‘Wow,’ she said inadequately as she stepped into sheer luxury. ‘This is—incredible.’

The extravagance of the hotel suite was another reminder of exactly who Serge was. A rich man. Who could buy a great deal to keep himself happy. No doubt including women.

But not this woman. She needed to make that very clear to him. Somehow.

‘I’m not that impressed, you know. Money doesn’t do it for me.’

‘What does do it for you, Clementine?’ He was smiling at her, that big lazy Russian male smile, as if he knew something she didn’t.

‘Honesty,’ she replied. ‘Sincerity.’

The smile darkened to something else.

She’d surprised him.

About the Author

LUCY ELLIS has four loves in life: books, expensive lingerie, vintage films and big, gorgeous men who have to duck going through doorways. Weaving aspects of them into her fiction is the best part of being a romance writer. Lucy lives in a small cottage in the foothills outside Melbourne.

Recent titles by the same author:

INNOCENT IN THE IVORY TOWER

Did you know this title is also available as an ebook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Untouched by His Diamonds

Lucy Ellis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

CLEMENTINE did a double-take in front of the ornate windows, almost pressing her nose up to the glass.

Lust—that was what she was feeling. Unadulterated desire.

In the window sat her Anna Karenina fantasy. Thigh-high, fur-lined, suede Russian boots.

She told herself she was only in St Petersburg for one more day after today. She deserved something to remember it by.

Five minutes later she was standing on the worn raspberry-coloured carpet inside, sliding one stockinged foot and then the other into her dream. She felt like Cinderella trying on her glass slippers. The real test was zipping them up above her knees. She was six feet tall and her legs held much of her height. She had shape to them. She had shape to all of her.

She almost gave a whoop of delight when the boots zipped up a treat.

The girl kneeling before her lifted the flaps. ‘They can go higher. Shall we try?’

She spoke English, but in these luxury stores everybody did.

Without hesitation Clementine hitched up her burgundy leather skirt, feeling slightly naughty as she flashed her suspenders. She reached down and pulled the fur-lined suede up and up, to kiss the fleshy curve of her inner thigh.

Her legs looked impossibly long with the leather skirt clinging to her hips. Absorbed in her own reflection, she slung out a leg and stroked the fur meditatively. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement behind her in the mirror, and looked up to collide with the gaze of a man standing by the door.

He wasn’t idling in the doorway, lurking. He was purposefully filling the space. Announcing his presence up front. Owning it.

And he was looking right at her.

He had to have a head of height on her, and he was built to go with it, and Clementine would bet her last pair of designer knickers on that size being one hundred per cent lean muscle.

He was quite a sight. They didn’t make men like that any more.

Maybe they had in earlier centuries, when Russian men went into battle with muskets, or even earlier when they needed to club things and skin animals to feed their families. Oh, yes, she could imagine him half naked and marked by claw-marks across his back and chest, bestriding the steppes. In fact—she nibbled her bottom lip—she could imagine that quite vividly.

But nowadays, in an age of technology and convenience and the liberation of women, you just didn’t need men like this any more.

Except in bed. An unexpected flush of warmth moved through her body.

Imagine if he laid his hands on you.

Imagine if it was him adjusting the tops of your boots.

Her eyes flicked to the mirror and registered that the Cossack hadn’t shifted an inch, but instinctively she just knew he’d moved some muscles because the look on his face mirrored her own: unadulterated fascination. With her. Male, down-and-dirty fascination. As if she was his own personal little sex show.

Clementine felt his eyes on her like a slow burn, sliding straight up the inside of her bare, exposed leg. It was that good, and almost as tantalising as being touched.

She should cover herself up, but after a year of keeping herself nice she was enjoying the attention. It was harmless. If this guy wanted to look, let him look. It wasn’t as if he could put his hands on her. They were strangers. It was a public place. She was safe.

She was enjoying it.

She bent down, nice and slow, folding over one fur flap to reveal the length of her bare upper thigh and then the other. Then she ever so slowly tugged down the leather bunched at her hips and lengthened her skirt, inch by inch, as she had seen so many models do for the camera, until she was decently covered.

There. Show over.

Time to pay for the beauties, head back to the rats’ nest where she was staying and catch up on some sleep. Except when she looked back at the mirror the Cossack was still there, holding up the world on those big shoulders. He’d folded his arms and Clementine registered powerful muscle under the strain of his jacket.

Her pulse leapt. He was every woman’s fantasy, and also a little bit scary—not only because of his size. With his clear intent she got the absolute impression he was waiting for her.

A shivering awareness ran through her body like an electrical shock, but she got herself moving, fumbling with her handbag as she dug out the equivalent cost of her meals for the rest of the week to pay for the boots.

‘You have an admirer,’ said the girl, boxing up her old shoes with a discreet glance in the direction of the door.

‘Probably a shoe fetishist,’ murmured Clementine, but there was a smile on her lips as she said it.

Inhaling a deep breath, she swung round and headed for the exit—only to discover he wasn’t there. She actually dropped a step, idling for a moment in the doorway, disappointed.

She emerged into the street and swung her designer bag as she headed south—and that was when she spotted him. Leaning against a limo, thumbs in designer pockets, running a gaze over her that sped up and slowed down depending on which part of her body he got hooked on. Clementine lost a breath and then her heartbeat raced.

Okay, Clementine, walk on, she lectured herself. There’s no way you’re going over there and introducing yourself. Guys dressed like that with limos on tap were not territory she wished to stray into. She’d already had her brush with his type. Never again. The industry she worked in was rife with women who cashed in on their desirability for a certain lifestyle. She wasn’t one of them, and she wasn’t starting now.

Serge fastened on the sway of her hips as she walked away, flashing those sensational thighs showcased by fur and sheer stockings. He knew what was holding those stockings up: delicate midnight-blue suspenders.

