by Lucy Ellis
This man who put his job before everything—or rather had chosen to today. After last night.
‘You might want to organise the day for yourself, Clementine.’
So now she knew where she stood.
It hurt. It hurt so much she couldn’t bear to look at him. Part of her wanted to yell at him. Is this too hard for you, Serge, a bit too real? But looking at him standing there, emanating power and self-control and a level of success she couldn’t even fathom, she suddenly felt horribly ordinary, with her save-the-planet hemp bags and stupid, simple morning at the market, and was glad now she hadn’t had a chance to open her mouth.
He’d want her out of the way. So he didn’t have to be reminded of how he had lost himself inside her body last night, had revealed a part of himself he didn’t want to show. It was the only explanation she could come up with, and it made her feel about an inch high.
He didn’t trust her enough to understand she would protect him. She wouldn’t be reckless with his feelings.
But he was with hers. Look at him—master of the universe, and me making nice with the shopping. She looked down at the bags in her arms.
‘I’m going marketing,’ she said, making a hopeless gesture with the bags. ‘I thought you might like to come.’
But now I know you don’t.
‘You know I have a shopper for that stuff,’ was all he said.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, And I know there are women who will sleep with you for money, but her pride was too strong. He might see her as another one of his many conveniences, but she was here because she loved him.
She loved him.
In the middle of his big state-of-the-art kitchen, with flagstones underfoot and every possible mod-con a man could want in his life, making her feel never more redundant to his needs, she realised the one thing guaranteed to break her heart.
It was just sex for him, and she began to shatter into tiny pieces.
He pulled out his wallet and in front of her started peeling off notes.
For one horrified moment she couldn’t move, and then the words came out as if torn from her gut. ‘I can pay for a bag of apples, Serge.’ And she turned around as she said it so she didn’t have to face him.
She jumped as he took hold of her hips. For a strange disconnected moment it felt as if he was going to embrace her, and instinctively her body drifted up against him as he dragged her close, all the angry heat inside of her pooling in her pelvis even as her mind shouted no. But he was shoving the money into her back pocket instead.
‘Get yourself something nice.’
He actually patted her on the backside.
He had to know what he was doing. He had to know how he was hurting her. It gave her the backbone to walk away, clutching those bags tightly to her chest. If she had the guts she’d walk away from him for ever, but she didn’t have that amount of courage. Not yet. Not after last night.
The soft reminder of who she had been earlier that morning—the happy girl who had been floating on cloud nine—manifested itself in the thought: where was the closeness and belonging and sharing? Where had it gone?
Serge wasn’t sharing anything this morning except his open wallet.
It burned.
It was still burning a few hours later, as she schlepped with her bags up the steps. The boxes of groceries were on delivery, but she had carried little delicacies herself: cheeses and a French wine, and some lovely Chinese tea, and those godawful pickled herrings Serge liked.
She’d done it all despite being arm candy.
Flavour of the month. That was her.
Carrying the groceries.
As she approached the kitchen she could hear male voices. She left the bags on the bench and wandered curiously but warily into the drawing room. Serge was on his feet. About a dozen other men were sitting and standing around the room. Expensive weekend casual was the dress code, but the guys didn’t look like your typical buttoned-down execs. The atmosphere vibrated with tension, and Serge didn’t look happy. Her self-pity evaporated.
Only a couple of people noticed her at first, and then like an avalanche the focus of the room turned on her, the same male interest she’d been getting since she was fifteen.
Serge glanced up. The look on his face said it all and her heart sank. She took a backward step, then stood her ground. Thirteen pairs of male eyes—all directed at her.
Serge moved to her side, introducing her to the men in rapidfire succession and then gently but inexorably leading her to the door. ‘We’ve got a lot to discuss, Clementine. It could take a while.’ His tone clearly said make yourself scarce.
‘Fair enough.’ Feeling excluded, but knowing it wasn’t personal, she retraced her steps and set about piling up a few plates with bruschetta, olives, cheeses, opening up a bottle of wine.
She had an idea this was about the fallout from the Kolcek disaster, and from the conversation drifting in it sounded as if she was on the money.
A heavy-set man with tattoo sleeves on both arms peeking out of his T-shirt came into the kitchen.
Behind him was Liam O’Loughlin, the promotions guy she had spoken to yesterday. She already knew she didn’t like him. He compounded it by copping a look down the front of her shirt as she picked up an empty hemp bag and began folding it.
Then another man and another strolled into the kitchen, and suddenly she was standing by the island bench surrounded by five big men, all of them clearly starved of female company if their slightly inane expressions were anything to go by.
‘Is this a convention or something?’ she enquired smartly, to hide her subtle unease.
‘Alex Khardovsky—president of the Marinov Corporation. Serge and I are old friends.’ The heavy-set guy reached over the bench and shook her hand. ‘Heard a lot about you, Clementine.’
Clementine’s smile didn’t falter, but she couldn’t help the cold trickle at the idea Serge had talked about her, wondering what he had said.
‘You’ve domesticated Serge Marinov,’ said Liam O’Loughlin smarmily. ‘Many women have tried and failed.’
