Untouched by His Diamonds (18 page)

Serge’s arms came around her. ‘How about out of her cargos and T-shirt? And might I say this is a very good look on you, Clementine?’

She rolled her eyes, and Serge experienced an upswing in mood. Things felt better between them again. Whatever had been knocked awry had been restored by bringing her here, and for some reason he wasn’t going to examine too closely that tight knot in his chest was gone.

He could do this. He could do light and easy and friendly. He could do sexy sweet girl who drove him a little crazy. He could do all the things that stopped short of out-of-control passion.

‘So, do you want to use
me
?’ she ventured, turning up her eyes to his.

‘It would be ungentlemanly to ask, Clementine.’

He was gently teasing her, but Clementine was suddenly very clear on what she wanted. This was a way to test the waters—to move the relationship in the right direction. Last night had revealed he had strong feelings, but he was clearly fighting it. Maybe this was a way to give him a gentle nudge that didn’t feel too real-life. A practice run.

‘I think it’s a dangerous idea to couple your personal life to the public face of what is essentially a business,’ she said slowly, ‘but I do think Mick has a point. If you have a media profile—Serge,
do
you have a media profile?’

His mouth twitched. ‘A very slight one.’

‘But enough to be photographed leaving parties with inappropriate women?’ She tried to sound cavalier but it came out a little stiltedly.

He actually looked slightly embarrassed. Well, good—so he should. Private parties? She could just imagine…

‘Maybe it would be good for you to be seen doing a few conventional guy things. With a woman.’

‘But where would we find such a woman? This paragon of virtue, good manners and incredible hotness?’

He was teasing her. That was good. That meant he wasn’t backing away from her. ‘I don’t know, Slugger. Maybe just whistle one up?’

‘You’re determined to get involved, aren’t you?’ But there was something in his expression—something that was inviting her in.

‘I want to help you,’ she said, suddenly feeling a little shy—which was a new feeling for her.

She hoped he was reading her right, getting the hint. Surely he could see how much he meant to her?
Tell him
, a little voice prodded.
Tell him how you feel
.

Instead she put on her professional smile, stroked his arm flirtatiously. ‘I do this for a living, Slugger, just leave everything to me.’

He put an arm around her, but she noted the caution was back in his eyes. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Public face of the Marinov Corporation,’ said Clementine, feeling rather as she had when she’d first walked into that ritzy hotel with Serge a few weeks ago: kicking like mad to stay afloat. ‘It’ll take some getting used to,’ she confessed, glancing across the table at Alex. ‘I’ve done stuff like this before—I’ve just never actually been the product.’

Alex smiled at her, all charm. ‘You’ll do fine. Relax.’

Mick Forster strolled into the kitchen ahead of Serge, who clearly wasn’t relaxed. He vibrated with tension. Clementine wondered how she could take that down a few notches.

Mick whipped off his perennial cap as he spotted
Clementine sitting at the big oak table. Serge introduced them and Mick sat down gingerly at one end, a good metre from where Clementine was curled up with a coffee.

‘I hear you made a good impression on Alex,’ said Mick bluntly, narrowing his into-the-wind blue eyes on her. ‘Do you think you can do it in front of eight politicians and a camera crew?’

‘Well, Mick, I don’t know,’ replied Clementine, looking at Serge. ‘As long as I remember to take the gum out of my mouth I’m sure we’ll be fine.’

He didn’t crack even a millimetre of a smile. He hadn’t been smiling since she’d agreed to do this. Was he having second thoughts? She knew
she
was.

‘This is just a front up,’ said Serge, folding his arms. He looked so intimidating for a moment even Clementine drew back a little in her chair. Mick and Alex both looked warily at one another.

‘She has her picture snapped, I do the press conference, and then we leave. No chit-chat. She doesn’t speak to the press.’

