Untouched by His Diamonds (6 page)

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.

He had been away at boarding school, and later in the military. He had known nothing of her life until he’d stood by her grave with distant relatives who had spent no little time filling him in on the details of her disastrous second marriage—details no one had seen fit to give him during her sad life.

Emotional detachment came easily to him.

So last night, when Clementine had seen the direction of his gaze and blood-red colour had risen up to the roots of her hair, he had been curious to see how she would play it. She had kept her cool and stared him down. Before babbling. He had to go now. She had his number. He had hers. Maybe he could call next time he was in London.

At first he’d thought she was giving him the brush-off. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened to him. This gorgeous, sexy, clever girl who wanted him to believe she had the morals of a nun, or next to it, was handing him his walking papers.

Then it had all made sense. She had put the ball in his court—was waiting to be asked to see him again. His body
was saying yes but his mind had gone stone-cold. Something about the entire scenario: foreign girl in a cheap hotel, holding back on any sexual contact, waiting for him to make this about more than a one-night encounter.

He hadn’t been born yesterday. It wasn’t going to happen.

He’d had no choice but to leave without making any definite plans with her, but as he had walked away down the dank, dimly lit corridor he’d glanced back and found she was peeking out into the hallway, drawing back as he caught her and closing the door.

And that was that.

Except he was still thinking about her after a conference call, an hour looking at complicated design plans and a lot of coffee. He hadn’t slept well. Sexual frustration could do that. He’d had two cold showers—one on arriving home and another first thing this morning. There were other women he could call, but it was Clementine he was interested in.

He swigged another mouthful of coffee.

Where was she now? Working her little job? PR for Verado. He knew Giovanni Verado. High-end masculine luxury goods. She’d meet a lot of men in that job. Men with money—which was probably the point.

The nice girl had evaporated around about the time he’d spotted those prophylactics. If she wasn’t sleeping with
him
on a first date, she was sleeping with someone—or planning to.

His mouth twisted cynically. She liked the money. She probably had several guys with the right cars, the right lifestyle on a string and she was working it. Girls who looked like Clementine, with that level of independence and confidence, were never single. There was always something going on.

Yet there was something else about her.

He could still hear her husky laughter, see her clapping her
hands, singing along with the music last night although she didn’t know the words and it was a foreign language to her. He remembered how she had been dismayed by his attempt to kiss her and then covered it up.

He wanted to phone her and hear her voice. He wanted to see her. More basically he wanted those long legs wrapped around him and her little sounds of pleasure urging him on.

But he was going to New York and time was what he didn’t have. She’d said something about a launch tonight. He could turn up, try his luck.

A wry smile touched his mouth. Life wasn’t about luck. It was about going after what you wanted with single-minded determination and not stopping until you had it. In business and personally.

No, better to ring and arrange to meet up with her. He didn’t want to give her much choice, and in the flesh, in broad daylight, he’d be a little more persuasive than he’d been last night. He’d respected her boundaries but it hadn’t got him far. He hadn’t turned a single gym into a billion-dollar business without knowing when to push.

Clementine settled at a pavement table, thanking the waiter who brought her a coffee. Across the road was the Verado flagship store, where she’d spent the morning and most of this last week. She’d agreed to meet Serge at this café because of its proximity to work.

When she’d heard his voice a couple of hours ago her whole world had ground to a halt. She’d drifted away from the group she was talking to and said breathlessly, ‘Serge,’ and literally heard his intake of breath. His voice had been pitched lower then, darkly seductive in its accented rumble. She’d closed her eyes just listening to it, lost in the sensual spell.

She really hadn’t thought he would call.

But he had, and now she was waiting for him because he
wanted to see her, speak to her, probably organise a second date. He’d have to be quick. Her plane flew out at four tomorrow morning. He was keen, though. Barely twelve hours had passed since they’d said goodnight.

He might ask her to stay a little longer, and a big part of her was considering saying yes—oh, hell, yes.

Imagining she had lost him last night had made her a little more reckless than usual this morning. She had lain awake going over every minute of their date, isolating everything that told her Serge was nothing like Joe Carnegie. All of her instincts told her he was a good guy. He hadn’t pushed when it had been clear enough he had hoped for more. She wasn’t going to read anything into that. All men wanted more. It was just some could be obnoxious about it.

What bothered her was that she had let Joe Carnegie come between them at a crucial moment. She had wanted to kiss Serge last night but fear had held her back. Fear of it only being some sort of sexual conquest on his part, of opening herself up to another man only to have her sensibilities ripped apart. It was only a kiss, she reminded herself, but she had never felt so strongly attracted to a man in her life, and she needed to be sure before she went any further.

Thinking about it now, she tried not to have any regrets. Serge hadn’t walked away, and this morning he wanted to see her. He was keen. He liked her. He was making an effort.

Except he was late.

She glanced at her little watch, with its pretty diamond-studded face. She had bought it for herself soon after she’d landed the job with Verado. Most people had parents or significant others to help mark special occasions like that. A psychologist friend had told her it was important that when you didn’t have those mainstays in your life to make an effort to look after yourself, and so she had. And every morning
when she slipped it onto her wrist she felt she was taking care of herself.

I’ll give him another five minutes, she told herself. He’s only a quarter of an hour late. Maybe it was traffic. But definitely five minutes. Maybe at a stretch ten…

‘Hello, beautiful girl.’

