Читать книгу Untouched by His Diamonds - Lucy Ellis - Страница 8

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.