Clementine didn’t respond. She hated this sort of drivel and she really didn’t like guys who couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves.
‘What I heard was that you worked in PR for Verado, Clementine,’ interrupted Alex.
‘That’s right. Lots of free golf clubs and cigar clippers.’
The men laughed. Clementine pushed a glass of wine towards Alex and began pouring a couple more glasses. She didn’t bother with Liam O’Loughlin.
‘So you guys are all here about that fighter who’s up on assault charges, right?’
‘It doesn’t go away,’ answered a fair-haired guy with the buzz-cut.
Here goes nothing, thought Clementine, and addressed Alex.
‘Your problem is managing the fallout from that big famous trial, right? You had trouble a few years ago with the media about some of your fighters’ extra-curricular activities and now it’s all coming back to bite you.’ She pushed the platters of food towards the other men. ‘Seems to me what you need is a blanket print, cable publicity blitz, pushing what’s great about the sport and taking the emphasis off this over-the-top macho rubbish. Highlight the athleticism. Maybe get some of those fighters to turn up at high-profile charity events—and not on their own. You want wives and kids in tow.’
She looked up and saw Serge leaning against the doorframe. She hadn’t known she was so nervous until she realised she wasn’t alone. Confidence had her straightening her spine.
‘Keep going,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘I’m taking notes.’
Clementine blew air up her fringe. This still wasn’t easy.
‘Yes, well…you need to get more women into your front row. Lots of famous guys there last night, but stag. Plays up to the problem you’ve got with Kolcek—young guys, too much testosterone, too much money, running around disrespecting women.’
‘So what you’re saying is the fight game isn’t appeali
ng to soccer moms?’ said Liam dismissively.
‘What I’m saying is you’ve got a problem with a thug image, and if you’re serious about changing that you need to leave the theatricality in the ring and think about projecting the reality of the business, which is professional athletes engaged in highly staged combat.’
‘You wouldn’t consider coming and working for us, Clementine?’
‘Why, Alex …’ she looked at Serge over the rim of her glass ‘… I thought you’d never ask.’
Serge had watched the guys, one after another, follow Clementine into the kitchen and the hairs had gone up on the back of his neck.
It was macho posturing. Clementine could take care of herself. But he’d told himself he would just check up on her—he’d do the same for any other woman he was with. There were a lot of men in the house, and for all Clementine’s confidence it wouldn’t be easy for a woman to handle.
Yet here she was, one hand on an outswung hip, telling Alex exactly how he needed to run his publicity machine.
A dark voice prodded him. What had he expected? Her to suddenly go all shy and play the role of his girlfriend? He reminded himself he didn’t want that. He wanted the sexy girl with no ties. Well, look—he was getting it. In spades.
Provocative. Used to male attention.
It was how she got through life. She’d told him as much but he’d never actually seen it in action.
This was a woman who had survived on her own since she was a teenager. She was tougher than she looked, than she seemed when he had her wild and pinned under him.
She looked up at that moment and caught sight of him, and he actually saw some of the tension he hadn’t noticed in her body leave her. Every male protective instinct in his body stood on end. She finished her little spiel and sipped her wine and met his eyes.
And because of it he moved in to stake his claim.
‘Poaching my secret weapon, Aleksandr?’ Serge didn’t take his eyes off her as he spoke.
Alex grinned, and all the guys stirred like cattle sensing a stampede. Liam O’Loughlin was already edging his way out through the other door.
Yeah, back off. Serge couldn’t believe how proprietorial he was feeling.
‘She should have been sitting in there, cutting our job in half,’ said Alex, looking genuinely impressed.
‘Just offering a few suggestions,’ Clementine said sweetly.
Alex picked up his drink. ‘There’s a job offer on the table. Think about it, Clementine.’ He gave Serge a conspiratorial nod. ‘Serge has got my number.’
Clementine eyed him cautiously when they were alone, as well she might, but he merely said, ‘Keeping me on my toes, kisa?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yeah, you do.’
She tensed. ‘What’s the problem, Serge? Surprised I’ve got a brain?’
‘I’m well aware of your intelligence, kisa. It’s how you work the room, your entirely female skills I’m referring to.’
For a moment she looked blank, and then his meaning dropped into place. ‘You haven’t complained before,’ she said stiffly.
‘It was directed at me.’ A dark demon was driving him. ‘I get that you’re a friendly girl, kisa, but I don’t appreciate you showering it around.’
Suddenly the hard shell was gone, and all he could see was the utter shock on her face and the flutter of confusion in her eyes before she shut down.
‘Okay—fine. Whatever.’ She pushed the plates towards him, her hands visibly beginning to shake. ‘Here—I’ve made this for your guests. There should be a delivery of groceries around four.’ She knocked over a glass bottle as she bumped against the bench in her haste to get away from him. Righting it, she mumbled, ‘I got those awful herrings for you—more fool me.’
For a few moments Serge didn’t move. He didn’t know what was going on between them. He didn’t understand why seeing her surrounded by other admiring men had made him so damn jealous that he couldn’t see straight. He didn’t even understand why he’d left her this morning.
The herrings brought him up short for a second too. She was shopping for him?
