Lucy Ellis - The Man She Shouldn't Crave

Then a sharp-eyed rep from the Moscow Times lifted a hand, and the questions zeroed in on the rumour that Sasha Rykov would be signing with a Canadian team. Plato’s attention swerved back to doing an effective job of spin to keep the question at the forefront of everyone’s mind. As long as the press were asking about Rykov they wouldn’t be asking any uncomfortable questions about the absence of two of their best players.

The coach, Anatole Medvedev, fielded the next question, and after several more it was meet-and-greet time. He made it a practice to keep moving in these situations, keeping any interaction brief. There were corporate sponsors and a lot of journalists. He’d keep his eyes on the boys. A few of them were still wet behind the ears, but the language barrier would solve any concerns about an info leak.

Blue Eyes had vanished, taking his sexual fantasy with her.

Feeling a little shaky after her encounter with the big, bad boss of the Wolves, Rose looked around the room, knowing it was better to get this done fast—kind of like pulling a tooth. All she needed was two definite takers.

It crossed her mind that it still wasn’t too late. She could walk out of here, go home, forget about the publicity. She was uncomfortably aware her behaviour could be perceived as a little underhand. But this was about more than her business. It was about the women’s shelter where she volunteered, and where she hoped to be able to offer more than just her professional counsel. If Date with Destiny was the success she hoped it could be, there was a real chance come the end of the year, when the lease on the shelter came up, that they could move to larger, better premises.

And there was no way she was going to get even one of these players on side through legitimate avenues. She’d tried. No one would speak to her.

On a less important but personal level, today was also about firming up her confidence in herself. If she could do this—if she could take on an entire Russian ice hockey team with a bit of charm and a line of chat—she could finally put the past into a box and ship it to Utah. She was done with being that unhappy, humiliated girl who had fled Houston two years ago.

She spotted a couple of team members gripping wineglasses like life jackets, clearly cut off by the language barrier. They would have been easy pickings—they reminded her of herself once—but they weren’t the ones she wanted. She wanted confident, a bit brash, hard to pin down. Those were the guys who would sell her business.

It was absurd, but it was human nature. You always wanted what you couldn’t have. A guy who had the world at his feet, who could have any woman, who could walk away at any time, was not long-term material. That was certainly not the type of guy she wanted on her books. Too much hard work.

But they were perfect for publicity purposes.

She just realised she’d described Plato Kuragin to a tee. Not that she would be approaching him any time soon. She was confident, but she wasn’t delusional.

Her plan was to send a couple of these hockey boys out on dates, add a film crew to the mix, and pull in a favour with a local TV producer who was the friend of a friend who had assured her a spot if she could pull it off.

Now she only had to find a couple of photogenic specimens and run her little pick-up spiel by them.

She had a lot of competition. There were some seriously gorgeous women here. But attracting a man’s attention had less to do with looks and more to do with confidence—and it helped to have a plan.

She fixed herself in front of the dark-haired athlete she’d seen earlier, smirking for the press corps.

‘Oh, my, nobody move!’ She made a helpless gesture, lifted her gaze so that they made definite eye contact, and then dropped to her knees. ‘My contact lens!’ she wailed.

The guy dropped to his haunches and cast his gaze around on the floor—but mainly had a good long look at the shape of her bottom and thighs outlined by her crouching position. A few minutes of pointless searching and she was coming to her feet and holding out her hand.

‘Rose.’

‘Sasha.’

She was aware they were being surreptitiously watched by a couple of women, and Rose knew she’d made a good choice. She thanked him, made sure she kept eye contact because guys liked confidence, bemoaned how fuzzy the world suddenly looked and asked him how he was enjoying Toronto.

It only took a few minutes before she had his vital statistics: enthusiastic, a bit dull, and possessing less confidence around women than his outer swagger would suggest. But he had the face of an angel. It wasn’t hard to scrawl her cell number on his hand, and she added her name: ‘Rose’. He didn’t look bright enough to remember it if she simply left her trademark drawing of the flower.

It was her signature strategy. Handing out business cards would be intimidating to some of these boys, and likely to go straight into the bin. The coy girl who pressed ink to their palm was going to be remembered.

Everyone was sceptical about a young woman setting up her first business on such a flimsy premise as matchmaking, but Rose knew her youth was on her side. She came across as unthreatening, unserious, and to some of these men as a bit of harmless fun. The fact she had been doing this since she was eight years old and considered herself an old hand at it was her secret weapon.

After all, she had managed to find a wife for her father, and two of her four brothers, and several of her girlfriends were happily settled with men Rose had helped them land.

It was a little different when she was doing the landing, keeping a smile on her face despite the bite of her heels and the uncomfortable warmth of her wool suit, and every time she approached a new face her heart began to pound.

