sitting: a red cashmere throw disturbed, a half-glass of wine, a book and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. Not the accoutrements of a woman who was regularly entertaining men.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, with a degree of formality at odds with her deshabillé state.
He noted her cheeks were scorched red, and one of her hands was clenching at the ribbon tie that kept her robe vaguely cloaking what lay beneath: the full glory of those stupendous breasts.
‘If you’ll excuse me? I won’t be a moment.’
‘I don’t excuse you, and I want you to sit down.’ When she jumped he added, ‘Now.’
The bark in his voice had come from nowhere, but this woman and this routine she was performing was getting to him. Who in the hell did she think she was? Turning up at the Dorrington, making doe-eyes at the boys and then dragging him across town, offering up tantalising glimpses of a truly epic female body and then faking this I must preserve my modesty act …
Her eyes flew wide and her other hand darted up to crisscross her breasts with her arms. It was a classic ‘woman in peril’ gesture, and it almost convinced him he’d overreacted, was in fact completely in the wrong.
‘I want to get changed, Mr Kuragin. And you’re a guest in my house …’
‘Nyet, I’m not one of your guests, Rose. Speaking of which—your neighbour was very informative.’
‘Mrs Padalecki? You spoke to her?’ Something in her expression eased a little.
‘As I said, informative. You run your agency from your home?’
‘Yes,’ Rose said slowly, edging towards the sofa.
‘You are zoned for this?’
‘Zoned?’
He watched curiously as she made a snatch for the red cashmere throw and held it up under her chin, effectively shielding herself. He wanted to tell her it was unnecessary. He had no intention of sampling the merchandise. But that would have been a lie, he acknowledged ruefully. His intentions were being felt all too painfully—it was just he had no intention of acting on them.
‘I am not familiar with the Canadian laws,’ he said steadily, ‘but that can be remedied. I could be your worst nightmare, Rose.’
All the colour that had been so charmingly lighting up her face drained away. ‘If you don’t get out of my house I’m calling the police.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Mrs Padalecki will call the police.’
‘Your neighbour seemed to think I was a client … or a date. Sounds as if men are in and out of here all the time.’
He picked up the book lying on the table between them. Madame Bovary.
He frowned.
‘Get out!’ Her voice cracked and for the first time he noticed her hands were trembling.
‘Sit down, Rose. I’m here to discuss your little foray into the world of ice hockey. You can either do it with me, or with my legal team.’
Her lashes fluttered. ‘Your legal—legal team?’ She sat down abruptly on the sofa. ‘You’re here to talk about what happened today?’
‘Da,’ he said brusquely, annoyed at how vulnerable she suddenly appeared as relief coloured her voice.
‘Oh.’ She released a breath. Her shoulders, however, remained stiff little jolts of wariness.
Plato glanced around the room. This wasn’t a den of iniquity. It was a comfortable home. A woman’s home. There were framed photographs on ledges, frilly-edged lamps, and a gorgeous girl huddled in a red cashmere throw gazing up at him as if he’d staged a home invasion.
It wasn’t a familiar experience for him, but he finally acknowledged he might have overreacted. She swiped her bottom lip with that little pink tongue again and he had a fairly good idea why he’d overreacted. Sexual energy wasn’t just moving at a rate of knots through his body, it was thrumming in the air between them. Boléro, reaching its crescendo even on a low volume, wasn’t helping.
‘Can you turn that off?’ he growled.
She blinked rapidly, reaching across the table for the remote. The sudden silence was almost worse.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ Rose said softly.
Da. Sit down. Don’t loom over her. Keep this brief and to the point. Then get the hell out of here.
As he lowered his big body into a far too fragile armchair across from her she took the opportunity to push back some of the heavy, curling damp hair that was falling forward over her shoulder, drawing attention to the creaminess of her skin visible between the throw and her robe. Peignoir, he thought distractedly. That was what they were called, those flimsy little veils women wore to make men think about what was underneath. He didn’t need help with that thinking. Those curves and hollows were burned into his retinas.
‘If this is about what happened with Security I want you to know, Mr Kuragin, seeing you’ve already threatened me with legal action, I could sue you for defamation.’
‘Izvenitye? Pardon?’
‘You told the hotel security I was soliciting!’
He shrugged. ‘Those are your words, Rose. I told my chief of security you had an agenda.’
As she grappled to come to terms with the fact that Plato Kuragin was in her house—the Plato Kuragin, of the killer looks, killer financial skills and, if the tabloids she’d skimmed through in her research were to believed, similarly honed skills with the opposite sex—Rose became aware right there and then she’d lost a little ground. She did have an agenda. She had quite a big agenda.
She just hadn’t factored in this man taking any sort of interest in it. But then you did target him too, Rose, a little voice niggled. And now this has happened and what are you going to do about it?
It was just she’d never expected him in a million years to call. That he had turned up at her home was off the scale. But he was talking about legal teams and threatening legal action and … and he was looking at her mouth again. Did she have crumbs on her lips? She thought hungrily of the half-eaten Danish on her kitchen bench.
Aware her panic levels had dropped sufficiently for her to be thinking about food again, Rose wondered why she had thought Plato Kuragin had nefarious intentions.
It was the way he had stormed into her house, she reasoned, refusing to let her dress, welding those stunning dark eyes to her body as if heat-seeking the bits he liked. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. He was notorious for dating specifically Scandinavian blondes, with mile-high legs and breasts that, thanks to plastic surgery, sat up and saluted. Her curves were of the ordinary woman variety, round and placed exactly where nature intended them. It was her night gear that had made him take a second look.
Forced to dress conservatively during the day, she indulged herself in beautiful lingerie underneath. And a little ultrafeminine part of her psyche was ever such a tiny bit pleased that she’d
