The Ruthless Billionaire's Virgin. Susan Stephens

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