Untouched by His Diamonds

by Lucy Ellis

  But she was coming slowly down the stairs, as if the last frantic quarter of an hour hadn’t happened, dressed in a yellow linen high-necked dress that skimmed her breasts and hips and fell to her knees. Without a cinched-in waist her extravagant curves looked much more understated. She was playing her role. He was suddenly glad she hadn’t worn the green, it brought back memories of the sweet, elusive girl he’d followed down the embankment and he didn’t want those today. If he was half the man he’d built himself to be he wouldn’t entertain them ever again.

  Clementine did a little twirl at the bottom of the stairs. Her fragrance wrapped around him—something with damask roses, as familiar now to him as the woman who wore it. It was in the bathroom, it was in the odd piece of her clothing he’d find lying around, and it was on his pillow every morning.

  She looked up and used both hands to tug at an imaginary misalignment of his suit jacket, then smiled at him, ‘I think we’re ready, Slugger.’

  She was so lovely she took his breath away.

  But there were other beautiful women in the world—as many as he wanted. Other women with toffee-coloured hair and legs that went on for ever and grey eyes. But not soft ones. He wouldn’t be caught by soft eyes again. They could get under your skin. Like now.

  ‘Anything I need to know, Serge, before we hit the road? Any last words of advice?’

  ‘Only that you look beautiful.’ He had said it a hundred times to her since they’d met, but it was only now he noticed the way the muscles beside her mouth flicked down, as if she were momentarily cringeing before the compliment sank in completely.

  Because she’d heard it from a lot of men and it didn’t mean much to her any more? What meant more to Clementine was to be praised for her abilities. He knew that about her now, and he fully intended to do that when all this was over. She needed to know he appreciated everything about their time together, and he could tell her now he knew she was going home.

  ‘Do I?’ she said, looking up at him, her face open and unguarded—the way she was, he realised, when they were in bed. But there was something else in her eyes. Something almost uncertain. ‘Do I look beautiful? Because I’m not really. I think it’s just more make-up and confidence.’

  He curved his hand around the back of her head and kissed her. Her mouth fluttered under his, surprised, cautious, before her lashes swept down and she gave way. He actually felt it, the moment of her submission, and it pounded through him like big surf.

  She made him feel as if he was the only man ever to do this to her. It was a fantasy, but he was going to allow himself just a little more of it before they let one another go for ever.

  And it was a reminder of why he had to let her go—because whatever was between them was too much, too powerful. It threatened to sweep too much of what he’d worked so hard for away.

  ‘No other woman comes close,’ he said softly against her mouth. The truth, but he forced himself to release her, put air between them. ‘Clementine, do you have your passport?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘We’re not going uptown, kisa, I’m taking you to Paris.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘WE CAN’T do this. What about the press conference?’ blithered Clementine as he handed her into the car. He’d barely given her the time to run upstairs and grab her passport.

  ‘Alex can handle it.’

  Clementine couldn’t take her eyes off him. Why was he doing this? It was irrational. It didn’t make a lick of sense.

  She knew Serge. He wouldn’t be running away from a confrontation. He took life on, fists swinging. It was one of the things she loved about him—his willingness to front up, take it on the chin. It was something they shared.

  ‘Serge, I have no luggage. I have nothing.’ Practical considerations began to line up as she realised this was actually real. She was going to Paris.

  ‘You’ve got me, kisa.’ And he gave her that lazy Russian male smile that told her she didn’t need clothes, didn’t need underwear. She wasn’t going to be seeing much of Paris.

  Distracted for a moment by some pretty powerful imagery, she shook her head. She wasn’t going to let him get away with palming her off. ‘Serge Marinov, talk to me.’

  He made a dismissive gesture, as if it wasn’t worth talking about. ‘It’s not such a big deal, Clementine. All you need to know is I have no intention of using you—now or ever. It was a ridiculous idea and it was never going to fly. Happy?’

  ‘No—yes.’ She made a frustrated noise. ‘Confused is what I am. How long have you been planning this?’

