The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin

by Susan Stephens

  Someone pretty important to your career, Savannah’s sensible inner voice informed her as the man hurried off to get the dress; someone who is both the main sponsor for the England squad and your boss.

  When he returned the man’s manner had changed. Perhaps he believed he had worn her down, Savannah concluded.

  ‘Madame Whatshername was pleased enough to wear it,’ he said with a sniff as he handed the official gown over to Savannah.

  Savannah paled as she held up Madame de Silva’s gown. She should have known it would be fitted to the great singer. Madame was half her size, and wore the type of couture dress favoured by French salon-society. The closest Savannah had ever come to a salon was the local hairdresser’s, and her gowns were all geared towards comfort and big knickers. ‘I don’t think Madame’s gown will fit me,’ she muttered, losing all her confidence in a rush as she stared at the slim column of a dress with its fishtail train.

  ‘Whether it fits you or not,’ the man insisted, ‘You have to wear it. I can’t allow you onto the pitch wearing your dress when the sponsor is expecting to see his official gown worn. Putting his design in front of a worldwide television audience is the whole point of the exercise.’

  With her in it? Savannah very much doubted that was what the designer had had in mind.

  ‘You have to look the part,’ the man insisted.

  Of team jester? Savannah was starting to feel sick, and not just with pre-concert nerves. In farming lingo she would be classified as ‘healthy breeding stock’, whereas Madame de Silva was a slender greyhound, all sleek and toned. There was no chance the gown would fit her, or suit her freckled skin. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised as her throat constricted.

  ‘Good girl,’ the man said approvingly.

  Savannah’s chin wobbled as she surveyed the garish gown. She was going to look like a fool, and beyond her little drama in the tunnel she could hear that the mood of the crowd had escalated to fever pitch in anticipation of the kick-off.

  Where was she? Ethan frowned as he flashed another glance at his wristwatch. A hush of expectancy had swept the capacity crowd. It was almost time for the match to start, and he was more on edge than he had ever been. He had promised the squad a replacement singer, and now it looked as if Savannah Ross was going to let him down. In minutes the England team would be lining up in the tunnel, and the brass band was already out on the pitch. The portly tenor who had been booked to sing the anthem for Italy was busily accepting the plaudits of an adoring crowd, but where the hell was Savannah Ross?

  Anxious glances shot Ethan’s way. If the Bear was unhappy, everyone was unhappy, and Ethan was unusually tense.

  Madame’s fabulous form-fitting gown had a sash in bleakest white and ink-blot blue, which like a royal order was supposed to be worn over one naked shoulder.

  Fabulous for Madame’s slender frame, maybe, Savannah thought anxiously as she struggled to put the sash to better use. If she could just bite out these stitches, maybe, just maybe, she could spread out the fabric to cover the impending boob explosion—though up until now she had to admit her frantic plucking and gnawing had achieved nothing; try as she might, the sash refused to conceal any part of her bosom.

  And as for the zip at the back…

  Contorting her arms into a position that would have given Houdini a run for his money, she still couldn’t do it up. Poking her head out of the curtain, she tried calling out again, but even the creepy man had deserted her. She peered anxiously down the tunnel. The crowd had grown quiet, which was a very bad sign. It meant the announcements were over and the match was about to start—and before that could happen she had to sing the national anthem! ‘Hello! Is anyone—?’

  ‘Hello,’ a girl interrupted brightly, seemingly coming out of nowhere. ‘Can I help you?’

  After jumping about three feet in the air with shock, Savannah felt like kissing the ground the girl was about to walk on. ‘If you could just get me into this dress…’ Savannah knew it was a lost cause, but she had to try.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ the girl soothed.

  Savannah’s saviour turned out to be a physiotherapist and was using the tones Savannah guessed she must have used a thousand times before, and in far more serious situations to reassure the injured players. ‘I’m trying not to panic,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m so late, and the fact remains you can’t fit a quart into a pint pot.’

