Untouched by His Diamonds

He glanced at her. ‘I find that too.’

She was something else, Serge reflected as he followed the twitch of her seductively rounded bottom into the restaurant. She was built the way women used to be, before diets and gyms and size zero. She was shaped this way because that was how nature had made her.

Mother Nature had done a superlative job.

He’d decided on an out-of-the-way place—small, cosy. There was a chance Clementine wouldn’t like it. He’d brought a couple of women here before, watched them pick their way through the traditional Russian cuisine, listened to them dismiss their surroundings as quaint. But he was only in town for a couple of nights, and he loved the place. It was family run and noisy, and after eight there were gypsies.

Tonight wasn’t about the location. It was merely a means to an end. But he wondered now why he had instantly thought of Kaminski’s in relation to Clementine.

She was with him because she liked the money; she’d been pretty upfront about that with all her little flirty comments. Correspondingly, his feelings about this girl were down and dirty and basic. He had what she wanted, and she definitely had what he was after. Where he took her for dinner shouldn’t figure into it.

Clementine tipped her head back as he escorted her inside, taking in the low-beamed ceiling. She scanned the room, already filled to capacity with diners. The décor was simple—round tables, wooden floors, murals of historical Russian scenes on the walls. He wondered what she thought of it.

She beamed at him. ‘This is amazing. You are a dark horse. I expected a wine bar.’

The pleasure on her face took him off guard. Men’s heads turned as they weaved between the tables and he felt an unfamiliar trickle of possessiveness.

Clementine seemed oblivious, giving him little backward glances over her shoulder as the restaurant’s owner, Igor Kaminski, led them to their table. It brought back his uncharacteristic pursuit of her up the Nevsky, and fancifully he acknowledged that despite corralling her into a dinner date nothing had changed. She was still a step ahead, as elusive as ever, and he was enjoying it.

She gave an exclamation of delight as they reached their table, and he observed Igor grow about a foot as he gave her a potted history of the restaurant. Then she did that thing all women did as he seated her, smoothing her hands over her lavish hips and thighs to adjust her skirt. Somehow Clementine managed to turn it into a performance of female sensual pleasure. Igor stood there, a big smile on his broad, unhandsome face, watching her.

Am I supposed to hit him or order? Serge wondered, only half amused. He broke the spell by asking Clementine what she would like to drink.

She gave him one of those sweet little smiles. ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’

He ordered Georgian wine, and Igor returned with the menus himself, flanked by three men Serge knew were his sons. Clementine was enjoying herself, so he sat back and let the good-natured teasing unroll as zakouski was served and the men encouraged Clementine to taste—pickled mushrooms dipped in sour cream, different varieties of caviar, ikra fresh from the Caspian, salty sevruga. She washed it down with a mouthful of her wine, and Serge observed her trying to make sense of the heavily accented English, giving everyone equal attention.

Their table was busy in a noisy restaurant. This wasn’t what he had pictured doing tonight. Food, alcohol, a little sweet-talking and Clementine gasping his name for a few enjoyable hours had been the plan.

Then Clementine leaned towards him and said, ‘When does our date start, Slugger?’

Serge beckoned Igor over, whilst not taking his eyes off her, and murmured something to the owner. Their company evaporated, leaving them alone.

‘Everyone’s so friendly,’ she confided over the rim of her glass. ‘They certainly know you.’

‘I think, kisa, the drawcard is you,’ he observed wryly.

‘Don’t be silly.’ As she slid her spoon through her soup her eyes teased him.

The little red candles in the glass bowls on the table between them cast a tantalising glow over her heart-shaped face. Her lightly tanned bare skin—what he could see of it—had the burnish of pale honey, extending from the curve of her shoulders, the slender length of her arms all the way down to those long-fingered hands and the gold bangles that clinked around her wrists.

A girl who looked like this, with the level of independence Clementine exhibited, knew exactly what she was doing. She had to know what tonight was all about. She was going home on Saturday, which meant it had to be tonight or tomorrow.

The anticipation was beginning to burn.

‘So, what is it that brings you here, Clementine?’ He needed to do his bit—the what-do-you-do, tell-me-your-story routine—before the food and alcohol kicked in and he put thoughts of a soft mattress and his hard body into that pretty head of hers.

‘Is it time to get to know one another?’ she teased, wishing her tummy wasn’t fluttering. She’d done this before—flirting in a public place. But it didn’t feel public. It felt very, very intimate. Maybe too intimate for a first date.

He leaned towards her. ‘Only if you want to, kisa.’

His eyes made her so aware of herself she was sure she was blushing. Trying to get back on track, she decided to fire some questions of her own at him.

‘So you’re a regular?’

‘When I’m in town.’

‘A different girl every time?’