Today was all about Date with Destiny, but in the days leading up to this, as she’d formulated her plan, something else had been growing alongside it. Right now it was gnawing at her, and if she was honest with herself turning up today was about much more than business. There was a recklessness in choosing to go this route that turned it into the bold move she needed to make. She had played it safe for four years under the watchful eyes of her fiancé’s ambitious family, and where had that got her? What did it say about her matchmaking skills when she was twenty-six and still single …?

No, she was going to put herself on the line—for the business but more importantly for herself—and if pesky doubts were already crowding in she’d just ignore them.

But so far, so good, and she hoped the results would be at least one phone call later today. Then she could make her approach.

Plato watched as Blue Eyes cut a swathe through his boys. Every time he looked around she was with a different player. What in the hell was she up to? Although given a couple of seconds he could guess.

He was on the move away from the CEO of one of the brands the boys would be wearing on their shirts on Saturday when he heard a soft, twangy ‘Hey …’ Against his better judgement he halted, turned, made a gesture to his security officer, who was barring her path.

A big smile crossed her lovely face and up came some serious dimples. He hadn’t expected those. He had expected the approach, however.

He could see all of her now. She was wearing a double-breasted blue and black plaid wool jacket and a knee-length matching fitted skirt. A pair of long shapely legs in black tights plunged down into aqua coloured high heels. Vaguely he understood this was some form of retro fashion statement. Her dark hair was pulled back severely from her face, but it only served to draw attention to those big eyes, that lush mouth, the slightly upturned nose and the apple-round curve of her cheeks and gently rounded chin, echoing the curves below.

And she had some serious curves. She was all woman.

‘Y’all didn’t answer my question,’ she said brightly.

This was going to kill him. ‘Not as single as you’d probably like, detka ,’ he said.

She crossed the space between them.

‘I get that you probably don’t want to talk right now,’ she said rapidly.

Up close, she was not quite as confident as she had initially appeared. Her gaze cut shyly away as he looked down at her, but instinct and experience with women told him it was a calculated gesture.

She looked back up, a determined glint in her eyes, and waved a gold pen. ‘Can I give you my cell number?’

He chuckled and reluctantly turned away. She was beautiful and persistent.

To his surprise he felt her hand close over his forearm. If she’d been a man his security detail would have been all over her, but they’d seen the exchange. Women approached him all the time. He was unfailingly polite, but definite. He did the chasing.

‘Please,’ she said, flashing those dimples as if she wasn’t accosting the man everyone in this room wanted to talk to but just a random guy in the street.

She took his hand and he let her, curious to see what she was up to. Her touch was gentle, as soft and female as the rest of her looked.

She waved the pen. ‘Promise not to wash it off.’

He allowed her to ink several digits across his palm.

‘My name is Rose Harkness,’ she said sweetly, suddenly all eyes and sincerity, ‘and I’ve got a business proposition for you. Call me.’

Business proposition? Was that what they were calling it these days?

He didn’t bother to glance at the number, but he did take a last look at what he was leaving behind. A year ago he might have taken her up on the offer, and even now he was tempted to take her along with him. She ticked all the boxes: beautiful, built, no strings. But he wasn’t doing one-nighters with women any more, and he wasn’t letting her ricochet through his team either. He shrugged, gave her a wink and kept moving.

As he stepped into the service elevator with the Wolves coach, Anatole Medvedev, and his head of security, he said, ‘Make sure that woman is turned out of the hotel. She’s got an agenda.’

That went well, thought Rose. At least she’d got all her lines out. For a moment her vocal cords had seized up when Plato Kuragin had run his critical gaze over her. A man who dated supermodels and actresses and other women without bottoms to speak of. She’d been too overwhelmed even to check his reaction. Yet she’d stood her ground, she’d run her line by him, and he’d seemed to enjoy it—although there was a fine line between an unusual approach and ending up sounding like a groupie.

The athletes had been easy—a couple a bit standoffish, but for the most part receptive, and they seemed like nice guys.

Plato Kuragin—he was something else entirely. She’d been high on confidence when she’d approached him, taken one look into those rain-over-stone dark grey eyes and lost the plot. Plato Kuragin was not going to line up to be Date with Destiny’s poster-boy. No, she’d approached him because she could. Because she was a red-blooded woman and she couldn’t resist.

Of all the monumentally stupid spur-of-the-moment decisions. She had come very close to blowing it, and she knew darn well why. Pesky hormones. But there was also this irresistible pull to behave a little recklessly. She’d approached the players for the business, but she’d fronted up to their big, bad boss because she could . Because the new Rose was all about being bold and brave.

Comfortably seated in the bar of the hotel, Rose took out her cell and set it down where she could see it. It was always possible one of the athletes would call her whilst she was still in the hotel. She hoped so. Then she could have the conversation on neutral ground. She ordered a soft drink and busied herself making notes on how she was going to sell Date with Destiny to her first caller.