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The Ruthless Billionaire's Virgin
Susan Stephens


Innocent and forbidden! Handsome, but brutally scarred, elusive billionaire Ethan Alexander shuns the limelight. So when his gallant rescue of Savannah Ross forces him into the media’s glare, he’s less than thrilled.Savannah’s buxom figure belies her inexperience – she’s not quite sure how to handle her fierce protector! But when he whisks her to his palace deep in the Tuscan hills, she sees a glimpse of the magnificence beneath his flaws.This is a man with a darkened heart in need of salvation – and only an innocent in his bed can bring it…







Susan Stephens was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)



Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.



Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!



Dear Reader



The opportunity to combine two passions doesn’t come along very often, but when the editors hinted at a series of books to celebrate the 6 Nations Rugby tour, I was instantly buzzing with excitement. I hold season tickets for one of the top teams in this country, which refl ects my passion for the game.



Having been a professional singer, the chance to write about a young girl about to perform the national anthem in front of the crowd before the start of the match, was a gift. Having that young girl rescued after suffering a wardrobe malfunction by the team’s most reclusive supporter was the moment I knew I had to write the book.



Being part of this series along with some of your favourite authors was the icing on the cake for me, and I just know you’re going to love each new book.



A young singer and rugby? A perfect combination for me.



A young woman with supreme talent and very little experience of life outside of her musical cocoon and a man whose sporting career has been tragically foreshortened, leaving him scarred inside and out…



That sounds like the seeds of a love story to me.



I do hope you enjoy Ethan and Savannah’s story, and please remember I love nothing more than hearing from my readers around the world!



www.susanstephens.net



Happy reading everyone!



Susan




THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN


BY

SUSAN STEPHENS




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

SOME said confidence was the most potent aphrodisiac of all, but for the man the world of rugby called ‘the Bear’, confidence was only a starting point. Confidence took courage, something Ethan Alexander proved he had each time he faced the world with his disfiguring scars.



A change swept over the Stadio Flaminio in Rome when Ethan took his seat to watch Italy play England in the Six Nations rugby tournament. Men sat a little straighter, while women flicked their hair as they moistened their immaculately made-up lips.

Without the Bear, any match, even an international fixture like this one, lacked the frisson of danger Ethan carried with him. Tall, dark, and formidably scarred, Ethan was more than an avid rugby supporter, he was an unstoppable tycoon, a man who defied the standards by which other men were judged. His face might be damaged, but Ethan possessed a blistering glamour born of keen intelligence and a steely will. His grey eyes blazed with an internal fire women longed to feel scorch them, and men wished they could harness, but today that passion had ebbed into simmering frustration as he contemplated human frailty. How could something as simple as a sore throat lead a world-famous diva like Madame de Silva to pull out of singing the national anthem for England at such an event as this?

The same way a damaged spine could end his own career as a professional rugby player, Ethan’s inner voice informed him with brutal honesty.

He’d brought in a young singer as a replacement for Madame de Silva. Savannah Ross had recently been signed to the record company he ran as a hobby to reflect his deep love of music. He hadn’t met Savannah, but Madame de Silva had recommended her, and his marketing people were touting the young singer as the next big thing.

Next big thing maybe, but Savannah Ross was late on pitch. He flashed a glance at the stadium clock that counted down the seconds. Hiring an inexperienced girl for an important occasion like this only reminded him why he never took risks. He’d thought it a good idea to give his new signing a break; now he wasn’t so sure. Could Savannah Ross come up with the goods? She better had. She’d been flown here on his private jet and he’d been told she’d arrived. So where was she?

Ethan frowned as he shifted his powerful frame. The execution of last-minute formalities was timed to the second to accommodate a global television audience. No allowances could be made for inexperience, and he wouldn’t allow for last-minute nerves. Savannah Ross had accepted this engagement, and now she must perform.



This wasn’t like any theatre she’d ever played in before, or any concert-hall either. It was a bleak, tiled tunnel filled with the scent of sweaty feet and tension. She didn’t even have a proper dressing-room to get changed in—not that she minded, because it was such an honour to be here. Hard to believe she would soon be singing the national anthem on the pitch for the England rugby squad—or at least she would once she found someone to tell her where she was supposed to go and when.

Poking her head through the curtain of the ‘dressing-room’ she’d been allocated, Savannah called out. No one answered. Not surprising, in this shadowy tunnel leading to the pitch. The lady who had issued Savannah with a visitor’s pass at the entrance had explained to her that what rooms there were would be needed for the teams and their support staff. Knowing Madame de Silva always travelled in style with an entourage, including Madame’s hairdresser and the girl whose job it was to care for Madame’s pet chihuahua, Savannah guessed the management of the stadium had been only too relieved to release the many rooms Madame would have taken up. And she was grateful for what she had: an adjunct to the tunnel—a hole in the wall, really—an alcove over which somebody had hastily draped a curtain.

And she had more important things on her mind than her comfort, like the clock ticking away the seconds before the match. She had definitely been forgotten, which was understandable. Taking Madame’s place had been so last-minute, and her signing to the record label so recent, that no one knew her. How could anyone be expected to recognise or remember her? And though she had been guided to this alcove everyone had rushed off, leaving her with no idea what she was supposed to do. Sing? Yes, that was obvious, but when should she walk onto the pitch? And was she supposed to wait for someone to come back to escort her, or should she just march out there?



Hearing the chanting of the excited crowd, Savannah knew she must find help. She was about to do just that when she heard the rumble of conversation coming closer. A group of businessmen was striding down the tunnel and they must pass her curtained alcove. She would ask one of them what to do.

‘Excuse me—’ Savannah’s enquiry was cut short as— whoosh, splat!—she was flattened against the wall like an invisible fly. The men were so busy talking they hadn’t even noticed her as they’d thundered past, talking about the man they called the Bear, a man who had made his own way to his seat when all of them had been jostling to be the one to escort him.

The Bear…

Savannah shivered involuntarily. That was the nickname of the tycoon who had sent his jet to fetch her. Ethan Alexander, rugby fanatic and international billionaire, was an unattached and unforgettable man, a shadowy figure who regularly featured in the type of magazines Savannah bought when she wanted to drool over unattainable men. No one yet had gained a clear insight into Ethan’s life, though speculation was rife, and of course, the more he shunned publicity, the more intriguing the public found him.

She really must stop thinking about Ethan Alexander and concentrate on her predicament. To save time she would put on her gown and then go hunting for help.

But even the sight of her beautiful gown failed to divert Savannah’s thoughts from Ethan. From what the men had said about him, having Ethan at the match was akin to having royalty turn up—or maybe even better, because he was an undisputed king amongst men. Taking into account the man-mountains in the England team, the Bear was the best of all the men there, they said; he was the deadliest in the pack.

