He followed her into a small front room from which the music was emanating. He noted the drawn drapes, the functional but pretty furniture, the place on the sofa where she had obviously been sitting: a red cashmere throw disturbed, a half-glass of wine, a book and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. Not the accoutrements of a woman who was regularly entertaining men.

‘Please sit down,’ she said, with a degree of formality at odds with her deshabill'e state.

He noted her cheeks were scorched red, and one of her hands was clenching at the ribbon tie that kept her robe vaguely cloaking what lay beneath: the full glory of those stupendous breasts.

‘If you’ll excuse me? I won’t be a moment.’

‘I don’t excuse you, and I want you to sit down.’ When she jumped he added, ‘Now.’

The bark in his voice had come from nowhere, but this woman and this routine she was performing was getting to him. Who in the hell did she think she was? Turning up at the Dorrington, making doe-eyes at the boys and then dragging him across town, offering up tantalising glimpses of a truly epic female body and then faking this I must preserve my modesty act …

Her eyes flew wide and her other hand darted up to crisscross her breasts with her arms. It was a classic ‘woman in peril’ gesture, and it almost convinced him he’d overreacted, was in fact completely in the wrong.

‘I want to get changed, Mr Kuragin. And you’re a guest in my house …’

‘Nyet, I’m not one of your guests, Rose. Speaking of which—your neighbour was very informative.’

‘Mrs Padalecki? You spoke to her?’ Something in her expression eased a little.

‘As I said, informative. You run your agency from your home?’

‘Yes,’ Rose said slowly, edging towards the sofa.

‘You are zoned for this?’

‘Zoned?’

He watched curiously as she made a snatch for the red cashmere throw and held it up under her chin, effectively shielding herself. He wanted to tell her it was unnecessary. He had no intention of sampling the merchandise. But that would have been a lie, he acknowledged ruefully. His intentions were being felt all too painfully—it was just he had no intention of acting on them.

‘I am not familiar with the Canadian laws,’ he said steadily, ‘but that can be remedied. I could be your worst nightmare, Rose.’

All the colour that had been so charmingly lighting up her face drained away. ‘If you don’t get out of my house I’m calling the police.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Mrs Padalecki will call the police.’

‘Your neighbour seemed to think I was a client … or a date. Sounds as if men are in and out of here all the time.’

He picked up the book lying on the table between them. Madame Bovary.

He frowned.

‘Get out!’ Her voice cracked and for the first time he noticed her hands were trembling.

‘Sit down, Rose. I’m here to discuss your little foray into the world of ice hockey. You can either do it with me, or with my legal team.’

Her lashes fluttered. ‘Your legal—legal team?’ She sat down abruptly on the sofa. ‘You’re here to talk about what happened today?’

‘Da,’ he said brusquely, annoyed at how vulnerable she suddenly appeared as relief coloured her voice.

‘Oh.’ She released a breath. Her shoulders, however, remained stiff little jolts of wariness.

Plato glanced around the room. This wasn’t a den of iniquity. It was a comfortable home. A woman’s home. There were framed photographs on ledges, frilly-edged lamps, and a gorgeous girl huddled in a red cashmere throw gazing up at him as if he’d staged a home invasion.

It wasn’t a familiar experience for him, but he finally acknowledged he might have overreacted. She swiped her bottom lip with that little pink tongue again and he had a fairly good idea why he’d overreacted. Sexual energy wasn’t just moving at a rate of knots through his body, it was thrumming in the air between them. Bol'ero, reaching its crescendo even on a low volume, wasn’t helping.

‘Can you turn that off?’ he growled.

She blinked rapidly, reaching across the table for the remote. The sudden silence was almost worse.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ Rose said softly.

Da. Sit down. Don’t loom over her. Keep this brief and to the point. Then get the hell out of here.

As he lowered his big body into a far too fragile armchair across from her she took the opportunity to push back some of the heavy, curling damp hair that was falling forward over her shoulder, drawing attention to the creaminess of her skin visible between the throw and her robe. Peignoir, he thought distractedly. That was what they were called, those flimsy little veils women wore to make men think about what was underneath. He didn’t need help with that thinking. Those curves and hollows were burned into his retinas.