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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.