Savannah shivered at the thought of so much undiluted maleness. By the time she had wriggled her way into her gown she had worked herself into a state of debilitating nerves, though she reasoned it wasn’t surprising she was intimidated, when this tunnel led onto the pitch where the atmosphere was humming with testosterone and almost palpable aggression.

The thought took her straight back to Ethan. The power he threw off, even from the printed page, made him physically irresistible. Perhaps it was the steely will in his eyes, or the fact he was such a powerfully built man. He might be a lot older than she was, and terribly scarred, but she wasn’t the only woman who thought Ethan’s injuries only made him more compelling. In magazine polls he was regularly voted the man most women wanted to go to bed with.

Not that someone as inexperienced as her should be dwelling on that. No, Savannah told herself firmly, she was gripped more by the aura of danger and tragedy surrounding Ethan. In her eyes his scars only made him seem more human and real.

Oh, really? Savannah’s cynical-self interrupted. So that would be why these ‘innocent’ thoughts of yours regularly trigger enough sensation to start a riot?

Prudently, Savannah refused to answer that. She had no time for any of these distractions. She poked her head round the curtain again. There was still no one there, and she was fast running out of options. If she continued to yell she’d have no voice left for singing. If she put her jeans on again and went looking for help, she’d be late onto the pitch. But she couldn’t let Madame de Silva down, who had recommended her for this important occasion. She couldn’t let down the squad, or Ethan Alexander, the man who had employed her. She’d put her dress on, then at least she’d be ready. Or her parents who had scrimped and saved to buy the dress for her, and she only wished they could be here with her now. Secretly she was happiest on the farm with them, up to her knees in mud in a pair of Wellington boots, but she would never trample on their dreams for her by telling them that.

As her mother’s anxious face swam into her mind, Savannah realised it wasn’t singing in front of a worldwide audience that terrified her, but the possibility that something might go wrong to embarrass her parents. She loved them dearly. Like many farmers they’d had it so hard when the deadly foot-and-mouth disease had wiped out their cattle. Her main ambition in life now was to make them smile again.

Savannah tensed, hearing her name mentioned on the tannoy system. And when the announcer described her in over-sugary terms, as the girl with the golden tonsils and hair to match, she grimaced, thinking it the best case she’d ever heard for dyeing her hair bright pink. The crowd disagreed and applauded wildly, which only convinced Savannah that when they saw her in person she could only disappoint. Far from being the dainty blonde the build-up had suggested, she was a fresh-faced country girl with serious self-confidence issues—and one who right now would rather be anywhere else on earth than here.

Pull yourself together! Savannah told herself impatiently. This gown had cost a fortune her parents could scarcely afford. Was she going to let them down? She started to struggle with the zip. The gown had been precision-made to fit her fuller figure, and was in her favourite colour, pink. With the aid of careful draping it didn’t even make her look fat. It was all in the cut and the boning, her mother had explained, which was why they always travelled up to the far north of England for Savannah’s fittings, where there were dressmakers who knew about such things.

‘You can’t wear that!’

Savannah jumped back as her curtain was ripped aside. ‘Do you mind?’ she exclaimed, modestly covering her chest at the sight of a man whose physique perfectly matched his reedy voice. ‘Why can’t I wear it?’ she protested, tightening her arms over her chest. It was a beautiful dress, but the man was looking at it as if it were a bin liner with holes cut in it for her head and arms.

‘You just can’t,’ he said flatly.

Taking in the official England track-suit he was wearing, Savannah curbed her tongue, but she wasn’t prepared to let the man continue with the peep show he seemed intent on having, and she held the curtain tightly around her. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ she asked with all the politeness she could muster.

‘It’s not appropriate—and if I tell you that you can’t wear it then you can’t.’

What a bully, she thought, and her flesh crawled as the man continued to stare at her curvy form behind the flimsy curtain. Did he mean the neckline was too low? She always had trouble hiding her breasts, and as she’d got older she hated the way men stared at them. She would be the first to acknowledge her chest was currently displayed to best advantage in the low-cut gown, but it was a performance outfit. She could hardly hide her large breasts under her arms! ‘Not appropriate how?’ she said, standing her ground.



The man’s disappointment that she didn’t fold immediately was all too obvious. ‘The Bear won’t approve of it,’ he said, as if that was the death knell of any hopes she had of wearing it.

‘The Bear won’t approve?’ Savannah’s heart fluttered a warning. To walk out onto the pitch and have Ethan Alexander stare at her… She had dreamed of it, but now it was going to happen she was losing confidence fast. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t defend her dress to kingdom come. ‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he approve of it?’

‘It’s pink,’ the man said, his face twisting as if pink came with a bad smell.

Savannah’s face crumpled. It was such a beautiful dress, and one her mother had been so thrilled to buy for her. They had discussed the fact that hours of dedicated work had gone into the hand-stitching alone, and now this man was dismissing the handiwork of craftswomen in a few unkind words.

‘You’ll have to take it off.’

‘What?’ Savannah felt the cold wall pressing against her back.

‘I understand you’re a last-minute replacement,’ the man said in a kinder tone, which Savannah found almost creepier than his original hectoring manner. ‘So you won’t know that a major sponsor has supplied a designer gown for the occasion, which he expects to be worn. The dress has received more publicity than you have,’ the man added unkindly.

‘I’mnot surprised,’ Savannah muttered to herself. Well, it could hardly have received less, she thought wryly, seeing as she was a last-minute replacement. She kept a pleasant expression on her face, determined she wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of thinking he’d upset her.



‘And the Bear expects all the sponsors, however small their donations, to get their fair share of publicity, so you’ll have to wear it,’ he finished crossly when she refused to capitulate.

Perhaps he would like her to cry so he could play the big man to her crushed little woman, Savannah reflected. If so, he was in for a disappointment. Because she was plump and rather short, people often mistook her for a sweet, plump, fluffy thing they could push around, when actually she could stick her arm up a cow and pull out a newborn calf during a difficult birth, something that had given her supreme joy on the few occasions she’d been called upon to do so. Her slender arms were kinder on a struggling mother, her father always said. She didn’t come from the sort of background to be intimidated by a man who looked like he had a pole stuck up his backside.

‘Well, if that’s the dress I’m supposed to wear,’ she said pragmatically, ‘I’d better see it.’ She hadn’t come to Rome to cause ripples, but to do a job like anyone else, and the clock was ticking. Plus she was far too polite to say what she really wanted to say, which was what the hell has it got to do with the Bear what I wear?

Someone pretty important to your career, Savannah’s sensible inner voice informed her as the man hurried off to get the dress; someone who is both the main sponsor for the England squad and your boss.

When he returned the man’s manner had changed. Perhaps he believed he had worn her down, Savannah concluded.

‘Madame Whatshername was pleased enough to wear it,’ he said with a sniff as he handed the official gown over to Savannah.

