Untouched by His Diamonds. Lucy Ellis

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.