The Ruthless Billionaire's Virgin

What a bully, she thought, and her flesh crawled as the man continued to stare at her curvy form behind the flimsy curtain. Did he mean the neckline was too low? She always had trouble hiding her breasts, and as she’d got older she hated the way men stared at them. She would be the first to acknowledge her chest was currently displayed to best advantage in the low-cut gown, but it was a performance outfit. She could hardly hide her large breasts under her arms! ‘Not appropriate how?’ she said, standing her ground.

The man’s disappointment that she didn’t fold immediately was all too obvious. ‘The Bear won’t approve of it,’ he said, as if that was the death knell of any hopes she had of wearing it.

‘The Bear won’t approve?’ Savannah’s heart fluttered a warning. To walk out onto the pitch and have Ethan Alexander stare at her…She had dreamed of it, but now it was going to happen she was losing confidence fast. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t defend her dress to kingdom come. ‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he approve of it?’

‘It’s pink,’ the man said, his face twisting as if pink came with a bad smell.

Savannah’s face crumpled. It was such a beautiful dress, and one her mother had been so thrilled to buy for her. They had discussed the fact that hours of dedicated work had gone into the hand-stitching alone, and now this man was dismissing the handiwork of craftswomen in a few unkind words.

‘You’ll have to take it off.’

‘What?’ Savannah felt the cold wall pressing against her back.

‘I understand you’re a last-minute replacement,’ the man said in a kinder tone, which Savannah found almost creepier than his original hectoring manner. ‘So you won’t know that a major sponsor has supplied a designer gown for the occasion, which he expects to be worn. The dress has received more publicity than you have,’ th

e man added unkindly.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Savannah muttered to herself. Well, it could hardly have received less, she thought wryly, seeing as she was a last-minute replacement. She kept a pleasant expression on her face, determined she wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of thinking he’d upset her.

‘And the Bear expects all the sponsors, however small their donations, to get their fair share of publicity, so you’ll have to wear it,’ he finished crossly when she refused to capitulate.

Perhaps he would like her to cry so he could play the big man to her crushed little woman, Savannah reflected. If so, he was in for a disappointment. Because she was plump and rather short, people often mistook her for a sweet, plump, fluffy thing they could push around, when actually she could stick her arm up a cow and pull out a newborn calf during a difficult birth, something that had given her supreme joy on the few occasions she’d been called upon to do so. Her slender arms were kinder on a struggling mother, her father always said. She didn’t come from the sort of background to be intimidated by a man who looked like he had a pole stuck up his backside.

‘Well, if that’s the dress I’m supposed to wear,’ she said pragmatically, ‘I’d better see it.’ She hadn’t come to Rome to cause ripples, but to do a job like anyone else, and the clock was ticking. Plus she was far too polite to say what she really wanted to say, which was what the hell has it got to do with the Bear what I wear?

Someone pretty important to your career, Savannah’s sensible inner voice informed her as the man hurried off to get the dress; someone who is both the main sponsor for the England squad and your boss.

When he returned the man’s manner had changed. Perhaps he believed he had worn her down, Savannah concluded.

‘Madame Whatshername was pleased enough to wear it,’ he said with a sniff as he handed the official gown over to Savannah.

Savannah paled as she held up Madame de Silva’s gown. She should have known it would be fitted to the great singer. Madame was half her size, and wore the type of couture dress favoured by French salon-society. The closest Savannah had ever come to a salon was the local hairdresser’s, and her gowns were all geared towards comfort and big knickers. ‘I don’t think Madame’s gown will fit me,’ she muttered, losing all her confidence in a rush as she stared at the slim column of a dress with its fishtail train.

‘Whether it fits you or not,’ the man insisted, ‘You have to wear it. I can’t allow you onto the pitch wearing your dress when the sponsor is expecting to see his official gown worn. Putting his design in front of a worldwide television audience is the whole point of the exercise.’

With her in it? Savannah very much doubted that was what the designer had had in mind.

‘You have to look the part,’ the man insisted.

Of team jester? Savannah was starting to feel sick, and not just with pre-concert nerves. In farming lingo she would be classified as ‘healthy breeding stock’, whereas Madame de Silva was a slender greyhound, all sleek and toned. There was no chance the gown would fit her, or suit her freckled skin. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised as her throat constricted.

‘Good girl,’ the man said approvingly.

Savannah’s chin wobbled as she surveyed the garish gown. She was going to look like a fool, and beyond her little drama in the tunnel she could hear that the mood of the crowd had escalated to fever pitch in anticipation of the kick-off.

Where was she? Ethan frowned as he flashed another glance at his wristwatch. A hush of expectancy had swept the capacity crowd. It was almost time for the match to start, and he was more on edge than he had ever been. He had promised the squad a replacement singer, and now it looked as if Savannah Ross was going to let him down. In minutes the England team would be lining up in the tunnel, and the brass band was already out on the pitch. The portly tenor who had been booked to sing the anthem for Italy was busily accepting the plaudits of an adoring crowd, but where the hell was Savannah Ross?

Anxious glances shot Ethan’s way. If the Bear was unhappy, everyone was unhappy, and Ethan was unusually tense.

Madame’s fabulous form-fitting gown had a sash in bleakest white and ink-blot blue, which like a royal order was supposed to be worn over one naked shoulder.

Fabulous for Madame’s slender frame, maybe, Savannah thought anxiously as she struggled to put the sash to better use. If she could just bite out these stitches, maybe, just maybe, she could spread out the fabric to cover the impending boob explosion—though up until now she had to admit her frantic plucking and gnawing had achieved nothing; try as she might, the sash refused to conceal any part of her bosom.

And as for the zip at the back…

Contorting her arms into a position that would have given Houdini a run for his money, she still couldn’t do it up. Poking her head out of the curtain, she tried calling out again, but even the creepy man had deserted her. She peered anxiously down the tunnel. The crowd had grown quiet, which was a very bad sign. It meant the announcements were over and the match was about to start—and before that could happen she had to sing the national anthem! ‘Hello! Is anyone—?’

‘Hello,’ a girl interrupted brightly, seemingly coming out of nowhere. ‘Can I help you?’