Savannah paled as she held up Madame de Silva’s gown. She should have known it would be fitted to the great singer. Madame was half her size, and wore the type of couture dress favoured by French salon-society. The closest Savannah had ever come to a salon was the local hairdresser’s, and her gowns were all geared towards comfort and big knickers. ‘I don’t think Madame’s gown will fit me,’ she muttered, losing all her confidence in a rush as she stared at the slim column of a dress with its fishtail train.

‘Whether it fits you or not,’ the man insisted, ‘You have to wear it. I can’t allow you onto the pitch wearing your dress when the sponsor is expecting to see his official gown worn. Putting his design in front of a worldwide television audience is the whole point of the exercise.’

With her in it? Savannah very much doubted that was what the designer had had in mind.

‘You have to look the part,’ the man insisted.

Of team jester? Savannah was starting to feel sick, and not just with pre-concert nerves. In farming lingo she would be classified as ‘healthy breeding stock’, whereas Madame de Silva was a slender greyhound, all sleek and toned. There was no chance the gown would fit her, or suit her freckled skin. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised as her throat constricted.

‘Good girl,’ the man said approvingly.

Savannah’s chin wobbled as she surveyed the garish gown. She was going to look like a fool, and beyond her little drama in the tunnel she could hear that the mood of the crowd had escalated to fever pitch in anticipation of the kick-off.



Where was she? Ethan frowned as he flashed another glance at his wristwatch. A hush of expectancy had swept the capacity crowd. It was almost time for the match to start, and he was more on edge than he had ever been. He had promised the squad a replacement singer, and now it looked as if Savannah Ross was going to let him down. In minutes the England team would be lining up in the tunnel, and the brass band was already out on the pitch. The portly tenor who had been booked to sing the anthem for Italy was busily accepting the plaudits of an adoring crowd, but where the hell was Savannah Ross?

Anxious glances shot Ethan’s way. If the Bear was unhappy, everyone was unhappy, and Ethan was unusually tense.



Madame’s fabulous form-fitting gown had a sash in bleakest white and ink-blot blue, which like a royal order was supposed to be worn over one naked shoulder.

Fabulous for Madame’s slender frame, maybe, Savannah thought anxiously as she struggled to put the sash to better use. If she could just bite out these stitches, maybe, just maybe, she could spread out the fabric to cover the impending boob explosion—though up until now she had to admit her frantic plucking and gnawing had achieved nothing; try as she might, the sash refused to conceal any part of her bosom.

And as for the zip at the back…

Contorting her arms into a position that would have given Houdini a run for his money, she still couldn’t do it up. Poking her head out of the curtain, she tried calling out again, but even the creepy man had deserted her. She peered anxiously down the tunnel. The crowd had grown quiet, which was a very bad sign. It meant the announcements were over and the match was about to start—and before that could happen she had to sing the national anthem! ‘Hello! Is anyone—?’



‘Hello,’ a girl interrupted brightly, seemingly coming out of nowhere. ‘Can I help you?’

After jumping about three feet in the air with shock, Savannah felt like kissing the ground the girl was about to walk on. ‘If you could just get me into this dress…’ Savannah knew it was a lost cause, but she had to try.

‘Don’t panic,’ the girl soothed.

Savannah’s saviour turned out to be a physiotherapist and was using the tones Savannah guessed she must have used a thousand times before, and in far more serious situations to reassure the injured players. ‘I’m trying not to panic,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m so late, and the fact remains you can’t fit a quart into a pint pot.’

The girl laughed with her. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

The physio certainly knew all there was to know about manipulation, Savannah acknowledged gratefully when she was finally secured inside the dress. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine now,’ she said, wiping her nose. ‘That’s if I don’t burst out of it—!’

‘You’ll have a fair sized audience if you do,’ the girl reminded her with a smile.

Yes, the crowd was wound up like a drum, and Savannah knew she would be in for a rough ride if anything went wrong out on the pitch.

As the physio collected up her things and wished her good luck, Savannah stared down in dismay at the acres of blood-red taffeta. It was just a shame every single one of those acres was in the wrong place. Madame was a lot taller than she was, and how she longed for the fabric collecting around her feet to be redistributed over her fuller figure. But it was too late to worry about that now.

‘You’d better get out there,’ the girl said, echoing these thoughts, ‘Before you miss your cue.’



Don’t tempt me! Savannah thought, testing whether it was possible to breathe, let alone sing, now she was pinned in. Barely, she concluded. She was trapped in a vice of couture stitching from which there was only one escape, and she didn’t fancy risking that in front of the worldwide television audience. She’d much rather be safely back at home dreaming about Ethan Alexander rather than here on the pitch where he would almost certainly look at her and laugh.

But…

She braced herself.

The fact that she could hardly move, let alone breathe, didn’t mean she couldn’t use her legs, Savannah told herself fiercely as she tottered determinedly down the tunnel in a gown secured with safety pins, made for someone half her size.

Here goes nothing!


CHAPTER TWO

SHE had forgotten how much her diaphragm expanded when she let herself go and really raised the rafters. How could she have forgotten something as rudimentary as that?

Maybe because the massive crowd was a blur and all she was aware of was the dark, menacing shape of the biggest man on the benches behind the England sin bin, the area England players sat in when they were sent off the pitch for misdemeanours.

Sin.

She had to shake that thought off too, Savannah realised as she lifted her ribcage in preparation for commencing the rousing chorus. But how was she supposed to do that when she could feel Ethan’s gaze in every fibre of her being? The moment she had walked onto the pitch she had known exactly where he was sitting, and who he was looking at. By the time she’d got over that, and the ear-splitting cheer that had greeted her, even the fear of singing in front of such a vast audience had paled into insignificance. And now she was trapped in a laser gaze that wouldn’t let her go.

She really must shake off this presentiment of disaster, Savannah warned herself. Nervously moistening her lips, she took a deep breath. A very deep breath…



The first of several safety pins pinged free, and as the dress fell away it became obvious that the physio’s pins were designed to hold bandages in place rather than acres of pneumatic flesh.



His mood had undergone a radical change from impatient to entranced, and all in a matter of seconds. The ruthless billionaire, as people liked to think of him, became a fan of his new young singing-sensation after hearing just a few bars of her music. The crowd agreed with him, judging by the way Savannah Ross had it gripped. When she had first stumbled onto the pitch, she had been greeted by wolf whistles and rowdy applause. At first he had thought her ridiculous too, with her breasts pouting over the top of the ill-fitting gown, but then he remembered the famous dress had been made for someone else, and that he should have found some way to warn her. But it was too late to worry about that now, and her appearance hardly mattered, for Savannah Ross had him and everyone else in the palm of her hand. She was so richly blessed with music it was all he could do to remain in his seat.



