by Lucy Ellis
CHAPTER SIX
PLATO stood in the owners’ box, arms folded, watching the running play as commentary from the scorekeepers’ bench was pumped into the earpiece he was wearing. It was a practice match, but it was their last before the game on Friday night. On Saturday the team would be flying on to Montreal, and he would be headed east to Moscow.
He harboured no strong feelings of roots in the Russian capital, but he had an apartment there and it would be good to sink out of the public eye for a few days whilst he went through a round of meetings with the new board. He’d lined up some female company, but last night, when that particular woman’s name had flashed up on his cell, he hadn’t picked up—even though he had already driven Rose home.
His mind had been otherwise occupied.
Seeing Rose to her door and having that door soundly slammed in his face had been a novel experience. Watching her light go on upstairs, standing across the road, leaning against the Ferrari, had been another. He hadn’t realised he was doing it until a late-night jogger idled on the pavement behind him and asked what he was doing. Plato could have asked himself the same question—and what the hell was it with that neighbourhood? Why were they all so vitally interested in Rose’s well-being?
‘Just seeing a lady home,’ he said, thinking it was good to know she was safe in this street.
‘Rose Harkness?’ said the jogger. ‘Nice girl.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
As he’d got the hell out of the suburbs he’d been humming Ravel’s Boléro under his breath.
If he’d been one of those New Age guys who thought their women were proto-men, who did not deserve to be looked after and protected and cosseted and humoured in their little idiosyncrasies, he might not have put in the effort he had that morning. But he understood factoring in Rose’s little quirks was all part of the game, and it was going to take a little finessing on his part.
He’d had a face-to-face with a couple of the boys, Rykov and Lieven, and sent them Rose’s way. He’d made sure twenty-four yellow roses were delivered to her home, and had lined up a stunning lakeview house, a chef, and himself as entertainment for this evening.
He could give her two nights, and he intended to make the most of them.
But he had yet to call her.
In the back of his mind he knew a phone call wasn’t going to cut it with Rose. It would give her too much opportunity to cut and run. Better to let her day run its course. She would be happy because her little destiny date had been achieved. She would be whistling Dixie—wasn’t that the expression?
Da, and then he would just turn up and take away her options. Give her new ones. And warm himself against all that stunning fire simmering in Rose’s sumptuous body.
He ignored the voice in his head that told him to forget it, to walk away. The voice that told him his lifestyle and her girl-next-door vibe made this a collision course of disastrous proportions.
He’d grown up tough in that mining town in the Urals, the son of an unmarried mother who had turned up on her parents’ doorstep after a year in Moscow pregnant and unable or unwilling to name the father. His grandmother had never let him forget how much he owed them, or how unwanted he was. His mother had worked, drunk and succumbed to a diseased liver by the time he was fifteen. By then he’d been uncontrollable, a menace to lawful society, a boy nobody wanted. The only things he had been good at were using his body as the violent instrument it was, and his sharp mathematical mind to run scams.
Recognising his skill with a stick and a puck, and his take-no-prisoners attitude, the local ice hockey coach, Pavel Ignatieff, had stepped in and given his sixteen-year-old self the break his grandparents, fate and the town hadn’t cut him. It had turned his life around. He’d been proving himself worth Ignatieff’s while ever since.
His old coach would understand if not necessarily approve of the old-fashioned, let-me-at-her lust that was driving him after Rose. But in his experience the only way to get what you wanted was to take it and be damned, and that was overcoming any finer scruples he might have. Besides, Rose was a grown woman, and after her performance at the press conference and again last night he didn’t doubt she knew the score.
* * *
Rose parked her blue jalopy under the stadium and made her way up to the private, ticket-holders-only entrance.
An old guy in a baseball cap was watching a black-and-white movie on a small set inside a glass office. Rose gave him her name—Sasha Rykov had said he’d leave it at the gate—and she was waved through.
