Untouched by His Diamonds (16 page)

‘Is that how you felt?’ she whispered, turning her head to look at him, her eyes half closed, her expression so sultry he knew they were about to repeat it all over again.

‘I don’t know how I felt,’ he admitted in a deep voice, his accent pronounced, and something in his tone snagged all Clementine’s attention away from her body, still sensitised from his touch. ‘But I do know now you’re safe.’ His arms tightened around her.

‘Yes, I’m safe, Slugger,’ she and answered, and reached up and patted the big arm slung around her, sounding more confident than she felt. Inside everything was knocked off kilter. As if she didn’t quite belong to herself any more.

But what did that mean? That she belonged to Serge?

S
ERGE
took a coffee and his cellphone out onto the deck and stood in the cool morning light as it dappled down through the leaves above. This was his sanctuary in the city—a green garden, an oasis kept in exquisite shape by people he paid.

Having the people in his life on a payroll made everything so much easier, cleaner. Nobody’s emotions got involved.

Last night his behaviour in bed with Clementine had been the opposite. Hard, messy, and very emotional. The sex as a result had been incredible. The only thing that could have improved on it was not using a condom, and the fact that he’d actually considered that thought put the brakes on any future plans he had with this girl.

He’d never once not used a condom. Ever. He didn’t have the sort of relationships where that was possible.

Yet he hadn’t been thinking last night—not with his head and not with his body. It was how she made him feel that had been driving him, and it had translated into the best sex of his life. He’d shown little finesse, just a need to dominate her, leave his mark. He’d taken her again, with no more consideration than the first time, and she had met him with her own scaling need, and then again, with a slower, more soothing cadence, whispering things to her in Russian he could never get away with in English before sleep claimed them.

But that first time had rocked them both, and everything
that had followed held its echoes. And he would have been blind not to see how dreamy she was this morning. He’d heard her singing to herself in the shower. Hell, he’d been humming to himself until he’d realised what he was doing.

This was all without precedent.

Something about seeing her at the show last night—her fragility coupled with her independence, the sheer chutzpah she paraded around, going after what she wanted, and his inability to stop her doing exactly as she pleased—had loosed something primitive in him.

He’d known it was there. His grandmother had told him stories about his father’s legendary passion for his mother, his jealous rages, the theatrics of their marriage. He didn’t remember all of it—only a father whose moods had moved from highs to lows at frightening speed. He remembered that—and a mother who had been frail and ethereal, appearing to be caught up in a drama in which she didn’t quite know her lines. She had only been eighteen when she gave birth to him, and not much older than he was now when she died.

He didn’t want that kind of passion in his life. He didn’t want to be out of control. He needed to take a big step back. Put some air between them.

Clementine came down the stairs in her runners and cargo pants. She hadn’t even fiddled with her hair this morning, just left it to its natural wave. Lipstick and mascara were her only concessions to making an effort. For the first time since she was fifteen she didn’t feel she had to. She felt beautiful. Serge had made her feel beautiful. She could still feel his body stunning hers, the impact of their coming together, the tension winding tighter and tighter in him until it had given way and he had been heavy and peaceful in her arms. She’d felt so powerful—like a sex goddess. A thought which put a little smile on her lips.

She’d decided before falling asleep last night to drop the
whole ‘this is your life and this is mine’ front and give them both a chance. Serge had demonstrated how much she meant to him. Nobody behaved that way without being borne along on strong emotions.

The fact he hadn’t been in bed when she’d re-emerged from the bathroom this morning had been the only blip on her radar. She’d wanted to leap back on him and make him prove to her all over again that she hadn’t dreamt last night.

She planned on taking him market shopping with her this morning, and couldn’t believe how much she was looking forward to it. Back home it was her favourite Saturday morning activity. Stock up the cupboards, have lunch out with friends, maybe see a film in the afternoon. It was the sort of stuff you did with a boyfriend.

She found him on the phone, pacing the long hall between the staircase and the kitchen. His attention was immediately with her, but he averted his eyes as he continued the conversation. She went on into the kitchen to collect the eco-bags.

