Untouched by His Diamonds (11 page)

Gone the way of the fairies, Clementine. Because he never existed. Now that he’d had her he’d cooled off. She’d heard about guys like him. Once the chase was over so was the romance. She snorted. She’d been such an idiot. The romance she’d been hoping for hadn’t even got off the ground because there never
had
been any romance.

Serge knocked once, for appearances’ sake, then opened the bathroom door. There she was—one of his afternoon’s fantasies come to life. All six feet of naked Clementine, with water running over her pale honey skin, the graceful seashell-pink-tipped
breasts, the narrow waist that only made the extravagant flare of her hips and bottom all the more dramatic, and those long, long legs.

She turned, sensing him, and those lovely eyes of hers narrowed.

‘Don’t even try it, Marinov.’

But he knew the battles he could win, and this was one of them.

Fully dressed, he stepped under the water stream, hands sliding around her. When she opened her mouth to swear a blue streak at him he took it as his invitation to lower his head and kiss her.

Clementine put up a good fight against her desire for him, holding off for at least five seconds before she spread her hands over his shoulders and pressed herself up against him. With his arms around her he felt solid and exciting, and everything fell away except for this. The way he made her feel. Beautiful, wanted, safe.

So many firsts, she thought later as she sat on the bed, wrapped in a big warm towel, knowing she needed to go and get dressed.

It was all playing through her head. Serge hadn’t even removed his clothes—just unzipped and it had been happening, and her need had climbed with his at breakneck speed. What was wrong with her? She should have yelled at him—not had sex with him.

He was treating her like a convenience.

It was never more obvious than when he came out of the
en suite
bathroom, towelling dry his hair. He glanced at the digital clock and swore softly in Russian.

More disappointed with him by the minute, she said sharply, ‘Going to be late, Serge? Never mind—just tell your friends you couldn’t keep it zipped up. I’m sure it’s not the first time.’

He dropped the towel to his side. He looked genuinely shocked.

Good. For five whole seconds she had a little payback.

But then he drawled, ‘It’s work, Clementine, and it’s twenty-four-seven. Welcome to my world.’ He threw the towel onto a chair and slid open a drawer. ‘And, by the way, crudity doesn’t suit you. I’d prefer you continued to behave like the lady you are.’

‘Except when I’ve got my legs wrapped around your waist in the shower,’ she shot back, hurt.

He flashed a charismatic smile over his shoulder. ‘Exactly.’

Oh, boy. A streak of healthy cleansing anger ripped through her body. She was
so
out of here. His week of pleasure had just got foreshortened to one night. When he got back she’d be gone. Over the hills. Far, far away.

But even as she formed the thought of escape she dug her toes a little more firmly into the carpet. Oh, yes, Clementine, look at you running. Like
that’s
going to happen. You’ve never been with a man like this and it’s exciting, and despite everything you want to at least try and see if this can go somewhere better. Besides, he’s got you wrapped around his little finger and he knows it. Why would he let you go yet? As long as he wants you you’ll stay.

And with that all the anger fell away and all she felt was confusion.

What was going on? Was she sulking? Serge tugged on some briefs, pulled on his jeans. Glanced over at her again.

She was snapping at him as if he’d done something to disappoint her. Yet she’d climaxed around him in the shower. Hadn’t she?

Was that the problem? Had she been faking it? The thought brought him up cold. He prided himself on giving a woman the pleasure she deserved in exchange for the gift of her body,
and the notion that he hadn’t lived up to Clementine’s expectations wiped out any thought other than remedying that.

He strolled over and dropped to his knees at her feet. Clementine stared at him in astonishment as he tugged playfully on her towel, parting it to reveal her thighs.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Makings things better. Lie back,
kisa
, and think happy thoughts.’

He had to be joking. Clementine grabbed the towel and pulled it back down to her knees, tucking her legs up under her as fast as she could. ‘Don’t you dare.’

A challenge? A wicked smile lit up his face, but no answering invitation came from Clementine.

She glared at him. ‘Your bedside manner needs a lot of work, mate.’

The smile was gone. In its place was disbelief. ‘You love it,
kisa
.’

The sheer arrogance of the man! ‘Love what? Being pawed at?’ Her voice trembled a little with the anger and confusion she was feeling—waking up alone this morning, being abandoned again now. ‘Sex isn’t just physical, Serge. Haven’t you worked that out by now?’

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 jacket, Boots.’

T
HE
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.