The Man She Shouldn't Crave

He closed the distance between them and roped his arm around her waist. He moved too quickly for her to resist and propelled her a few steps to the wall of the building, pinning her right up against him, feet dangling in those silly little blue heels of hers, nose to nose, breathing hard.

He smiled at her stunned expression. ‘Are you listening to me now, Rose?’

She blinked. She wasn’t struggling. That was good.

Very slowly he let her slide down his body to her feet. She stood there, trembling a little, looking up at him. Exactly where he wanted her.

He leaned in, bracketing the wall either side of her with his arms. He carefully cupped one side of her face with his big hand. ‘I had no idea why I’d driven across town to your house tonight until you opened that door—are we clear?’

Rose blinked.

‘But this has nothing to do with you being tricked out in sexy lingerie, or using my players as sexual leverage with you. Does that clear things up?’

No, it didn’t clear anything up. But she was really hoping the wall behind her didn’t collapse, because it was all that was holding her up at this point. She had thought she knew what sexual excitement was, but it turned out that until this moment she hadn’t had a clue.

His gaze roamed over her face.

‘You are so very beautiful.’ He feathered her dark eyebrow with his thumb. ‘But until now I had no idea how incredibly arousing a woman who doesn’t pluck her eyebrows can be.’ His thumb moved down to stroke the fullness of her cheek. ‘Or how soft her skin is when she doesn’t cake it in make-up, or how tempting her lips are when they’re soft and unpainted.’ His thumb came to rest on her full lower lip.

For a throbbing moment Rose considered telling him she did actually pluck the odd stray hair from her eyebrows, and she was wearing a little powder, and her lips were courtesy of a very famous French fragrance house—but, really, how many secrets should a girl give away?

Instead she obeyed an instinct as old as time and opened her mouth ever so slightly. She bit down gently on that thumb pressing so sweetly onto her lower lip, drawing him into her mouth just for a moment, using her tongue.

She knew the instant she had him. His features were pulled taut and extraordinarily Slavic because of it, and his dark eyes went the colour of the ocean ten thousand metres deep. She knew, sure as sugar, that famously incisive brain of his had just moved below his belt.

She bit down hard and he whipped his hand away from her, swearing softly in Russian. Plato examined the reddened blunt tip of his thumb, bearing her toothmarks, his expression unreadable.

Maybe that had b

een a bad idea, Rose thought as female instinct shouted, Back up. But the new and improved, speak-your-mind-and-assert-yourself Rose knew she had to hold her ground. She forced out the words she needed to have him hear. ‘That’s as close as you’re coming to heaven with me, Mr Billionaire. Remember that when you’re lying in that cold bed of yours tonight. Does that clear things up?’

He gave her such a long, silent look that she lost a bit of ground, and then he brought one of those big hands up to cradle her head and gently rubbed the back of her neck, as if she were a kid in need of soothing.

‘I had no idea you were hiding this much temperament under all that luminous classic beauty.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know? I’m almost tempted to give you what you want because in the end it’s not such a big deal for me. But I find I’m enjoying the fireworks too much to give in just yet.’

Rose hissed an indrawn breath and gave his chest an almighty shove. Again he barely shifted.

‘Get off me, you big lug.’

He released her slowly, the eyes he settled on her not giving much away. But she fancied she could see something in them she’d not seen before. Respect.

But respect wasn’t permission to utilise his athletes.

‘You will let me drive you home, Rose,’ he stated, as if she had no say in it.

But she did. She knew she could refuse. She also knew Plato Kuragin could behave decently when he wanted to. Which made it all worse.

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter either way, and walked away from him, back towards the building entrance. But it did matter.

She nudged up the collar on her coat—not only to shield her face from the wind but to hide it from his incisive view. He was playing games with her and it was pushing her buttons. Whatever he said, she wasn’t going to stick out her chest and bat her eyes to get what she wanted. Sure, she’d used a little charm to get her number into those boys’ hands, but she hadn’t been that overt. It had been innocent and hopeful, that was all.

Plato Kuragin could drive her home if that made him feel better, but he knew what he’d done to her, and she knew after tonight she would never see him again.

CHAPTER SIX

PLATO stood in the owners’ box, arms folded, watching the running play as commentary from the scorekeepers’ bench was pumped into the earpiece he was wearing. It was a practice match, but it was their last before the game on Friday night. On Saturday the team would be flying on to Montreal, and he would be headed east to Moscow.

He harboured no strong feelings of roots in the Russian capital, but he had an apartment there and it would be good to sink out of the public eye for a few days whilst he went through a round of meetings with the new board. He’d lined up some female company, but last night, when that particular woman’s name had flashed up on his cell, he hadn’t picked up—even though he had already driven Rose home.