The Man She Shouldn't Crave

‘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?