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.