Читать книгу The Man She Shouldn't Crave - Lucy Ellis, Lucy Ellis - Страница 8

‘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 Boléro 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 deshabillé 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. Boléro, 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-fiancé 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.