  ‘Since last night. I heard you on the phone to your friend, and I got the impression you were a little homesick, kisa. I thought you might miss Europe.’

  ‘No, I—’ She broke off, unable even to start that sentence, which ended in because I love you. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Serge, what are we doing? What’s going on?’

  She was asking him about what this did to the boundaries of this temporary sexual relationship of theirs, and she knew he knew it.

  His green eyes caught hers. ‘I’m taking you to Paris, Clementine, because in two days’ time it’s your birthday. I thought you might like to mark it with a trip somewhere special—for both of us. Something we can remember.’

  Everything had been so awful, she realised for the first time, and now suddenly it wasn’t. It was better than wonderful.

  Happiness bubbled up from some spring inside her she hadn’t known existed until that moment. It spurted like a geyser, and she did the only thing a girl could do in that moment. She flung herself across the seat at him, wrapped herself around him and sang, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

  And it had absolutely nothing to do with Paris and everything to do with this dear, generous man.

  Serge felt slightly stiff beneath her onslaught, but his arms enfolded her. She buried her head in his shoulder and sniffled.

  ‘You cannot cry, Clementine, this is good news. This is fun for us.’

  She drew back to frame his beautiful male face with her hands. ‘Yes, lots of fun,’ she agreed, eyes wet, biting her lip.

  Did he have even the faintest idea how much this meant to her? Probably not. But that didn’t take an ounce of specialness out of his gesture.

  ‘You’re such an emotional girl, Clementine,’ he teased. ‘Where’s my happy, funny girl?’

  ‘She’s here.’ She flung herself back into his arms. She would make an effort to be more of what he wanted. She wouldn’t drip all over him. She would be absolutely herself, with her big, sincere Slugger to back her up.

  This was the second hotel she’d walked into with Serge, and it was a lifestyle she could get very used to. Lavish surroundings, invisible staff making their lives feel effortless…

  There were surprises everywhere for her: the view of the Plâce de la Concorde, the drawers full of slinky underwear, the armoire layered with evening gowns and dresses for the day. Enough for her to change twice a day for a week.

  How had he come up with all this?

  ‘Personal shopper.’ He shrugged it off, watching her fingering the eau-de-nil silk of a sheer evening gown. With his shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed up, hair rumpled, lounging back on the vast bed, he looked like a rather louche king, surveying all he owned.

  ‘Put it on, Clementine, so I can take it off.’

  She smiled over her shoulder at him. Slowly she began to unzip, shimmy and strip. She unsnapped her bra and worked down her knickers. She didn’t turn around. Then she stepped into the silk gown. It felt cool, like water on her skin, and she shivered although the room temperature was pleasant. Slowly she turned around, having no idea how it looked on her until she met Serge’s eyes. Her throat ran dry. Her pulse sped up.

  He was off that bed and had her flush against him so fast all she could do was squeak, ‘Don’t you dare hurt my dress!’ and then sigh.

  They had dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Seine, with a view of the lights of Nôtre Dame. Cl
ementine wore her dress, unscathed.

  The next day they wandered through the city, visiting a few tourist sites but mostly meandering. Until they washed up on the doorstep of an exclusive jeweller, when Serge took her hand and said, almost formally, ‘Allow me to do this for your birthday, Clementine.’

  What could she say? It was an entirely novel feeling, being escorted into a jeweller’s, being sat down and having endless pieces brought out for her selection. Everything was expensive. Walking through the door, Clementine had fancied the rarefied air they were breathing must cost at least an arm and a leg. Yet she didn’t feel awkward at all. It felt amazingly special. He made her feel special.

  In the end she chose a pair of pink diamond earrings.

  Her taste was praised by the staff. Serge said merely, ‘Happy?’

  ‘Happy.’ It was an inadequate word for how she was feeling, but Serge seemed content with it.