He had been leaving the jeweller Krassinsky’s, where he’d left his father’s wedding cufflinks to be repaired, and crossing the art nouveau atrium that linked several high-end stores in this building when he had spotted her through the shop’s entrance.

A young woman bent at the waist, a leather skirt hiked up around her hips, as comfortable in the middle of the shop as if it had been her boudoir, her shapely bottom encased in burgundy leather, swaying provocatively. He’d seen two strips of pale flesh before the lacy tops of her stockings took over, attached to delicate suspenders.

It had ground him to a standstill.

When she’d started tugging up those boots lust had flashed through him like a lightning strike.

If she’d stopped there he might have dragged himself away, but all of a sudden she’d hooked out a leg and he’d got an eyeful of her inner thigh—that soft, fleshy curve at the very top of a woman’s leg, pressed into prominence by the clasp of the stockings clinging to her legs. Serge had swallowed hard as she’d begun smoothing the fur right up to that spot.

That’s the girl—a bit higher…very nice.

As if hearing his thoughts she’d lifted her head and met his gaze in the freestanding mirror. She’d frozen. Her face was heart-shaped, her mouth wide, her chin pointed. Despite the clothes, despite the pose, despite the lashings of make-up, she looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He had waited for her reaction and been rewarded by a small private smile, and then she’d bent and slowly peeled the fur down to expose the tops of her thighs. To him.

Because it had all been for him. She’d known he was watching her.

Which had made it incredibly hot.

As her skirt had slithered down he’d known he’d be thinking not only about that spot at the top of her left thigh but also about her smile for the rest of his day.

He’d watched the girl switch her attention to the salesgirl—no longer his little show but simply a woman making a purchase—and it had chastened him. This wasn’t Amsterdam. She wasn’t on the market and she wasn’t his type. The hooker look had never interested him, and whatever frisson she had got from the experience was over.

He’d left her to it, but as he’d handed his bag over to his driver he’d found himself lingering by the car, just waiting to see her emerge. Curious, interested.

She stepped out of the building in those ridiculous boots and above the revving of his libido he got the full impact of a fifties pin-up come to life. Lustrous golden-brown hair, narrow shoulders, full breasts, curvaceous hips and a lick of a waist. Her legs were strong and shapely and went on and on. And on.

The realist inside him told him he should let her go. He had places to be, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t find another woman to warm his bed.

Then she moved and he forgot about every plan he had for the rest of the day.

He knew the moment she noticed him. Her lashes dropped, screened her eyes, and she just took off, those sensational legs in those infamous boots eating up the pavement. Her leather skirt twitched provocatively over the bounce of her heart-shaped bottom. She’d be gone in a few minutes, lost in the late-afternoon crowd.

As if sensing his indecision, she chose that moment to turn her head over one pretty shoulder and give him a smile Mona Lisa would have envied. Subtle, but it was there. Come and get me.

Then she was off with a swish of her long hair.

Serge propelled himself away from the car, and with a brusque instruction to his driver to follow took off after her.

Clementine hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d cast a last look over her shoulder, and when she’d seen his gaze was still glued to her she’d smiled. Apparently that was enough—because now he was coming after her.

Instinctively she sped up, her whole body tightening with anticipation.

When she checked again he was still there, impossible to miss, taller than anyone else, a big, insanely gorgeous man, with chestnut hair falling carelessly over his temples, curling at the base of his broad neck. In the bright sunshine she could see the faint shadow of where he’d shaved, and the square cut of his chin and the sheer bravado of his grin as he caught her looking.

She shouldn’t be encouraging this. She should turn around on this crowded street and confront him. But she didn’t. She slowed down. She put a little more sway in her hips and kept walking.

She checked again. He was clocking her, but not closing in. She felt relatively safe.

Serge pulled back his pace momentarily as Boots turned out of the Nevsky, watched her cross against the schizophrenic traffic, earning a few hoots and screeching tyres from drivers—probably more at the sight of those long legs than any traffic infringement.

She had a real energy in her body that translated into the sexiest walk he had ever seen on a woman. And what struck him was the fact that she seemed utterly oblivious to the chaos she caused around her.

He didn’t want to lose her.

Clementine risked another glance over her shoulder but she couldn’t see him. Disappointment slowed her walk, prosaic reality returning with every step. Game over. Damn.

Up ahead was the underpass. She hated those mucky tunnels, never felt completely safe, but it was the only route she knew. The boots were starting to rub, and without the distraction of her ridiculous sexual fantasy the worries of the day began to crowd into her mind.

Serge stood at the kerb and watched as she began to descend into the underpass on her own. He saw the danger closing in around her at the same moment, and without another thought launched into a run.

Bozhe, this woman took chances. She’d known he was on her tail, and now two men were honing in on her bag, flapping on that lavish hip, and she just kept walking, lost in her own little world.

She shouldn’t be let out on her own. The thought briefly crossed his mind before the more savage Take them down intruded and he lunged into the underpass, aiming at the guy who was already reaching for the strap of her bag.

He grabbed her assailant by the scuff of his neck and dragged him off.

It was satisfying to use his body for something other than sitting in a plane and a car. He was fit—boxing and running took care of that—but to fight was in his blood and he hadn’t had one in many years.

Not that it was proving much of a challenge. The first assailant launched a fist that he blocked.

Instead of acting smart and getting the hell out of the way, Boots was launching an attack of her own with her bag, smacking it with gusto into the back of the head of the guy nearest her.

She distracted him and the first guy got in a lucky punch, grazing his face. Fast was best, and Serge slugged him one, then zeroed in on the second thug who moved fast, snatching the bag she was flapping around as if it was a club.

At least she wasn’t stupid. She let go, and the guy started running. The one on the ground crawled to his feet and took off, leaving Serge flexing his knuckles and alone with Boots.

‘You let him go!’ She was standing there in that short skirt, looking outraged.

At him.

Serge shrugged, rubbing his abused jaw. He didn’t feel like explaining that beating both men to a pulp was the only way he could have kept them there, and that her safety had been foremost in his mind. Instead he opted for the more obvious standby. ‘Are you all right?’

