by Lucy Ellis
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.’
Rose made a little sound—half-laugh, half-groan.
‘Rose?’ The coolness was gone. Plato sat forward slightly.
Rose couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been. It was as though she’d been playing a game, and in truth she had been—enjoying the ride, allowing her fantasies and her passionate nature to carry her along for once and not putting on the brakes. But here it was, cold, hard reality, and none of it was helping her business.
Familiar sensations of being overwhelmed flooded through her, shifting the new pylons of hope she’d built, reminding her all too clearly of her recent past in Houston when her every decision had been countermanded.
‘I have to get out of here,’ she said, not even realising she’d spoken aloud until she saw him shift in his chair. Rocketing to her feet, Rose reached for her clutch purse. ‘I’m sure you’ve had an interesting time tonight, Mr Kuragin, but I have to get up in the morning and try to find a way to salvage the advertising spot I bought for Date with Destiny. So if you’ll excuse me, it’s been…’ she struggled for a word ‘…different.’
‘Sit down, Rose,’ he said, half out of his seat.
‘Go to hell, Plato,’ she replied, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she stalked out.
CHAPTER FIVE
PLATO was not a man who indulged in introspection, but even so he acknowledged that the last ten minutes had not gone well as he strode after the retreating back of a very angry skirt-twitching, heels-flashing Texan woman.
He had already pinpointed his mistake. As soon as he’d had Rose buckled up in the Ferrari he should have taken her directly to his hotel suite—possibly cuffed those delicate little wrists of hers and turned all that spitting and scratching to happy sighs of pleasure. She was definitely a woman who needed a strong hand because she had demonstrated she didn’t take well to direction. Clearly giving Rose options was where the trouble had started.
She had just exercised one.
Which required him to chase her. He didn’t mind the exercise, but he was troubled by the suspicion that one night with Rose wasn’t going to be enough. Troubled probably wasn’t the right word. Challenged sprang to mind.
Who knew Texas had a temper on her?
Rose stomped out of the restaurant and was halted by the bank of lifts. Damn the seventy-fifth floor. She should have insisted on a walk-in diner where the getting out was good. She didn’t belong in places like this—all silver service and postage-stamp food, and wait staff who made more money than she did.
Folding her arms, tapping her foot, Rose watched the numbers light up. She could barely hold still. She wanted to hit something.
She’d changed her mind about Plato Kuragin. He was definitely too much for her to handle. Besides, she’d had her fill of arrogant take-charge men. Plato Kuragin was just an über-example of the breed. In fact she could actually see him sitting around the Three Rings Bar in her hometown, Fidelity Falls, with her brothers, taking up a ridiculous amount of room with their legs and shoulders and egos, drinking beer and bourbon and talking about women as if they were cattle—each girl a little steer who needed the right amount of rope and a little rough handling to let her know who was boss.
Tonight she’d had all the rough handling she was going to put up with in this lifetime. This was Toronto, for land sakes! There were all sorts of laws protecting women from take-charge men—one of them being the trusty restraining order.
The doors in front of her opened and she threw herself inside, feeling absurdly disappointed. It wasn’t that she’d expected him to follow her. She’d taken his number. He knew he wasn’t getting laid this side of Christmas when it came to this little patooty.
A large male hand reached across hers and pushed the ground floor button.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, buster!’
She moved to step out, but he literally blocked her with his body. His far too big, muscular male body, that towered over her even in her favourite heels. She was nose to pectoral with his hard, wide chest. She knew another woman might have felt overwhelmed by his size, his intent, even a little threatened. But she wasn’t some city-bred miss who thought milk came from cartons. No, sirree. She’d ridden her first bull when she was eleven. She could take on shoulders and spurs with one hand tied behind her back.
She poked him—hard—in the centre of his chest for emphasis. ‘There’s only room for one person in this lift, cowboy, and it ain’t you.’
‘Is that right?’ he growled.
She hadn’t expected him to come back hard—but then she hadn’t really thought he would follow her…had she?
The doors closed and she was trapped in there with him. The lift began to descend.
She wouldn’t be giving him the pleasure. Rose stepped back, plastered her clutch bag to her waist, and stared dead straight ahead as if he didn’t exist. Her foot began to tap. She really couldn’t help it. Her body felt like the energy map of southwest Canada.
He was looking her up and down as if she was a calf he was thinking of buying.
‘If this is foreplay, detka, I’m looking forward to the main event.’
