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They had reached the other end of the house and stepped out onto the deck, extending like the prow of a ship out towards the grassy dunes and the Atlantic beyond. The sea breeze lifted Clementine’s hair and wrapped it around her neck.
‘It’s huge. You cannot live here all by yourself.’
‘I’ll use it for entertaining this summer.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’m not living here alone at the moment. I’ve got you.’
Clementine tried not to enjoy that comment too much, but she had to drop her chin to hide her smile at his words. He really was being very sweet. Ever since that conversation in the car, coming back from Mick Forster’s gym, he’d been everything she needed him to be—attentive, considerate, looking after her needs. It was very easy to forget she was only here on a break.
Although he’d said he wanted more. And after a week so did she. She looked up at him, wondering how to broach the subject. It was hard for her. She’d been let down so often in the past. People wanted you around as long as you were entertaining or useful or fulfilled a function. Her own parents had taught her well. She came second, never first. Serge was making an effort right now, but she knew it couldn’t last. She was already foreseeing the end of all of this, when one day she woke up and discovered she’d overstayed her welcome.
She was still thinking about it when Serge left her to go and make some calls. Even on a weekend break his work didn’t stop. As she wandered around the state-of-the-art kitchen, opening cupboards, checking the cooking utensils, imagining the meals she could prepare in here, she mused ruefully that it wasn’t other women she needed to worry about with Serge. It was the business that was her rival. If she was going to stay with him she needed to get a job, and it occurred to her that with the Marinov Corporation facing a huge public relations exercise in the media at the moment her skills might be put to some use.
She was tired of spruiking fashion. She wanted something to get her teeth into.
But mostly it would be nice to show Serge the smart girl wrapped in the sexy girl package.
Serge reappeared in quarter of an hour, stripped down to a pair of boardshorts and nothing else. Clementine went a bit weak at the knees, but told herself there was no way she was going to strip him naked and do anything remotely sexy with him in the kitchen, because it was broad daylight and anyone could walk in.
‘How about we go for a swim, kisa?’
Her lustful thoughts dissolved as her face fell. ‘I don’t have a bathing suit.’
He winked at her. ‘All taken care of.’
‘I’m not wearing something that belonged to some random woman you brought here.’
For a moment Clementine fancied he was going to say something about those random women. Then he shrugged. ‘I had a buyer bring in a summer wardrobe for you, Clementine. I checked your size from your existing clothes.’
‘You bought me clothes?’ She struggled to keep control of her voice.
‘Da—I’m a prince.’
She searched his eyes for a hint of ownership, but he looked relaxed.
Okay, he was turning it all into a bit of a joke. She could relax into that. This wasn’t about her in a designer dress on his arm. This was casual. This was just between them. This was his summer home.
He’d brought her to his home.
She needed to relax.
Then she flushed, a little disconcerted by the notion of Serge knowing her measurements.
‘I’m waiting to be chastised for buying you clothes, kisa,’ he drawled.
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ she replied loftily, tossing her hair. ‘But those bathers better be more than postage stamps.’
It was bliss to frolic in the cold Atlantic surf. Clementine had grown up beside the beach, and it was what she missed most living in England. There were beaches, but nothing like what she was used to at home.
Serge swam with her. He was a different man here. She’d noticed it even as the spit of land had come into view from the helicopter. He laughed with her and teased her, and seemed to have left the city and all his tensions behind.
As they strode out of the surf she felt confident enough to bring up the subject she’d been rehearsing in her mind all day.
‘Serge,’ she ventured, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said—about my staying on here.’
He tugged her closer, his gaze appreciative of the virtually transparent red bikini clinging to her wet skin.
‘That sounds promising.’
‘I was thinking maybe I could work for you. You must have a huge PR department?’
The sexual heat was doused with a bucket of reality. ‘Nyet—no, definitely not. It’s not a place for you, kisa.’