  Her birthday dawned cold and a little misty—very unusual for June—but the day turned into a picture-perfect summer’s day. Serge had organised a balloon flight over the Loire, and lunch and an overnight stay at a private château he explained was owned by friends who were happy for them to put it to some use. Clementine had ceased to pinch herself, but leaning against the stone terrace rail of a sixteenth-century châ-teau drinking champagne, rubbing elbows with her gorgeous Russian lover, was not something she was going to forget in a hurry. And she said so.

  ‘I’ve made myself memorable, then, Clementine.’ His voice was warm, as if the day had pleased and mellowed him as well as her.

  ‘I can’t imagine anything more perfect. I can’t imagine I’ll ever forget this for as long as I live.’ She made a sound and screwed up her eyes. ‘Oh, Lord, I can’t believe I said that. I sound so gauche.’

  The champagne had loosened her tongue. She was at the end of her second glass, Serge noted, amused.

  ‘You sound very sweet,’ he replied.

  ‘Worse!’ She laughed. ‘Believe me, Slugger, no woman wants to be described as sweet.’

  ‘Incredibly sexy, then.’ He plucked the goblet from her hand and slid his hands down over her hips. ‘Time for bed, Clementine.’

  ‘It’s still very early, Serge,’ she teased.

  ‘Yes, but we’ll be having a long night,’ he replied.

  He was incredibly skilled, Clementine thought the next morning, as she ate her egg and drank her orange juice on the bedroom balcony and gazed out over the dark forest that shielded the château from the main highway. Once the kings of France had ridden here to hounds, when much of this pastureland had been forest. Serge had told her yesterday afternoon as they explored the grounds. They shared a love of history, along with so much else. He was the best company she’d ever had.

  It all went far beyond the sex, which was skilled, but not what she wanted. Not any more. He had been almost driven last night to choreograph everything that occurred between them. Careful was another word that came to mind. He was also romantic in a formal sense, as if searching for ways to please her out of a catalogue of ‘What Women Like’. But she knew how different it could be between them when he allowed himself to let go, to feel something other than sexual gratification. It would have been her best birthday present—she would have forgone everything else: château, earrings, the perfection of the day—for just a few moments when she felt once more like a part of him. But it wasn’t to be, and she had no idea how to change that.

  ‘Serge …’ she said out loud.

  He wandered out to join her, fully dressed in slightly formal attire, as if their returning to Paris merited a modicum of style. Clementine felt a little underdressed beside him in her robe, hair unbrushed, but she had a pretty chiffon layered frock to wear today, and she was wearing her birthday earrings.

  Was it her imagination or was he a trifle distant this morning? He’d been up before she had even woken, and the echo of that morning in New York had passed through her before she’d remembered how perfect the last few days had been and how unnecessary it was to worry.

  ‘What is it, kisa?’

  ‘Can we talk about last night?’ She moistened her lips. ‘It was amazing, but—is there something I should be doing? Something you want from me?’

  Serge had gone very still. In the process of pulling up a chair to sit opposite her, he instead pushed the chair in and stood behind it, looking down at her. It rather put her at a disadvantage.

  ‘What do you think you should be doing, Clementine?’

  ‘I—I don’t know. You can just seem a little—distant sometimes—when we’re together—and I want to—talk about it.’

  He picked up a piece of toast. ‘Yes, well, dushka, some things can be talked to death. If I wanted a professional in my bed I’d pay one.’

  She took a breath. Okay, he was sensitive about this. ‘I wasn’t talking about technique,’ she told the salt shaker. ‘I was talking about emotions. We don’t seem to connect in that way any more.’

  He made a gesture of impatience and walked back into the room. ‘You’re talking in riddles, Clementine. What’s the problem? Endless climaxes not enough?’

  ‘It’s not about that.’ Why was he getting angry?

  She understood men could be touchy about these things, so she stood up and went to him, slid her arms around his waist from behind, laid her cheek against his back. He didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t shrug her off either.

  ‘Sex isn’t just about an orgasm, Serge. You know that as well as I do.’

