e I was able to take advantage of. He fought in the Great Patriotic War…’
‘That’s World War Two?’
‘Da, it left him a broken man. They were poor. He didn’t work. My grandmother ran the household. My mother fled the house at sixteen, came back a year later pregnant, desperate. They took her in.’
His voice had dropped an octave and Rose heard a wealth of meaning in those four words.
‘Growing up, I barely saw her. She was never around. She—worked.’
‘She must have loved you very much to make those sacrifices,’ said Rose carefully.
‘Da…sacrifices.’ He laughed dryly. ‘She drank, Rose. She worked hard and she drank it all away.’
She laid her hand on his bristly jaw. ‘She must have had her reasons. I’m sure she loved you.’ Something flashed through his eyes and Rose frowned.
‘Da, she had her reasons. She liked the taste of vodka.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
He met her eyes, shrugged. ‘It’s not important now. She drank herself to death when I was fifteen. If you knew my grandmother you wouldn’t have blamed her.’
Rose propped herself up, a little stunned by the cold smile on his face.
‘There was a red corner in my grandmother’s house—that’s a place where icons are hung, to pray, and every night she would get down on her knees and beg the Lord to send the devil out of her house.’
Rose shuddered. She couldn’t help it. Something passed across Plato’s face—a look so painful Rose instinctively lifted her hand to his face, smoothed the silky hair off his temples, stroked. His grey eyes were stone-dark as they moved over her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said roughly. ‘I don’t mean to upset you.’
But he was looking at her as if he wanted something. More. From her.
Rose experienced a rush of soft feeling. She was going to have to tread very carefully, because she sensed this wasn’t usual for him. Plato didn’t strike her as a guy who spilt his guts. She’d grown up amongst taciturn ranchers, men who clenched their jaws and got on with it even when life dealt them unbearable blows. Plato Kuragin had tough Texan written all over him.
She cupped his stubbled jaw with the palm of her hand. ‘Tell me…your grandmother was religious?’
‘Crazy with it.’
Those thick brown lashes fanned down and she pressed a tender kiss to his temple. ‘Why did she think the devil was in the house?’ she asked quietly, reasonably.
His lashes lifted, and he fixed her with those unfathomable eyes. ‘I was the devil,’ he said, in a low, rough voice. ‘When she was done praying she’d get her broom and beat the demons out of me.’
Rose’s hand slipped from his jaw. ‘She would beat you—a child—with a broom?’
‘Like Baba Yaga in the folk tales,’ he said softly, then smiled thinly at her, ‘Don’t look so distraught, Rose. I wasn’t home enough for it to be a regular thing.’
‘How old were you when this started?’ she whispered.
Plato saw the horror she was trying to hide in Rose’s eyes and it hit him like a ton of bricks. What the hell was he doing? What was he looking for from this girl…? Comfort?
Da, get the princess to kiss it better for you and everything will make sense, a familiar cynical voice sneered.
‘Where were you when you weren’t at home?’ she whispered.
In a criminal gang, running rackets for the local crime boss. ‘On the streets. Getting up to mischief.’
Rose’s eyes were full of concern, and Plato silently swore at himself. He didn’t want to upset her, and he didn’t want her pity. He didn’t need it. Hell, in their Army days he and Nik had swapped childhood horror stories and some of Nik’s had won hands down.
‘I was a tough kid, Rose, but I’ve been luckier than most and I’m grateful for it. A local hockey coach noticed I had skills, put me in the junior league, got me off the streets, saved my life.’