The Man She Shouldn't Crave

‘Da, you believe in fairy tales.’

‘That goes to show you know nothing about me,’ she retorted hotly, losing her temper anyway. ‘I can assure you, Plato, I know personally how ugly the relations between men and women can be. I choose to educate, not to feed people fairy tales.’

‘What is this ugly?’

Rose folded her arms. ‘I don’t want to talk about this. You clearly don’t take my work seriously.’

‘Who has mistreated you?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘I was speaking generally, not specifically,’ she prevaricated, looking away.

‘You said personally.’ He spoke over her. ‘What is this personal?’

‘None of your business.’ The speed she had begun to take for granted had dropped away, and Rose realised in horror he was pulling over onto the shoulder of the road.

‘For land sakes, Plato,’ she squeaked, ‘what are you doing?’

He cut the engine and angled his body to face her. ‘Who has mistreated you?’

It must be a cultural difference, thought Rose, backing up fast. This macho, looking-after-my-woman thing. Except they did it in Texas too, and her romantic disasters could all be traced back to it.

‘Plato, I really don’t appreciate being strong-armed like this…’

In the silence, the stillness, Plato was suddenly right there, examining her as if looking for signs of domestic violence. This was silly. Except he looked so fierce…and concerned.

Well, heck…

‘I was engaged to a man for four years. We had our problems.’ She moistened her bottom lip. ‘I guess you could figure that, seeing as I’m not with him any more.’

‘What did he do to you?’ His voice was low, tough.

‘Do to me? Kind of what you’re doing now,’ she muttered.

‘Sto?’ Fine lines bracketed his eyes, and his slanting Slavic cheekbones lifted as his face drew taut.

‘Putting on the pressure.’ She fidgeted, opening and closing the clasp on her handbag. ‘Look, this is my personal business. I hardly know you well enough to—’

‘You said ugly,’ he cut in. ‘Naturally I am concerned.’

Was he? She looked into his eyes and her heartbeat stumbled.

Rose Harkness, don’t you go falling

down a mountain over this man. He’s big and overbearing and you may as well never have left Texas if you do!

‘It’s as boring as watching paint dry,’ she grumbled, opening up her bag. ‘But here we are, if you’re so darn curious. This is as ugly as it got.’

She thrust the folded segment of newspaper at him. Never taking his eyes off her, Plato unfolded the paper. He flicked his gaze over it. Rose knew the headline by heart: ‘Fidelity Falls Beauty Queen Throws Over Hilliger Heir.’

The text was brief and to the point.

William Randolph Hilliger III, son of Senator William Randolph Hilliger II, loses pre-selection and fiancée overnight. Miss Harkness was unavailable for comment.

‘I’ve read about your past in the tabloids this week,’ she said, endeavouring to inject some normality into her voice. ‘Well, here’s mine. All five minutes of my fame.’

‘Tabloids? You researched me, detka?’ She was about to deny it when he said, ‘This is you?’ The hint of a smile softened the line of his firm mouth. ‘Miss Dairy Queen? How old were you in this picture?’

‘Eighteen.’ She’d been plumper then, and the long dress had been too tight, but the sash hid the worst of it. Her hair had been styled into a sixties beehive. She was posed on the back of a hay truck.