Rose’s foot stopped tapping. Her head swivelled. ‘What did you say to me?’
‘Usually dinner and some conversation appeals to the civilised man in me, but if you need drama to get in the mood we can go there.’
‘The only place we’re going is down,’ she bit back—then could have kicked herself. She half expected him to say something disgusting, because men always did—twisting a girl’s words, making her say the things they wante
d to hear.
Except Plato did none of those things. Instead he laughed softly, and the sound was so blatantly sexual that Rose felt the backs of her knees go. Shoot! She was in some trouble with this man. He had all the cool, calm and control and she had the blasted trembles.
Against her better judgement Rose risked another glance at him. She wanted to shake him and demand to know why he wouldn’t help her out. She wasn’t asking for all that much—just a couple of his players for an hour of their time. She was going to pay them.
Pay them, Rose? A smidgeon of what they’re worth?
No, to be truthful she was hoping they would overlook the modicum of money she was offering and do it because it was fun. She would bat her eyes at them and…
Drat this man for making her feel as if she was selling something besides her business.
‘You’ve got some nerve, you know,’ she erupted. ‘Dragging me out here, making with the “tell me about your business, baby” and then thinking insincere flattery is going to get you laid. If we were in Texas my daddy would take a bullwhip to you.’
‘Fortunate we’re not in Texas, then,’ he responded as the lift gave a slight movement and the doors began to open. ‘Although I’m beginning to understand why you like it rough, dushka.’
Rose didn’t think, she just reacted, slamming her purse hard into his mid-section. ‘There you go—rough enough for you?’
Infuriatingly he didn’t flinch. But she moved, striking out for the foyer, aware she was only a hair’s breadth from losing it altogether. The intimate things he had said to her, asking her if she was single, making her think if only for a moment that he was interested…
It hurt. She didn’t know why, but for a little while there she’d let down her guard a little, believed him…
Yes, he was interested. And she knew exactly what he was interested in.
Making a fool of her.
Been there, done that. She wasn’t hanging around for another round of humiliation. She should have known this wasn’t going to turn into a fairy tale. Hell, she’d known that in her head from the get-go. It was just that when he’d looked at her in the kitchen with that slightly keel-hauled expression, and put her into the car as if she was made of precious porcelain, she’d started to get ideas…
Stupid ideas. She knew darn well through experience that fairy tales were just that. Four years engaged to a man who undermined her at every turn had shown her just how dangerous believing in a man could be. No, you needed to take a good, long, hard cool look at a man and not expect him to be Prince Charming. She made a living telling people to use their heads before their hearts in choosing a mate—she had boxes on a form to fill out, for land sakes—and there she was, making eyes over a restaurant table with a man who would be gone in a couple of days, back to the land of the rich and famous.
She looked around desperately for the exit, wondering what would happen now, if he would follow her or leave her to it. Whilst her head was telling her to find the nearest cab and jump in, she was literally humming with energy and she didn’t know what to do with it. She would have liked to have thrown a punch, busted him one right on his annoyingly straight nose, but they weren’t in Texas and it probably didn’t go down so well here. And it would ruin that ladylike image she was supposed to be toting.
Not that he thought she was ladylike. He seemed to think she was some sort of take-what-she-could-get grifter…
Who was now standing on the pavement looking around for a cab rank that didn’t exist.
* * *
Plato nodded to the busboy, who leapt out of his Ferrari with the wistful expression of someone who’d been given the keys to his lifelong dream for a moment and now had to give them back.
‘Hold it a minute, will you, kid?’
He walked slowly but deliberately across the paved plaza towards the woman pacing up and down, craning her neck as she watched the traffic.
In her blue wool coat with the collar turned up against the cold Rose appeared every bit as ladylike as she had when he’d looked up and found her standing in her little kitchen, with that dazed and uncertain expression on her lovely face as if finding men rummaging through her refrigerator wasn’t something that happened to her every day.
It had touched something very basic inside him—a chivalrous urge to explain himself to her, to reassure her he was a good guy. To get her to smile at him.
And right now in front of him was an unhappy girl who looked cold and defenceless on a city street—and he had brought her here, he was responsible for her. Chert.
‘Rose, you will get in the car. I will take you home.’
She ignored him. If a woman could hold herself any stiffer she would break.
‘You will not get a cab.’ She liked it when he told her what to do. He’d figured that one out. ‘Do not make me carry you.’
She wheeled around, hands on hips. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Sto?’
