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.

Instead her pen began making circles on the page, and she found herself recalling how Plato Kuragin had smiled at her—as if she was the only woman in the room—and how imposing he was close up.

He had to be at least six foot six. She’d barely reached his chin in her heels, and the forearm she’d grasped had been twice as broad as her own, covered in golden hairs that glinted under the bright chandelier lights of the reception room. The callused, roughened palm she’d held could have enclosed her hand entirely. Those labourer’s hands didn’t fit the image she had of him as a playboy tycoon, with models—usually of the blonde Scandinavian kind—draped around his neck. That big, muscle-honed body didn’t come from sitting behind a desk or lying on the deck of a super-yacht all day long. And it didn’t come from a gym either. He looked like a guy who used his body.

Rose propped her elbows up on the table and planted her chin in her hands. She had plenty of time to contemplate that body …

‘Excuse me, miss.’

Rose looked up to find two men in hotel uniforms standing over her. Her usual ready smile evaporated as she listened to their request that she leave the hotel.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were observed accosting several of our visiting international guests earlier this evening. Mr Kuragin has personally requested your removal.’

Rose blinked. ‘What? Why?’

An uneasy feeling slid down Rose’s spine even as the man cleared his throat.

‘Procurement is not something our hotel turns a blind eye to, madam.’

Rose’s mouth fell open. ‘You think I’m a hooker?’

After that there wasn’t much conversation. Just a security officer marching her none too gently through the lobby.

Outside the light had started to dwindle and the sleet to fall. As Rose walked the four blocks to where she had left her car she tried not to take any of it personally. This wasn’t about her; it was about the business.