‘I’ve been known to drop in alone,’ he replied, noticing the way her index finger had stopped drifting up and down the stem of her glass and she was gripping it now. What was the problem? Different girls? Did she need a little reassurance that he didn’t make a habit of picking up women off the street?

Actually, this was a first—but he didn’t want to draw attention to it, remind her they had only met this afternoon. For all her free and easy vibe, he was getting the distinct impression Clementine was more than capable of putting the brakes on this.

‘So, tell me why you’re in Petersburg?’ He needed to distract her.

‘I’m here for Verado—the Italian luxury goods company.’

‘Da, I know them.’

‘They’re doing a promotion for their flagship store on the Nevsky. That’s me—PR girl.’

Serge sat back, absorbing her pride in her job. PR. Of course. What else would a girl like this do but charm and influence people for a living?

‘The grand opening is tomorrow night and then it’s all over. Back to London.’

Serge had lost interest in her job. He was much more interested in the different lights he could see in her hair—golds and reds and browns. Was it natural? Probably not.

‘I imagine you’re very good at public relations?’

‘I guess I am. I like people.’ She noticed he was paying more attention to looking her over and it flustered her. ‘I’m not that keen on Verado—all very old-world sexist misogynist management—but it’s my job to make them look good, so I do what I can.’

Serge was tempted to comment that the fleapit she was currently inhabiting told him more about her job than words. Instead he said, ‘What else do you do, Clementine, besides influence people?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

There was something in the way she asked, angling up her chin but with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. He hadn’t expected that.

‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, surprising himself.

She gave him a curious look he couldn’t read. ‘Truthfully, not much lately. All I seem to do is work.’

‘You’re a beautiful woman. No serious boyfriend?’

She met his eyes candidly. ‘I wouldn’t be out with you if I had.’

Serge lounged back, rolling his shoulders, all big lazy Russian male.

Honestly, thought Clementine, what was it about men and competition?

He sipped his brandy, his eyes warm on her face, her bare shoulders.

‘What about you?’ She tossed back her hair, giving him her hundred-watt smile. ‘Why isn’t a rich, gorgeous guy like you taken?’

‘Gorgeous?’ He looked amused. ‘Good to know I measure up, kisa.’

He hadn’t answered the question. Clementine’s smile faded. Okay, it didn’t mean he was married or had a girlfriend or anything.

‘So no one’s waiting up for you at home?’ The question sounded so gauche she could have kicked herself.

‘No.’ He settled his glass on the table. ‘No one.’

It bothered her. He studied her suddenly tense face intently. ‘What gave you the idea I was married?’

‘A girl can’t be too careful,’ she said lightly.

Da, he could imagine an endless stream of guys hitting on her. Married men. Single. Hell, gay men. Any man with a pulse.

He had a personal distaste for adultery. He didn’t fool around with married women, ever. So why in the hell did it annoy him so much that she had brought it up?

It was the idea of a married man making a play for her.

Any man.

Because he wanted her. For himself. Exclusively.

And why in the hell did he feel that at any moment she could get up, excuse herself from the table and never come back?

Clementine knew there was something about her that attracted guys like this. Good-looking, confident men, who thought they could bulldoze her into bed. And they always had money. Luke said it was her personality, but he meant her confidence. She was a girl who liked to dress up and flirt. She always had. She intimidated a lot of nice guys who were too scared to approach her, imagining every night of her week was booked, or who—like Serge—wanted to know why she wasn’t in a relationship.

She had been. In two short-lived unsatisfactory relationships with nice guys who in the end had bored her silly. She recognised now that they had made her feel less like herself and more like the girl she imagined she should be. Clementine with the lights turned down.

Serge watched the emotions flickering across Clementine’s expressive face. Her guarded eyes suddenly made him feel uncomfortable with his crass plan for a couple of nights’ entertainment.

‘You still haven’t told me what you do,’ she said, sitting back.

She genuinely wanted to get to know him, and something tightened up in his chest.

‘I’m in sports management,’ he replied, unease making him brief.

‘Is it interesting?’

‘Sometimes.’

Clementine’s heart sank. He didn’t want to share any information about himself with her. For a moment she was thrown back to that strange whirlwind of months, almost a year ago, when she had been pursued by another wealthy man who had dodged personal questions as he smothered her in unprecedented romantic attention.

After her last break-up she had gone back to dating casually—until Joe Carnegie. She had met him through one of her PR jobs and he’d been a client—which meant he was off-limits by her own personal code. But the minute the job was done he’d been on the phone, roses had been delivered to her door. He had encouraged her to play up to her ‘gifts’, as he’d called them, supplying her with spectacular dresses he could show her off in. They would arrive boxed before a date. He had groomed her for a role and she had let him.

She had been so naive.

