The Man She Shouldn't Crave

She barely gave him time to react, even if he had known how to, because now she was letting go and scooting up those steps.

The gesture left him stranded. He couldn’t remember anyone ever touching him in that way—or was it that he had never allowed it? For a moment the repercussions of what it meant silenced the usual cynical voice in his head that didn’t allow those thoughts in. He gave himself permission for just a moment to wonder what it would be like to have this in his life.

Rose in his life.

Then the familiar intervened.

What is wrong with you?

She was from a completely different world. She would never understand what he had come from. If she had the faintest idea she wouldn’t be here with him now.

He needed to get a hold of this.

“Coming, cowboy?” she called over her shoulder, her look pert, confident.

Da, she wanted this as much as he did. He wouldn’t think about why. He’d just take what she was willing to give.

&nbs

p; * * *

They touched down in snow. It was falling lightly but steadily. The bright lights of the building were harsh as they walked the concourse, flanked by security men.

Plato retrieved his cell, took a call.

‘Rose, we are in for a bit of press attention outside. I’ll get you into the car as quickly as possible, but I advise keeping your head down and using your bag to obscure your face.’

Rose frowned. ‘What do you mean, press attention?’

Plato shook his head at the ludicrousness of the situation. It would be impossible to explain to this girl what a Russian businessman’s life meant—especially one who had risen from the streets. She would not understand the dangers or the insatiable interest of the press. The world loved wealth and everyone wanted their piece of him.

‘Cover your face,’ was all he said, and Rose obediently lifted her handbag, holding it up and let him guide her steps as they emerged from Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport into sub-zero temperatures and were showered in a flare of clicking cameras.

People were shouting out questions in Russian, French and English at Plato, who had his hand firmly anchored to her waist as he urged her onwards. Rose scrambled gratefully forward and was plunged into the privacy of the smokescreened limo. Plato was sliding in beside her. A minder was slamming the door.

‘Are you all right?’

Plato’s expression was taut as he ran concerned eyes over her. As he spoke he leaned forward. His coat was open, the broad expanse of his chest exposed in a faithfully cut olive shirt. Rose couldn’t help getting a little lost in looking at him. He must work out an awful lot…

She nodded vigorously, but that nod immediately turned into an even more vigorous shake. She hadn’t expected this. Cameras, attention…

She had seen the media interest in Plato back in Toronto at that press conference, but until this moment she hadn’t really known. Until this moment she’d had no idea.

And right now it was all feeling a bit too much.

‘Why does this happen to you?’

‘Good question.’ He glanced away out the window into the darkness. ‘Just here, Rose, in Moscow.’

He’d been this way, a little distant, throughout the long flight. Rose knew it was to do with her hugging him. She got the impression it wasn’t something he’d enjoyed, and she felt as if she’d revealed her hand too soon. If she were a long-legged, worldly-wise Scandinavian model she would probably have taken his words as her due—chivalrous, but meaningless in the larger scheme of things. But she was a plump-calved, down-home Texan girl and he had said something that in her book was romantic. Her instinct had been to hug him. She hadn’t been able to help it. Probably no more than he’d been able to help looking as if someone had thrown him out of a plane without a parachute afterwards.

But he had put her first, ahead of his own comfort, and she hadn’t expected that.

His gaze returned to her, moving over her with unabashed sexual speculation. Yes, he seemed a lot more comfortable with this kind of attention, and if this was where it started, so be it. She could work with this. But at her pace. She was in charge. She wasn’t that girl striving to please a man who wasn’t interested. Bill had been her first lover. She knew now her libido had definitely out-powered his, but when they’d been together he’d always made her feel somehow too sexual—as if her wants and needs were unfeminine. Intellectually she’d known it was nonsense, but deep down in her psyche she had absorbed his distaste for her sexuality and her womanly body.

Plato didn’t seem to have any problem with her body; in fact the fuller than average curve of her derrière, the roundness of her hips and thighs, had him all sorts of intent and interested. He made her feel sexy and kind of powerful, and it put ideas in her head. Bold ideas. She was going to be Plato Kuragin’s Waterloo whether he liked it or not! He was going to fall so hard for her his knees would be ringing with the impact for years. She’d be the girl he’d never forget. The one who changed his wicked ways…

‘I’ve got a series of meetings in the centre of town,’ he was saying almost abstractedly as his eyes zeroed in on her mouth.