by Lucy Ellis
A muscle was ticking in his jaw and she glowered at him.
‘And while we’re at it, next time you decide to come into the bathroom ask before you take.’
Serge stood up slowly. ‘Perhaps you should have kept the moaning down to a reasonable level, kisa, and then I would have heard the no.’
Visibly tensing, Clementine said hoarsely, ‘I didn’t say no. I just said you could have asked before invading my privacy.’
‘Complaint noted,’ he replied, jerking open a drawer. He wasn’t indulging her temperament any further. He knew where this was going, and he didn’t do female tantrums. She was being difficult for the sake of it because he was leaving her alone. Again.
Brought up short by that thought, he grabbed a T-shirt.
Yeah, okay, it wasn’t the behaviour of a gentleman. But that was not what this was about. He tugged the T-shirt over his head.
What in the hell was this about?
He looked at Clementine as she sat on the end of the bed, tugging on the hem of that towel.
His conscience gave an unfamiliar jolt. He didn’t want to leave her like this. Maybe he should cancel? Stay with her? Bozhe, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Where was the funny, happy girl he’d enjoyed yesterday?
There was something softer, more uncertain about her, and she looked genuinely upset.
‘Are you okay?’ he said roughly. ‘I didn’t hurt you? You’re not sore?’
Her head snapped up and she made a little sound in the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like a strangled scream. Clutching at the towel, she surged to her feet.
‘You’re a real prince—you know that?’ she shouted at him, and with that enigmatic comment stalked out.
He’d never seen her lose her temper. It occurred to Serge he could have handled this better.
You’re not sore?
Of all the humiliating things he could say to her—not to mention ridiculous. It told her volumes about how he saw her. Some silly girl who couldn’t look after herself. Well, he had a surprise coming. She’d been looking after herself all her life, and she could deal with self-centred you’re-with-me-babe men.
She yanked open drawers, slammed cupboards in the guest room and rapidly dressed. She’d see about this I’ve got to go downtown tonight.
She had half expected him to be gone when she returned, and then she had no idea what she would have done. But he hadn’t gone anywhere, and that tiny glimmer of hope she carried for this man flared a little brighter.
‘If you want me to stay I’m coming with you,’ she slung at him, burying her hands in her jeans’ back pockets.
Serge stalled midway pulling on his leather jacket, his attention caught not by her statement but by what she was wearing. A fuzzy blue cashmere sweater which on another woman would have been casual, fade-into-the-background gear. Somehow Clementine’s extravagant curves turned it into something else entirely. Something far too distracting for Forster’s Gym.
It occurred to Serge in that moment that the only occasion when Clementine had actually been provocatively dressed was on that afternoon he’d followed her up the Nevsky Prospekt. Ever since she’d worn modest clothing, covering herself up from neck to knee. She didn’t flaunt herself.
He hadn’t considered it before, but she couldn’t help being built like an old-time pin-up. A few lines of ‘The Girl Can’t Help It’ flashed through his mind and he smiled to himself, shaking his head. He was losing his perspective if he’d started making up reasons for Clementine’s sexual allure. She was a girl who could work the angles. Who knew her strengths and played to them—strengths he hadn’t had enough of. Not yet.
‘So don’t even try arguing with me, Marinov. You really don’t want to make me angry at this point,’ she bulldozed on, then frowned suspiciously. ‘Why are you smiling?’
Almost reflexively his eyes were drawn to her throat, where the diamond pendant was loudly not on display. Probably inappropriate, given what she was wearing, but he couldn’t help but have his attention drawn to the little locket resting against the soft blue wool of the sweater.
It was a girlish locket, something clearly with sentimental value, and she seemed to be always wearing it. He had noticed that she tugged on it when she was agitated. She was tugging on it now. It bugged him.
‘Apparently I’ve failed to make you happy, Clementine, and that’s a problem.’
Damn right it was, she thought. And she wasn’t going to say it was okay, because it wasn’t. Shouldn’t sex have brought them closer? She knew it was a naive view. Sex could mean nothing at all. But this wasn’t normal. She was getting the distinct impression Serge was putting some emotional distance between them, and the message was Burn up the sheets, but out of bed it’s business as usual.
It was probably time for some plain speaking. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on, Serge,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You invited me to spend time with you, but I’m not spending time with you at all …’ She trailed off.
His smile faded, and for the first time she saw the hard man she had glimpsed once or twice in Petersburg. ‘You knew what you were getting into when you came with me, Clementine,’ he said, almost formally. ‘I’m making no apologies for that. I work hard. I play hard. What did you think you were signing up for?’
She shook her head in confusion. ‘Signing up? I didn’t know I was signing up for anything.’ Then it hit her, his meaning, and two things happened. Her tummy dropped away and the chain around her neck snapped.
Clementine gave a reflexive gasp of dismay, looking down at the locket now pooled in her hand even as her head spun on the revelation this was some sort of sex date for him.
‘I’ll get it fixed,’ Serge heard himself volunteer, unable to get over how upset she was getting, or how uncomfortable it was making him feel.
‘I can take it to a jeweller myself.’