As she turned around she realised Serge had blocked the kitchen doorway. His hair was all ruffled and he needed a shave. The phone was dangling from one hand.

Her hormones were jumping and she couldn’t wipe the happy grin off her face.

He didn’t even crack a smile. ‘I’m going down to Mick’s gym. I’ll be back around midday.’

He looked and sounded so distant—nothing like the man whose arms she had fallen asleep in last night.

The sun slipped in Clementine’s sky.

‘Then I’ve got a team of people coming over to debrief at one.’

The sun fell out of her world, and it was in that moment as she stood there clutching the bags to her waist that she realised just how deep in she was with this man.

This man who put his job before everything—or rather had chosen to today. After last night.

‘You might want to organise the day for yourself, Clementine.’

So now she knew where she stood.

It hurt. It hurt so much she couldn’t bear to look at him. Part of her wanted to yell at him.
Is this too hard for you, Serge, a bit too real?
But looking at him standing there, emanating power and self-control and a level of success she couldn’t even fathom, she suddenly felt horribly ordinary, with her save-the-planet hemp bags and stupid, simple morning at the market, and was glad now she hadn’t had a chance to open her mouth.

He’d want her out of the way. So he didn’t have to be reminded of how he had lost himself inside her body last night, had revealed a part of himself he didn’t want to show. It was the only explanation she could come up with, and it made her feel about an inch high.

He didn’t trust her enough to understand she would protect him. She wouldn’t be reckless with his feelings.

But he was with hers. Look at him—master of the universe, and me making nice with the shopping. She looked down at the bags in her arms.

‘I’m going marketing,’ she said, making a hopeless gesture with the bags. ‘I thought you might like to come.’

But now I know you don’t
.

‘You know I have a shopper for that stuff,’ was all he said.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say,
And I know there are women who will sleep with you for money
, but her pride was too strong. He might see her as another one of his many conveniences, but she was here because she loved him.

She loved him
.

In the middle of his big state-of-the-art kitchen, with flagstones underfoot and every possible mod-con a man could
want in his life, making her feel never more redundant to his needs, she realised the one thing guaranteed to break her heart.

It was just sex for him, and she began to shatter into tiny pieces.

He pulled out his wallet and in front of her started peeling off notes.

For one horrified moment she couldn’t move, and then the words came out as if torn from her gut. ‘I can pay for a bag of apples, Serge.’ And she turned around as she said it so she didn’t have to face him.

She jumped as he took hold of her hips. For a strange disconnected moment it felt as if he was going to embrace her, and instinctively her body drifted up against him as he dragged her close, all the angry heat inside of her pooling in her pelvis even as her mind shouted
no
. But he was shoving the money into her back pocket instead.

‘Get yourself something nice.’

He actually patted her on the backside.

He had to know what he was doing. He had to know how he was hurting her. It gave her the backbone to walk away, clutching those bags tightly to her chest. If she had the guts she’d walk away from him for ever, but she didn’t have that amount of courage. Not yet. Not after last night.

The soft reminder of who she had been earlier that morning—the happy girl who had been floating on cloud nine—manifested itself in the thought: where was the closeness and belonging and sharing? Where had it gone?

Serge wasn’t sharing anything this morning except his open wallet.

It burned.

It was still burning a few hours later, as she schlepped with her bags up the steps. The boxes of groceries were on delivery,
but she had carried little delicacies herself: cheeses and a French wine, and some lovely Chinese tea, and those godawful pickled herrings Serge liked.

She’d done it all despite being arm candy.

Flavour of the month. That was her.

Carrying the groceries.

As she approached the kitchen she could hear male voices. She left the bags on the bench and wandered curiously but warily into the drawing room. Serge was on his feet. About a dozen other men were sitting and standing around the room. Expensive weekend casual was the dress code, but the guys didn’t look like your typical buttoned-down execs. The atmosphere vibrated with tension, and Serge didn’t look happy. Her self-pity evaporated.

