Читать книгу The Jet-Set Seduction - Sandra Field - Страница 7

AT THREE o’clock that afternoon in his hotel room, Slade was on the telephone punching in Sarah Hutchinson’s extension. Sarah was Belle’s cook, whom Slade had known for years, and whose chocolate truffles he liked almost as much as he liked her. When she answered, he said, “Sarah, it’s Slade Carruthers.”

“Mr. Slade, what a nice surprise…how are you?”

They chatted for a few minutes about the garden party, then Slade said easily, “I’ve mislaid my appointment book—Mrs. Hayward’s having dinner with Clea Chardin tonight, isn’t she?” He waited for her reply, his heart thumping so loudly he was afraid she’d hear it over the phone.

“That’s right. Seven o’clock.”

“Just the two of them?”

“Private, that’s what Mrs. Hayward said.”

“Great—I’ll call Belle in the morning, then. No need to mention this, Sarah, she’ll think I’m having a memory lapse. How are your grandchildren?”

He patiently listened to their many virtues, then hung up. All he had to do now was decide on a course of action. Gate-crash Belle’s place? Or find a bar, get royally drunk and cut his losses?

Slade started prowling up and down the room, as restless as a caged tiger. Why had he phoned Sarah Hutchinson? Why couldn’t he—for once in his life—accept that a woman didn’t want to go to bed with him?

The answer was simple: because he wanted Clea as he’d never wanted a woman before.

Or was it that simple? Clea had been so ardent in his arms, then so frightened by her own response. Neither reaction had been fake, he’d swear to it. By touching her physically, he’d touched her emotions in a way that had terrified her.

So she’d very cleverly produced the clippings, refused any prospect of fidelity and taken her leave. She’d played him, he thought. And he’d fallen for it.

It wasn’t going to happen again. Be damned if he was going to sit back and let Clea Chardin vanish from his life. He wanted her and he was going to have her. On his terms.

All of which meant he’d better have a plan of action in mind before nine-thirty tonight.

At nine-thirty, however, when Slade pressed the heavy brass bell on the Hayward front door, he felt devoid of anything that could be called a plan. He’d have to wing it. But this time he’d be the one in control.

Carter, the butler, let him in and left him in the formal parlor, where family photographs in sterling silver frames covered every available surface. The furniture represented, in Slade’s opinion, the very worst of Victorian excess. Over the elaborate wrought-iron fireplace, a stuffed stag’s head gazed down its aristocratic nose at him.

There was a painting by the fireplace, a small dark oil. Curious, he wandered over to look at it. A man in chains, head bowed in utter defeat, was being led by three armored guards into the black maw of a cave. Slade knew, instantly, that the prisoner would never emerge into daylight again.

It was his own lasting nightmare, he thought, his palms damp, his fingers curled into fists: the nightmare that had tormented him ever since he was eleven. His limbs heavy as lead, he turned away from the painting, staring instead at an innocuous watercolor of a sunny meadow.

“Slade,” Belle exclaimed, “is anything wrong? Your parents? You look terrible!”

He fought to banish the nightmare where it belonged, deep down in his psyche. While Belle knew the reason behind it, she had no idea of its extent, and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said with real compunction. “My parents are fine. I’m here because I need to see Clea.”

Her smile vanishing as if it had been wiped from her face, Belle said, “How did you know she’s here?”

“I got it out of Sarah and you’re not to blame her. Clea and I had lunch today, Belle. But we left some loose ends about our next meeting. I head off to Japan tomorrow and she’s going back to Europe, so I figured it was simplest if I turned up on your doorstep and gave her a lift back to her hotel.”

Tonight Belle was wearing a rust-brown linen dress that did little for her complexion. Rubies gleamed in her earlobes. She looked like a highly suspicious rooster, Slade thought with a quiver of amusement, and said truthfully, “I don’t want Clea to disappear from my life—there’s something about her that really turns my crank.”

