapped his no-good, smirking face. Who did he think he was, insinuating she wanted to sleep with his players?
‘I don’t want to sleep with them,’ she burst out. ‘I want to date them!’ No, that wasn’t right. ‘I mean I—’
‘Let’s get this clear,’ he interrupted coldly. ‘You came to the Dorrington to date an entire ice hockey team?’
Rose gave him a withering look. ‘Yes,’ she said drolly. ‘I want to date twelve elite athletes. It’s a dream of mine.’
Something approaching a smile tugged on Plato Kuragin’s firm mouth, and for a moment Rose forgot how he had barged into her home, refused to let her dress, making these ridiculous accusations … because he’d almost smiled at her and some of her defensiveness crumbled away.
For a moment she spun on the thought that she could actually have a little fun with this. She could handle this guy. He was just trying to intimidate her—and, okay, doing a pretty good job of it—but nobody bossed her around any more. A long time ago she’d dug herself a hole of her own making with a man, but she’d got herself out of that. She was in charge of her life now. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be seen as a femme fatale, capable of leading young men astray. Plato Kuragin was certainly making her think it was possible …
Rose shook her head. She couldn’t believe she was even thinking that. She was letting the situation get to her. Letting his almost-smile get to her. She wasn’t capable of leading herself astray, let alone twelve grown men! Yes, she’d acted recklessly, she knew that, and she hadn’t bargained on the result she’d got. But now she was determined to handle it.
‘I run a dating agency,’ she explained crossly. ‘I wanted to find dates for them.’
For a moment Plato Kuragin just stared. Stared until Rose felt the colour burning in her cheeks.
Stared until she felt forced to blurt out, ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’
‘The boys don’t need help with that, detka.’
Rose rolled her eyes. ‘I realise that. I was looking for publicity—’
His expression cooled, and his mouth formed a straight, hard line. ‘Of course you were.’
‘Don’t make it sound like that!’ she defended herself. ‘You can’t just come in here, insinuating horrid things about me. You don’t know me! You invited yourself into my house, you won’t let me get dressed—’ She broke off as her voice tremored under the strain of keeping it all together.
Something flickered in his eyes, and his mouth softened as if he was going to say something.
‘I’d really like to have my dinner and then go to bed …’ she floundered.
For a moment his heavy gaze dropped to her mouth, and Rose had a startling and not completely unwelcome image of Plato Kuragin in that bed along with her.
She firmed her mouth.
‘I don’t know—perhaps this is how you do things in your country. My knowledge of Russia is limited to Dr Zhivago. But in Canada men don’t burst into the homes of women they don’t know.’
‘And you’re keen to broaden that experience with my boys?’ he inserted coolly.
‘I know you’re implying distasteful things, but that aside they are hardly boys. They’re men, and they can make their own decisions.’
‘Not whilst they’re under contract, detka.’
That was that, then. That little dream was over. Rose took a breath and swallowed her disappointment. But she’d given it a go, she told herself, and that was huge for her. Maybe it had been a mistake but, shoot! If she was going to make them, they’d be her mistakes. This was the life she was meant to lead. Not one controlled by other people.
She guessed she had a passionate nature, and from all she’d heard that was a trait she’d inherited from her mother. Well, she was going to trust herself, her instincts and her passion from now on. Even if it got her into trouble.
She thought of Bill Hilliger, her ex-fiancå back in Houston, and how powerless she had felt to change anything at all during the four years they were together. Well, she’d darn well changed everything for herself now, and she hoped her mama would be proud of her determination and understand her need to leave behind the protection of her father and brothers. She had to make her own life, and she’d come all the way to Canada to do it—and if that meant dealing with the Plato Kuragins of this world, so be it.
It didn’t hurt to pull her punches with him either. She had lied about her knowledge of Russia; she had taken six months of studying the language at college. Which was why she knew Plato Kuragin was calling her baby. Baby. As in you’re just a girl and I’m in charge. He was such a jock. She hated jocks. She liked men with real jobs—hard-working men like her dad and her brothers. Men who removed their metaphorical hats when they spoke to a lady they had just been introduced to. Men who wouldn’t dream of just dropping in on a woman alone in the evening without an invitation.
