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But nor was it personal that he had now decided to let her into his life, she acknowledged painfully. It was just a choice he was making—probably for his own comfort. She moved fast after that, making an excuse that she needed the bathroom and locking herself inside, running the bath water strong and hard to block out the sound of her tears.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE drive back into the city gave Clementine a chance to process events as she watched the scenery zip by and surreptitiously observed Serge, who was very quiet. He liked to drive. She had seen that in St Petersburg. They had no room for their luggage, of course. That was coming separately. Clementine had only her handbag, which she jumbled through now, trying to find some of the barley sugar she always carried around with her.
Serge glanced at the objects beginning to clutter her lap.
‘What have you got in there? Buried treasure?’
‘Very funny.’ Giving up on her surreptitious hunt, she just shook her bag’s contents out over her lap. Ticket stubs, a pen, bits of paper, a tissue—all dropped out, fluttered down. She found the barley sugar. And Luke’s two condoms.
‘Going prepared, Clementine?’
She flushed and began stuffing everything back into her carry-all. Then was annoyed with herself for being embarrassed.
‘Luke gave them to me back in Petersburg—for my date with you, if you must know. As if you were going to get lucky on our first date.’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘You had to fly me to a fancy hotel across the world for that.’
Serge was glad he was doing a low speed and that the car was a fluid machine to guide, because her words had him veering towards the centre of the road.
He glanced at Clementine. ‘Put your hand in my pocket.’
‘Serge!’
‘Go on. I won’t bite.’
Rolling her eyes, but curious, she reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small box. She opened it.
‘My locket!’
‘I had it repaired.’
She hadn’t looked at it since she’d slipped it into a drawer beside the bed. Serge clearly had.
Dipping her head to clasp it around her throat, she experienced a wave of affection that she felt awkward about expressing. Not now that she had a much clearer-eyed view on their relationship.
‘Don’t tell me it’s a memento from an old boyfriend,’ he said in a gravelly voice.
‘I bought it for myself when I turned eighteen.’ She held up her wrist. ‘I got this watch for myself when I signed up with Verado.’
Serge frowned. ‘You purchased these yourself?’
‘Why not?’ she said defensively. ‘Someone once told me if you don’t have people in your life to mark important occasions you need to do it for yourself.’ She manufactured a grin. ‘Which for me is just an excuse to shop.’
No one to mark important occasions. It shouldn’t bother him but it did.
‘Clementine, a beautiful woman should not be buying herself jewellery.’
She gave him a bright, dismissive smile. ‘Men are always buying me gifts, Serge, I just choose not to accept them.’
His knuckles rose to prominence on the wheel. He didn’t want to hear about other men. But he got the message. Loud and clear. She was thinking about the diamond necklace. He wished he’d never given her the damn thing. Given? He’d left it for her to find with a note. Thanks for your services. He didn’t allow himself to look back, but this was one incident he wished he could go back and change.
Yet she hadn’t confronted him over it in so many words. He knew exactly where it was. In the bedside table, on his side of the bed, untouched. As far as a statement went it was pretty loud.
‘You haven’t talked about your family,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I assume you have them? Parents?’
Clementine looked at him sharply. He gave her a reassuring smile and her defensiveness wobbled. She nodded slowly.
‘Happy childhood?’ he pressed, not sure where he was going with this but feeling a bit like a drowning man grasping at sticks.
‘Not really.’ She suddenly became fascinated with her hands, examining her nails as she talked. ‘They divorced when I was five.’
‘Brought up by your mother?’
‘I was handballed between them—Mum in Melbourne, Dad in Geneva. He’s a journo—war correspondent. Always chasing something, whether it’s a conflict, a story, a woman.’ She shrugged her shoulders, dealing privately with the mixture of anger and grief she always felt when speaking about her parents. ‘Mum remarried. I’ve got three stepsisters but I don’t really know them. I left home at seventeen and I haven’t been back.’