Belle said flatly, “If she doesn’t want to drive to the hotel with you, I’m not pushing her.”

He hesitated. “She dates a lot of men, so she told me. But when I kissed her, she acted like a scared rabbit. Do you have any idea why?”

“If I did, do you think I’d tell you?”

“I’m not out to hurt her, Belle.”

“Then maybe you’d better head right out the front door.”

He said tightly, “You’ve known me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Have you ever seen me chase after a woman before?”

“I’ve seen you treat women as though they’re ornaments sitting on a shelf—decorative enough, but not really worth your full attention.”

He winced. “Clea gets my full attention just by being in the same room. So she’s different from the rest.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“You’re an old friend, and I’m asking you to trust me,” Slade said, any amusement long gone. “Clea’s knocked me right off balance. No other woman’s ever come close to doing that. All I want is the chance to drive her back to her hotel—I’m not going to jump on her the minute she gets in the car!”

“And if she says no?”

“She won’t.”

Belle snapped, “If you hurt that gal, I’ll—I won’t invite you to next year’s garden party.”

It was a dire threat. “Belle, I’ll go out on a limb here. I want Clea, no question of that, but I have this gut feeling she’s not really running away from me, she’s running from herself. And I don’t give a damn if that sounds presumptuous.”

For a long moment Belle simply stared at him. Then she said, “I’ll ask her if she wants a drive back to her hotel.”

The massive oak door swung shut behind her. The stag’s upper lip sneered down at him. Turning his back on the dark little oil painting, Slade jammed his hands in his pockets and stared down at the priceless, rose-embroidered carpet. He felt like his life were hanging in the balance.

How melodramatic was that? Sex was all he wanted. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Five minutes later—he timed it on his watch—the door was pushed open. Clea marched through, followed by Belle in her rust-brown dress. Clea’s dress was ice-pale turquoise, calf-length, fashioned out of soft jersey; her hair had been tamed into a coil on the back of her head. With a physical jolt, Slade saw she was still wearing the earrings he’d given her earlier in the day.

Clea said crisply, “I said goodbye to you this morning.”

“It wasn’t goodbye. More like au revoir.”

“My hotel is exactly four blocks from here—I can walk.”

“If you won’t go with me, you’re going in a cab.”

Clea glared at him, then transferred that glare to Belle. “This man is your friend?”

Belle said calmly, “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have made it past the front door.”

Clea’s breath hissed between her teeth. When had she ever felt as angry as she did now? Angry, afraid, cornered and—treacherously, underneath it all—ridiculously happy to see Slade. Happy? When the man threatened to knock down the whole house of cards that was her life? “All right, Slade, you can drive me to my hotel,” she said. “But only because I don’t want to waste my time arguing with you.”

“Fine,” he said, unable to subdue his grin.

She said furiously, “Your smile should be banned—lethal to any female over the age of twelve.”

Belle smothered a snort of laughter. “You’ve got to admit he’s cute, Clea.”

“Cute?” Slade said, wincing.

“Cute like a high voltage wire is cute,” Clea snapped.

“Certainly plenty of voltage between the two of you,” Belle remarked, leading the way to the front door, where she took a lacy shawl from the cupboard and passed it to Slade. Dry-mouthed, he draped it over Clea’s shoulders.

Belle leaned forward to kiss Clea on the cheek. “We’ll talk next week.”

“Monday or Tuesday.” Clea’s voice softened. “Thank you, Belle.”

“Slade’s a good man,” Belle added.

Clea’s smile was ironic. “Maybe I prefer bad men.”

Slade said in a voice like steel, “Good, bad or indifferent, I really dislike being discussed as though I don’t exist.”

Belle said lightly, “Indifferent wouldn’t apply to either one of you. Good night.”

Slade and Clea stepped out into the cool darkness, which was still scented with roses, and the door closed behind them. He reached over and plucked a pale yellow bloom; she stood as still as one of the marble statues flanking the driveway as he tucked it into her hair. “I think that’ll stay,” he said, tugging on the stem.