This man, with his billions and blondes on tap and his jetset lifestyle, clearly didn’t have a clue how to treat a nice girl. Except he didn’t see her as a nice girl, did he? He saw her as some sort of predacious tramp, leading his wet-behind-the-ears athletes astray.
And suddenly it wasn’t so funny any more. She didn’t want to be treated like something the cat had dragged in.
Not by this man.
The doorbell pealed.
Plato was on his feet. ‘You will stay there,’ he said repressively.
Oh, for goodness’ sakes—she could answer her own door! However, Rose saw the advantage, and the moment he was gone she scrambled for the hall. Plato was dealing with the pizza delivery as she bolted up the stairs. She threw open her wardrobe doors and scouted for something nice. She didn’t question why she wasn’t pulling on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. She just knew no woman in her right mind would parade before Plato Kuragin in cheap cotton and fleece.
She grabbed a blue and white spotted silk and cotton dress off its hanger and made short work of exchanging throw and negligee for the flattering shoulder-to-ankle cut of the dress. It hinted at her curves but didn’t make a show of them. She added a little yellow cardigan to cover her shoulders and arms, slicked some cherry-red colour over her lips and ran a brush through her hair. That would have to do. If she blowdried her curls straight it would just look as if she was trying.
She didn’t want trying. She wanted everyday girl. A girl who didn’t ‘trawl’ athletes or warrant unpleasant commentary on her actions.
Taking a deep breath, she came down the stairs, telling herself it was reasonable to change out of her nightwear when she had a guest—a male guest—and that he wouldn’t read anything into that. And all women touched up their lipstick.
Perhaps the squirt of her favourite perfume hadn’t been such a good idea.
Plato was in her kitchen. It was slightly disconcerting to find him there. He had her white flatware out on the bench and her fridge door open.
‘You don’t have beer, do you?’ he asked, crouching down to get a look inside.
Rose told herself not to stare at that very taut behind clad in brutally faithful tailored trousers. Then she tried to work out why she wasn’t objecting to him making himself so comfortable in her home.
‘There’s just an open bottle of wine,’ she heard herself say faintly, ‘or a soft drink.’
Her kitchen was so tiny two people were a crowd, and when one of those people was a six-foot-six-inch male with a breadth across his shoulders that made Rose feel slight in comparison there really wasn’t anywhere to go. Rose backed up as far as she could into the kitchen cupboard, and jammed its handle into the curve of her bottom.
‘Glasses?’ He straightened up, looked over his shoulder at her.
Rose stilled as he turned, those rainy-night eyes taking her in as if she were an oasis in the desert. She waited for him to say something. Although what he’d say she didn’t know. Something along the lines of, You’ve changed, which was obvious, but somehow she didn’t think that was what he was thinking.
Except he couldn’t be thinking what she thought he was thinking.
Because why would a man get overheated about a dress when he’d already seen her in her hot-to-trot underthings?
Men looked at her. She couldn’t walk down a city street without second glances, a wolf whistle, something that cheered up her day. But she well knew the pitfalls of being judged on her bra size, and she dressed to diminish rather than play up any sex appeal she might possess. Men appreciated aspects of her body, but none of that had prepared her for how Plato Kuragin was looking at her now, or the effect it was having on her.
‘In the cupboard just above—next to your head.’ He was so tall nothing was actually above him.
He stared back at her blankly.
Oh, my Lord, this is so silly. ‘I’ll get them,’ she said, a little embarrassed, and crossed to him, reaching up to open the cupboard door.
He barely shifted, just looked down at her, ever so slightly poleaxed. ‘I was told you run a dating agency,’ he said in a rough voice. ‘Is that true?’
‘Uh-huh. Date with Destiny.’ For some reason this less-than-sure-of-himself Plato Kuragin was letting the real Rose uncurl herself from hibernation for the first time since he’d arrived. She even angled up her chin and gave him a curious look, which was a mistake because they were awfully close all of a sudden.
She brought down her arms with the glasses in her hand and her right breast brushed very definitely against his arm. She felt his bicep contract and saw his eyes go hard and hot as they dipped lower. Her nipples came out to play, and suddenly her brains just scrambled.
