just trying to intimidate her—and, okay, doing a pretty good job of it—but nobody bossed her around any more. A long time ago she’d dug herself a hole of her own making with a man, but she’d got herself out of that. She was in charge of her life now. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be seen as a femme fatale, capable of leading young men astray. Plato Kuragin was certainly making her think it was possible …
Rose shook her head. She couldn’t believe she was even thinking that. She was letting the situation get to her. Letting his almost-smile get to her. She wasn’t capable of leading herself astray, let alone twelve grown men! Yes, she’d acted recklessly, she knew that, and she hadn’t bargained on the result she’d got. But now she was determined to handle it.
‘I run a dating agency,’ she explained crossly. ‘I wanted to find dates for them.’
For a moment Plato Kuragin just stared. Stared until Rose felt the colour burning in her cheeks.
Stared until she felt forced to blurt out, ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’
‘The boys don’t need help with that, detka.’
Rose rolled her eyes. ‘I realise that. I was looking for publicity—’
His expression cooled, and his mouth formed a straight, hard line. ‘Of course you were.’
‘Don’t make it sound like that!’ she defended herself. ‘You can’t just come in here, insinuating horrid things about me. You don’t know me! You invited yourself into my house, you won’t let me get dressed—’ She broke off as her voice tremored under the strain of keeping it all together.
Something flickered in his eyes, and his mouth softened as if he was going to say something.
‘I’d really like to have my dinner and then go to bed …’ she floundered.
For a moment his heavy gaze dropped to her mouth, and Rose had a startling and not completely unwelcome image of Plato Kuragin in that bed along with her.
She firmed her mouth.
‘I don’t know—perhaps this is how you do things in your country. My knowledge of Russia is limited to Dr Zhivago. But in Canada men don’t burst into the homes of women they don’t know.’
‘And you’re keen to broaden that experience with my boys?’ he inserted coolly.
‘I know you’re implying distasteful things, but that aside they are hardly boys. They’re men, and they can make their own decisions.’
‘Not whilst they’re under contract, detka.’
That was that, then. That little dream was over. Rose took a breath and swallowed her disappointment. But she’d given it a go, she told herself, and that was huge for her. Maybe it had been a mistake but, shoot! If she was going to make them, they’d be her mistakes. This was the life she was meant to lead. Not one controlled by other people.
She guessed she had a passionate nature, and from all she’d heard that was a trait she’d inherited from her mother. Well, she was going to trust herself, her instincts and her passion from now on. Even if it got her into trouble.
She thought of Bill Hilliger, her ex-fiancé back in Houston, and how powerless she had felt to change anything at all during the four years they were together. Well, she’d darn well changed everything for herself now, and she hoped her mama would be proud of her determination and understand her need to leave behind the protection of her father and brothers. She had to make her own life, and she’d come all the way to Canada to do it—and if that meant dealing with the Plato Kuragins of this world, so be it.
It didn’t hurt to pull her punches with him either. She had lied about her knowledge of Russia; she had taken six months of studying the language at college. Which was why she knew Plato Kuragin was calling her baby. Baby. As in you’re just a girl and I’m in charge. He was such a jock. She hated jocks. She liked men with real jobs—hard-working men like her dad and her brothers. Men who removed their metaphorical hats when they spoke to a lady they had just been introduced to. Men who wouldn’t dream of just dropping in on a woman alone in the evening without an invitation.
This man, with his billions and blondes on tap and his jetset lifestyle, clearly didn’t have a clue how to treat a nice girl. Except he didn’t see her as a nice girl, did he? He saw her as some sort of predacious tramp, leading his wet-behind-the-ears athletes astray.
And suddenly it wasn’t so funny any more. She didn’t want to be treated like something the cat had dragged in.
Not by this man.
The doorbell pealed.
Plato was on his feet. ‘You will stay there,’ he said repressively.
Oh, for goodness’ sakes—she could answer her own door! However, Rose saw the advantage, and the moment he was gone she scrambled for the hall. Plato was dealing with the pizza delivery as she bolted up the stairs. She threw open her wardrobe doors and scouted for something nice. She didn’t question why she wasn’t pulling on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. She just knew no woman in her right mind would parade before Plato Kuragin in cheap cotton and fleece.
She grabbed a blue and white spotted silk and cotton dress off its hanger and made short work of exchanging throw and negligee for the flattering shoulder-to-ankle cut of the dress. It hinted at her curves but didn’t make a show of them. She added a little yellow cardigan to cover her shoulders and arms, slicked some cherry-red colour over her lips and ran a brush through her hair. That would have to do. If she blowdried her curls straight it would just look as if she was trying.
She didn’t want trying. She wanted everyday girl. A girl who didn’t ‘trawl’ athletes or warrant unpleasant commentary on her actions.
Taking a deep breath, she came down the stairs, telling herself it was reasonable to change out of her nightwear when she had a guest—a male guest—and that he wouldn’t read anything into that. And all women touched up their lipstick.
Perhaps the squirt of her favourite perfume hadn’t been such a good idea.
Plato was in her kitchen. It was slightly disconcerting to find him there. He had her white flatware out on the bench and her fridge door open.
‘You don’t have beer, do you?’ he asked, crouching down to get a look inside.
Rose told herself not to stare at that very taut behind clad in brutally faithful tailored trousers. Then she tried to work out why she wasn’t objecting to him making himself so comfortable in her home.
‘There’s just an open bottle of wine,’ she heard herself say faintly, ‘or a soft drink.’
Her kitchen was so tiny two people were a crowd, and when one of those people was a six-foot-six-inch male with a breadth across his shoulders that made Rose feel slight in comparison there really wasn’t anywhere to go. Rose backed up as far as she could into the kitchen cupboard, and jammed its handle into the curve of her bottom.
‘Glasses?’ He straightened up, looked over his shoulder at her.
Rose stilled as he turned, those rainy-night eyes taking her in as if she were an oasis in the desert. She waited for him to say something. Although what he’d say she didn’t know. Something along the lines of, You’ve changed, which was obvious, but somehow she didn’t think that was what he was thinking.
Except he couldn’t be thinking what she thought he was thinking.
Because why would a man get overheated about a dress when he’d already seen her in her hot-to-trot underthings?
Men looked at her. She couldn’t walk down a city street without second glances, a wolf whistle, something that cheered up her day. But she well knew the pitfalls of being judged on her bra size, and she dressed to diminish rather than play up any sex appeal she might possess. Men appreciated aspects of her body, but none of that had prepared her for