‘They took my bag!’ she wailed.

Foreign. British? Her voice was pitched low, slightly husky.

‘You’re lucky that’s all they took,’ he answered her in English. ‘These underpasses aren’t safe. If you’d read your guidebook, moya krasavitsa, you’d know that.’

She looked at him with clear grey eyes full of reproach.

‘So it’s my fault, is it?’

She had her hands on her hips now, stretching that white satin blouse across her breasts until the buttons strained. Bozhe, there was black lace under the white. This girl seemed incapable of keeping her clothes on. She was a walking incitement to the male libido. What did she expect was going to happen to her if she went around dressed like this?

Bizarrely, he wanted to tear off his jacket and wrap it around her—which would just ruin his view.

She wasn’t quite what he’d expected up close. She was better, but in a less upfront, more feminine way, and the longer he looked at her the more other things began to leap out besides the obvious. Up close she was younger than he had imagined—closer to twenty than thirty. It was all that make-up. She didn’t need it. Her skin was luscious, like a ripe peach.

She swore creatively, pushing the fringe off her forehead. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said fiercely.

He had the answer to that, but he would wait for her to suggest it.

Hands still firmly on her hips, she walked a few steps in the other direction, then turned and met his eyes properly for the first time. Some of the agitation had left her, and she turned up a face more interesting than conventionally attractive. She had thick brown eyelashes and clear grey eyes and a dappling of freckles across her nose.

She really was lovely.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’ve been very rude to you. Thanks for scaring them off. You didn’t have to, but it was a nice thing to do.’

He hadn’t expected that—or her sincerity. He shrugged it off. He didn’t need to get sentimental about picking up a girl in downtown St Petersburg. He only had to drop his gaze ever so slightly to remind himself she wasn’t a shrinking violet.

‘Don’t men look after women where you come from, kisa?’

‘I imagine they do.’ She gave an awkward shrug, then another one of those little smiles of hers. ‘Just not me. But thanks again.’

With that she took off, the slender heels on those boots clicking on the cobbles. She held out her arms stiffly from her body, as if balancing herself, a gesture that reminded him she had experienced a nasty shock.

He couldn’t believe she was walking away.

Damn. ‘Hold up.’

She looked over her shoulder.

‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

She hesitated, looked at him with those doe eyes, and said, ‘No, I don’t think so. But thanks, Slugger,’ and damn well kept walking.

Click, click, click.

CHAPTER TWO

GODDAMN. Unbelievable…

Clementine hobbled over a puddle, heading towards the light at the end of the underpass, cursing under her breath. She tried to focus on the practicalities. She would have to find the embassy. She would have to borrow money from her friend Luke. She would have to phone her bank in London. She would do it all once she’d had a little sit-down and a cry.

Her handbag was her lifeline.

It was her own fault. She was usually much more street smart than this. She’d been so wrapped up in her little fantasy with the Cossack she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d ruined that too. She’d been too shaken, too tongue-tied to do anything more than try to block him out whilst she extricated herself from the situation even after he’d rushed in to save her.

Her chest gave a little flutter at that thought. He’d been magnificent. He’d just handled it. You didn’t run into guys like that in London.

The light hit her face and, pulling awkwardly at her skirt, she ascended the steps. She was chilled despite the sun, and that was her own fault too. She should have changed out of this ridiculous outfit Verado liked her to wear, back into her street clothes. But there hadn’t been time, and she’d left the bag of clothes at the store, and now she was wandering the streets of St Petersburg in great boots but frankly looking a little too uncovered for her own liking.

Emerging into the street, she hobbled over to a nearby kiosk and took a seat. She was really shivering now, and it didn’t have much to do with her lack of layers. She supposed it was delayed shock, but she also felt naked without her bag—vulnerable. She was used to depending on herself and that bag had everything she needed to keep herself safe. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t sent the Cossack away.

It was useless going back to her lodgings. She needed to head back into the city centre, find Luke.

That was when she saw the limo. It was idling across the road, one of its doors angled wide, and then she saw him, striding straight towards her. He’d removed his jacket and had his hands shoved into his pockets, so that the fabric of his superfine blue shirt pulled taut across a muscular chest and abdomen. Clementine’s miserable thoughts dwindled to a virtual halt. He looked powerful and it wasn’t just his size. It was the way he held himself, with tremendous confidence and that measured response to what was going on around him she had seen in action in the underpass.

But what he was giving her now was full sensual male interest. Clementine told herself she could handle men, but all her female instincts were telling her she couldn’t handle this man at all.

He was so male as to be of another species.

Big shoulders, big arms, hard thighs—long and lean and coming straight at her.

He’d crunched bones for her, broken skin, shed blood.

‘Come on, get in. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’ He spoke abruptly, his voice deep and deliberate.

She just sat there, looking up, trying to clamber over the overwhelmed feeling to something more considered.

He lifted those big hands of his. ‘I’m a good guy. I don’t wish you any harm. You need some help, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Clementine said softly, distracted by the intensity of his green eyes.

‘Are you staying far from here?’

Clementine knew she should tell him nothing and refuse the ride. But he had helped her. He had put himself at risk for a stranger. This was a good guy. This was a very, very sexy man. This would buy her a little more time with him. And she was so tired of looking after herself. It wouldn’t hurt to accept a lift.

‘Do you know where the Australian embassy is?’

‘I’ll find it.’

And she believed he would.

Serge gave directions to his driver, watched as those long legs folded themselves into his car, slid in alongside her, observed her scoot over to put a respectable distance between them. Then she shifted forward and leant down.

She was unzipping the boots.

The shell of each boot collapsed and she tugged one stockinged foot out, then the other, revealing her long legs in those sheer pale stockings that gleamed like silk. Her activity seemed unselfconscious, as if he couldn’t possibly be interested, but of course she had to know what she was doing. She wriggled her toes and cocked a curious look at him up through her lashes.