  The girl laughed with her. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

  The physio certainly knew all there was to know about manipulation, Savannah acknowledged gratefully when she was finally secured inside the dress. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine now,’ she said, wiping her nose. ‘That’s if I don’t burst out of it—!’

  ‘You’ll have a fair sized audience if you do,’ the girl reminded her with a smile.

  Yes, the crowd was wound up like a drum, and Savannah knew she would be in for a rough ride if anything went wrong out on the pitch.

  As the physio collected up her things and wished her good luck, Savannah stared down in dismay at the acres of blood-red taffeta. It was just a shame every single one of those acres was in the wrong place. Madame was a lot taller than she was, and how she longed for the fabric collecting around her feet to be redistributed over her fuller figure. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  ‘You’d better get out there,’ the girl said, echoing these thoughts, ‘Before you miss your cue.’

  Don’t tempt me! Savannah thought, testing whether it was possible to breathe, let alone sing, now she was pinned in. Barely, she concluded. She was trapped in a vice of couture stitching from which there was only one escape, and she didn’t fancy risking that in front of the worldwide television audience. She’d much rather be safely back at home dreaming about Ethan Alexander rather than here on the pitch where he would almost certainly look at her and laugh.

  But…

  She braced herself.

  The fact that she could hardly move, let alone breathe, didn’t mean she couldn’t use her legs, Savannah told herself fiercely as she tottered determinedly down the tunnel in a gown secured with safety pins, made for someone half her size.

  Here goes nothing!

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE had forgotten how much her diaphragm expanded when she let herself go and really raised the rafters. How could she have forgotten something as rudimentary as that?

  Maybe because the massive crowd was a blur and all she was aware of was the dark, menacing shape of the biggest man on the benches behind the England sin bin, the area England players sat in when they were sent off the pitch for misdemeanours.

  Sin.

  She had to shake that thought off too, Savannah realised as she lifted her ribcage in preparation for commencing the rousing chorus. But how was she supposed to do that when she could feel Ethan’s gaze in every fibre of her being? The moment she had walked onto the pitch she had known exactly where he was sitting, and who he was looking at. By the time she’d got over that, and the ear-splitting cheer that had greeted her, even the fear of singing in front of such a vast audience had paled into insignificance. And now she was trapped in a laser gaze that wouldn’t let her go.

  She really must shake off this presentiment of disaster, Savannah warned herself. Nervously moistening her lips, she took a deep breath. A very deep breath…

  The first of several safety pins pinged free, and as the dress fell away it became obvious that the physio’s pins were designed to hold bandages in place rather than acres of pneumatic flesh.

  His mood had undergone a radical change from impatient to entranced, and all in a matter of seconds. The ruthless billionaire, as people liked to think of him, became a fan of his new young singing-sensation after hearing just a few bars of her music. The crowd agreed with him, judging by the way Savannah Ross had it gripped. When she had first stumbled onto the pitch, she had been greeted by wolf whistles and rowdy applause. At first he had thought her ridiculous too, with her breasts pouting over the top of the ill-fi
tting gown, but then he remembered the famous dress had been made for someone else, and that he should have found some way to warn her. But it was too late to worry about that now, and her appearance hardly mattered, for Savannah Ross had him and everyone else in the palm of her hand. She was so richly blessed with music it was all he could do to remain in his seat.

  She refused to let the supporters down. She carried on regardless as more pins followed the first. She was expected to reflect the hopes and dreams of a country, and that was precisely what she was going to do—never mind the wretched dress letting her down. But as she prepared to sing the last few notes the worst happened—the final pin gave way and one pert breast sprang free, the generous swell of it nicely topped off with a rose-pink nipple. Not one person in the crowd missed the moment, for it was recorded for all to see on the giant-sized screen. As she started to shake with shame, the good-natured crowd went wild, applauding her, which helped her hold her nerve for the final top note.