He’d wined her and dined her and treated her like a princess. She had opened herself up to him so quickly, so easily. Until the evening he’d taken her to a swish restaurant, the night she had decided their relationship should move beyond the bedroom door, and presented her with a real estate portfolio. He had purchased her a flat—a place he could visit her whilst he was in town.

It had never been about her. It had been all about the way she looked on his arm and how well she would perform in his bed. And then it had got worse. A couple of days later she had read in the newspaper about his engagement to a French pop star, who was also the daughter of a leading industrialist. A woman from his own social strata. She had been something else all along. He had always intended her to be his mistress on the side.

The memory still burned. He’d done a job on her and she was still paying the price. She had told herself she wasn’t going to let it ruin tonight, but already she was second-guessing Serge’s motives. He had been nothing but a gentleman—but so too had Joe Carnegie. She’d already come to the conclusion long ago that she wasn’t very good at working men out.

She looked around the restaurant, with its ambient lights and the laughter of other patrons and the wonderful smells of old-style Russian food, and realised she’d landed in yet another one of her stupid romantic fantasies.

‘Excuse me,’ she said abruptly, shifting to her feet. Serge rose. ‘Powder room,’ she murmured, unable to look at him.

The mirror in the ladies’ reflected back her pale made-up face and she cursed her lavish use of the mascara wand, because those tears prickling in her eyes were going to leave tracks.

She wasn’t sad. She was damn angry. With herself.

How in the hell did she get herself into these situations? Did she have ‘sucker’ tattooed on her forehead?

Two other women joined her at the taps, and Clementine made a show of washing her hands, checking her hair.

She looked up and recognised one of the girls as their waitress—one of the Kaminski daughters.

‘Serge Marinov,’ said the girl, making a sizzle gesture. ‘Lucky you.’

Yes, lucky me. Clementine gave her dress a tug and shook her head at her reflection. She was being an idiot. She had an incredible man sitting out there in that restaurant, waiting for her, and she was hiding in the ladies’ loo because one time some other guy had measured her value as low. It was time to suck it up and get on with her life. She was calling the shots, and if Serge Marinov had some stupid male agenda—well, she had one of her own.

As she approached the table he caught sight of her, and something akin to relief washed over his face.

Clementine almost ground to a halt. Well, fancy that. Guess who was on the hop. Confidence lifted her spine. He stood up as she approached, and she smiled to herself as he seated her.

‘Miss me?’ She couldn’t resist the question.

‘Every minute, kisa.’

‘Are we still eating?’

‘Coffee?’

‘Tea.’

When the samovar came the gypsy entertainment had invaded the restaurant and it became impossible to be heard above the music.

Serge watched Clementine coming under the spell of the performance, finding himself baffled by her. As the restaurant erupted into clapping she joined in, humming along unselfconsciously. When the performers came round to collect gold coins she fumbled in her clutch bag.

He reached across and laid a stilling hand on hers, tossed some money into the skirts of the girl.

Clementine shook a finger at him. ‘I can pay my way, Mr Millionaire.’

‘You’re with me,’ he replied, as if that said everything.

Clementine’s inner princess sighed, but her capable independent outer working girl patted his arm. ‘Come on, rich guy—let’s get out of here and I’ll buy you an ice cream.’

There was a flurry as they left. Clementine had made an impression on the Kaminskis, which was fine, but next time he came in here without her there were going to be questions. She was that sort of girl.

Hell, he had his own questions. Nothing had gone to plan. He should be rushing her across town right now to his place, after a meal spent trading sexual banter. Instead he’d spent the evening watching her enjoy herself—except for that bizarre moment he’d thought she’d got up and left the restaurant.

Walked out on him.

Even now he wanted to take her hand, weld her to his side, but she kept a neat distance between their bodies, held onto her purse with both hands, that classic little pose of hers complementing the sway in her walk.

Although it was after ten the evening was still light. They were so close to the White Nights of June. Serge shrugged off his jacket as they strolled down towards the embankment. The urge to slide an arm around her was very strong but he reined it in. Somehow this had turned into a real date. A first date.

Clementine looked up at him. ‘Thank you for inviting me. All I’ve been doing lately is working. It’s nice to put on a frock and be taken out somewhere fun.’

Bozhe, she was so sincere. And he was buying it. It probably made him a sap, but there was something about her in this moment that made him want to believe her.

‘You’re a very easy woman to please, kisa,’ he said at last, ‘but the evening has hardly begun, no?’

Clementine hid a smile. ‘Maybe for you, Slugger, but I’m beat and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

And didn’t that just tie up all his expectations in knots and toss them in the river? Serge rolled his shoulders. ‘Right,’ he said—and everything fell into place.