If only the rest of this day would go so smoothly—but Rose was carrying an even bigger basket of butterflies in her belly than the one she’d toted at the press conference.
It could so utterly and disastrously backfire on her.
As it had last night when she’d lost her temper with Plato and gone in fists flailing.
She’d grown up in a family where pushing and shoving was an everyday occurrence. To get what she wanted she would pummel her brothers into submission, knowing they couldn’t pummel back. If she shrieked loud enough they always gave in. Last night she had fallen back on those habits she’d learned in her girlhood.
Humiliatingly, she’d exposed that hurt, uncontrollable little girl to the man she had been trying to win over. And win him over she was definitely trying to do. Because let’s be honest, Rose, the little voice of her conscience intervened, the I’m-doing-it-for-the-business line just isn’t cutting it any more. The minute Plato Kuragin had told her he’d wanted to see her again it had gone out of the window.
In the brief time she’d known this man she had revealed more of her true nature than she had in the four years she’d spent as Bill Hilliger’s fiancée. He brought it out in her—the earthy little country girl underneath a layering of urban poise. But Plato Kuragin wasn’t the sort of man to be swayed by temper tantrums. No, he’d pretty much spelt it out to her what he wanted. If she used her femininity to her advantage she could just about get anything she wanted out of him. But what sort of woman did he think that made her?
She knew exactly what sort, and it made her angry all over again. She knew who those women were. You couldn’t grow up in a household with four older brothers and miss the fact that the girls they had respect for were the ones who didn’t play that card.
Well, she was done making a fool of herself. He was passing through Toronto. He would be gone in a few days. She had a business to run. Today was D-day.
She’d left her house at dawn this morning, after not much sleep, to salvage what she could of her advertising spot. At one o’clock a small film crew was turning up at a local restaurant and shooting would go ahead for Date with Destiny’s ad spot on a popular morning show.
She’d be forced to go to Plan B and use a jobbing actor friend in lieu of a gorgeous athlete. It wouldn’t have nearly the impact, but she hadn’t any choice.
She had been about to make that call when a number had flashed up that she didn’t recognise.
‘Rose Harkness,’ she’d said, endeavouring to sound cheerful.
‘Rose?’
The voice had been Russian, and for a moment the breath had stopped in her throat. The moment had spun on…and then collapsed. Too light, too young, too…not Plato.
And the fact that it had mattered so much brought her right back into the moment. She really didn’t want to think about Plato right now.
‘Yes, it’s Rose Harkness,’ she had said, all business.
‘Zdrasvityze, it’s Sasha.’
Rose’s brain had whirred into gear. Sasha Rykov. Star goalie for the Wolves. Clearly the blanket ban had holes in it, or someone hadn’t paid much attention to the boss.
A little spark of hope had lit in her chest.
‘Sasha, I’m so pleased to hear from you.’
‘Can I be seeing you, Rose?’ His voice had come youthful and confident and direct down the line.
Rose had lifted her gaze ceilingwards and mouthed a little prayer of gratitude.
She was back in the game.
So Rose had spent the afternoon at the restaurant with Sasha Rykov and one of her girlfriends—Phoebe—hovering as the couple enjoyed a nice lunch under the glare of cameras and a film crew. Sasha had flirted outrageously with Phoebe, and given them a couple of lines they’d be able to use in the promo.
After the shoot one of the television executives had rung with questions about the contract she’d handed them. Sasha’s signature wasn’t enough. According to their legal advisers the Wolves management would need to sign off on it, even though she had explained Sasha’s fee would be going to a charity.
She had been faced with the reality that without Plato’s consent the footage might never be aired. She would have to see him again, and it would be embarrassing—because she was all too aware that last night she hadn’t behaved well. But neither had he, and her last memory of him was of his face as she’d slammed her door.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, she told herself. She was hoping Plato would see the humorous side. She was hoping he would shrug those big shoulders and say, Da, baby, you make your play. Just bring my boy back in one piece. And then she would break it to him that the play had already been made, and he would smile at her as he had last night, and ask her…
But equally likely he would have his arm around a Nordic blonde and it would be all, Rose who?