She turned to set the glasses down with a clatter and put some physical distance between them. The bench. There. No one could get through wood and Formica—although looking at the heavy musculature in those arms she wouldn’t bet money on it. Stop staring at his arms, Rose. What on earth was wrong with her?
‘I was at the Dorrington Hotel drumming up business, if you really want to know,’ she said a tad awkwardly, because suddenly it really mattered that he thought well of her. ‘And that’s the total extent of this agenda you say I have.’
‘Drumming up business?’ he repeated, but Rose got the impression she could have said anything.
He was intent on appreciating the look of her—her hair, her face, the cling of the dress down her legs. Was it her imagination or did he literally rip his gaze away from her as he held up the wine to check its label?
Rose stifled a groan, her attention shifting to how downmarket all this must seem to him. The house, the wine, her … ‘It’s just a regular white from the supermarket,’ she explained, her voice tailing off. It was an echo from her other life—the one in Houston where she’d never been quite good enough for Bill and his hoity-toity family—and that it should assail her here and now dumped a bucket on her fantasy.
Dammit, if she wanted a fantasy she could have it! She wanted to enjoy Plato Kuragin whilst he was here, because goodness knew he could vanish as abruptly as he had arrived.
Plato reached into his pocket and whipped out a cell phone. She watched as he thumbed the keypad.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Sorting out food. We can do better than pizza and cheap wine, detka.’
‘You’re ordering a meal? For both of us?’
‘Da, is there a problem?’
He’d had her thrown out of the Dorrington, invaded her home, virtually forced her to sit in front of him in her underwear, threatened her with legal action … and now he wanted to share a meal with her! Was there a problem?
‘I guess that would be all right,’ she murmured, looking down at her bare feet, tracing circles with her red-painted big toenail on the tiled floor.
You could almost call this a date, a little voice whispered in her ear.
Stop it, Rose.
‘We will sit in a restaurant and relax and talk,’ said Plato, rounding the bench.
Rose told herself to hold her ground, play it cool. She wasn’t going to hop about like a frightened rabbit. Truth be told, this was so much more than she had hoped for when she’d crashed the Dorrington press conference this afternoon.
He closed a big hand over her wool-clad shoulder and for a moment the gesture lingered, as if he was learning the delicacy of her bone structure, the roundness that was so much a part of her, as if his touch was about to turn into something else. He turned her effortlessly towards the door.
He wasn’t really asking, but he didn’t strike Rose as the kind of guy who asked. He seemed just to issue directives and take what he wanted—and why that should send happy messages to her lace-clad regions she wasn’t going to second-guess or question. Besides, this wasn’t about him controlling her, because this was what she wanted.
‘We’re going out?’ she asked redundantly.
‘Da, is that a problem?’
‘I guess not,’ she prevaricated.
‘You can tell me about this business of yours,’ he said, in that growly, sexy Russian voice of his.
Rose glowed.
I will. And whilst you’re being all he-man and Russian I’ll convince you that being my Date with Destiny is the least you can do, seeing as you burst in here and scared me out of my wits, you big lug.
‘I guess that would be okay,’ she responded with a little smile.
Being foreign, Plato Kuragin obviously didn’t understand that if you gave a Texan woman an inch she’d take a mile.
Yes, this was definitely a date.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE night was finally making sense.
He’d laid eyes on her—what?—four hours ago? Now he had her in his car. He was taking her to dinner. He would possibly be introducing himself to the delights of her body in a few more hours.
Everything that had seemed murky, uncertain, almost out of character, suddenly fitted. A beautiful woman with an agenda … He’d had her investigated, he’d narrowed down and dismissed the problem, and now he could move in to enjoy what was on offer.
And she had a lot to offer.
But she was peering at him as if he might vanish at any moment. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to fear on that score. He was hers until he sent her home in a cab tomorrow morning.
The thought brought his attention to those small hands curled together in her lap. Uneasily he took in the modest, classic cut of her dress. The only concessions she had made to highlighting her appearance were dangling earrings and a midnight-blue bolero jacket she’d replaced the cardigan with. Little details, but they were cutting through his hard-won cynicism like a scythe.
