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Serge repetitively drummed the gloves into the bag, feeling the shudder through his arms, relishing the impact. He couldn’t believe the scene he’d had with Clementine. It took him back to being seventeen and not sure if it was all right to put his hand under a girl’s top if she hadn’t explicitly given permission.
Sweat blinded him and he pulled the punches, stepped away from the bag and reached for a towel, rubbing his face. As he slung it over his shoulder he reached for his bottle of water.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Clementine stood in front of him, offering up the bottle with a little smile.
She was wearing a tiny pair of red shorts and a white tank top, and she’d tied all that hair back in a ponytail.
‘Thanks,’ he said, almost by rote, as every male cell in his body sat up and saluted.
‘Can I have a go?’ She indicated the punching bag.
‘It might be a bit hard for you,’ he responded, trying not to ogle her. Something Clementine was clearly aware of, judging by the little smile she was wearing.
His knowing, provocative little Clementine was back.
‘Just give me some gloves, Slugger.’
He fetched a smaller pair for her hands and attached them himself, watching her expression as she tried not to stroke his body too obviously with her gaze. The urge to haul her against him and take what he wanted was very strong. ‘Go in close,’ he instructed. ‘Little jabs. Keep your elbows up. That’s it—don’t pull back.’
Her concentration was absolute. She was really taking this seriously. His gaze dropped momentarily to the superlative curve of her bottom in those little shorts. Had she purposely come down here to shred the last fibres of his self-control?
She gave an oomph as the bag swung back and knocked her onto that bottom. She lay back laughing on the mat, looking up at him towering over her. As she watched he stripped off the sweat-soaked T-shirt he was wearing and stood there in only a pair of baggy long shorts that were barely holding onto his lean hips. There was something else stirring that made Clementine’s laughter trickle into a deep sigh of feminine satisfaction. His shoulders and chest and back were powerful and heavily muscled, and there was a haze of dark hair arrowing down below his navel she longed to run her hands through. But after her little performance earlier in the day she didn’t feel entitled.
He offered her a hand and she took it. One-armed, he literally pulled her off the ground and to her feet. As a display of strength it was breathtaking. But what really took her breath away was standing up so close to his barely clothed body, with her own hardly left to the imagination. He ran those green eyes over her face and then lower, to where her nipples were very clearly making themselves known.
‘Are we really waiting until after dinner and the movie, dushka?’
His voice ran over her like rough velvet.
She licked her lips. No was on the tip of her tongue when other voices interrupted and Serge turned away, cursing under his breath.
‘A public gym,’ murmured Clementine. ‘Whoops.’
Three men had come through the doors at the other end of the weights room.
‘I’ll hit the shower,’ said Serge. ‘You go on up. But keep the little outfit on.’
She narrowed her eyes and gave him a push to one rock-hard bicep. ‘Dinner, Slugger. But I’ll give you a raincheck for the movie.’
Clementine was surprised when Serge insisted on walking her out before returning to change and shower. He really was an old-fashioned guy in so many respects, and that was playing nicely with her inner princess. He wasn’t just muscles and testosterone; he had some stellar qualities—manners being one of them.
She showered herself, and put on a red and gold kaftan dress that wrapped around and tied at the waist. It was simple, but she could dress it up with heeled sandals and she swept her hair up, attaching a red silk flower behind her ear. She layered on the kohl and the false eyelashes and painted her lips ruby-red.
She heard Serge’s sports bag drop and scooted out to meet him. He took one look at her outfit and put up his hands. ‘I surrender, Clementine. Dinner.’
She grinned.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY dined not in the hotel but at an exclusive restaurant on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The menu was contemporary French cuisine, but frankly, Clementine thought, she could have been eating sushi and she wouldn’t have noticed.
The man opposite her in a suit and tie, all elegant Manhattan urbanity, fixated all of her attention. He hadn’t rushed her off to bed, he hadn’t pushed anything, and now he was dining with her in the most civilised surroundings imaginable. Their conversation ranged over her life in London, his here in New York, current events. But every time she allowed her gaze to settle on him—whether it be the breadth of his naked wrist beneath the fabric of his sleeve, the wide column of his strong neck so snugly contained in a collar and tie, the faint cleft in his chin that she imagined was tricky to shave—she kept picturing him standing over her, half-naked, dripping sweat and testosterone in that gym. Exactly as she had fantasised about him the first moment she’d clapped eyes on him.