The last thought put a little firmness in her resolve and a twitch in her walk. Not that she cared what he did in his private life. It had nothing to do with her. One fake date and his seeing her in her sweet nothings did not give her any say or interest in what he should choose to do with other women.
Just as she was also free to play the field. And look at that field—or rink—jammed with big, husky hockey players. She recognised the Wolves by their red jerseys. Not that she would ever date a professional athlete. That was asking for trouble. But Plato Kuragin didn’t have to know that.
She spotted Sasha. He wasn’t hard to miss. When she’d asked him how she’d recognise him on the ice tonight he’d said, ‘I carry the biggest stick.’
From here they all seemed to be carrying big sticks, but he appeared to be using his. On another player.
Great—she’d scored the player most likely to be benched.
The siren went and the action on the rink dissipated. There was some sporadic cheering and the players seemed to be leaving. Now she only had to get Sasha’s attention.
‘Rose!’
Clearly not hard to get his attention. He was gliding over. He reminded her of her brother Jackson at that age: full of energy and optimism, but toting an ego too big for his boots.
She took a deep breath and continued down to the rink as if she hadn’t a care in the world. There was a scattering of spectators, mostly die-hard Canadian fans, and Rose was aware she had become a person of interest as she approached the Wolves’ goalie. She leaned against the stanchion at the end of the penalty bench. Sasha opened the gate and approached her, tugging off his helmet.
‘I will get into trouble for this,’ he said, not looking too worried.
He sat down to remove his skates, his angelic face puffy with heat and sweat. Rose propped herself opposite him against the boards and asked a few non-essential questions about the game, then leaned in and told him he’d saved her bacon.
‘The Wolves don’t own me,’ he said—with more bravado than reality, Rose suspected. ‘I do it for you, Rose.’
Looking around to avoid having to answer such an obvious line, Rose realised a few of the other players were gliding over and wondered if the ban was off.
‘I need to talk to your management,’ she explained quickly to Sasha. ‘They need to countersign a piece of paper that gives me rights to your face for the five minutes it’ll be flashed around the greater Toronto area.’
He shrugged. ‘Coach is coming over. If he yells too hard at you, Rose, I make with the protection.’
Her face softened. He really was a sweetie. The coach, however, looked mean. Okay, that meant the ban wasn’t off. Rose straightened up and plastered on her best ‘I’m Just a Little Southern Woman on a Mission’ smile.
The other players were coming up against the sideline, grinning at her, talking amongst themselves in Russian. Rose watched Sasha’s face and she could guess what they were saying. Hey-ho—as long as they weren’t saying it in English.
Then a stream of Russian came her way that sent Sasha pale and the other players scattering, and she guessed the coach wasn’t commenting on the shape of her ass. She was glad of the extra height, courtesy of her high-heeled boots, as she faced down a short, angry man who was definitely yelling too hard. He had a whistle dangling from around his neck. She wondered if he’d use it on her.
‘It’s no use,’ she interrupted crisply. ‘I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’
‘You’re out!’
Rose blinked. ‘I’m not on the team, Coach, you can’t bench me.’
Maybe making with the funny wasn’t the right strategy. The coach went slightly red. No, definitely not the strategy.
‘Listen, there’s no need for all this.’ She stepped closer, extending her hand. ‘I’m Rose Harkness. We haven’t been introduced.’
Coach stared at her hand. Then he said something about her breasts that a lady really shouldn’t have to hear. In any language.
Rose stepped back, wedging her hands on her hips. ‘Now, Mr Medvedev, I’ve read the coach’s code of ethics—’
‘You get out of my stadium. You get out of my team. You are interfering with play—with the bosoms and the writing on the hand and the hanky-panky.’