There would always be women of a certain type hanging around elite sports teams. He didn’t take advantage of it. That wasn’t why he’d bought the club. That had been personal. A way to hold on to his roots.
He wasn’t interested in a woman who had so little self-respect she would throw herself at a man simply because he had some fame and she wanted publicity.
Rose wasn’t one of those women.
Sure, she was after a little star athlete for her hobby/business/whatever, but she wasn’t selling herself. When he’d looked up and seen her standing there in a long dress, her hair tidied, her lips gleaming, she’d knocked his half-arsed suspicions sideways. Rose had gone to some trouble with her appearance—the sort of trouble that told him she was embarrassed about being found in her satiny nothings and was trying to remedy the impression. She also clearly had no idea how incredibly sexy she was, or she wouldn’t have put on that romantic dress.
Women usually took more clothes off when they were trying to play up their sex appeal. Somehow with Rose the inverse was true—or maybe it was something to do with how he was responding to her?
He’d used to dream of dating girls like this once upon a time, back in the Urals mining town he’d grown up in. Even then he’d come with a warning sign—not the sort of boy any of the neighbourhood parents had wanted their daughters bringing home.
Something stirred uneasily in the back of his mind. Rose smiled across at him. A nice middle-class girl going out to dinner. With him.
Someone really needed to warn her.
Maybe not a cab. Definitely not a cab. He’d drive her home himself.
Da, that was sorted. He waited for some of the tension he was holding in his shoulders to trickle away. It remained stubbornly where it was.
Unaccustomed to scruples when it came to hooking up with women looking to profit by their association, he applied his mind to something that wasn’t soft and warm and playing footsie with his conscience—tomorrow’s schedule. At 5:00 a.m. he had a conference call from south-east Asia that would take him through to seven. Then a breakfast dialogue with Canadian NHL representatives. Then he had to deal with the legal issues surrounding the Sazanov brothers being arrested for drug possession—huge red tape there. He had a lunch with investors from the Arab Emirates, who were flying up from Washington for the privilege, and a meet-and-greet with local mayoral officials, and then the Wolves’ last practice match before they took on Canada’s finest on Friday night.
But right now, strapped into his borrowed baby, the very nice Ferrari, was his reward for taking a little trouble tonight and dealing with one of the finer points of the tour personally.
He’d wine and dine her, and plunder her incredible treasure chest, and give her what she wanted in the morning: a little access to the players.
Da, baby, he thought as she peeked one of those curious glances at him, play your cards right and I’m all your Prince Charmings come at once.
Rose had never ridden in a sports car. They were certainly different. She felt as if she was very close to the road but at the same time gliding at speed over water because the ride was so smooth. Plato was doing that guy thing of making everything he did with the gears look effortless, but he was clearly doing it to impress her.
She could have told him just turning up had impressed her. She wasn’t going to forget having six feet six inches of gorgeous Russian male in her kitchen in a hurry.
She hadn’t liked his pushing his way into her house, or refusing to let her go and change out of her underthings, or the way he’d made all sorts of lewd accusations about her motives. Although, actually, that had given her a bit of a thrill. She thought she’d left confident, take-charge men behind in Texas. Apparently they bred them in Russia too.
She’d missed it, and she’d missed this part of herself. It had been a long time since a man had challenged her. After her four years in Houston she was super-sensitive to any man trying to get his way with her, but she just didn’t get that vibe from Plato. He was so incredibly confident she got the impression he assumed the world would bend his way—and it probably did.
Besides, it was past time to trust her instincts, and she told herself she could turn tail at any time. Not that this was going anywhere. A guy who looked like this, with money and power and prestige, didn’t date girls like her. He handed them his coat or a tip.
He didn’t wrap them up in their coat, keep an arm around them as he escorted them outside, and put them in a luxury car as if they belonged there, his big body radiating heat and security and protection.
Rose repressed a little sigh. She wouldn’t be confusing tonight’s little fantasy with anything more meaningful. Plato Kuragin was hardly going to hole up in Toronto and date her! Besides, she was here for the business. She had some funds to raise and this guy was big in funds. She could take a little jump into the unknown, enjoy herself for a while, but the bigger picture was the business.
Good to get that straight.
