Lucy Ellis – Untouched by His Diamonds (страница 7)

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.