She refused to let the supporters down. She carried on regardless as more pins followed the first. She was expected to reflect the hopes and dreams of a country, and that was precisely what she was going to do—never mind the wretched dress letting her down. But as she prepared to sing the last few notes the worst happened—the final pin gave way and one pert breast sprang free, the generous swell of it nicely topped off with a rose-pink nipple. Not one person in the crowd missed the moment, for it was recorded for all to see on the giant-sized screen. As she started to shake with shame, the good-natured crowd went wild, applauding her, which helped her hold her nerve for the final top note.



Thrust from his seat by a rocket-fuelled impulse to shield and protect, Ethan was already shedding his jacket as he stormed onto the pitch. By the time he reached Savannah’s side, the crowd had only just begun to take in what had happened. Not so his target. Tears of frustration were pouring down her face as she struggled to re-pin her dress. As he spoke to her and she looked at him there was a moment, a potent and disturbing moment, when she stared him straight in the eyes and he registered something he hadn’t felt for a long time, or maybe ever. Without giving himself a chance to analyse the feeling, he threw his jacket around her shoulders and led her away, forcing the Italian tenor to launch into Canto degli Italiani—or ‘Song of the Italians’, as the Italian national anthem was known—somewhat sooner than expected.

There was so much creamy flesh concealed beneath his lightweight jacket it was throwing his brain synapses out of sync. Unlike all the women he’d encountered to date, this young Savannah Ross was having a profound effect on his state of mind. He strode across the pitch with his arm around her shoulders while she endeavoured to keep in step and remain close, whilst not quite touching him. As he took her past the stands the crowd went wild. ‘Viva l’Orso!’ the Italians cried, loving every minute of it: ‘hurrah for the Bear’. The England supporters cheered him just as loudly. He wondered if this compliment was to mark his chivalry or the fact that Ms Ross could hardly conceal her hugely impressive bosom beneath a dress that had burst its stitches. He hardly cared. His overriding thought was to get her out of the eyeline of every lustful male in the Stadio Flaminio, of whom there were far too many for his liking.

It crossed his mind that this incident would have to have happened in Italy, the land of romantic love and music, the home of passion and beauty. He had always possessed a dark sense of humour, and it amused him now to think that in his heart, the heart everyone was so mistakenly cheering for, there was only an arid desert and a single bitter note.



By the time Ethan had escorted Savannah into the shelter of the tunnel she was mortified. She felt ridiculously under-dressed in the company of a man noted for his savoir faire. Ethan Alexander was a ruthless, world-renowned tycoon, while she was an ordinary girl who didn’t belong in the spotlight; a girl who wished, in a quite useless flash of longing, that Ethan could have met her on the farm where at least she knew what she was doing.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked her gruffly.

‘Yes, thank you.’

He was holding on to her as if he thought she might fall over. Did he think her so pathetically weak? This was worse than her worst nightmare come true, and it was almost a relief when he turned away to make a call.

It couldn’t be worse, Savannah concluded, taking in the wide, reassuring spread of Ethan’s back. This was a very private man who had been thrust into the spotlight, thanks to her. No doubt he was calling for someone to come and take her away, nuisance that she was. She couldn’t blame him. She had to be so much less in every way than he’d been expecting.

While he was so much more than she had expected… Ethan Alexander in the flesh was a one-man power source of undiluted energy, a dynamo running on adrenalin and sex. At least that was what her vivid imagination was busy telling her, and she could hardly blame it for running riot. No television-screen or grainy newspaper-image had come close to conveying either Ethan’s size or his compelling physical presence. And yet the most surprising shock of all was the way his lightest and most impersonal touch had scorched fireworks through every part of her. He’d only touched her elbow to help steer her, and had draped his jacket across her back, and yet that had been enough to hot-wire her arm and send sparks flying everywhere they shouldn’t.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the young physio coming over to see if she could help. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Savannah assured her, hoping Ethan could hear. She didn’t want him blaming the young girl for Savannah’s problems. ‘It was my breathing,’ she explained.

‘What a problem we’d have had if you hadn’t breathed!’ The young physio shared a laugh with Savannah as she started pinning Savannah back into the dress. ‘And I’m really glad you did breathe, because you were fantastic.’

Savannah had never been sure how to handle compliments. In her eyes she was just an ordinary girl with an extraordinary voice, and no manual had come with that voice to explain how to deal with the phenomenon that had followed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, spreading her hands wide in a modest gesture.

But the girl grabbed hold of them and shook them firmly. ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘Don’t you brush it off. You were fantastic. Everyone said so.’

Everyone? Savannah glanced at Ethan, who still had his back turned to her as he talked on the phone. She pulled his jacket close for comfort; it was warm and smelled faintly of sandalwood and spice. Tracing lapels that hung almost to her knees, she realised that even though Ethan’s jacket was ten sizes too big for her it did little to preserve her modesty, and she hurriedly crossed her arms across her chest as he turned around.

‘Okay, I’ve finished,’ the physio reported. ‘Though I doubt the pins on Ms Ross’s dress will hold for long.’

‘Right, let’s go,’ Ethan snapped, having thanked the girl.

‘Go where?’ Savannah held back nervously as the physio gave her a sympathetic look.

‘Ms Ross, I know you’ve had a shock, but there are paparazzi crawling all over the building. Don’t worry about your bag now,’ Ethan said briskly when Savannah gazed down the tunnel. ‘Your things will be sent on to you.’

‘Sent where?’

‘Just come with me, please.’

‘Come with you where?’ The thought of going anywhere with Ethan Alexander terrified her. He was such an imposing man, and an impatient one, but with all the paparazzi in the building the thought of not going with him terrified her even more.

‘After you,’ he said, giving her no option as he stood in a way that barred her getting past him.

‘Where did you say we were going?’

‘I didn’t say.’

Savannah’s nerve deserted her completely. She wasn’t going anywhere with a man she didn’t know, even if that man was her boss. ‘You go. I’ll be fine. I’ll get a cab.’

‘I brought you to Rome, and like it or not while you’re here you’re my responsibility.’

He didn’t like it at all, she gathered, which left one simple question: did she want this recording contract or not? She couldn’t take the chance of losing it, Savannah realised. She hadn’t come to Rome to sabotage her career. She might not like Ethan’s manner, but she was here on his time. Plus, she didn’t know Rome. If her only interest was getting home as quickly as possible, wasn’t he her best hope?

She had to run to keep up with him, and then he stopped so suddenly she almost bumped into him. Looking up, Savannah found herself staring into a face that was even more cruelly scarred than she had remembered. Instead of recoiling, she registered a great well of feeling opening up inside her heart. It was almost as if something strong and primal was urging her to heal him, to press cream into those wounds, and to…love him?

This situation was definitely getting out of hand, Savannah concluded, pulling herself together, to find Ethan giving her an assessing look as if to warn her that just looking at him too closely was a dangerous game well out of her league. ‘It’s important we leave now,’ he prompted as if she were some weakling he had been forced to babysit.