Twenty minutes later, as he seated her at their table, she was still thinking business even as her inner princess did a pirouette. The restaurant was on the seventy-fifth floor of a famous building. Rose had read about it in a glossy magazine recently. She just hadn’t expected she’d ever be dining here.
‘You could have just asked, you know,’ she said with a little smile.
‘Asked?’ Plato took his seat opposite her and leaned in closer, his focus intent on her face as if she fascinated him.
‘To have dinner with me.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ he asked.
‘What else could it be?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘I apologise for making assumptions,’ he said, in that deep, dark voice.
‘I hadn’t realised you’d made any.’ But they both knew he had. ‘Oh, you mean the groupie comment? Sorry to disappoint you. I’m about as interested in sport as you are in lipstick.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ he replied, his voice pitched low and intimate.
He eased forward, bringing his forearms down on the table, and suddenly it felt awfully small and insubstantial between them—although if she looked around the restaurant their table was no smaller than anyone else’s.
‘I could develop a fascination for the subject.’
It was a clichåd line and they both knew it. Plato didn’t back off, though. If anything the space between them seemed to get smaller and smaller, until all she could see was the suggestion of what his firm mouth could do to her lipstick and the gleam of purpose behind those rain-dark eyes.
Rose knew it was her birthright as a Southern woman to flirt, but this man was outside her experience—and she also wasn’t sure if overt flirting was going to get her what she wanted. Although at this point she wasn’t entirely certain what that was.
Plato leaned back and gave the ma?tre d’instructions about their meals, but his eyes never left hers. Rose was glad of the low lights in the restaurant, the candles between them, the shadows that hopefully went some way to disguising how susceptible she was to him.
‘You wanted to hear about my business?’
‘Da, the destiny date,’ he said easily.
Rose couldn’t repress a smile at the way he said it in that deep, dark voice. As if it were a little children’s toy she was wheeling out when of course it was so much more.
‘I’m looking to sign one or two of your players up to do a publicity piece for my agency.’
‘You didn’t think to approach our PR people?’
‘Uh-huh, I’m sure that would have worked.’
He lifted those big shoulders in a heavy shrug that said, What can I do? I’m an important man. I don’t handle the small stuff.
Yet he had. He’d turned up at her front door.
‘Why did you turn up at my house?’
Yes, why not just blurt it out, Rose?
He seemed about to say something, then shook his head as if whatever he had been thinking had amused him. ‘My security team showed me your blog,’ he said.
Rose scrambled to remember what she had written.
‘I was concerned, naturally. I thought I would check it out.’
The blog or her? Rose peered back at him warily.
‘Why would you be concerned? I didn’t defame anybody. It was just a silly laugh.’
‘Is that what it was, Rose?’ He didn’t show it by any particular movement in his face or note in his voice but Rose sensed his sudden watchfulness.
‘My blog bothered you,’ she said slowly.
‘Let’s just say it drew attention to a couple of things the media don’t need to get wind of. But I accept you are who you appear to be, Rose. A young woman running an internet dating site.’
‘Is this about the Sazanov brothers?’
He shrugged negligently. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s taken care of.’
‘Then why did you come to my house?’
Plato drummed the table with his left hand. ‘Sometimes even grown men can behave like hormonal boys, dushka.’
Rose forgot about the Sazanov brothers. Forgot about the embarrassment of him reading her silly blog. She even—almost—forgot about how he had bossed her around in her own home, in her underwear. Was he saying he was attracted to her? He’d wanted to see her again?
‘You wanted to see me,’ she said, hoping the thrill that gave her didn’t show—or her subsequent embarrassment.
‘Da.’ He didn’t look embarrassed at all. ‘I meet beautiful women all the time. Many give me their contact details. You did so in an unusual way.’
Rose’s excitement dimmed. So much for being special.
‘Then, of course, I learned you had done the same with each and every member of the team. I was—disappointed.’
‘Right.’ She struggled to find something amusing to quip back at him, but she was feeling her own disappointment.
‘I was concerned as to your motives, and when Security located you I decided to handle it myself.’ A half-smile tugged at that firm mouth of his. ‘As I said, my judgement was somewhat clouded by other considerations. The main one being I wanted to see you again.’