  His whole body seemed to grow, harden, pull away from her, but she held on.

  ‘Da, kisa—it is. Between us it is.’

  And just like that the bottom fell out of her world.

  ‘What?’ She gave a nervous little laugh and her arms slid from his waist as he literally stepped away from her.

  ‘Clementine,’ he said gently, but he didn’t reach for her, ‘this is all very romantic—Paris, dropping out of the world for a while—but we have always had just a sexual relationship. You are an incredible girl, and I’m a very lucky man, but it doesn’t go any further than this.’

  ‘Are you breaking up with me?’ The words came out in a low, hard voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘Did you bring me to Paris to break up with me?’

  ‘Hell, no.’ He suddenly looked uneasy, and the knowledge shafted through her like the blade of a sword. He had been going to break up with her. It was just for some reason he’d changed his mind.

  But he wasn’t going to love her. Ever.

  ‘You do know this will end. Everything ends.’ He closed the distance between them and took her hands in his. ‘I’m not going to lie and say you don’t mean a great deal to me—you do.’

  She wanted to curl up in the corner of the room and die.

  But her pride wouldn’t let her.

  ‘Good to know, Slugger,’ she said softly. She pulled her hands free and walked back out onto the balcony. He let her go, didn’t follow her. He would know she wanted to cry. He was probably used to crying women. No doubt he’d passed through a lot of them.

  ‘Clementine, it’s not over.’ His voice was husky, and some part of her snatched hold of that as proof he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

  ‘No,’ she said, forcing the cheer into her voice. But it fell flat. ‘I just don’t like talking about it. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘We’re driving back to Paris in an hour or so. There’s no rush,’ he said slowly. ‘I thought you’d like to go out to Versailles. I think Marie Antoinette probably appeals to you, Clementine.’

  She closed her eyes. He knew her so well. Yet not well enough to know she was in love with him. If he knew that, surely he wouldn’t be so cruel. Surely he would lie to her. For a little longer.

  Well, she was going to lie to herself. She was going to pretend she could be with a man who wasn’t ever going to love her, if all he could give her was ‘a great deal’.

  To mean ‘a great deal’ to someone was something. Wasn’t
it?

  She knew then what she had to do. Book a flight home. It was over.

  Serge was angry. He didn’t think he’d ever been so angry in his life. It was that cold, settled anger that could sit in your gut for days, weeks, months. It kept him silent on the drive back up to Paris. He had a pretty good idea what was keeping Clementine silent. What had he expected? She was going to chatter and sing silly songs and trade barley sugar kisses with him as she had on the way down? He’d lost that girl for good. In an act of necessary sabotage.

  Yes, his anger was of the settled kind, and it wasn’t going to shift, but he could feel it growing exponentially as he navigated the pretty Paris streets in the sports car and Clementine started talking about how clean Paris was compared to London. When she had exhausted that topic she moved on to that international conundrum the weather.

  ‘I’d like to have some time on my own,’ she told him in a faux-sweet tone as the valet took care of the car. ‘Do you mind if I go up to the suite alone?’

  It was about then the anger burst. ‘Da,’ he said, ‘I do mind.’

  She gave him a look that could incinerate and stalked ahead of him through the hotel. He didn’t hurry. The anger felt good, it felt justified, and it had nothing to do with Clementine.

  She had closed the door on the bedroom and thrown herself on the bed. He kicked the door open.

  ‘Get out,’ she said shifting her legs off the bed.

  ‘I sleep here too, kisa.’

  ‘I told you to get out.’ When he didn’t shift she said, ‘Do you know what’s wrong with you, Serge?’

  ‘Go ahead—inform me.’

  ‘You’re a male chauvinist pig. You live in another century, and it’s not the last one.’

  He slanted her a dark look. ‘Da, kisa. You know, I had a sixteenth-century ancestor who kept fifteen wives—a couple for each day of the week. He had no trouble keeping them in line, but I guess he just hadn’t met you.’