Her eyes were like dark pools. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“You’re still wearing the abalone earrings,” he retorted. “Doesn’t that make you one as well?”

“They go with my dress.”

“We’re arguing again.”

“How unromantic,” she said. As he helped her into his rented car, a speedy silver Porsche, the slit in her skirt bared her legs in their iridescent hose. Taking her time, she tucked her feet under the dash, straightened her skirt and smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said with perfect composure.

Slade took a deep breath, shut her door and marched around to the driver’s seat. His next job was to convince her that he was going to become her lover. And by God, he was going to succeed.

“I’ll buy you a drink at the hotel,” he said, and turned onto the street.

By now, Clea had managed to gather her thoughts. It was time for her second line of defense, she decided. One she would have no scruples using with Slade. She called it, privately, The Test, and it had rarely failed her. She was certain it would work with Slade Carruthers, a man used to wielding power and being in command. “A drink would be nice,” she said.

“That was easy.”

“I dislike being predictable.”

“You don’t have a worry in the world.”

He’d made it past the first hurdle, Slade thought, and concentrated on his driving. After leaving the car with the hotel valet, he led her into the opulent lobby. Marble, mahogany, oriental carpeting and a profusion of tropical blooms declared without subtlety that no expense had been spared. He said, “I would have thought something less ostentatious would have been more to your liking.”

“Belle made the reservations.”

It was definitely Belle’s kind of place. In the bar, a jazz singer was crooning, her hands wandering the keys of the grand piano. They made their way to a table near the dark red velvet curtains with their silken tassels. The ceiling was scrolled in gold, the walls layered in damask of the same deep red.

Waiting until the waiter had brought their drinks, Slade said, “The clippings you showed me this morning threw me, Clea, as no doubt you intended. Nor did I like your terms. But I gave up much too easily.”

She took a delicate sip of her martini. “You’re used to women chasing you.”

“I have a lot of money—it’s a powerful aphrodisiac.”

She raised her brows. “Now who’s the cynic?”

He leaned forward, speaking with all the force of his personality. “Clea, I want you in my bed…and I’m convinced that you want to be there, too. I travel a lot, we can meet anywhere you like.”

Clea said evenly, hating herself for the lie, “I play the field, I have a good time and move on. That’s what I told you this morning, and it hasn’t changed. You can give me your phone number, if you like—and if I’m ever at a loose end, I’ll call you.”

So she was lumping him together with what she called, so amorphously, the field. Slade said, lifting one brow, “I dare you to make a date with me. More than that, I dare you to get to know me. In bed and out.”

Her nostrils flared. “You’re being very childish.”

“Am I? If we stop taking risks, something in us dies.”

“Risks can kill!”

“I assure you, I don’t have homicide in mind.” Kill, he thought. That’s a strong word.

Her breasts rising and falling with her agitated breathing, Clea said, “Men don’t stick around long enough for women to get to know them.”

“Generalizations are the sign of a lazy mind.”

“The first sign of trouble, you’ll be gone faster than I can say au revoir.”

“You’re being both sexist and cowardly,” he said.

Her chin snapped up. “Who gave you the right to stand in judgment on me?”

“Deny it, then.”

“I’m not a coward!”

Slade said softly, “Prove it to me. More important, prove it to yourself.”

Toying with the olive in her glass, Clea said raggedly, “You’re talking about us getting to know each other. Yet you never let any of your women close enough to hurt you.”

He said grimly, “You may be the exception that proves the rule.”

And how was she supposed to interpret that? “I like my life the way it is,” she said. “Why should I change?”

“If you didn’t want to change, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.”

He was wrong. Completely wrong. “Do you do this with every woman you meet?”

“I’ve never had to before.”

“So why are you bothering now?”

“Clea, I don’t want to play the field,” he said forcibly. “Right now it’s you I want. You, exclusively. Because deep down I don’t really believe you are a coward.”