Rose gripped her champagne flute. ‘Well, there is that,’ she said faintly.
‘It’s fortunate I did,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have liked a member of my security team coming to your door tonight, finding you in that—what do you call it?’
Rose’s mouth felt dry and her head a little light.
‘Nightie,’ she said airlessly.
‘You wear that to bed? Alone?’
Someone had turned up the temperature in the room. Rose jerked her glass to her lips. ‘Mmm …’ She fudged her answer and swallowed.
‘Such a waste.’ He was watching her with obvious interest, his eyes dark and moving over her flushed face.
Rose almost dropped her glass. Liquid splashed. She looked about for a cloth but Plato was already reaching across, blotting the tablecloth, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said, in that deep accented voice that thrilled her to her toes. ‘Are you unattached? Is there someone?’
For almost two years she had been the most unattached woman in Toronto, and right up until this very moment she had been happy to keep it that way. ‘No, there’s no one.’ Why was her voice all breathless and girly? It made her sound like such a push-over.
For this man I could very well be a pushover.
‘I celebrate that news,’ he said with a slight smile.
He was so foreign. So dangerous to her equilibrium. One moment they were having a business dinner, and suddenly it was all sex. Yes, it was definitely about sex.
She told herself she hoped she wasn’t such a ninny that she was going to fall for all that macho bunkum about her nightie and being alone in her bed and needing a man …
But she was very much afraid she was.
Oh, for land sakes pull yourself together, Rose.
‘The reason you’re here isn’t because I wrote my cell number on your hand,’ she said defensively. ‘You got ticked off because I did the same for each and every one of your precious players.’
He chuckled, and the sound was a lovely rumble in his chest that had Rose tilting forward to be closer to it. Self-preservation should have seen her putting some space between them, because right about now she was becoming aware she felt a little out of control with this man. It was as if she kept slip-sliding towards him, and she didn’t really understand why this was so.
‘I’m here for the same reason why every one of those players was given strict instructions not to use that number,’ he replied easily. ‘You’re an incredibly beautiful woman.’
She was? Rose struggled to find something to answer that, but her mind was spinning like a wheel without grip on incredibly beautiful. Trying to focus, she felt her brain slowly start to function again, and she … Hang on, what did he mean the players had been instructed not to use her number?
‘You use your femininity to your advantage,’ he observed lazily, as if this pleased him. His lashes were at half-mast. Everything about him reeked sexual confidence. ‘I’m not complaining.’
Pushing through the dozens of messages the woman in her was reacting to, as if sexual switches were being thrown here, there and everywhere, Rose grasped onto the one thing she knew was true. She most certainly did not play the womanly wiles card! And if the players couldn’t use her number this afternoon had been a waste of time. She was back at square one.
‘You told the players not to call me?’
He shrugged. ‘This cannot come as a surprise, Rose.’
Yes, it did. It did come as a surprise. ‘Then what’s this supposed to be? Why did you bring me here?’
‘I came to your house tonight to warn you off.’ He spoke as if she were making him repeat the obvious. ‘When I discovered you were not what I imagined you to be I reconsidered my options. I chose not to waste the evening.’
Êîíåö îçíàêîìèòåëüíîãî ôðàãìåíòà.
Òåêñò ïðåäîñòàâëåí ÎÎÎ «ËèòÐåñ».
Ïðî÷èòàéòå ýòó êíèãó öåëèêîì, êóïèâ ïîëíóþ ëåãàëüíóþ âåðñèþ (https://www.litres.ru/lucy-ellis/the-man-she-shouldn-t-crave/) íà ËèòÐåñ.
Áåçîïàñíî îïëàòèòü êíèãó ìîæíî áàíêîâñêîé êàðòîé Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, ñî ñ÷åòà ìîáèëüíîãî òåëåôîíà, ñ ïëàòåæíîãî òåðìèíàëà, â ñàëîíå ÌÒÑ èëè Ñâÿçíîé, ÷åðåç PayPal, WebMoney, ßíäåêñ.Äåíüãè, QIWI Êîøåëåê, áîíóñíûìè êàðòàìè èëè äðóãèì óäîáíûì Âàì ñïîñîáîì.