‘I’m ready.’ She held his gaze steadily. This was not a time to be proud. She didn’t want to do battle with the paparazzi on her own, and she would be safer with Ethan. There were times when having a strong man at your side was a distinct advantage. But she wouldn’t have him think her a fool either.

‘After you.’ Opening the door for her, he stood aside.

He looked more like a swarthy buccaneer than a businessman, and exuded the sort of earthy maleness she had always been drawn to. Her fantasies were full of pirates and cowboys, roughnecks and marines, though none of them had possessed lips as firm and sensual as Ethan’s, and his hand in the small of her back was an incendiary device propelling her forward.



‘What’s wrong now?’ he said impatiently when she stopped outside to shade her eyes.

‘I was just looking for a taxi rank.’ By far the safest option, she had decided.

‘A taxi rank?’ Ethan’s voice was scathing. ‘Do you want to attract more publicity? Don’t worry, Ms Ross, you’ll be quite safe with me.’

But would she? That was Savannah’s cue for stepping back inside the stadium building. ‘I’m sure someone will find the number of a cab company for me.’

‘Please yourself.’

She couldn’t have been more shocked when Ethan stormed ahead, letting the door swing in her face. Defiantly, she pushed it open again. ‘You’re leaving me?’

‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ he called back as he marched away. ‘And as you don’t need my help…’

‘Just a minute.’

‘You changed your mind?’

Savannah’s heart lurched as Ethan turned to look at her. ‘No, but.’

‘But what?’ He kept on walking.

‘I need directions to the nearest taxi rank, and I thought you might know where I should look.’ She had to run to keep up with him, which wasn’t easy in high-heeled shoes, not to mention yards of taffeta winding itself like a malevolent red snake around her feet.

‘Find someone else to help you.’

‘Ethan, please!’ She would have to swallow her pride if it meant saving her parents more embarrassment. ‘Can you really get us out of here without the paparazzi seeing?’

He stopped and slowly turned around. ‘Can I get us out of here?’

The look of male confidence blazing from his eyes was at its purest. When she should be considering a thousand other things—like how long before the paparazzi found them, for example—a bolt of lust chose that moment to race down her spine. His eyes were the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen, deep grey, with just a hint of duck-egg blue, and they had very white whites, as well as the most ridiculously long black lashes.

‘I’m done waiting for you, Ms Ross.’

He was off again, but this time he grabbed her arm and took her with him. Savannah yelped with surprise. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To something that travels a lot faster than a taxi,’ he grated without slowing down.

What did he mean—a helicopter? Of course. She should have known. Like all the super-rich, Ethan would hardly call a cab when he could fly home. ‘Can we slow down just a bit?”

‘And talk this through?’ he scoffed without breaking stride. ‘We can take all the time in the world if you want the paparazzi to find you.’

‘You know I don’t want that!’ Okay, no reason to worry, Savannah told herself. They would fly straight to the airport in Ethan’s helicopter, from where she’d fly home. Traffic snarl-ups were reserved for mere mortals like herself. In no time Ethan would be back in his seat at the stadium ready for the second half, while she returned to England and her nice, safe fantasies. Perfect.

Or at least it was until a door burst open and the press-hounds barrelled out. It only took one of them to catch sight of Ethan and Savannah for the whole pack to give chase.

‘This way,’ Ethan commanded, swinging Savannah in front of him. Opening a door, he thrust her through it and, slamming it shut, he shot the bolt home.



If she hadn’t left her sensible sneakers in the tunnel she might have been able to run faster, Savannah fretted as Ethan took the stairs two at a time, but now the straps on her stratospheric heels were threatening to snap.

‘Leave them!’ he ordered as she bent down to take them off. ‘Or, better still, snap those heels off.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Take them off!’ he roared.

‘I’m going to keep them,’ Savannah insisted stubbornly.

‘Do what you like with them,’ he said, snatching hold of her arm, half-lifting her to safety down another flight of steps. ‘And hitch up your skirt while you’re at it, before you trip over it,’ he said, checking outside the next door before rushing her out into the open air again. ‘Your skirt—hitch it up!’

Hitch it up? The photographers would surely be on them in moments, and when that happened she didn’t want to look like a…

‘Do it!’

‘I’m doing it!’ she yelled, startled into action. But she wouldn’t ruin the shoes her mother had bought her. Or Madame’s dress. Slipping off her high-heeled sandals as quickly as she could, Savannah bundled up the gown, noting she barely reached Ethan’s shoulder now. Also noting he barely seemed to notice her naked legs, which shouldn’t bother her, but for some reason did.

‘Come on,’ he rapped impatiently, still averting his gaze. ‘There’s no time to lose.’ Taking her arm, he urged her on.

Savannah was totally incapable of speech by the time they’d crossed the car park. Yet still Ethan was merciless. ‘There’s no time for that,’ he assured her when she rested with her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

Straightening up, she stared at him. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t know anything about him, other than the fact that his reputation was well deserved. The Bear was a dark and formidable man, whom she found incredibly intimidating. And she was going who knew where with him. ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going.’

‘There’s no time!’

‘But you do have a helicopter waiting?’

‘A helicopter?’ Ethan glanced towards the roof where the helipad was situated.

He had a helicopter there, all right, she could see the logo of a bear on the tail. She could also see the scrum of photographers gathered round it.

‘A useful distraction,’ Ethan told her with satisfaction.

A red herring, Savannah realised, to put the paparazzi off the trail. ‘So what now?’

‘Now you can sit,’ he promised, dangling a set of keys in front of her face.

Ah…She relaxed a little at the thought that life was about to take on a more regular beat. She should have known Ethan would have a car here. His driver would no doubt take them straight to the airport, where the helicopter would meet him and she would fly home. She was guilty of overreacting again. Ethan was entitled to his privacy. He’d taken her out of reach of the paparazzi and saved her and her parents any further humiliation. She should be grateful to him. But she still felt a little apprehensive.


CHAPTER THREE

EVEN with the knowledge that comfort was only a few footsteps away, Savannah reminded herself that this was not one of her fantasies and Ethan was no fairy-tale hero. He was a cold, hard man who inhabited a world far beyond the safety curtain of a theatre, and as such she should be treating him with a lot more reserve and more caution than the type of men she was used to mixing with.

‘Put this on.’

She recoiled as he thrust something at her, and then she stared at it in bewilderment. ‘What’s this?’

‘A helmet,’ he said with that ironic tone again. ‘Put it on.’ When she didn’t respond right away. he gave it a little shake for emphasis.

It was only then she noticed the big, black motorbike parked up behind him and laughed nervously. ‘You’re not serious, I hope?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be serious?’ Ethan frowned. Dipping his head, he demanded, ‘You’re not frightened of riding a bike, are you?’

‘Of course not,’ Savannah protested, swallowing hard as she straightened up. Was she frightened of sitting on a big, black, vibrating machine pressed up close to Ethan?



‘If you have any better suggestions, Ms Ross…?’

