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.
CHAPTER FOUR
SERGE had spent the morning listening to the argument that had broken out between the president of his company and the man he trusted above all others: trainer Mick Forster. Broadcast from the boardroom in the Marinov Building in New York City to the screen facing him, it had convinced him of one thing.
‘I’ll be at JFK tomorrow lunchtime,’ he said briefly, and closed his laptop. He pushed away from the desk, striding over to the windows of his Fontanka Canal apartment.
He’d been out of the country less than a day and he already had problems with a young fighter, Kolcek, who was up on assault charges and getting a raft of publicity that was not the kind the organisation needed. More importantly they were behind on the stadium going up in New York—an ongoing issue—but his management team were scrambling in the onslaught of media attention, as evidenced by this morning.
He didn’t like the look of it.
Yet all he could think about was that because of tardy contractors and a coked-up fighter who needed to be cut loose he was going to lose Clementine Chevalier.
Sexy, tempting, guarded Clementine. What was her game?
He’d taken her back to that dismal lodging last night, insisted on walking her up to her door. He’d been thinking more about the woeful security than infiltrating her defences when he’d lingered in her doorway. He’d seen once more