  Thrust from his seat by a rocket-fuelled impulse to shield and protect, Ethan was already shedding his jacket as he stormed onto the pitch. By the time he reached Savannah’s side, the crowd had only just begun to take in what had happened. Not so his target. Tears of frustration were pouring down her face as she struggled to repin her dress. As he spoke to her and she looked at him there was a moment, a potent and disturbing moment, when she stared him straight in the eyes and he registered something he hadn’t felt for a long time, or maybe ever. Without giving himself a chance to analyse the feeling, he threw his jacket around her shoulders and led her away, forcing the Italian tenor to launch into Canto degli Italiani—or ‘Song of the Italians’, as the Italian national anthem was known—somewhat sooner than expected.

  There was so much creamy flesh concealed beneath his lightweight jacket it was throwing his brain synapses out of sync. Unlike all the women he’d encountered to date, this young Savannah Ross was having a profound effect on his state of mind. He strode across the pitch with his arm around her shoulders while she endeavoured to keep in step and remain close, whilst not quite touching him. As he took her past the stands the crowd went wild. ‘Viva l’Orso!’ the Italians cried, loving every minute of it: ‘hurrah for the Bear’. The England supporters cheered him just as loudly. He wondered if this compliment was to mark his chivalry or the fact that Ms Ross could hardly conceal her hugely impressive bosom beneath a dress that had burst its stitches. He hardly cared. His overriding thought was to get her out of the eyeline of every lustful male in the Stadio Flaminio, of whom there were far too many for his liking.

  It crossed his mind that this incident would have to have happened in Italy, the land of romantic love and music, the home of passion and beauty. He had always possessed a dark sense of humour, and it amused him now to think that in his heart, the heart everyone was so mistakenly cheering for, there was only an arid desert and a single bitter note.

  By the time Ethan had escorted Savannah into the shelter of the tunnel she was mortified. She felt ridiculously under-dressed in the company of a man noted for his savoir faire. Ethan Alexander was a ruthless, world-renowned tycoon, while she was an ordinary girl who didn’t belong in the spotlight; a girl who wished, in a quite useless flash of longing, that Ethan could have met her on the farm where at least she knew what she was doing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her gruffly.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He was holding on to her as if he thought she might fall over. Did he think her so pathetically weak? This was worse than her worst nightmare come true, and it was almost a relief when he turned away to make a call.

  It couldn’t be worse, Savannah concluded, taking in the wide, reassuring spread of Ethan’s back. This was a very private man who had been thrust into the spotlight, thanks to her. No doubt he was calling for someone to come and take her away, nuisance that she was. She couldn’t blame him. She had to be so much less in every way than he’d been expecting.

  While he was so much more than she had expected…Ethan Alexander in the flesh was a one-man power source of undiluted energy, a dynamo running on adrenalin and sex. At least that was what her vivid imagination was busy telling her, and she could hardly blame it for running riot. No television-screen or grainy newspaper-image had come close to conveying either Ethan’s size or his compelling physical presence. And yet the most surprising shock of all was the way his lightest and most impersonal touch had scorched fireworks through every part of her. He’d only touched her elbow to help steer her, and had draped his jacket across her back, and yet that had been enough to hot-wire her arm and send sparks flying everywhere they shouldn’t.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the young physio coming over to see if she could help. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Savannah assured her, hoping Ethan could hear. She didn’t want him blaming the young girl for Savannah’s problems. ‘It was my breathing,’ she explained.

  ‘What a problem we’d have had if you hadn’t breathed!’ The young physio shared a laugh with Savannah as she started pinning Savannah back into the dress. ‘And I’m really glad you did breathe, because you were fantastic.’

  Savannah had never been sure how to handle compliments. In her eyes she was just an ordinary girl with an extraordinary voice, and no manual had come with that voice to explain how to deal with the phenomenon that had followed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, spreading her hands wide in a modest gesture.

