The Man She Shouldn't Crave

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.