‘Sorry, honey,’ she said. ‘They’re new, and they’re rubbing.’

She pressed her knees primly together and folded her hands in her lap, utterly ladylike.

She was incredible.

‘You’re Australian? From Sydney?’ His own voice sounded hoarse, and he gave an inward laugh at his susceptibility to this woman.

‘Melbourne.’ She smiled, her eyes not quite meeting his. It was such a subtle smile. She kept her lips pursed, as if she was keeping a secret.

If only she’d stop rubbing her knees together. The shub-shub of the fabric was highly stimulating to his imagination.

‘So far away. What are you doing in Petersburg? Business or pleasure?’

‘Both. I’m here working.’ She gave a little shrug as if it wasn’t important. Those lips parted into a more open smile. ‘But I’ve dreamed of seeing St Petersburg. It’s so romantic, so full of history.’

‘You like what you’ve seen so far?’

‘Very much.’ She gave him a sidelong look, making it clear she wasn’t talking about the city—and didn’t that just notch up the temperature in the car? She turned her head away, made a show of looking out of the window, exposing the length of her lovely pale throat, and he dwelt on the golden tendrils of silky hair tickling against her neck.

He decided to cut to the chase. ‘When do you leave?’

She met his gaze, let him see those grey eyes, darker now than when he had first seen them. ‘My contract winds up tomorrow.’

Two days. Perfect. ‘Such a shame,’ he mused.

‘What do you do?’ she ventured. ‘I mean, you must do something—you’re riding around in a limo.’ She laughed nervously. ‘You’re either rich or something else.’

He laughed low, and watched the pulse in her throat give a little throb. ‘Or something else,’ he murmured, which clearly intrigued her.

‘You’re not one of those overnight millionaires you read about, are you, honey?’

‘Nyet, sorry to disappoint you. I worked very hard for my first million.’

‘Right.’ Those slender hands fluttered in her lap. She was obviously attracted to him, but the money helped. His inner cynic gave a rueful shrug.

‘This would be the moment to ask you, if you’re not otherwise engaged, to join me for dinner tonight.’

He actually saw her swallow. She moistened her lower lip, dragging his attention to the contours of her mouth. She looked at him through her lashes. ‘You work fast. I’ll give you that.’

‘You haven’t given me much time.’

‘Oh, I can’t imagine that stopping you.’

‘Nothing much does, kisa.’

She gave a negligent little shrug, a naughty sparkle in her grey eyes. ‘Okay, Slugger, we’ll see how you do.’

A challenge—and didn’t he just relish that?

Lifting his head above the pleasure horizon, he made a quick judgement call. This girl clearly liked to play games, however guarded she was being now. It was reasonable to wonder how many other men she’d played them with.

He hesitated.

Did it matter?

This was his favourite type of female. A woman with a sparkle in her eyes and a willingness to just enjoy herself. No ties, no drama. No happy-ever-afters.

This girl was clearly that woman.

Libido humming nicely, he gave her body a comprehensive, less polite once-over. In response she surprised him. Her hands knotted up in her lap and her shoulders tensed. That little Mona Lisa smile flickered and vanished. She turned the lights down low on her eyes with those thick lashes.

Chastened, he put a clamp on his imagination.

It was a reminder that he needed to be kind and considerate and gentlemanly—as he would be with any other woman.

And look after her until she waved goodbye in a few days’ time.

She was going on a date with the Cossack.

Clementine’s imagination was beginning to gallop, but before it did perhaps she should take the opportunity to clear a few things up. But what was she going to say? I don’t make a practice of putting on sex shows for strange men? I’ve agreed to dinner but that’s it. I’m a nice girl.

But he had asked her to dinner, hadn’t he?

And he’d rescued her.

That was huge. She was still feeling a little breathless over that.

And, honestly, how nice a girl was she?

He really should be rewarded.

A little smile formed on her lips.

She needed to think this through. She’d seen the way he’d looked her over, as if making a sexual inventory of the bits he’d like. She knew which way this road led and she didn’t want to walk it again. Not even for a Cossack whose incredible green eyes made her tremble behind the knees and her nipples perk up.

He had one arm spread along the top of the seat, so that his hand hung just inches from her shoulder. He had positioned himself so he was angled towards her, long muscular legs stretched out. Without his jacket she could see the hard width of his shoulders and the taut flat belly delineated by the fitted dark blue shirt, crisp on his large frame. He really was mouthwateringly delicious.

For crying out loud—she had to stop this now! She didn’t even know his name, or he hers. She could remedy that, at least.

‘I’m Clementine Chevalier, by the way,’ she said, sticking out her hand in a forthright fashion.

‘Clementine.’ His accent did wonderful things to her name. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and she felt the tingle all through her girly bits as he turned her endeavour to keep their interaction on a guy-to-guy basis into an old-fashioned gesture. The sort of gesture that got her just where her inner princess lived.

‘I am Serge—Serge Marinov.’ Serj, she pronounced silently, practised it a couple of times. It was far too sexy. She was such a goner.

Expectation shimmered in the air. The car had glided to a halt. Clementine registered belatedly that they were no longer moving and hit ground level as real life intruded again. She reached for her boots.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ She sounded breathless even to her own ears. ‘Should I give you my address or shall I meet you somewhere …?’ She trailed off.

‘I will collect you,’ he said, as if this was the only logical response, ‘and I think you should let me handle the embassy.’

Okay. She wasn’t going to argue over that. ‘You really want this date,’ she observed as he opened her door, helped her out.

He gave her an inscrutable smile. ‘How am I doing?’

‘How do you think?’ She threw a feminine sway into her hips and preceded him into the building, enjoying herself far too much.

People were looking at them.

Probably wondering what a girl like her was doing with a guy like him.

She was wondering the same thing.