Watching Ethan settle a formidable-looking helmet on his thick, wavy hair, she mutely shook her head.

‘Well?’ he said, swinging one hard-muscled thigh over the bike. ‘Would you care to join me, or shall I leave you here?’

She was still staring at the tightly packed jeans settled comfortably into the centre of the saddle, Savannah realised. ‘No…no,’ she repeated more firmly. ‘I’m coming with you.’ Remembering the door incident, she already knew he took no prisoners. Holding up her skirt, she hopped, struggled, and finally managed to yank her leg over the back of the bike—which wasn’t easy without touching him.

‘Helmet?’

As Ethan turned to look at her, Savannah thought his eyes were darker than ever through the open visor—a reflection of his black helmet, she told herself, trying not to notice the thick, glossy waves of bitter-chocolate hair that had escaped and fallen over the scars on his forehead. But those scars were still there, like the dark side of Ethan behind the superficial glamour of a fiercely good-looking man. Her stomach flipped as she wondered how many more layers there were to him, and what he was really thinking behind those gun-metal-grey eyes.

‘Helmet,’ he rapped impatiently.

Startled out of her dreams, she started fumbling frantically with it.

‘Let me,’ he offered.

This was the closest they’d been since the stadium, and as Ethan handled the catch he held her gaze. In the few seconds it took him to complete the task every part of her had been subjected to his energy, which left her thrumming with awareness. And he hadn’t even started the engine yet, Savannah reminded herself as a door banged open and a dozen or so photographers piled out. Snapping his own visor into position, Ethan swung away from her and stamped the powerful machine into life. ‘Hang on.’

There was barely time to register that instruction before he released the brake, gunned the engine, and they roared off like a rocket.

Propelled by terror, Savannah flung her arms around Ethan, clinging to as much of him as she could. Forced to press her cheek against his crisp blue shirt, she kept her eyes shut, trusting him to get them out of this. But as the bike gained speed something remarkable happened. Maybe it was the persistent throb of the engine, or the feel of Ethan’s muscular back against her face—or maybe it was simply the fact that she had a real-life hunk beneath her hands instead of one of her disappointing fantasies— but Savannah felt the tension ebb away and began to enjoy herself. She was enjoying travelling at what felt like the speed of sound, and not in a straight line either. Because this wasn’t just the ride of her life, Savannah concluded, smiling a secret smile, but the closest to sex she’d ever come.

As Ethan raced the bike between the ranks of parked cars she was pleased to discover how soon she became used to leaning this way and that to help him balance. She could get used to this, Savannah decided, sucking in her first full and steady breath since climbing on board. She felt so safe with Ethan. He made her feel safe. His touch was sure, his judgement was sound, and his strength could only be an asset in any situation. There was something altogether reassuring about being with him, she concluded happily.



When she wasn’t being terrified by him, her sober self chimed in.

Ignoring these internal reservations, she went with the excitement of the moment—not that she needed an excuse to press her face against Ethan’s back. As she inhaled the intoxicating cocktail of sunshine, washing powder and warm, clean man, she decided that just for once she was going to keep her sensible self at bay and ride this baby like a biker chick.

Ethan was forced to slow the bike as he engaged with the heavy traffic approaching Rome, and Savannah took this opportunity to do some subtle finger-mapping. She reckoned she had only a few seconds before Ethan’s attention would be back on the bike and his passenger, and she intended to make the most of them. He felt like warm steel beneath her fingertips, and she could detect the shift of muscle beneath his shirt. She smiled against his back, unseen and secure. She felt so tiny next to him, which made her wonder what such a powerful man could teach her, locking these erotic reveries away in record time when he gunned the engine and turned sharp right.

The bike banked dramatically as they approached the Risorgimento Bridge spanning the river Tiber, forcing Savannah to lean over at such an angle her knee was almost brushing the road. As she did so she realised it was the first time she had ever put her trust in someone outside her close-knit family. But with the Roman sun on her face, and the excitement of the day, clinging on to a red-hot man didn’t seem like such a bad option, she told herself wryly. In fact, who would travel by helicopter, given an alternative like this?

She was feeling so confident by the time Ethan levelled up the bike again, she even turned around to see if they were being followed.

‘I thought I told you to sit still.’

Savannah nearly jumped off the bike with fright, hearing Ethan’s voice barking at her through some sort of headphone in her helmet.

‘Hold on,’ he repeated harshly.

‘I am holding on,’ she shouted back.

As if she needed an excuse.

They took another right and headed back up the river the way they’d come, only on the opposite side of the Tiber. Ethan slowed the bike when they reached the Piazalle Maresciallo Giardino where there was another bridge and, moored under it, a powerboat…

No.

No!

Savannah shook her head, refusing to believe the evidence of her own eyes. This couldn’t possibly be the next stage of their journey. Or was that one of the reasons Ethan had been making that call back at the stadium, to line everything up?

‘Come on,’ he rapped, shaking her out of her confusion the moment they parked up.

As she fumbled with the clasp Ethan lifted her visor and removed the helmet for her. As his fingers brushed her face she trembled. Staring into his eyes, she thought it another of those moments where fantasy collided with reality. But was Ethan really looking at her differently, as if she might be more than just a package he was delivering to the airport? The suspicion that he might be seeing her for the first time as a woman was a disturbing thought, and so she turned away to busy herself with the pretence of straightening out her ruined hair. She still had her precious high-heels dangling from her wrist like a bracelet, which turned her thoughts to her mother and what she would make of this situation. Her mother was a stand-up woman and would make the most of it, Savannah concluded, as would she.

‘Are you thinking of joining me any time today?’

She looked up to find Ethan already on board the boat, preparing to cast off. He leaned over the side to call to her, ‘Get up here, or I’ll come and get you!’

Would you? crossed her mind. Brushing the momentary weakness aside, she called back, ‘Wait for me.’

‘Not for long,’ he assured her. ‘You’re not frightened of a little mud, are you?’ he added, taunting her as she teetered down the embankment.

Frightened of a little mud? He clearly hadn’t seen their farmyard recently. ‘What sort of wet lettuce do you think I am?’

‘You’d prefer me not to answer that.’

‘I’m not all sequins and feathers, you know!’ She kicked the hem of her gown away with one dirty foot for emphasis.

‘You don’t say.’ Ethan’s tone was scathing, and then she noticed their chins were sticking out at the same combative angle and quickly pulled hers in again.

‘There is an element of urgency to this. Paparazzi?’ Ethan reminded her in a voice that could have descaled a kettle.

And then car horns started up behind her. She was providing some unexpected entertainment for the male drivers of Rome, who were slowing their vehicles to whistle and shout comments at her. They must think she was still in evening dress after a wild night out with an even wilder man, Savannah realised self-consciously. A man who was threatening to make good on his promise to come and get her, she also realised, detecting movement in her peripheral vision. ‘Stay back,’ she warned Ethan as he took a step towards her. ‘I don’t need your help.’