She didn’t look cold and defenceless. She looked as if she was on fire.
‘Are you making a crack about my weight?’
Plato just stared at her. She was so beautiful, and she was so angry, and he had no idea what she was talking about. It could have been the language barrier, or the fact she was a woman and they rarely made logical sense, but right then all he wanted to do was…
This.
He closed the distance between them and roped his arm around her waist. He moved too quickly for her to resist and propelled her a few steps to the wall of the building, pinning her right up against him, feet dangling in those silly little blue heels of hers, nose to nose, breathing hard.
He smiled at her stunned expression. ‘Are you listening to me now, Rose?’
She blinked. She wasn’t struggling. That was good.
Very slowly he let her slide down his body to her feet. She stood there, trembling a little, looking up at him. Exactly where he wanted her.
He leaned in, bracketing the wall either side of her with his arms. He carefully cupped one side of her face with his big hand. ‘I had no idea why I’d driven across town to your house tonight until you opened that door—are we clear?’
Rose blinked.
‘But this has nothing to do with you being tricked out in sexy lingerie, or using my players as sexual leverage with you. Does that clear things up?’
No, it didn’t clear anything up. But she was really hoping the wall behind her didn’t collapse, because it was all that was holding her up at this point. She had thought she knew what sexual excitement was, but it turned out that until this moment she hadn’t had a clue.
His gaze roamed over her face.
‘You are so very beautiful.’ He feathered her dark eyebrow with his thumb. ‘But until now I had no idea how incredibly arousing a woman who doesn’t pluck her eyebrows can be.’ His thumb moved down to stroke the fullness of her cheek. ‘Or how soft her skin is when she doesn’t cake it in make-up, or how tempting her lips are when they’re soft and unpainted.’ His thumb came to rest on her full lower lip.
For a throbbing moment Rose considered telling him she did actually pluck the odd stray hair from her eyebrows, and she was wearing a little powder, and her lips were courtesy of a very famous French fragrance house—but, really, how many secrets should a girl give away?
Instead she obeyed an instinct as old as time and opened her mouth ever so slightly. She bit down gently on that thumb pressing so sweetly onto her lower lip, drawing him into her mouth just for a moment, using her tongue.
She knew the instant she had him. His features were pulled taut and extraordinarily Slavic because of it, and his dark eyes went the colour of the ocean ten thousand metres deep. She knew, sure as sugar, that famously incisive brain of his had just moved below his belt.
She bit down hard and he whipped his hand away from her, swearing softly in Russian. Plato examined the reddened blunt tip of his thumb, bearing her toothmarks, his expression unreadable.
Maybe that had b
een a bad idea, Rose thought as female instinct shouted, Back up. But the new and improved, speak-your-mind-and-assert-yourself Rose knew she had to hold her ground. She forced out the words she needed to have him hear. ‘That’s as close as you’re coming to heaven with me, Mr Billionaire. Remember that when you’re lying in that cold bed of yours tonight. Does that clear things up?’
He gave her such a long, silent look that she lost a bit of ground, and then he brought one of those big hands up to cradle her head and gently rubbed the back of her neck, as if she were a kid in need of soothing.
‘I had no idea you were hiding this much temperament under all that luminous classic beauty.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know? I’m almost tempted to give you what you want because in the end it’s not such a big deal for me. But I find I’m enjoying the fireworks too much to give in just yet.’
Rose hissed an indrawn breath and gave his chest an almighty shove. Again he barely shifted.
‘Get off me, you big lug.’
He released her slowly, the eyes he settled on her not giving much away. But she fancied she could see something in them she’d not seen before. Respect.
But respect wasn’t permission to utilise his athletes.
‘You will let me drive you home, Rose,’ he stated, as if she had no say in it.
But she did. She knew she could refuse. She also knew Plato Kuragin could behave decently when he wanted to. Which made it all worse.
She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter either way, and walked away from him, back towards the building entrance. But it did matter.
She nudged up the collar on her coat—not only to shield her face from the wind but to hide it from his incisive view. He was playing games with her and it was pushing her buttons. Whatever he said, she wasn’t going to stick out her chest and bat her eyes to get what she wanted. Sure, she’d used a little charm to get her number into those boys’ hands, but she hadn’t been that overt. It had been innocent and hopeful, that was all.
Plato Kuragin could drive her home if that made him feel better, but he knew what he’d done to her, and she knew after tonight she would never see him again.