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