by Lucy Ellis
‘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 ultra-feminine 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 mam
a 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 jet-set 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.