Her heart was pounding. She knew she was being too emotional, but sex had never been a casual thing for her. Deep down she’d known what he was about, but she’d jumped at the adventure of this and now she was having it. It was just she hadn’t thought ahead to the consequences.
He didn’t take her seriously. He might not even really like her. He just wanted to bed her.
Work hard. Play hard. Yes—what did you think you were signing up for, Clementine?
Silently she closed the door on the part of her that longed to be cared for and cherished, that believed she had a right to be loved—the hopeful, idealistic girl who had taken a chance in climbing aboard that jet with him. Instead she fired up the Clementine who’d been out in the world on her own for several years now—the Clementine who knew the score, who knew how to make a situation work for her.
There were two people in this arrangement. If she was having an adventure, she sure as heck was going to have some of this her way.
‘I am coming,’ she insisted, hands on her hips. ‘I signed up to be with you, not sit around in a hotel room.’ It felt good to throw his hateful words back at him. ‘I’m surprised you get dates, Serge, if this is the way you treat women. Although I suppose the money helps.’
In an instant his Tartar heritage flared into life as his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened. ‘Da, kisa, the money helps.’
Somehow he had turned that insult around on her, and she stiffened, pressing her lips together. This was all going down the tube fast, and she didn’t quite know how to save it.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ she said fiercely. ‘Can I come?’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish that with, Or do I go?
Serge pocketed his phone, his eyes travelling over her. She was a beautiful girl and she could stand up for herself. He liked it when she scratched. He wouldn’t mind if she scratched harder. But it was the statement she was making with that tight, fluffy blue sweater that touched something softer inside him. For all her knowingness, Clementine really didn’t have a clue.
He gave her a buried smile. ‘As long as you wear a jack
et, Boots.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE gym was a plain brick building. And Serge had been right about the sweat and testosterone. He introduced her to a man called Mick Forster, a fit guy in his fifties, who was polite but paid no more attention to her. All the other men in the room did three-sixtys as she moved through, and Clementine had never felt so conspicuous in her life. She was glad for once she had worn a neutral uniform of jeans, sweater and a vintage black velvet jacket.
She chose not to cling onto Serge’s hand. She wasn’t going to be the little woman on his arm. She folded her arms instead and wandered further into the gym, watching the athletes sparring, trying not to stare too long at any particular guy.
She was deep in man territory. It was nothing like her pretty pastel gym at home.
So this was how Serge had started out. Interesting.
She wandered back to find Serge deep in conversation with a group of men. She sat down on a bench. A short, strongly built young man slipped under the ropes and into the ring. A larger guy faced off with him, and Clementine watched with interest as they started feinting and jabbing, slicing the air with hands and feet. It was practice, it wasn’t about breaking skin, and it was fascinating to watch how the men pulled their punches and kicks. It was a sort of masculine ballet.
She noticed no one sat down beside her. There was nothing friendly about any of these guys, but she suspected it wasn’t personal. Her attention drifted back to Serge. He was talking in a low voice to Mick Forster, and they were both riveted to the sparring.
Then Mick said something, and it all happened at once. The blows made real contact. Clementine flinched as the men’s bodies collided. She averted her eyes but the sounds kept coming—fist connecting with bone.
‘Clementine, would you like to wait in the outer office?’ Serge was bending over her, blocking her view of the ring.
She nodded, didn’t argue. She felt embarrassed—and vaguely guilty.
‘What in the hell did you bring her here for?’ said Mick when Serge returned.
Serge felt an uncharacteristic surge of irritation with the older man. ‘My private life isn’t your business, Mick.’
‘She’s a distraction. You need to get your eyeline above her rack and back into the game, boy. A political move against this organisation and stadiums are going to close like mouse traps around the country.’
Serge’s expression remained bland as he said quietly, but with lethal emphasis, ‘If you refer to Clementine’s rack again all conversations are over, Mick—you got it?’
Mick Forster rolled back on his heels. ‘Well, well …’ was all he said. Then, in a lower voice, ‘Do you think she’s up to holding your hand and being photographed at a few charity events?’
Five minutes later Serge emerged. Clementine stood up. ‘Are you done?’
‘We’re moving, kisa.’
It wasn’t the same as being done, but he swept her along and seated in the car she said softly, ‘I’m sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have come.’
Unexpectedly he pulled her in against him, pressing a kiss to her surprised lips—a gesture of comfort. ‘No, you shouldn’t have come—but that was my fault.’
‘Who was he? The fighter?’
‘Jared Scott. We’re signing him.’
‘Is that good?’
‘I’m counting on it, kisa. We’re throwing a lot of backing behind him.’
‘How does it work? What generates the money besides ticket sales?’
‘Gambling,’ Serge said flatly. ‘That’s all it was initially. But the organisation reached sponsorship size about five years ago. When the boys go into the ring in two weeks’ time here in New York they’ll be covered in logos.’
‘There’s a match coming up?’
‘We call them events. Don’t even ask, kisa.’
Clementine looked away. After her performance in the gym she didn’t feel she could ask.