It was a relief to see him lift his hands up, palms flat in an attitude of surrender. She had enough to do picking her way across the splintery walkway without worrying about what Ethan might do.

It was just a shame she missed his ironic stare. The next thing she knew she was several feet off the ground travelling at speed towards the boat. ‘Put me down!’

Ethan ignored her. ‘I can’t live life at your pace. young lady. If you stay around me much longer, you’ll have to learn to tick a lot faster.’

She had no intention of ‘staying around’ him a moment longer than she had to, Savannah determined. But, pressed against Ethan’s firm, warm body, a body that rippled with hard, toned muscle… ‘Please put me down,’ she murmured, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

Ethan didn’t react either way. He didn’t slow his pace until they were onboard, when he lowered her onto the deck. Having done this, he surveyed her sternly. ‘The race is still on,’ he said, folding massive arms across his chest. ‘And I have no intention of giving up, or of allowing anyone to hold me back. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘Good.’

Savannah smoothed her palms down her arms where Ethan’s hand prints were still branded.

‘Well, Ms Ross, shall we take this powerboat on the river?’

‘Whatever it takes,’ she agreed, watching Ethan move to straddle the space between the shore and the boat.



‘I’m going to free the mooring ropes,’ he explained, springing onto the shore. ‘Can you catch a rope?’

Could she catch a rope? He really did think she was completely useless, Savannah thought, huffing with frustration. Ethan had got her so wrong. ‘I might have smaller hands than you, but I still have opposing thumbs.’

Was that a smile? Too late to tell, as Ethan had already turned away.

‘In that case, catch this.’

He turned back to her so fast she almost dropped the rope. It was heavier than she had imagined and she stumbled drunkenly under the weight of it.

‘All right?’ Ethan demanded as he sprang back on board.

‘Absolutely fine,’ she lied. Summoning her last reserves of strength, she hoisted it up to brandish it at him.

‘Now coil it up,’ he instructed, pointing to where she should place it when she’d done so.

‘Okay.’ She could do this. Quite honestly, she enjoyed the feel of the rough rope beneath her fingers—and enjoyed the look of grudging admiration on Ethan’s face even more. But she needed to even the playing field. Ethan was dressed appropriately for taking a powerboat down the river. She was dressed, but barely. ‘Do you have a jumper, or something I could borrow?’

Ethan made a humming sound as he looked her over. ‘I see your point.’

Savannah felt heat rise to her cheeks and depart southwards.

‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ Ethan offered, brushing past her on his way across the deck. ‘I must have an old shirt stowed here somewhere…’

Her nipples responded with indecent eagerness to this brief contact with him, just as a fresh flurry of car horns started up on shore. Who could blame the drivers? Savannah thought. The sight of a decidedly scruffy girl in an ill-fitting evening dress onboard a fabulous powerboat in the middle of the afternoon with a clearly influential man of some considerable means would naturally cause a sensation in Rome. But why couldn’t Ethan notice her?

‘What’s wrong?’ he said when he straightened up, and then his stare swept the line of traffic. One steely look from him was all it took for the cars to speed up again. ‘Will this do?’ he said, turning back to Savannah. He thrust a scrunched-up nondescript bundle at her.

The shirt was maybe twenty sizes too large, Savannah saw as she shook it out, but in the absence of anything else to wear she’d have to go with it. Plus it held the faint but unmistakeable scent of Ethan’s cologne. ‘It’s absolutely perfect. Thank you.’ Slipping iton, she realised it brushed her calves, but at least she was decent. She pulled the shirt close and, inhaling Ethan’s scent deeply, gave a smile of true contentment, the first she’d unleashed that day.



He was stunned by the sight of Savannah wearing his shirt. She looked…adorable. She looked, in fact, as he imagined she might look if they had just been to bed together. Her hair was mostly hanging loose now, and the make-up she’d worn for her appearance on the pitch was smudged, which made her eyes seem huge in her heart- shaped face, and her lips appeared bruised as if he’d kissed them for hours. His shirt drowned her, of course, but knowing what was underneath didn’t help his equilibrium any. Hard to believe he had looked at her properly, critically, for the first time just a few moments ago when she’d asked for the shirt. Nothing on earth would have induced him to stare at her out on the pitch where she’d been at such a disadvantage. But now? Now he couldn’t take his eyes off her fuller figure.



Savannah tensed guiltily as unexpectedly Ethan’s gaze warmed. What was he thinking—that she was a fat mess? A nuisance? As sophisticated as a sheep? Before her imagination could take her any further, she took her seat. ‘I’m on it,’ she assured Ethan when he glanced at the harness.

She couldn’t do the darn thing up. And now Ethan was giving her the type of superior male appraisal that got right up her nose.

‘I don’t seem to have the knack,’ she admitted with frustration. Maybe because her hands were shaking with nerves at being in such close proximity to Ethan.

‘Would you like me to fasten it for you?’ Ethan offered with studied politeness.

As he leaned over to secure the catch for her, Savannah felt like she was playing with fire. Ethan’s hair was so thick and glossy she longed to run her fingers through it. And he smelled so good. His touch was so sure, and so…disappointingly fast. She looked down. The clasp was securely fastened. ‘Is that it?’

‘Would you like there to be something more?’

As he asked the question Savannah thought Ethan’s stare to be disturbingly direct. ‘No, thank you,’ she told him primly, turning away on the pretence of tossing her tangled hair out of her eyes. But even as she was doing that Ethan was lifting his overlarge shirt onto her shoulders from where it had slipped.

‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Only it can be cold out on the river.’



Or hot to sizzling. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ Each tiny hair on the back of her neck had stood to attention at his touch, and it was a real effort not to notice that Ethan had the sexiest mouth she had ever seen. She would have to make sure she stared unswervingly ahead for the rest of the boat ride.


CHAPTER FOUR

‘NOW what are you doing?’ Ethan demanded. He had just opened up the throttle, and as the boat surged forward it pitched and yawed; Savannah had chosen that very moment to shed her harness, which forced him to throttle back.

‘I’m calling my parents.’

‘Calling your—?’ He was lost for words. ‘Not now!’ he roared back at her above the scream of the boat’s engine.

‘They’ll be worried about me.’

This was a concept so alien to him it took him a moment to respond. ‘Sit down, Savannah, and buckle up.’ He spoke with far more restraint than he felt and, after congratulating himself on that restraint, he conceded in the loud voice needed to crest the engines, ‘You can speak to them later.’

She reluctantly agreed, but he detected anxiety in her tone. He also detected the same desire to protect Savannah he’d felt out on the pitch, except now it had grown. His intention to remain distant and aloof, because she was young and innocent and he was not, was dead in the water. There was too much feminine warmth too close. ‘I’ll speak to them,’ he said, wanting to reassure her.