Clementine had pictured queues, waiting endlessly, forms to be filled in. Apparently Serge Marinov didn’t live in that world. He lived in a parallel universe where you were taken upstairs to a plush office and offered tea or coffee or something stronger, and where a senior official turned up in a neat business suit and low heels, eyes lighting up as she focussed on Serge. The woman was so poised and elegant, her flirtatiousness pitch perfectly low-key, giving Clementine a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew women must fawn over him all the time.

Yet he had saved her from who knew what in that underpass, and he’d asked her out to dinner, and now he was making a difficult situation evaporate. He was putting in all the work. And within an astonishing half an hour Clementine was sorted: passport, visa, bank account. All of it done and dusted.

‘Who on earth are you?’ she blurted out as they descended the marble stairs of the embassy building. It was shabby and worn, but the interior had clearly once been a beautiful example of early nineteenth-century classicism. In any other situation she would have lingered to take it all in, but right now all she was interested in was the man beside her.

‘I have a few contacts in the city,’ he answered neutrally. ‘Where can I take you now?’

Anywhere you want, a little voice sang. The boring, nice middle-class girl part of her gave him her address, registered his disapproval.

‘Is it too far out of your way?’

‘It’s not a particularly savoury area.’

‘I’m sure your car will be all right—I mean you can just drop me and go.’

That stopped him in his tracks. ‘I am concerned that a woman is living alone in this building. Who arranged this for you?’

‘It’s a work thing.’ Clementine shrugged, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She put her game face back on. ‘It’s fine, really. I’m a big girl, Serge.’

It was the first time she had said his name and it ran through her like electricity. He seemed to like it too, because he was suddenly idling in front of her, blocking her view of the reception area and the street with his body. She liked it that she could barely see over his shoulder, even in her heels.

He seemed to read her thoughts, because he leaned in a little closer and said softly, ‘You seem much too lovely to be staying there on your own.’

Clementine felt the backs of her knees give. She found her gaze buzzing on the line of his mouth. It was so unforgiving, yet there was a softness in his lower lip. She wanted to press her thumb there, see if she could coax a smile out of him. Just for her.

‘You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl,’ she said, as lightly as she could, but her voice came out a whole octave lower.

He leant in, his breath soft on her ear. ‘Do you need sweet-talking?’

‘A little,’ she demurred, the sudden rush of response in her body embarrassing her.

He gave her a slow, knowing smile. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

This date wasn’t just about dinner. She’d been a little slow on that score. Already she’d been planning her dress, and imagining candlelight and waiters bringing champagne and being romanced, when she should probably be thinking about lingerie and condoms.

It was stupid to feel disappointed. He was here now and all of this had started because of sex. And he expected it was going to end with sex. She was a big girl. She understood how it all worked. She’d learned the hard way that guys like this didn’t date working girls like her with a view to a future. But she needed to make a decision about how she was going to handle that before she went any further.

Not that he’d pushed anything. Apart from that brief gesture of his lips on her hand he had not laid a finger on her. He was all well-mannered restraint. She felt completely safe with him, and enormously grateful, and suddenly horribly self-conscious—because all of a sudden she wondered if he looked at her and saw what another man had seen in her unhappy past: a sure thing.

The Vassiliev Building. He wouldn’t kennel a dog there. Yet this warm, vibrant girl was sleeping there. Probably with a lock on the door a five-year-old could snap.

If there were no funds she should be staying in one of those concrete hotels that housed tourists. They weren’t attractive but at least they were safe. Well, this was the last time she’d be sleeping here, so that problem was solved.

It still went against the grain to let her out here, and Serge found himself accompanying her inside and up the stairwell. She seemed embarrassed, as if the dire surroundings were somehow her fault.

She’d been quiet on the drive across town from the embassy. He’d expected a little flirting, but she’d gone back to pinning her knees together and she hadn’t taken off her boots. The mixed messages didn’t bother him as much as watching her let herself into that room and knowing he was going to leave her there.

She was unbelievably trusting. She had climbed into his car. She had given him her details. She’d probably open this door to anyone.

‘Keep this locked,’ he said, thumping the doorjamb with the side of his fist. ‘Don’t open the door to anyone you don’t know.’

She had sort of angled the door so he couldn’t see inside. Either that or she was worried he was going to lunge at her now they were in stepping distance of a bed. Which didn’t make sense. She’d been more in danger of that in the back of the limo. But he had no intention of rushing anything. A few hours wasn’t going to make much difference, and he intended to work Clementine Chevalier over so thoroughly she wouldn’t forget St Petersburg in a hurry.

It was going to be very mutually enjoyable.

If she stopped giving him these glimpses of vulnerability and expectation. As if simple consideration was something she hadn’t much experience of.

He handed her his card. ‘This is my number. Call me if you have any hassles. I’ll be here at eight.’

She nodded, those grey eyes wary in her heart-shaped face. Then that sweet curve at the corner of her mouth made its appearance, and Serge fought free of an impulse to lean in and kiss her—because once he did that he’d be setting up a softer scenario than the one he had planned.

Straight up sex, not seduction. That was on the menu for tonight and tomorrow night.

He’d save the seducing for a woman who needed it.

CHAPTER THREE

CLEMENTINE lingered in her shabby rats’ hole long enough to whip off her boots and slip on jeans and her trainers, then hightail it for the Grand Hotel Europe.

‘You’re doing what?’ Luke slid his spectacles down to the end of his nose after listening to her story.

That those glasses were only for show made the gesture all the more endearing. They had known each other since Clementine’s teenage years, when Luke had moved in next door. Meeting up with him again in a pub in London had been serendipitous. Without Luke, Clementine doubted she would have lasted more than a few months in London in that first year. He’d got her this job with the Ward Agency.

Clementine sat down on the end of his hotel bed. As head of public relations for the Verado shoot Luke got a whole room in the Grand Hotel Europe.

‘It’s just dinner, Luke.’

‘No, he ogled you in a shoe store and followed you up the Nevsky—’

‘And saved me.’