For crying out loud… Fair enough, she had inked her number on the boys’ hands, and she was willing to let the crack about her girls slide, but what was it with these Russian men insinuating that she was running some sort of sexual service for lonely foreign athletes?
‘I most certainly am not!’ she defended herself, hands now soldered to her hips. ‘Your blasted game is over, the other team are probably in the showers, and you, Mr Medvedev, are holding me up! I want to talk to someone who can sign off on Sasha Rykov doing a sweet little favour for me. There’s no hanky-panky involved, I’m not going to besmirch the Wolves’ wholesome image, and quite frankly you ought to thank me. Tomorrow, when half the population of this fair city turns on their favourite breakfast programme, there will be Sasha Rykov—and there will be thousands of women trying to get into tomorrow night’s game. In fact, you really ought to print more tickets.’
‘Nyet,’ drawled a familiar voice, ‘that would be the equivalent of printing money, detka, and the Canadian government have some laws against that.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROSE turned and looked up—and up. For a moment she felt as she had last night, when he’d swung her off her feet and taken her breath away.
Shoot! His arms were folded, and his whole body language screamed, I own the world and you’re trespassing. He was wearing some sort of sheepskin-lined coat that just made him seem huge. Not that she didn’t enjoy that about him; being rendered tiny and tender and feminine by your date wasn’t a bad thing. Being rendered all those things by a big bull you were trying to keep roped and tied at least until you had two signatures on a slip of paper was a problem.
She also registered there were no Nordic blondes in sight, which she told herself didn’t concern her.
‘Oh, good,’ she said brightly, ‘it’s the big bad wolf himself.’
The coach looked at her in something akin to shock. Sasha stopped leaning on the boards and Rose noticed the other players moving off. She’d seen this type of behaviour before; it usually happened just before a herd of cattle ran a stampede.
In that case it was probably best to get out of the way. But when had she ever done that?
‘I’m trying to explain to your coach here that I’m not a danger to his precious team. I’m just trying to get a little bus
iness done.’
‘Your business you take somewhere else!’ shouted coach.
Rose glanced up at Plato. How much skin would it be off his nose to come and put in a good word for her? That was if he had a good word. Last night she’d let her temper get the better of her, and instead of persuading him to help her all she’d done was ruin dinner and put a kybosh on anything else.
Still, she looked up at him hopefully, keeping that temper firmly reined and wishing she’d eschewed her warm pink parka for a slinky top that showed off her assets—because, really, if he wanted female skills maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a little of what worked.
Blast. She was losing the moral high ground fast.
Belatedly she remembered the business and why she was here. All the trouble she’d taken, all the hopes she’d pinned on it. But then there was this man and the way he made her stomach flip-flop…
She gave it a last go. ‘Think of me as free publicity, Mr Medvedev. It doesn’t cost you anything, and I promise not to compromise Mr Rykov’s virtue.’
Plato unfolded his arms and extended his hand.
‘Give me your bit of paper, Rose. And I won’t hold you to the thousands of women.’
For a moment Rose was rolled by the thought that she might be at fault here. She might have misjudged him. If she thought about it, he was doing what he imagined was in the best interests of his players. Until last night he had known nothing about her, and casting her mind back she realised she hadn’t given him a chance to reconsider the blanket ban on his players contacting her.
All she had heard was the word no.
When she probably hadn’t been very far away from hearing yes.
Fumbling with her bag, Rose settled herself on the players’ bench. ‘It’s just in here. I won’t be a moment. It’s very simple. I don’t think you’ll need to have anyone legal run their expertise over it—’
She looked up, official vellum sheets in her hand. Plato took them, his eyes warm with amusement but also something else—an intensity that shortened her breath. Rose could feel a flush starting to move up her chest, but she couldn’t forestall it and nor could she drag her eyes away. Pesky sexual attraction, she thought, her mouth running dry.