He didn’t know why, but he felt the urge to reassure her. He’d been struggling with it since she’d sat on that bed wrapped in a towel and looking lost. But his instinct for self-preservation made him hold off. He didn’t want to set up that sort of dynamic in their relationship. But this he could do.
His hand squeezed her thigh and she looked up. ‘It’s pretty daunting for a woman to walk into that environment. You did fine.’
It was disconcerting to realise he had read her thoughts. Yet she was beginning to anticipate his. ‘Am I going to see anything of you during the day?’
‘You know why I needed to come back to New York, kisa. It’s a busy time of year for me.’ Serge endeavoured to keep his tone reasonable. He’d known this question was coming. He got it from every woman he dated. They all wanted time he didn’t have to give.
‘It’s just we’ve only got a week.’
Another predictable response from a woman who was proving anything but. It should have relaxed him. This should be familiar ground. This wasn’t: ‘How about you stay on after the end of the week?’
‘Stay on?’
‘After last night and today, Clementine, I’d be certifiably insane to let you go.’
‘Oh.’ He meant the sex. She was getting the picture.
He noticed she reflexively reached to tug on the locket that wasn’t there.
‘You’re not interested?’ He asked the perfunctory question, but of course she was.
‘I have a job, Serge,’ she said, her voice firmer than before. ‘It was a bit of a cheek taking a week. I don’t know if I could manage another.’
‘Then quit.’
The nonchalance of a billionaire. Did he really think it was that easy for her? Or was it just a case of her job not meaning much to him?
‘I can’t just quit my job. It’s a career, and it’s important to me,’ she spluttered. ‘Besides which I’ve got a flat and a life to finance—not to mention it would look pretty dodgy on my CV.’
‘Clementine, I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.’
She was plucking at her sweater now. Serge watched, fascinated, even as he endeavoured to work out what her problem was and exactly how much it was going to cost him.
‘Two weeks in your bed in exchange for a career I’ve worked very hard for? I don’t think so.’
‘I was thinking of something more open-ended,’ he said, aware Clementine was about to turn him down flat. And how in the hell he’d opened himself up to be shot down he had no idea. It was Petersburg all over again—standing in that street, feeling like a thug for upsetting Clementine, when all he’d wanted was to see her again. To go on seeing her.
Yet he wasn’t quite able to get the words I’ll make it worth your while out of his mouth. He told himself it was because he’d never actually had to say them to a woman. The women he chose to be with understood the unspoken contract: mutually enjoyable sex, a certain lifestyle made available to them, and at the end—and there was always an end, sooner rather than later—a reward in the form of jewellery or something else that softened the edges of what was essentially a sexual contract.
Or an interview in a trashy magazine. But the women who had done that were always the ones with whom he’d had only glancing contact.
Clementine looked at him with those soft grey eyes he remembered from last night.
‘I don’t know, Serge,’ she said with quiet dignity. ‘You haven’t made much of an effort so far.’
Sto? A dark flush of colour moved over his high cheekbones. His male pride sat up and took notice. Not made much of an effort? What exactly did that mean?
‘It’s not as if I saw anything of you today, and after last night that felt…weird.’
‘Weird?’ He repeated the word as if she was speaking in another language. Something about her simple, straightforward manner was riffling through his hard-won masculine detachment.
‘I felt a bit…used,’ she confessed.
He shifted beside her, his eyes narowing. Clementine viewed the change in him warily.
‘What is it you require, Clementine?’
He spoke so formally, his accent thickening attractively on her name.
‘Time. With you.’
She asked for the moon, he thought, challenged all the same.
Diamonds were so much easier.
Yet a wild sort of certainty about how this would play out focussed him on the one thing she seemed to be asking for that he could give her.
Time in his bed. Time with him. Time for both of them.
Clementine wondered what his silence meant. She could read him a little now, but she wasn’t that good.
‘Serge?’
A slow, elemental smile lit up that mouth she had longed to soften with hers the very first time she’d met him.
Never had she felt like this with a man before. From the very start he had lit something inside her. She felt like a woman when she was with him, and not a gauche girl stumbling through life. She didn’t want it to end. She didn’t want to give him up. But she didn’t want to lose her self-respect if he only thought of her as a convenience.
‘I will make time.’ His green eyes had darkened. He reached for her, and suddenly she was wrapped in those muscular arms and being kissed in the way she had dreamt of being woken this morning.
Clementine was up early every morning thereafter for the rest of the week. She made sure of it. It meant she was sleeping lightly and waking often, but come six a.m., when Serge stirred, her eyes were open and she was waiting for him.
She would steal her arms around his neck and hold onto him, talk drowsily about what she had planned for the day: a gallery, a ride downtown, a walk through Central Park. Serge would listen, and gradually she’d eke out a little of what he would be doing. She gathered he wasn’t used to explaining himself, but he was making a manful effort on her behalf. It was a start.
On the Friday, lack of sleep caught up with her. It was light on her face that woke her, and she surfaced to an empty bed. Her heart sank. Because it told her what she’d been steadily avoiding since that first morning after: this wasn’t the beginning of a relationship, it was a sexual fling.