‘Saved you—right.’ Luke was all cynicism. ‘Some guy stole your bag—’

‘Two—two pretty nasty types. And then he just made the whole problem go away. Took me around in his limo.’

‘Just you make sure that’s all it is. Dinner.’

Clementine blew air up her fringe. ‘Yes, Mum.’

Luke sat down beside her on the end of the bed. ‘Sweetie, this guy isn’t the one.’

‘What one?’

‘The one you’re looking for.’

‘I’m not—’

‘Hey, Clem, remember who you’re talking to. I was there last year, remember? To pick up the pieces. This guy is rich, right? Impressive? It sounds familiar to me. You’re his type, darl, but he’s not yours.’

No, she wasn’t going to believe that. She wasn’t going to let one bad experience alter the course of her life. But she had, hadn’t she? And with Luke’s reminder reality began to seep in fast. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I really want to find out.’ She could feel her face heating up.

Luke shook his head. ‘I’m going to give you my mobile, okay? You ring me here at any hour. Wherever he takes you, you make sure you get the address, and if he wants to take you anywhere out of the city you say no—got it?’

‘He’s not a serial killer.’

‘Probably not, but he knows you’re a tourist. I can’t believe you let some strange man ogle you in public.’ But his blue eyes were twinkling. ‘Those legs of yours should be insured.’

‘They’re not that good.’ Clementine gave her thighs a pinch.

‘They’re sensational, princess. Now, listen to Uncle Luke—are you packing protection?’

Clementine blinked.

‘Hell, Clem, I know you haven’t been dating for a while, but nothing’s changed, love.’

‘Never rely on the guy,’ intoned Clementine, wondering what Luke would say if he knew she’d never had casual sex in her life.

‘Good girl.’ Luke’s expression softened. ‘But you’re not going to sleep with him, are you?’

Clementine went for an insouciant shrug, and Luke threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall when this bloke realises he’s going home alone.’

‘Maybe he just wants to get to know me better.’

Luke squeezed her knee. ‘You go on thinking that, darl, and one day pigs will fly, my flirty little puritan.’

Puritan. Hardly.

She dated. Just not in the last twelve months. But mostly she worked. She’d been working from the age of seventeen, supporting herself in any number of menial jobs, studying at night school. It didn’t leave a lot of time for relationships. Even friendships. She had loads of acquaintances—it went with her job—but only a couple of real friends. She knew the difference—just as she knew this date with Serge Marinov was a bit of fun to celebrate the end of her contract with Verado. She would flirt herself silly, and fantasise about what it would be like to be with a guy like this, and then—Cinderella-fashion—vanish at midnight.

Which reminded her…She retrieved Luke’s condoms from her clutch bag and tossed them onto the nightstand.

She only did relationship sex, whatever Luke might think.

Given the circumstances of their meeting, she tossed aside her pile of short skirts and tight tops and took out the pale green satin dress she had packed for evenings out with her co-workers. On the hanger it looked plain, but once her curves had filled it, the wide belt cinching in her waist, it was something else.

Not that she was complaining about the curves. She couldn’t help the way she was shaped, and despite all the good and bad attention it got her she wasn’t going to waste her youth hiding behind acres of fabric. The pleated bodice covered up her chest modestly enough, and fastened in a halter around her neck, leaving what she considered her best feature—her shoulders—bare.

She wound her hair into a chignon and highlighted her mouth with deep pink lipstick, then slipped on her favourite strappy gold sandals.

From the window she saw a low-slung silver sports car enter the courtyard. It had to be him. She didn’t want him coming up here again. It was too intimate, and it created a bit of a power imbalance she wasn’t comfortable with.

There was an elevator in the building, but the concierge had advised her not to use it. She teetered a bit on her heels as she reached the bottom of the stairwell, and then she saw him striding towards her. She registered the moment he saw her—and that she had literally stopped him in his tracks.

‘Hi,’ she said, a tad breathlessly.

He wore tailored trousers, the shirt open at his throat was expensive, and the dark jacket screamed money. He was so physically imposing she ground to a halt. He didn’t take his eyes off her, and there was nothing friendly in the look he gave her. For a moment all she saw was a flare of almost feral wildness in those beautiful Tartar features but then he was pulling it back, hooding his green eyes and covering the ground between them in a few steps.

Oh, Lord, she was toast.

Clementine drew her little clutch up to her waist, bent her elbows in a classic expectant pose, and waited for him.

‘You look breathtaking.’ His deep voice held the same appreciation she saw in his eyes, and for a giddy moment she thought he might bend to kiss her. But he merely reached for her elbow to guide her.

He looked so good—radiated such strength and confidence. What was it about this man that sent the blood thrumming through her body? It was all wrong, because this couldn’t be anything more than dinner.

It was a lot more than dinner. If he could, he would have driven her straight to his place and set aside the ‘getting to know you’ niceties.

He couldn’t help but admire her ability at sliding into a low-slung car. She had it down to an art form. Like much else. He watched her do it with only a slight hitching of her skirt and acknowledged she’d probably had lots of practice. Women like this required high performance cars—it came along with the body she had on offer, and Clementine was a piece of strategically engineered female design straight off the make-me-a-bombshell factory floor.

And he had her exactly where he wanted her.

He shut the door with an expensive-sounding snuck.

In under a minute he was beside her, his hand throwing the car into gear, taking in a discreet scan of that body.

‘Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

Was she nervous? A little thrown by that thought, he let the motor throb and she actually jumped.

‘Do it again,’ she encouraged.

Smiling at her enjoyment, he reversed back towards the road with the expertise he’d built up with this car, aware he was showing off. He made a mental note. She liked the car. She liked surprises.

Then she opened her mouth and trotted out that cute little accent.

‘So, where are we going, Slugger?’

‘There’s a place on the Neva I think you’ll enjoy.’

He didn’t want to take his eyes off her. How had he forgotten how much of a bombshell she was?

