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‘Not the kind of nightclub I’m used to, I guess?’ she said, watching him curiously.
‘We don’t plan on opening one in Toronto,’ he observed with a wry smile. ‘You’ll enjoy it, detka. It’ll be a circus.’
Rose turned up those druggingly sensuous blue eyes. ‘What can I say? I love a circus,’ she said with a little smile.
‘Horosho. Good. I’ll make a couple of calls, get you something organised.’
‘Organised?’
‘A dress…hair.’ He made a gesture towards the masses drying over her shoulder, toppling down her back. ‘Not that I wouldn’t mind looking at it like that all night, but I don’t think we’d make it out the door.’
It was supposed to be a compliment, something to ease the harshness of what he was doing, but Rose lifted one hand to her hair and for the first time looked uncertain.
Plato felt as if hooks had been lodged in his chest wall and just about now were pulling like crazy. He didn’t think. He crossed to the bed, knelt beside her, turned up her face and kissed her.
He felt her relax, felt her arms lift around his neck. The sheet dropped and those gorgeous ruby-tipped breasts of hers rubbed up against his chest.
‘Plato…’ she sighed.
At this rate they weren’t going anywhere.
‘I can’t believe you’re organising me a dress,’ she said, her eyes so blue, so close to his own, inviting him in.
‘You can wear one of your own, but most of the women there will be in couture.’
‘I understand.’ She looked up at him, all eyes and sincerity. Her dimples came out.
Suddenly he didn’t want to go to the party. But if they didn’t he might very well start making plans with her—and he just wasn’t that man.
It wasn’t the right time in his life. Work had to come first. His lifestyle didn’t support a girl like this. He couldn’t give Rose what she needed.
So many reasons why not.
But he couldn’t stop himself from saying, ‘If you’d prefer to stay in…’
‘No, you’ve got me in the mood now.’ She snaked her way sinuously off the bed and gathered up her clothes. Her smile over her shoulder was pure Rose—all warmth and curiosity. ‘But I should warn you, cowboy, I love to dance.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROSE was ready this time for the flare of cameras as their limousine drew up outside of the gates of a palace complex on an exclusive Moscow street.
Plato leapt out, his broad back to the paparazzi, thereby shielding her exit.
As he bent down to help her out of the car he said in a low voice meant only for her ears, ‘You look incredibly beautiful. Have I told you that, malenki?’
Only a dozen times, thought Rose, thrilled.
In her long gown of dark blue watered silk with its embroidered bodice Rose felt beautiful—she felt like an eastern princess. She hadn’t been sure when the stylist had shown it to her on a rack of similarly glamorous gowns, but with the right underwear it flowed over her curves like water down a ravine, pooling at her ankles. Her feet were clad in very high delicate heels and she wore a ruby pendant, nestled in her décolletage, and matching earrings.
When the cases of jewellery had arrived with an armed guard Rose had already been in the gown, and the temptation to accept the loan of the gems had been too high. But she couldn’t stop the wandering of her hands to her throat and ears to check they were still there, and a couple of times Plato had smiled reassuringly at her when he’d caught her in the act.
He did it again now.
‘Don’t worry, malenki, it’s just jewellery.’
Tens of thousands of American dollars’ worth of jewellery, thought Rose a little faintly.
‘It merely sets off what everyone is actually looking at.’
