make a practice of putting on sex shows for strange men? I’ve agreed to dinner but that’s it. I’m a nice girl.
But he had asked her to dinner, hadn’t he?
And he’d rescued her.
That was huge. She was still feeling a little breathless over that.
And, honestly, how nice a girl was she?
He really should be rewarded.
A little smile formed on her lips.
She needed to think this through. She’d seen the way he’d looked her over, as if making a sexual inventory of the bits he’d like. She knew which way this road led and she didn’t want to walk it again. Not even for a Cossack whose incredible green eyes made her tremble behind the knees and her nipples perk up.
He had one arm spread along the top of the seat, so that his hand hung just inches from her shoulder. He had positioned himself so he was angled towards her, long muscular legs stretched out. Without his jacket she could see the hard width of his shoulders and the taut flat belly delineated by the fitted dark blue shirt, crisp on his large frame. He really was mouthwateringly delicious.
For crying out loud—she had to stop this now! She didn’t even know his name, or he hers. She could remedy that, at least.
‘I’m Clementine Chevalier, by the way,’ she said, sticking out her hand in a forthright fashion.
‘Clementine.’ His accent did wonderful things to her name. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and she felt the tingle all through her girly bits as he turned her endeavour to keep their interaction on a guy-to-guy basis into an old-fashioned gesture. The sort of gesture that got her just where her inner princess lived.
‘I am Serge—Serge Marinov.’ Serj, she pronounced silently, practised it a couple of times. It was far too sexy. She was such a goner.
Expectation shimmered in the air. The car had glided to a halt. Clementine registered belatedly that they were no longer moving and hit ground level as real life intruded again. She reached for her boots.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ She sounded breathless even to her own ears. ‘Should I give you my address or shall I meet you somewhere …?’ She trailed off.
‘I will collect you,’ he said, as if this was the only logical response, ‘and I think you should let me handle the embassy.’
Okay. She wasn’t going to argue over that. ‘You really want this date,’ she observed as he opened her door, helped her out.
He gave her an inscrutable smile. ‘How am I doing?’
‘How do you think?’ She threw a feminine sway into her hips and preceded him into the building, enjoying herself far too much.
People were looking at them.
Probably wondering what a girl like her was doing with a guy like him.
She was wondering the same thing.
Clementine had pictured queues, waiting endlessly, forms to be filled in. Apparently Serge Marinov didn’t live in that world. He lived in a parallel universe where you were taken upstairs to a plush office and offered tea or coffee or something stronger, and where a senior official turned up in a neat business suit and low heels, eyes lighting up as she focussed on Serge. The woman was so poised and elegant, her flirtatiousness pitch perfectly low-key, giving Clementine a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew women must fawn over him all the time.
Yet he had saved her from who knew what in that underpass, and he’d asked her out to dinner, 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.
