The Man She Shouldn't Crave

Rose tugged her arm free. ‘Let me go, Plato,’ she said stonily.

He knew what she meant.

He noticed the car the moment they hit the pavement. A smokescreened Mercedes S-class idling by the roadside, its engine a low rumble. Not discreet—but these things never were.

Plato knew what he had to do, but unease shifted sinuously up and down his spine because it was going to scare the hell out of Rose. She had darted ahead, her bag shoved under her arm, and was doing her best to put some distance between them.

It all happened in a matter of seconds. The car accelerated, braked, and three men leapt out, crowding the pavement in front of Rose.

They were all in sharply tailored coats, fur ushankas, smiling pleasantly at her, but Rose backed up, her head whipping around, her blue eyes searching for him.

He was on her in moments, shouldering her behind him. “What is it, boys? Got lost and looking for directions?”

“You know me, Kuragin, always hunting for a new investment.” Ivan Gorkov looked Rose up and down. “You need to be more careful with your property. No telling what could get damaged if we don’t sort this little problem out.”

“It’s sorted, Gorkov. Nice and legal. So you can take your girlfriends and go and file another injunction and we’ll deal with it in court.”

He knew his security team was only moments away, but fronting up to a guy like Gorkov was often the simplest solution, and he didn’t want this to turn into something it didn’t need to be. He could feel Rose at his side, the bump of her arm as she pressed in against him. She was a tough little thing, and he didn’t quite trust her not to put her own kopek into the mix. He knew better than to make eye contact with her. As far as these guys were concerned she was just a woman who was with him—an onlooker. He wanted it to stay that way.

Except he could hear her soft rapid breathing and it made a difficult situation fraught, because all he could think about was protecting her.

One of Gorkov’s men shouldered up to him and Plato stepped forward, knowing he had to shove thoughts of Rose aside and keep pushing this. It was all about intimidation. Gorkov was a local mafia bit-player who wanted in on the club scene in Moscow. He had put in several bids to service the bars and nightclubs Plato had made his name with. This morning a legitimate security firm had announced winning the contract. Gorkov clearly had the misguided view that making his disappointment personal was going to change things.

Rose couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Plato was grinning at the guy shouldering up to him, even as he kept up an almost mocking dialogue with the shorter man in the superior tailoring.

He lifted his hands in what appeared at first glance to be a placatory gesture, but his fingers curled and Rose realised in mounting horror he was beckoning the aggressive guy towards him, keeping her behind him as he moved.

No, Plato, she thought desperately.

‘You cannot wander this city on your own.’

His words came back at her. This was actually happening.

‘When you’re not with me you need to be somewhere I can keep an eye on you.’

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She had made such a terrible mistake…

There was an animalistic quality to the way the men were circling one another now, and the smiles on their faces were sending Rose’s blood cold. Other people were giving them a wide berth. A couple of onlookers were pointing. Plato said something guttural in Russian and the short guy in the fur-lined coat blanched. He moved uneasily on his feet, looking left and right.

Plato kept coming, eyes narrowed, features drawn tight, and Rose realised he was fully able to deal with this. She was with a man who understood this situation in ways she couldn’t begin to fathom, and whatever Plato was saying to these guys he was making his point.

They were breaking up, shifting onto the road.

Rose’s stomach, tight and clenched from the moment this had started, began to cramp as she realised it might be over.

Plato beckoned to her, his eyes never leaving the men as they vanished into their car and took off. Rose didn’t shift an inch. She was wobbling on her legs as it was, and frankly she wasn’t sure what to do.

It was pounding in her head. This could have been so much worse. I should have listened to him.

Plato had whipped out his cell and was snarling into it as he crossed the few feet between them. The arm he used to drag her in against him was not gentle. Rose instinctively pressed her face into the lapel of his coat. He felt solid and hot and very male, still pumping out testosterone although they were safe now. Weren’t they? With other people passing them on the street, going about their business, it all felt very normal.

‘Plato—’

‘Nichivo,’ he said briefly, shoving his phone back into his coat.

He had put in a report to the police. He could give her his full attention. He knew what she’d seen had been seedy, dangerous, confusing to a woman like Rose. She would have questions, or maybe she wouldn’t. She needed comfort and soft words and protection. He could offer her protection, but he didn’t have any soft words for her. All he had was blood hammering in his head and surging into his groin. He was going to have her, and he didn’t much care for her opinion on the matter.