‘This is an incredible car,’ she commented.

‘You like fast cars, kisa?’

She gave a little shrug. ‘I guess. I like the rush.’

‘I can open it up on the highway, but it’s a no-go in the centre of the city.’ He flicked a glance over her recumbent body. ‘Why don’t you sit back and relax and enjoy the ride?’

‘I will.’

She had angled her body so that one leg was tucked behind the other, showcasing the long shapely line of her body from shoulder to breast and then to the luxurious curve of her hip and down her long, long legs to the clasp of her strappy shoes.

She was watching him; he could feel her curious gaze all over him. He almost growled as she said, ‘I like the red leather. It looks expensive.’

They’d hit a snag in traffic, and instead of looking for a way out of it he leaned back and followed the length of her slender arm, the curve of her breast, lifted his eyes to the smile on her lips. Her eyes were gleaming mischief at him.

Everything about her told him she was practised at being provocative, but her smile and the look in her eyes spoke of the fun she was having with it.

‘You like expensive things, kisa?’

‘I really like it that you’re rich,’ she answered, batting those false eyelashes at him outrageously.

‘And I really like a woman who appreciates leather. I liked your skirt this afternoon.’

‘It’s nice against my skin.’ Her cheeks were starting to turn pink.

He had to ask. ‘What else do you like against your skin?’

She laughed—that husky sound again. ‘Warmth.’ She suddenly sounded more down to earth. ‘I get cold easily.’

‘Good to know. I’ll make it my responsibility tonight to keep you from getting cold.’

‘You’ll loan me your jacket?’ Her eyes were sparkling. Her little smile had blossomed. ‘Such a gentleman.’

He gave her a look, then a second look—as if to check and see that what he’d seen the first time hadn’t altered—and then his eyes went all speculative. Male speculation.

Clementine drew herself together and settled back a little further in her seat. Maybe it was time to rein in the flirting.

She concentrated on the traffic outside, telling herself she could handle this guy. He asked her a few light questions about her time in St Petersburg and the atmosphere in the car settled down.

Feeling a little more confident, she covertly ran her gaze down the length of him. From his unruly close-cropped hair to the high planes of his face that revealed a southern Russian ancestry, the sensual jut of his mouth, the clean, solid lines of his jaw, down the strong column of his throat to his big husky body that made her cheeks burn. He was a sight to incite a female riot.

He looked at her again, and his eyes told her he knew exactly what she was doing.

Deciding to brazen it out, she said outright, ‘I like your jacket.’

He smiled, forming appealing creases around his mouth that made him appear younger, more relaxed, as if he was enjoying her company. He got the joke. He’d play nice. She found she could relax.

The traffic eased as they went over the bridge. One of his hands rested lightly on the wheel, the other throwing gears as he negotiated the car in and out of snags and got them across town with a skill that mesmerised her.

Other images began to crowd her head and it was difficult to censor them. The way he had lunged at those men—all that aggression and cracking of bone—the way he had taken physical blows for her and scared those guys off. He’d done it because underneath all the politesse and courtesy he had shown her he was a big, strong, rough guy—and didn’t it make all the girly parts of her tingle? She’d been on the money the first moment she saw him. They just didn’t make men like this any more.

‘You’ve gone quiet,’ he said, in that deep, gravelly voice.

Pulling herself together, she slammed down the reply that was on her lips. I was admiring the view.

It really was time to pull the curtains on the flirting. She was having so much fun; it was like the old days, before she’d learned how her teasing could be misconstrued.

‘I was thinking how light it is.’

‘The White Nights are almost upon us. There’s nothing quite like them.’

‘It’s a shame I won’t be here to see them. But it’s lovely right now. The light seems to mellow everything.’

He glanced at her. ‘I find that too.’

She was something else, Serge reflected as he followed the twitch of her seductively rounded bottom into the restaurant. She was built the way women used to be, before diets and gyms and size zero. She was shaped this way because that was how nature had made her.

Mother Nature had done a superlative job.

He’d decided on an out-of-the-way place—small, cosy. There was a chance Clementine wouldn’t like it. He’d brought a couple of women here before, watched them pick their way through the traditional Russian cuisine, listened to them dismiss their surroundings as quaint. But he was only in town for a couple of nights, and he loved the place. It was family run and noisy, and after eight there were gypsies.

Tonight wasn’t about the location. It was merely a means to an end. But he wondered now why he had instantly thought of Kaminski’s in relation to Clementine.

She was with him because she liked the money; she’d been pretty upfront about that with all her little flirty comments. Correspondingly, his feelings about this girl were down and dirty and basic. He had what she wanted, and she definitely had what he was after. Where he took her for dinner shouldn’t figure into it.

Clementine tipped her head back as he escorted her inside, taking in the low-beamed ceiling. She scanned the room, already filled to capacity with diners. The décor was simple—round tables, wooden floors, murals of historical Russian scenes on the walls. He wondered what she thought of it.

She beamed at him. ‘This is amazing. You are a dark horse. I expected a wine bar.’

The pleasure on her face took him off guard. Men’s heads turned as they weaved between the tables and he felt an unfamiliar trickle of possessiveness.

Clementine seemed oblivious, giving him little backward glances over her shoulder as the restaurant’s owner, Igor Kaminski, led them to their table. It brought back his uncharacteristic pursuit of her up the Nevsky, and fancifully he acknowledged that despite corralling her into a dinner date nothing had changed. She was still a step ahead, as elusive as ever, and he was enjoying it.

She gave an exclamation of delight as they reached their table, and he observed Igor grow about a foot as he gave her a potted history of the restaurant. Then she did that thing all women did as he seated her, smoothing her hands over her lavish hips and thighs to adjust her skirt. Somehow Clementine managed to turn it into a performance of female sensual pleasure. Igor stood there, a big smile on his broad, unhandsome face, watching her.