She’d known all along tonight wasn’t going to end in bed, which meant the little act in the car had been for her own amusement. He remembered the sparkle in her eyes, the invitation to laugh along with her.

He’d missed it because he’d been deep down in lust land.

Which meant tonight was a lost opportunity—for both of them. She was going home on Saturday, leaving him with a decision to make.

Was she worth the pursuit? Or—the better question—should he be messing with her? This nice girl? All sweet and sincere? And didn’t that just get him in the traditional Russian male part of himself that he didn’t make a habit of showing off? Where had he got the idea she wouldn’t need seducing? Why shouldn’t she make him work for it?

Instincts he didn’t have a whole lot of familiarity with told him he needed to handle this delicately. Another, more familiar instinct was telling him to take her in his arms and drive every thought she could possibly have about other men out of her head—at least until tomorrow. It had to be tomorrow. Because she was going back to London on Saturday.

And if he didn’t have her in his arms in one form or another tonight he was going to go crazy.

He reached and caught her hand—something he’d been wanting to do all night. She turned towards him, expression expectant, amused. He closed the space between them and lifted his other hand to hook one of her artfully liberated coils of hair away from her cheek. Her smile faded, her eyes grew a little rounder, her mouth softened.

‘You’re killing me, Clementine,’ he said in Russian, and moved in to put himself out of his misery.

In that moment she made a soft little sound of dismay and to his surprise turned away, slipping her hand free of his with a nervous laugh.

‘I still want to buy you that ice cream,’ she said over her shoulder.

Ice cream. Not sex. Not even a kiss. Not tonight.

She began walking, swaying a little on those silly heels, and he stood there, stock still, gazing after her.

She threw him a backward glance.

‘Coming, Slugger?’

She was going the wrong way. The ice cream vendors were in the other direction. But her question dissolved into a teasing smile, and without giving it a second thought he took off after her.

CHAPTER FOUR

SERGE had spent the morning listening to the argument that had broken out between the president of his company and the man he trusted above all others: trainer Mick Forster. Broadcast from the boardroom in the Marinov Building in New York City to the screen facing him, it had convinced him of one thing.

‘I’ll be at JFK tomorrow lunchtime,’ he said briefly, and closed his laptop. He pushed away from the desk, striding over to the windows of his Fontanka Canal apartment.

He’d been out of the country less than a day and he already had problems with a young fighter, Kolcek, who was up on assault charges and getting a raft of publicity that was not the kind the organisation needed. More importantly they were behind on the stadium going up in New York—an ongoing issue—but his management team were scrambling in the onslaught of media attention, as evidenced by this morning.

He didn’t like the look of it.

Yet all he could think about was that because of tardy contractors and a coked-up fighter who needed to be cut loose he was going to lose Clementine Chevalier.

Sexy, tempting, guarded Clementine. What was her game?

He’d taken her back to that dismal lodging last night, insisted on walking her up to her door. He’d been thinking more about the woeful security than infiltrating her defences when he’d lingered in her doorway. He’d seen once more the drab room, and then his eyes had lit on the condoms sitting on her bedside table right beside the door.

For a girl who didn’t kiss on a first date she had come prepared.

Was she sleeping with someone else? Was that the problem?

She’d said she didn’t have a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t sexually active. In fact it would be a crime against nature if she wasn’t.

Except right now he only wanted her sexually active with him.

He acknowledged he’d been unusually disappointed by the discovery she wasn’t quite what she seemed. For a few hours there he’d been enjoying the fantasy: man and woman out on a date, the simplicity and honesty of their interaction. Yet when it came down to it he would have left it there last night. Nice girls didn’t feature in his personal life.

He wasn’t in the market for a wife, or even a significant other, if that was the phrase, and the girl Clementine had seemed to be for a while there would have expected the whole romantic package.

He didn’t do romance. He did sex.

And what a girl like Clementine was offering in all her luscious glory was clearly uncomplicated, sizzling sex. Oblivion between her lush thighs. The promise in those sparkling eyes at the beginning of the night. The complete lack of emotional ties a girl like that came with. The sort of girl who could be bought.

A former lover had once accused him of being cold-blooded, but he doubted that. It was why he picked his partners very carefully. Women to whom under no circumstances he would become attached. Women who liked what he could give them more than anything he might promise for the future.

He had seen what emotional attachments could do—the mess they created, the havoc they played with innocent lives. He had seen it played out in his parents’ lives.

His father had loved his mother completely—taking over her life, turning all of their lives into a twopenny opera. When he’d died Serge had been ten years old and his mother had been devastated. Barely able to cope. He had seen both the intensity of love and the chaos it wrought when it went awry, or was simply taken away. His mother had remarried for financial reasons. Her second husband had beaten her for seven long years before she’d taken a familiar way out with an overdose of pills.

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