He was idling in front of her table, all height and muscles and testosterone. She took in the jeans, white T-shirt, brown leather jacket. He was freshly shaved, hair tousled, energy rolling off him in waves. Clementine didn’t look at him so much as collide with his deep green Tartar eyes, and her heart began to do a thuddy thing that made it hard to hear over the pounding of blood in her ears.

‘Oh, hi.’ She endeavoured to sound casual.

He gestured abruptly to the waiter. ‘What would you like to eat,
kisa
?’

‘Oh, I can’t stay,’ said Clementine, getting herself together. ‘I’m supposed to be at my job, and you’re late, so I can only give you five minutes.’

He dragged a chair up close to her and straddled it. As he dropped in front of her she gave an involuntary jump. His sudden physical proximity made it very difficult to hold her ground and her first instinct was to retreat back in her chair. He smiled knowingly, as if her reticence was exactly what he was after.

‘Give me five minutes, then.’

Unaccountably she flashed back to how last night had ended. Even now her cheeks grew warm as she remembered Luke’s condoms, like neon signs pulsing on her bedside table. He probably hadn’t thought anything of it, but she had blushed, and he’d certainly seen that, and she had spent last night tossing and turning—convinced he’d seen through her to the gauche girl she sometimes felt herself still to be. That was before Joe Carnegie had torn the scales from her eyes.

He was studying her face, her pink cheeks, lingering on her mouth. ‘You are a gorgeous woman, Clementine.’

She’d been told that before, although it wasn’t strictly true. She was far from being a beauty. Her nose was slightly too long, her chin a little pointed, and she had too many freckles…

‘Am I?’ She made herself hold his gaze. ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you.’

Oh, she liked that. ‘I’m flattered.’

His eyes were knowing, full of promise. They were playing some sort of game, she recognised, except she didn’t know the rules.

‘I’ve got a proposal for you,
kisa
.’

Clementine gave an internal sigh of relief. Mentally she began shifting her entire afternoon. Surely she could carve out a few hours before the launch, when all the work had been done, and she
had
planned to take a nap and get ready for the evening.

She really,
really
wanted to spend more time with him.

Serge studied her expectant expression and the rest of her, liking what he saw. She was all dressed up this morning, in a dark blue suit, but managed by dint of the pinched waist of her jacket and the cling of her pencil skirt to look outrageously sexy. In a classy sort of way. This look played havoc with his hormones in a way the tight leather skirt hadn’t. He liked her all covered up. It made it more of a challenge to imagine what was underneath.

Well, here went nothing.

‘I’ve got to fly to New York City tomorrow on business, I’d like you to come with me.’

Clementine felt as if she’d been slammed at speed into a wall.

‘I’m staying in the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons for
a week. I think you’d enjoy yourself, Clementine—a little pampering, some nice restaurants, buying you some pretty dresses, see a show…me.’

Him. Clementine felt sick. She was thrust back in time to Joe’s smooth delivery as she had bleated across the table at him, ‘But I don’t want you to buy me a place to live. Anyway, I have a place to live.’ And he’d frowned and told her he wasn’t spending his free time in London shagging her in a shared flat.

That brutal. And that fast she’d lost all her girlish illusions. The next morning the newspaper had shredded her self-respect.

‘I understand it’s presumptuous, but I need to be there, and I think we have something, Clementine. I’d like to explore that.’

She picked herself up and brushed herself off. ‘Would you?’ Her voice came out like a shard of ice.

It was happening all over again.

He was offering her stuff as if she were for sale. As if her body was for sale. Because
come with me to New York City, baby
wasn’t an invitation to enjoy his hospitality without serving herself up to him on a plate.

More fool her.

All she’d wanted was a date. A chance to spend some more time with him, get to know him. All of it hopelessly naive.

Right in front of her was the reason she had tried to settle down with boys who didn’t push, who weren’t driven by their libidos—nice, gentle guys who in the end left her cold. Men like Serge were the other end of the spectrum—exciting, challenging, but fuelled by testosterone, confident in their ability to run the world on their own terms and by extension run her.

Well, she was running in the other direction. She’d learned her lesson. She wasn’t some rich man’s plaything.

She stood up so abruptly her chair almost toppled over onto the pavement. ‘That’s quite an offer, Serge, but I think you’ve got the wrong girl,’ she said hotly.

He was on his feet, not looking so sure of himself now. She could actually see him thinking. Probably working out which girl was next on his list to invite for a little nookie in New York. God, men could make you feel like crap.

‘Clem?’

She turned as Luke’s hands closed around her upper arms.

‘Are you okay, babe?’ He was looking Serge up and down. ‘Have you upset her, mate?’

Given any other situation, Luke’s suddenly aggressive stance in support of her would have been amusing. It was kind of like a meerkat standing up to a Siberian tiger.

Serge’s gaze had narrowed on Luke’s hands, and she couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. Did he actually think she now belonged to him? One date and her body was his to ship off to his penthouse for his use? Was he going to take on Luke? Because she didn’t think her gentle friend was going to come off pretty face intact!

She shook her head at Luke. ‘It’s all fine, sweetie. Let’s get back.’ She cast Serge a frosty look. ‘I’m finished here.’

Serge went cold.
What in the hell had just happened?

Had he not been explicit enough in everything he’d offered her? It was a very lucrative deal over and above the sex. What was going on? Was she holding out for something else?

Okay, maybe he’d been a little cocky about it. But he’d been so convinced she’d say yes.

She’d said no.
Had
she said no?

And now she was with this metrosexual guy who was bristling like a guard dog at him.

As if he’d ever hurt a woman in his life. Suddenly what had seemed simple and straightforward felt like a huge mistake.