Am I supposed to hit him or order? Serge wondered, only half amused. He broke the spell by asking Clementine what she would like to drink.

She gave him one of those sweet little smiles. ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’

He ordered Georgian wine, and Igor returned with the menus himself, flanked by three men Serge knew were his sons. Clementine was enjoying herself, so he sat back and let the good-natured teasing unroll as zakouski was served and the men encouraged Clementine to taste—pickled mushrooms dipped in sour cream, different varieties of caviar, ikra fresh from the Caspian, salty sevruga. She washed it down with a mouthful of her wine, and Serge observed her trying to make sense of the heavily accented English, giving everyone equal attention.

Their table was busy in a noisy restaurant. This wasn’t what he had pictured doing tonight. Food, alcohol, a little sweet-talking and Clementine gasping his name for a few enjoyable hours had been the plan.

Then Clementine leaned towards him and said, ‘When does our date start, Slugger?’

Serge beckoned Igor over, whilst not taking his eyes off her, and murmured something to the owner. Their company evaporated, leaving them alone.

‘Everyone’s so friendly,’ she confided over the rim of her glass. ‘They certainly know you.’

‘I think, kisa, the drawcard is you,’ he observed wryly.

‘Don’t be silly.’ As she slid her spoon through her soup her eyes teased him.

The little red candles in the glass bowls on the table between them cast a tantalising glow over her heart-shaped face. Her lightly tanned bare skin—what he could see of it—had the burnish of pale honey, extending from the curve of her shoulders, the slender length of her arms all the way down to those long-fingered hands and the gold bangles that clinked around her wrists.

A girl who looked like this, with the level of independence Clementine exhibited, knew exactly what she was doing. She had to know what tonight was all about. She was going home on Saturday, which meant it had to be tonight or tomorrow.

The anticipation was beginning to burn.

‘So, what is it that brings you here, Clementine?’ He needed to do his bit—the what-do-you-do, tell-me-your-story routine—before the food and alcohol kicked in and he put thoughts of a soft mattress and his hard body into that pretty head of hers.

‘Is it time to get to know one another?’ she teased, wishing her tummy wasn’t fluttering. She’d done this before—flirting in a public place. But it didn’t feel public. It felt very, very intimate. Maybe too intimate for a first date.

He leaned towards her. ‘Only if you want to, kisa.’

His eyes made her so aware of herself she was sure she was blushing. Trying to get back on track, she decided to fire some questions of her own at him.

‘So you’re a regular?’

‘When I’m in town.’

‘A different girl every time?’

‘I’ve been known to drop in alone,’ he replied, noticing the way her index finger had stopped drifting up and down the stem of her glass and she was gripping it now. What was the problem? Different girls? Did she need a little reassurance that he didn’t make a habit of picking up women off the street?

Actually, this was a first—but he didn’t want to draw attention to it, remind her they had only met this afternoon. For all her free and easy vibe, he was getting the distinct impression Clementine was more than capable of putting the brakes on this.

‘So, tell me why you’re in Petersburg?’ He needed to distract her.

‘I’m here for Verado—the Italian luxury goods company.’

‘Da, I know them.’

‘They’re doing a promotion for their flagship store on the Nevsky. That’s me—PR girl.’

Serge sat back, absorbing her pride in her job. PR. Of course. What else would a girl like this do but charm and influence people for a living?

‘The grand opening is tomorrow night and then it’s all over. Back to London.’

Serge had lost interest in her job. He was much more interested in the different lights he could see in her hair—golds and reds and browns. Was it natural? Probably not.

‘I imagine you’re very good at public relations?’

‘I guess I am. I like people.’ She noticed he was paying more attention to looking her over and it flustered her. ‘I’m not that keen on Verado—all very old-world sexist misogynist management—but it’s my job to make them look good, so I do what I can.’

Serge was tempted to comment that the fleapit she was currently inhabiting told him more about her job than words. Instead he said, ‘What else do you do, Clementine, besides influence people?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

There was something in the way she asked, angling up her chin but with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. He hadn’t expected that.

‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, surprising himself.

She gave him a curious look he couldn’t read. ‘Truthfully, not much lately. All I seem to do is work.’

‘You’re a beautiful woman. No serious boyfriend?’

She met his eyes candidly. ‘I wouldn’t be out with you if I had.’

Serge lounged back, rolling his shoulders, all big lazy Russian male.

Honestly, thought Clementine, what was it about men and competition?

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.

Was she worth the pursuit? Or—the better question—should he be messing with her? This nice girl? All sweet and sincere? And didn’t that just get him in the traditional Russian male part of himself that he didn’t make a habit of showing off? Where had he got the idea she wouldn’t need seducing? Why shouldn’t she make him work for it?

Instincts he didn’t have a whole lot of familiarity with told him he needed to handle this delicately. Another, more familiar instinct was telling him to take her in his arms and drive every thought she could possibly have about other men out of her head—at least until tomorrow. It had to be tomorrow. Because she was going back to London on Saturday.

And if he didn’t have her in his arms in one form or another tonight he was going to go crazy.

He reached and caught her hand—something he’d been wanting to do all night. She turned towards him, expression expectant, amused. He closed the space between them and lifted his other hand to hook one of her artfully liberated coils of hair away from her cheek. Her smile faded, her eyes grew a little rounder, her mouth softened.

‘You’re killing me, Clementine,’ he said in Russian, and moved in to put himself out of his misery.

In that moment she made a soft little sound of dismay and to his surprise turned away, slipping her hand free of his with a nervous laugh.

‘I still want to buy you that ice cream,’ she said over her shoulder.

Ice cream. Not sex. Not even a kiss. Not tonight.

She began walking, swaying a little on those silly heels, and he stood there, stock still, gazing after her.

She threw him a backward glance.

‘Coming, Slugger?’

She was going the wrong way. The ice cream vendors were in the other direction. But her question dissolved into a teasing smile, and without giving it a second thought he took off after her.

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