Really, Rose? her conscience niggled. Because she knew it wasn’t the whole truth of the matter. There was a fine line between being bold and behaving with reckless abandon, and she suspected she’d come down a little too heavily on the latter side.

Walking a little faster, she told herself she was new at putting herself out there. She was bound to make mistakes. Often being bold and brash meant you didn’t get quite what you bargained for. She certainly hadn’t banked on being evicted from the hotel for soliciting!

Not that she regretted one bit acting on her impulses for once. No, sirree. Playing it too careful had got her nowhere thus far. She folded her arms protectively around herself. Besides, you needed a thick skin in the service industry.

Except something hopeful had been lit inside her when Plato Kuragin had smiled at her. She’d got the erroneous impression he was interested. Which just showed how delusional she was.

Okay, it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Although it was kind of disconcerting to discover that the only man you had met in for ever who got your pulse racing and your body temperature tipping over into tropical had assumed you were in a different kind of service industry, and informed the hotel management you were a hooker!

‘HIYA, Rose, no date tonight?’

Her elderly neighbour in the adjoining townhouse on George Street greeted her at the gate. It was after six, and cold and dark, but Rita Padalecki had a small ageing dog who needed regular trips to the garden.

‘No, Mrs Padalecki, not tonight.’

‘I keep hoping for you, Rose.’

Rose smiled, opening her front door. She wondered what Mrs Padalecki would say if she told her she’d been turned out of a hotel tonight for procurement? She knew what her father and brothers would say. You’re packing up and coming back home.

Fortunately her family didn’t need to know any more than her sweet, elderly neighbour. No, refreshingly, she could keep that little blip on her radar to herself.

She headed upstairs, kicking off her heels as she dropped onto the end of her bed and fired up her laptop. She wanted to get this onto her blog before she turned in for the evening.

Met the Wolves ice hockey team today. Ladies, they are all single. Learned some curious facts about Russia, pucks and how to drink vodka. Unfortunately Grigori and Ivan Sazanov were in the land of the missing. If you see any gorgeous Russian men looking lost, send them our way. Study up on your ice hockey, girls.

She smiled at her own silliness and posted the photo she had taken of Sasha Rykov. She’d told him she wanted to use it on her blog and he’d shrugged and smiled. Then again, Plato Kuragin had shrugged and smiled—and look where that had left her. On the pavement with a scarlet letter on her back.

Right, that’s enough. Forget Plato Kuragin. Remember how well the rest of the day went and give yourself props for fronting up and taking a chance.

She shut the lid on her laptop and padded off barefoot to run a bath.

Half an hour later Rose emerged into her bedroom, wet hair wrapped in a handtowel. She was too tired to prepare anything, so rang and ordered a pizza from her local, picking at the remains of a Danish she’d had this morning as she did so. Carrying a cold glass of white wine in one hand and a book in the other, she made herself comfortable on the sofa and kept her phone in sight. No bites yet, but she remained hopeful.

Plato skimmed the printout his security adviser had handed him.

‘What in the hell is this?’

‘Rose Red’s blog. The woman you asked us to run a check on—Rose Harkness. This is what came up. She posted it thirty minutes ago.’

‘Rose Red? What’s that? Her working name?’

‘She runs a website—a dating agency.’

Plato looked up swiftly. Was that what they were calling it nowadays? ‘Do you have an address for her?’

‘We do. How would you like it handled?’

Discreetly. For some reason his mind replayed the way she had cut her gaze away when she was speaking to him, as if shoring up her courage, and it interfered with his first thought which was to have his legal team make a threatening phone call.

‘Nyet, I’ll handle this myself. E-mail me the address. I take it she’s in central Toronto?’

‘The old district. Nice area.’

He didn’t doubt that. There had been something classy about her. Less to do with the suit and more to do with the way she had infiltrated that room, sweet and sassy, but low-key. A woman with a mission but not drawing attention to herself.

He picked up the printout again. It was innocuous enough, but it drew attention to the very thing he didn’t want questions about: the absence of the Sazanov brothers. Also, Anatole had told him she’d spoken to nearly all the boys and given them her number.