Savannah was right, he conceded, her parents must be worried about her, having seen everything unfold on television. ‘You can speak to them after I do,’ he said. ‘But for now sit down.’ And on this there could be no compromise.

Even Savannah couldn’t defy that tone of voice, and he made sure she was securely fastened in before picking up speed again. It amused him to see she had pushed back the sleeves on his overly large shirt and pulled it tightly around her legs, as if she felt the need to hide every bit of naked flesh from him. He supposed he could see her point of view. They were diametrically opposed on the gender scale. He was all man and she was a distraction. Fixing his attention to the river, he thrust the throttles forward.

‘This is wonderful!’ she exclaimed excitedly as the powerboat picked up speed and the prow lifted from the water.

It pleased him to see her looking so relaxed, and he even allowed himself a small smile as he remembered her jibe about opposing thumbs. There was a lot more to Ms Ross than the circumstance of their first meeting might have led him to suppose.

What exactly that might be was for some other man to discover, though, because this was strictly a taxi service to get Savannah out of harm’s way as fast as he could.

Oh, yes, it was, he argued with his unusually quarrelsome inner voice.



She was only here because she had no other option, Savannah reassured herself as the powerboat zoomed along the river. She was glad she’d been able to catch the rope and prove to Ethan she wasn’t completely helpless—after the debacle at the stadium she certainly needed something to go right, but she still had some way to go. She cupped her ear as he said something to her. It was so hard to hear anything above the rhythmical pounding of the boat.



‘You’re not feeling seasick, are you?’

‘On the river?’ she yelled back. This riposte earned her a wry look from Ethan that made her cheeks flame. He might be stern and grim, but she still thought he had the most fantastic eyes she had ever seen, and there was some humour in there somewhere. It was up to her to dig it out. But for now… To escape further scrutiny, she dipped her head to secure the strap on her sandals.

‘You can’t put those on here.’

Savannah’s head shot up. ‘But my feet are filthy. Surely you don’t want them soiling your pristine deck?’

‘I don’t want them anywhere near me,’ Ethan assured her, which for some reason made Savannah picture her naked feet rubbing the length of Ethan’s muscular thighs and writhing limbs entwined on cool, crisp sheets.

Swallowing hard, she quickly composed herself whilst tucking her feet safely away beneath the seat. Such a relief she had Ethan’s shirt to wrap around her; Madame’s gown was split to kingdom come, and what little modesty she had left she had every intention of hanging on to.

But as the river rushed past the side of the boat, and Savannah thought about the flicker of humour she’d seen in Ethan’s eyes, modesty began to feel like a handicap. If only she knew how to flirt…

Flirt? Fortunately, she wouldn’t be given a chance. Savannah’s sensible inner self breathed a sigh of relief as at that moment Ethan looked behind them. He must think they were still being followed, Savannah reasoned. She did too. The paparazzi would hardly have given up the chase. But she felt safe with Ethan at the helm. With his sleeves rolled back, revealing hard-muscled and tanned forearms, he gave her confidence—and inner flutters too. In fact the sight of these powerful arms was apparently connected to a cord that ran from her dry throat to a place it was safer not to think about.

Had she lost her grip on reality altogether?

With every mile they travelled she was moving further and further away from everything that was safe and familiar into a shadowy world inhabited by a man she hardly knew. As the boat spewed out a plume of glittering foam behind them, Savannah couldn’t shake the feeling she was racing into danger, and at breakneck speed.



There were many things he could do without in life, and of all them this fluffy thing in the oversized shirt was top of his list—though Savannah could be feisty. She had a stinging retort, for example, should she wish to use it. Far from that being a negative, he found it very much in her favour. She was also a real family girl, and, given that her parents would have undoubtedly seen everything unfolding live on television in their front room she had kept a cool head and thought not of herself but of them. A quick glance revealed her checking her feet. No doubt her pedicure was ruined. She was the smoothest, most pampered and perfect person he’d ever met, and possessed the type of wholesomeness that could only be damaged by him.

Feeling his interest, she looked up. He should be glad they couldn’t hold a conversation above the thundering of the hull on the water. He had no small talk for her; he’d lived alone too long. His passion for rugby, one of the roughest contact-sports known to man, defined him. The majority of his business dealings were conducted on construction sites, where he loved nothing more than getting his hands dirty.

He was well named the Bear, and the contrast between him and Savannah was so extreme it was almost laughable; only the music they both loved so much provided a tenuous link between them. Forced to wrench the wheel to avoid some children fooling around in a dinghy, he was surprised at the way his body reacted when Savannah grabbed hold of him to steady herself.

‘Sorry!’ she exclaimed, snatching her hand away as if he’d burned her.

He was the one who’d been burned. Savannah was playing havoc with his slumbering libido and, instead of shouting at her to sit down, he found himself slowing the boat to check that she was all right.

‘I am now,’ she assured him, and then they both turned around to make sure the children were okay.

As their eyes briefly clashed he was conscious of the ingenuous quality of her gaze. It warmed him and he lusted after more of that feeling. He needed innocence around him. And yet he could only sully it, he reminded himself. But he hadn’t meant to frighten her, and it didn’t hurt to take a moment to reassure her now.

‘You’re not such a baddy, are you?’ she said to his surprise.

In spite of his self-control his lips twitched as he shrugged. A baddy? He had to curb the urge to smile. He’d shut himself off from all that was soft and feminine for too long. Living life by his own very masculine rules and preferences, he hadn’t been called upon to take anyone else’s feelings into account for quite some time. And a woman like Savannah’s? Never. ‘A baddy,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve never been called that before.’

It was as if she saw him differently from everyone else on the planet. He smiled. He couldn’t help himself. Paying close attention to the river, he didn’t look at her, but he knew that she was smiling too.



No sooner had he begun to soften towards Savannah than he reverted to coldly examining the facts. Did he need this sort of distraction in his life? Savannah was very young and had a lot of growing up to do. Did he want the attention of the world centred on him, when he’d successfully avoided publicity for so long? He’d gone to the match with the sole intention of supporting his friends in the England squad, and it was them who should be getting the attention, not him. He felt a stab of something reprehensible, and recognised it as envy. The days when he’d hoped to play rugby for England weren’t so far away, but the past could never be recaptured. He had learned to adapt and change direction since then; he’d moved on. But the facts remained: the injuries he’d sustained during a prolonged beating by a gang of thugs had meant the club doctors had been unable to sign the insurance documents he needed to play his part in the professional game. And so his career had come to an abrupt and unwanted end.

But none of this was Savannah’s fault. He might be drawn to her, but he wouldn’t taint her with his darkness. He would fight the attraction he felt for her. Some might say he needed a woman like Savannah to soften him, but he knew that the last thing Savannah needed in her life was a man like him.

‘I’m sorry you’ve missed the match, Ethan.’

The river was quieter here and he cut the engines. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll watch the replay on television later.’




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