  But the girl grabbed hold of them and shook them firmly. ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘Don’t you brush it off. You were fantastic. Everyone said so.’

  Everyone? Savannah glanced at Ethan, who still had his back turned to her as he talked on the phone. She pulled his jacket close for comfort; it was warm and smelled faintly of sandalwood and spice. Tracing lapels that hung almost to her knees, she realised that even though Ethan’s jacket was ten sizes too big for her it did little to preserve her modesty, and she hurriedly crossed her arms across her chest as he turned around.

  ‘Okay, I’ve finished,’ the physio reported. ‘Though I doubt the pins on Ms Ross’s dress will hold for long.’

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ Ethan snapped, having thanked the girl.

  ‘Go where?’ Savannah held back nervously as the physio gave her a sympathetic look.

  ‘Ms Ross, I know you’ve had a shock, but there are paparazzi crawling all over the building. Don’t worry about your bag now,’ Ethan said briskly when Savannah gazed down the tunnel. ‘Your things will be sent on to you.’

  ‘Sent where?’

  ‘Just come with me, please.’

  ‘Come with you where?’ The thought of going anywhere with Ethan Alexander terrified her. He was such an imposing man, and an impatient one, but with all the paparazzi in the building the thought of not going with him terrified her even more.

  ‘After you,’ he said, giving her no option as he stood in a way that barred her getting past him.

  ‘Where did you say we were going?’

  ‘I didn’t say.’

  Savannah’s nerve deserted her completely. She wasn’t going anywhere with a man she didn’t know, even if that man was her boss. ‘You go. I’ll be fine. I’ll get a cab.’

  ‘I brought you to Rome, and like it or not while you’re here you’re my responsibility.’

  He didn’t like it at all, she gathered, which left one simple question: did she want this recording contract or not? She couldn’t take the chance of losing it, Savannah realised. She hadn’t come to Rome to sabotage her career. She might not like Ethan’s manner, but she was here on his time. Plus, she didn’t know Rome. If her only interest was getting home as quickly as possible, wasn’t he her best hope?

  She had to run to keep up with him, and then he stopped so suddenly she almost bumped into him. Looking up, Savannah found herself staring into a face that was even more cruelly scarred than she had remembered. Instead of recoiling, she registered a great well of feeling opening up inside her heart. It was almost as if something strong and prim
al was urging her to heal him, to press cream into those wounds, and to…love him?

  This situation was definitely getting out of hand, Savannah concluded, pulling herself together, to find Ethan giving her an assessing look as if to warn her that just looking at him too closely was a dangerous game well out of her league. ‘It’s important we leave now,’ he prompted as if she were some weakling he had been forced to babysit.

  ‘I’m ready.’ She held his gaze steadily. This was not a time to be proud. She didn’t want to do battle with the paparazzi on her own, and she would be safer with Ethan. There were times when having a strong man at your side was a distinct advantage. But she wouldn’t have him think her a fool either.

  ‘After you.’ Opening the door for her, he stood aside.

  He looked more like a swarthy buccaneer than a businessman, and exuded the sort of earthy maleness she had always been drawn to. Her fantasies were full of pirates and cowboys, roughnecks and marines, though none of them had possessed lips as firm and sensual as Ethan’s, and his hand in the small of her back was an incendiary device propelling her forward.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ he said impatiently when she stopped outside to shade her eyes.

  ‘I was just looking for a taxi rank.’ By far the safest option, she had decided.

  ‘A taxi rank?’ Ethan’s voice was scathing. ‘Do you want to attract more publicity? Don’t worry, Ms Ross, you’ll be quite safe with me.’

  But would she? That was Savannah’s cue for stepping back inside the stadium building. ‘I’m sure someone will find the number of a cab company for me.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  She couldn’t have been more shocked when Ethan stormed ahead, letting the door swing in her face. Defiantly, she pushed it open again. ‘You’re leaving me?’

  ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ he called back as he marched away. ‘And as you don’t need my help…’