Only a couple of people noticed her at first, and then like an avalanche the focus of the room turned on her, the same male interest she’d been getting since she was fifteen.

Serge glanced up. The look on his face said it all and her heart sank. She took a backward step, then stood her ground. Thirteen pairs of male eyes—all directed at her.

Serge moved to her side, introducing her to the men in rapidfire succession and then gently but inexorably leading her to the door. ‘We’ve got a lot to discuss, Clementine. It could take a while.’ His tone clearly said
make yourself scarce
.

‘Fair enough.’ Feeling excluded, but knowing it wasn’t personal, she retraced her steps and set about piling up a few plates with bruschetta, olives, cheeses, opening up a bottle of wine.

She had an idea this was about the fallout from the Kolcek disaster, and from the conversation drifting in it sounded as if she was on the money.

A heavy-set man with tattoo sleeves on both arms peeking out of his T-shirt came into the kitchen.

Behind him was Liam O’Loughlin, the promotions guy she had spoken to yesterday. She already knew she didn’t like him. He compounded it by copping a look down the front of her shirt as she picked up an empty hemp bag and began folding it.

Then another man and another strolled into the kitchen, and suddenly she was standing by the island bench surrounded by five big men, all of them clearly starved of female company if their slightly inane expressions were anything to go by.

‘Is this a convention or something?’ she enquired smartly, to hide her subtle unease.

‘Alex Khardovsky—president of the Marinov Corporation. Serge and I are old friends.’ The heavy-set guy reached over the bench and shook her hand. ‘Heard a lot about you, Clementine.’

Clementine’s smile didn’t falter, but she couldn’t help the cold trickle at the idea Serge had talked about her, wondering what he had said.

‘You’ve domesticated Serge Marinov,’ said Liam O’Loughlin smarmily. ‘Many women have tried and failed.’

Clementine didn’t respond. She hated this sort of drivel and she really didn’t like guys who couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves.

‘What I heard was that you worked in PR for Verado, Clementine,’ interrupted Alex.

‘That’s right. Lots of free golf clubs and cigar clippers.’

The men laughed. Clementine pushed a glass of wine towards Alex and began pouring a couple more glasses. She didn’t bother with Liam O’Loughlin.

‘So you guys are all here about that fighter who’s up on assault charges, right?’

‘It doesn’t go away,’ answered a fair-haired guy with the buzz-cut.

Here goes nothing, thought Clementine, and addressed Alex.

‘Your problem is managing the fallout from that big famous trial, right? You had trouble a few years ago with the media about some of your fighters’ extra-curricular activities and now it’s all coming back to bite you.’ She pushed the platters of food towards the other men. ‘Seems to me what you need is a blanket print, cable publicity blitz, pushing what’s great about the sport and taking the emphasis off this over-the-top macho rubbish. Highlight the athleticism. Maybe get some of those fighters to turn up at high-profile charity events—and not on their own. You want wives and kids in tow.’

She looked up and saw Serge leaning against the doorframe. She hadn’t known she was so nervous until she realised she wasn’t alone. Confidence had her straightening her spine.

‘Keep going,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘I’m taking notes.’

Clementine blew air up her fringe. This still wasn’t easy.

‘Yes, well…you need to get more women into your front row. Lots of famous guys there last night, but stag. Plays up to the problem you’ve got with Kolcek—young guys, too much testosterone, too much money, running around disrespecting women.’

‘So what you’re saying is the fight game isn’t appealing to soccer moms?’ said Liam dismissively.

‘What I’m saying is you’ve got a problem with a thug image, and if you’re serious about changing that you need to leave the theatricality in the ring and think about projecting the reality of the business, which is professional athletes engaged in highly staged combat.’

‘You wouldn’t consider coming and working for us, Clementine?’

‘Why, Alex …’ she looked at Serge over the rim of her glass ‘… I thought you’d never ask.’

Serge had watched the guys, one after another, follow Clementine into the kitchen and the hairs had gone up on the back of his neck.