Then he noticed for the first time the tremble in her body, her refusal to look at him. He took hold of her arm. ‘Clementine.’
She swung around, and for a moment he thought she was going to hit him, but she merely yanked her arm away and he let her.
‘Don’t worry, Serge,’ she said sharply. ‘I won’t be turning up at your gigs any more. I know my place. I’ve got it pretty clear now exactly where you see me in your life. If I didn’t get it before you’ve spelt it out now.’
She dashed out of the kitchen before he could stop her. Not fast enough he hadn’t seen the flash of tears in her eyes.
Yeah, he was a real prince. He’d finally made Clementine cry.
CHAPTER TEN
IT TOOK him ten minutes to clear the house. Alex lingered the longest, took him aside on the front steps.
‘What are you doing with that girl, Serge?’
‘Come again?’
‘The look on your face when you came into the kitchen was priceless.’
‘If you could translate, Aleksandr, it might make more sense,’ said Serge dryly.
‘That’s right—play dumb. I saw you last night. You care about her. She’s not one of those bimbo airheads on your revolving door policy, she’s a savvy woman. I really might employ her, Seriosha, then what are you going to do?’
‘Fire you.’
‘Touché. You know, Mick’s right. You turn up with her at a few charity events and we’re cooking with gas again. How about a magazine spread? “At home with Serge Marinov and the lovely Clementine”.’
‘You’ve either lost your ever loving mind or you’re looking to see stars,’ commented Serge, folding his arms.
‘I’m not the one shacked up with Jessica Rabbit crossed with Martha Stewart.’ Alex laughed and bounded down the remainder of the steps, heading for his car. ‘She had groceries, man,’ he shouted. ‘Groceries!’
Serge went back inside and took the stairs by threes. The bedroom door was half ajar and he knocked a couple of times. ‘Clementine?’
He’d expected to find her spread across the bed crying into a pillow, or whatever it was women did when they were put out, but the room was empty. The bed was made—nary a crease thanks to Housekeeping.
Where in the hell was she?
In the end he found her on the roof garden. She was kneeling on the ground, pulling weeds out of pots. She barely acknowledged his presence.
‘First you go grocery shopping, now you’re gardening,’ he commented. ‘This domesticity has got to stop, kisa.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t have anything else to do. You’re gone most of the time and I don’t have a job. So I do domestic, okay?’
He hunkered down beside her. ‘Last night, Clementine—’
‘Yes, I get it, Slugger,’ she interrupted. ‘I overstepped the mark or the boundary or whatever it is. It won’t happen again.’
Serge was silent for a moment.
‘I didn’t want you at the event last night because it’s violent,’ he said with deliberation, ‘and you don’t react well to violence, Clementine.’
She wanted to snap, I wasn’t talking about the match. I was talking about afterwards. ‘You put me in a ringside seat,’ she protested instead, turning her head so she could look him in the eyes.
‘Because you were there, and I didn’t want you out of my sight. I made a bad judgement call.’
‘You didn’t want me out of your sight?’ she repeated, trying to make sense of it.
‘It’s my responsibility to look after you.’
The hairs prickled on her body. She was nobody’s responsibility. She looked after herself. The minute she started believing Serge was going to do that was the moment this all came crashing in—as it had this morning.
He wasn’t going to protect her. He wasn’t going to love her. He was just her lover. Her
current lover. She was a big girl. This was the way the world worked. Serge’s world worked.
‘You’re not my dad, Serge. You’re my—’ She broke off, at a loss for a descriptor. Embarrassment prickled along her neck, worse than before.
‘Your father lives in Geneva,’ interposed Serge smoothly, letting her know she was right to hesitate. ‘Do you ever see him?’
She avoided talking about her parents whenever she could, but suddenly her father seemed like a much safer topic than whether or not Serge was her boyfriend.
‘No, not for many years. We had a falling-out when I was fifteen and I’ve never been back. I was a bit of a handful in those days.’
‘Unlike now, when you’re a pussycat.’
Clementine smiled a little. ‘Why do you call me kitten all the time?’
‘Because you’re cute and playful and then you scratch me.’
She waved the gardening fork. ‘Better be careful, then. I’m armed and dangerous.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She presents a breakfast TV show in Melbourne. She was never home and when she was we fought. Mum and Dad were both barely out of their teens when they had me—it’s why they married—and neither of them had much interest in a baby. So I grew up with a lot of childminders and nannies and fights until I was ten, when they finally split for good. Only then the fun started. The commute. Twice a year to Geneva.’
‘Not fun?’
‘You’re kidding? A twenty-four-hour flight by myself, and then I’d be there a week and one of dad’s girlfriends would arc up and I’d be hurtling back to Melbourne again. Both of them are self-obsessed—or should I say obsessed with their careers? I decided a long time ago when I have my babies I’ll be staying home with them.’
‘You want children?’
‘One day. Don’t you?’ She asked the question out of interest, without thinking of the overtones.
‘No.’ He plucked the gardening fork out of her hand and stabbed it into one of the pots. ‘But you’re right, Clementine. Kids need a stable home and two loving parents.’ Then he surprised her by stroking his hand gently over her head down her back to the ends of her hair. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have that.’