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Plato swore under his breath.
Rose sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more, but Bill wasn’t like…well, you. He hadn’t had all that much experience with women. I guess I liked that about him. He didn’t overwhelm me. In fact if anyone was the aggressor it was probably me.’
He glanced at her again, and to his surprise Rose cut her eyes away. She looked a little embarrassed.
‘You went after him?’ He could hear the scepticism in his own voice.
‘No, I mean—’ She broke off. ‘Never mind.’
But he did mind. He was feeling angry and protective and he wanted to kick this guy who had taken advantage of a young Rose to the kerb.
It was completely unreasonable, but Plato found himself wondering where he’d been all those years ago. In the Caucasus mountains shooting insurgents, trading illegal car parts on the black market. Not fronting up and sorting out Rose’s life for her. Chert.
Rose, a Texan beauty queen who didn’t date and had hooked up with an older guy because she wanted to get married. Da, she was a traditional girl all right.
Realising his knuckles had whitened over the steering wheel, he purposely began to dial it back. Rose could have been a cliché, but she’d managed to break free of all that and forge something for herself. She’d turned her own longings into a paying business and she deserved respect for that, not his misplaced desire to fix things for her.
She wasn’t that eighteen-year-old Dairy Queen any more, for all that she carried a little bit of newsprint around attesting to it. She was a grown woman and she knew the score.
His role in this little scenario was to take her to Moscow, show her a good time and make sure—for her comfort and his—she didn’t get under his skin. She didn’t need a guy like him messing around in her life; from the sounds of her story what she needed was a little fun.
This is about sex, man, and it’s time to get this show on the road.
* * *
After her confession Rose was trembling like a leaf. Being so honest with another person had left her feeling exposed and vulnerable, raw. Plato was quiet. He drove and she stared uncomfortably out of the window and tried to fathom why in the heck she’d turned a simple get-to-know-you into a blood-and-guts confession. Talk about killing the mood.
To Rose’s surprise her big Russian didn’t drive into the airport terminal car park. He kept going, hung a right, and drove to some fenced gates. He lowered the window, handed his pass to a guard and they drove on through. Rose realised they were driving towards the tarmac.
Holy cow.
She stared up in sheer amazement.
A whole lot of shiny white, black-detailed jet, with a red and black wolf’s head design on the cockpit. It was the equivalent of this car. Except so much more.
‘It looks—fast,’ she said inadequately.
‘You like speed, malenki?’
Rose shook her head, tryi
ng not to let her nerves show. ‘Not me. I’m strictly third gear.’
‘Slow it is, then,’ he assured her, bringing the car to a stop.
Plato flipped the ignition, removed his belt, reached over and unfastened hers. Before she could move he slid a hand around her shoulders, drawing her towards him. She had a moment to register he was going to kiss her and then his mouth was on hers, hard and fast, his tongue rough and ready and rhythmic, taking what he could get. His other hand tangled in her hair as he cradled her head, angled her for a better penetration.
This wasn’t slow…
Rose heard herself moan, felt her hands going helplessly up to his shirtfront in an effort to touch him, find a little skin, bond herself to him. Vaguely she intuited that he was giving her some kind of message with this kiss—a kind of This is what we’re about, baby, and don’t you mistake it for anything else. After her little tell-all soap opera confession she was lucky he hadn’t dumped her by the side of the road.
Then just as suddenly his hands eased their hold, and he was smoothing the hair away from her face as his mouth turned softer, sweeter. She clung and looked at him dreamily as he drew back, his eyes very dark on hers. For a moment he looked a little thrown.
‘We need to move, detka,’ he said roughly, releasing her.
Plato was out of the car and had her door open. Rose climbed out on wobbly legs and turned around to face the jet in the near distance. Her stomach dropped. Out of the car it seemed to loom even larger.
Worse, whilst they’d been kissing another car had rolled up. A couple of guys were getting out and were openly watching her with Plato.
