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Damn right it was, she thought. And she wasn’t going to say it was okay, because it wasn’t. Shouldn’t sex have brought them closer? She knew it was a naive view. Sex could mean nothing at all. But this wasn’t normal. She was getting the distinct impression Serge was putting some emotional distance between them, and the message was Burn up the sheets, but out of bed it’s business as usual.
It was probably time for some plain speaking. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on, Serge,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You invited me to spend time with you, but I’m not spending time with you at all …’ She trailed off.
His smile faded, and for the first time she saw the hard man she had glimpsed once or twice in Petersburg. ‘You knew what you were getting into when you came with me, Clementine,’ he said, almost formally. ‘I’m making no apologies for that. I work hard. I play hard. What did you think you were signing up for?’
She shook her head in confusion. ‘Signing up? I didn’t know I was signing up for anything.’ Then it hit her, his meaning, and two things happened. Her tummy dropped away and the chain around her neck snapped.
Clementine gave a reflexive gasp of dismay, looking down at the locket now pooled in her hand even as her head spun on the revelation this was some sort of sex date for him.
‘I’ll get it fixed,’ Serge heard himself volunteer, unable to get over how upset she was getting, or how uncomfortable it was making him feel.
‘I can take it to a jeweller myself.’
Her heart was pounding. She knew she was being too emotional, but sex had never been a casual thing for her. Deep down she’d known what he was about, but she’d jumped at the adventure of this and now she was having it. It was just she hadn’t thought ahead to the consequences.
He didn’t take her seriously. He might not even really like her. He just wanted to bed her.
Work hard. Play hard. Yes—what did you think you were signing up for, Clementine?
Silently she closed the door on the part of her that longed to be cared for and cherished, that believed she had a right to be loved—the hopeful, idealistic girl who had taken a chance in climbing aboard that jet with him. Instead she fired up the Clementine who’d been out in the world on her own for several years now—the Clementine who knew the score, who knew how to make a situation work for her.
There were two people in this arrangement. If she was having an adventure, she sure as heck was going to have some of this her way.
‘I am coming,’ she insisted, hands on her hips. ‘I signed up to be with you, not sit around in a hotel room.’ It felt good to throw his hateful words back at him. ‘I’m surprised you get dates, Serge, if this is the way you treat women. Although I suppose the money helps.’
In an instant his Tartar heritage flared into life as his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened. ‘Da, kisa, the money helps.’
Somehow he had turned that insult around on her, and she stiffened, pressing her lips together. This was all going down the tube fast, and she didn’t quite know how to save it.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ she said fiercely. ‘Can I come?’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish that with, Or do I go?
Serge pocketed his phone, his eyes travelling over her. She was a beautiful girl and she could stand up for herself. He liked it when she scratched. He wouldn’t mind if she scratched harder. But it was the statement she was making with that tight, fluffy blue sweater that touched something softer inside him. For all her knowingness, Clementine really didn’t have a clue.
He gave her a buried smile. ‘As long as you wear a jacket, Boots.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE gym was a plain brick building. And Serge had been right about the sweat and testosterone. He introduced her to a man called Mick Forster, a fit guy in his fifties, who was polite but paid no more attention to her. All the other men in the room did three-sixtys as she moved through, and Clementine had never felt so conspicuous in her life. She was glad for once she had worn a neutral uniform of jeans, sweater and a vintage black velvet jacket.
She chose not to cling onto Serge’s hand. She wasn’t going to be the little woman on his arm. She folded her arms instead and wandered further into the gym, watching the athletes sparring, trying not to stare too long at any particular guy.
She was deep in man territory. It was nothing like her pretty pastel gym at home.
So this was how Serge had started out. Interesting.
She wandered back to find Serge deep in conversation with a group of men. She sat down on a bench. A short, strongly built young man slipped under the ropes and into the ring. A larger guy faced off with him, and Clementine watched with interest as they started feinting and jabbing, slicing the air with hands and feet. It was practice, it wasn’t about breaking skin, and it was fascinating to watch how the men pulled their punches and kicks. It was a sort of masculine ballet.