“Just sexist,” she said with a flare of defiance.

“Don’t you get bored playing the field?”

She said nastily, “I’ve not, so far, been bored with you.”

“Then I’ll make another dare—date me until you do get bored.” Slade pushed a piece of paper across the table to her. “My personal assistant’s phone number in New York. His name’s Bill and he always knows where I can be reached.”

She stared down at the paper as if it might rear up and bite her. Her second line of defense, she thought wildly, what had happened to it? Hadn’t Slade jumped in ahead of her, daring her to date him? Worse, to go to bed with him? “I’m not interested in your money,” she blurted, trying to collect her wits. “I have plenty of my own.”

“I never thought you were.”

The Test, she thought. Now’s the time. Do it, Clea. She glanced up, her accent pronounced, as it always was when she was upset. “Very well, Slade…I also can make dares.”

“Go ahead.”

“Meet me in the Genoese Bar in Monte Carlo, three weeks from now. In the evening, anytime after seven-thirty. Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.”

“Name the day,” he said.

“Ah,” she said smoothly, “that’s part of the dare. I’m not telling you which evening. Either I’m worth waiting for, or I’m not—which is it?”

“But you will turn up?”

Her eyes flashed fire. “I give my word.”

“Then I’ll wait for you.”

“It stays open until 2:00 a.m., and the music is deafening,” she said with a malicious smile. “You won’t wait. No man would. Not when the world’s full of beautiful women who are instantly available.”

“You underrate yourself,” he said softly. Reaching over with his finger, he traced the soft curve of her mouth until her lip trembled. “I’ll wait.”

Fear flickered along her nerves. He wouldn’t wait. Not Slade Carruthers, who—she’d swear—had never had to wait for a woman in his life. Tossing her head, she said, “If you’re unfamiliar with Monte Carlo, anyone can direct you to the Genoese—it’s well known.”

“Monte Carlo—where life’s a gamble and the stakes are high.”

“High stakes? For you, maybe—not for me.” Which was another barefaced lie.

“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t know how to gamble, Clea…tomorrow I’ll give Bill your name. You have only to mention it, and he’ll make sure I get any messages from you.”

She said, so quietly that the drifting jazz melody almost drowned her out, “I must be mad to have suggested a meeting between us. Even one you won’t keep.”

She looked exhausted. Slade drained his whisky. “Finish up,” he said, “and I’ll take you back to the lobby. Then I’ll be on my way—my flight’s early tomorrow.”

Her face unreadable, she said, “So you’re not putting the moves on me tonight?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t gamble when the deck’s stacked against me—that’s plain stupidity.”

“At any table, you’d make a formidable opponent.”

He pushed back his chair. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on, you look wiped.”

“Wiped? I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound flattering.”

He took her hand and brought her to her feet. Standing very close to her, his eyes caressing her features, he said huskily, “It means tired out. In need of a good night’s sleep. When you and I share a bed, sleep won’t be the priority.”

“When we share a bed?” she said, looking full at him. “I’ve never liked being taken for granted.”

His eyes were a compelling midnight-blue, depthless and inscrutable. Charismatic eyes, which pulled her to him as though she had no mind of her own. She felt herself sway toward him, the ache of desire blossoming deep in her belly and making nonsense of all her defenses. Reaching up, she brushed his lips with hers as lightly as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, then just as quickly stepped back.

Her heart was hammering in her breast. So much for keeping him at a distance, she thought, aghast. What was wrong with her?

For once Slade found himself bereft of speech. Going on impulse, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with lingering pleasure, watching color flare in her cheeks. Then, calling on all his control, he looped one arm lightly around her shoulders and led her back to the lobby. The light from the crystal chandeliers seemed excessively bright. He said, “The Genoese. In three weeks. If you need anything in the meantime, call me.”

“I won’t call you,” Clea said. Turning on her heel, she crossed the vast carpet to the elevators.

Nor did she.