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But she was coming slowly down the stairs, as if the last frantic quarter of an hour hadn’t happened, dressed in a yellow linen high-necked dress that skimmed her breasts and hips and fell to her knees. Without a cinched-in waist her extravagant curves looked much more understated. She was playing her role. He was suddenly glad she hadn’t worn the green, it brought back memories of the sweet, elusive girl he’d followed down the embankment and he didn’t want those today. If he was half the man he’d built himself to be he wouldn’t entertain them ever again.
Clementine did a little twirl at the bottom of the stairs. Her fragrance wrapped around him—something with damask roses, as familiar now to him as the woman who wore it. It was in the bathroom, it was in the odd piece of her clothing he’d find lying around, and it was on his pillow every morning.
She looked up and used both hands to tug at an imaginary misalignment of his suit jacket, then smiled at him, ‘I think we’re ready, Slugger.’
She was so lovely she took his breath away.
But there were other beautiful women in the world—as many as he wanted. Other women with toffee-coloured hair and legs that went on for ever and grey eyes. But not soft ones. He wouldn’t be caught by soft eyes again. They could get under your skin. Like now.
‘Anything I need to know, Serge, before we hit the road? Any last words of advice?’
‘Only that you look beautiful.’ He had said it a hundred times to her since they’d met, but it was only now he noticed the way the muscles beside her mouth flicked down, as if she were momentarily cringeing before the compliment sank in completely.
Because she’d heard it from a lot of men and it didn’t mean much to her any more? What meant more to Clementine was to be praised for her abilities. He knew that about her now, and he fully intended to do that when all this was over. She needed to know he appreciated everything about their time together, and he could tell her now he knew she was going home.
‘Do I?’ she said, looking up at him, her face open and unguarded—the way she was, he realised, when they were in bed. But there was something else in her eyes. Something almost uncertain. ‘Do I look beautiful? Because I’m not really. I think it’s just more make-up and confidence.’
He curved his hand around the back of her head and kissed her. Her mouth fluttered under his, surprised, cautious, before her lashes swept down and she gave way. He actually felt it, the moment of her submission, and it pounded through him like big surf.
She made him feel as if he was the only man ever to do this to her. It was a fantasy, but he was going to allow himself just a little more of it before they let one another go for ever.
And it was a reminder of why he had to let her go—because whatever was between them was too much, too powerful. It threatened to sweep too much of what he’d worked so hard for away.
‘No other woman comes close,’ he said softly against her mouth. The truth, but he forced himself to release her, put air between them. ‘Clementine, do you have your passport?’
‘Pardon?’
‘We’re not going uptown, kisa, I’m taking you to Paris.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘WE CAN’T do this. What about the press conference?’ blithered Clementine as he handed her into the car. He’d barely given her the time to run upstairs and grab her passport.
‘Alex can handle it.’
Clementine couldn’t take her eyes off him. Why was he doing this? It was irrational. It didn’t make a lick of sense.
She knew Serge. He wouldn’t be running away from a confrontation. He took life on, fists swinging. It was one of the things she loved about him—his willingness to front up, take it on the chin. It was something they shared.
‘Serge, I have no luggage. I have nothing.’ Practical considerations began to line up as she realised this was actually real. She was going to Paris.
‘You’ve got me, kisa.’ And he gave her that lazy Russian male smile that told her she didn’t need clothes, didn’t need underwear. She wasn’t going to be seeing much of Paris.
Distracted for a moment by some pretty powerful imagery, she shook her head. She wasn’t going to let him get away with palming her off. ‘Serge Marinov, talk to me.’
He made a dismissive gesture, as if it wasn’t worth talking about. ‘It’s not such a big deal, Clementine. All you need to know is I have no intention of using you—now or ever. It was a ridiculous idea and it was never going to fly. Happy?’
‘No—yes.’ She made a frustrated noise. ‘Confused is what I am. How long have you been planning this?’