No mention of doing it this way to make any of it easier for
her
, Clementine thought a little hopelessly, then nipped her self-pity in the bud. She wasn’t going down that path. She had come into this eyes wide open. It was what it was: an opportunity to help him out, an opportunity to make something of what they had between them. She wasn’t giving up on them without a fight; it was just right now she felt like the only person in the ring.

‘I want to be sure Clementine knows what she’s up for,’ said Alex slowly, as if testing the waters. ‘You’ll be answering questions, Serge, but she’ll be facing the scrum outside.’

‘
Nyet
—no paps. We go in the back way. Only legit media.’ Serge spoke quietly but it had its effect. The other two men stayed quiet.

‘Listen, boys, I’m aware I’m going to be a handbag tomorrow,’
Clementine interrupted, straining for her voice to be unnaturally high and cheerful in the tense atmosphere. ‘I look good. I don’t say much. I’m flashbacking to my last job.’

Nobody laughed. Nobody even twitched.

‘Nah, we
want
you to speak,’ said Mick finally. ‘If you don’t you may as well be one of those other airhead bimbos …’ His voice fell away into a taut, uncomfortable silence.

Other airhead bimbos
. Clementine didn’t know where to look.

Ever since she’d put the proposal to Serge, Clementine had been wondering if she was out of her ever loving mind. Now Mick had pointed out what she’d been too blind or dazzled by the notion of putting a public stamp on their relationship to face. She’d be hanging her dirty laundry out for everyone to see. Anyone who was interested in the Marinov Corporation would have some idea about Serge’s sexual past. She couldn’t call it romantic, and there was a huge chance she was about to be showcased as a bimbo who’d made it past round one and that was about all.

Clementine suddenly felt hideously exposed and her hands found their way into her lap, winding around one another so she had something to hold onto.

She took a deep breath. She wasn’t a bimbo. She wasn’t going to be considered one. And this little exercise would ensure she could keep her head held high. She could handle tomorrow.

Be careful what you wish for, Clem, she told herself under the shower as she freshened up before dinner that evening. She was going to show her skills, but not in quite the way she’d wanted. In her haste to offer herself up she’d overlooked one fundamental flaw in her thinking: this wasn’t about how he felt about her; it was about what she could do for him.

She’d done what she’d sworn she would never do again. In her desperation for his love, to come first with Serge, she’d
forgotten her own life lesson from her parents. People wanted you around as long as you were entertaining, useful or fulfilled a function. And right now she was doing all three. She’d rushed headlong into it in her desperation to keep what she’d had a glimpse of the other night in his arms.

God help her, she wanted this to be different from what both of them had known in the past. He with his endless string of women and she with her two unsatisfactory, half-hearted relationships.

Well, she’d ensured she was in it for the long haul now—or at least until the Kolcek furore settled down and the spotlight turned to the next media frenzy. But none of this was really what she wanted. ‘Come live with me and be my significant other in order to counteract media speculation over my until now playboy lifestyle’ left something of a sour taste in her mouth.

She wanted a real commitment from Serge. It was time to acknowledge that, if only to herself. Pretending to be his significant other wasn’t going to achieve that.

For the first time since she’d arrived on US soil with him she was beginning to wonder if any of this was worth it. It was starting to feel as if she was running after him, and it wasn’t a good feeling.

She was just getting out of the shower when she heard her phone buzzing. Heavy-hearted, wrapping herself in a towelling robe, she answered it and gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘Luke!’

Serge heard her voice and continued dressing in the other room, one ear on her improved tone. She hadn’t sounded so upbeat all day and it bothered him. Events had coalesced all at once: the press conference, Mick’s advice—which he usually heeded to his benefit—and Clementine offering herself up, the answer to Mick’s prayers. She was so damn
willing
to help out.

Using Clementine in this way—and as every hour passed
that was how it was shaping up—was going to make it more brutal than it needed to be when they severed ties.

It was time to let her know this domestic idyll was over. He’d known it yesterday morning. He couldn’t have a repeat of the night before. Last night he’d found concentrating on her physical needs helped keep whatever this was between them within bounds—shifting the sex up a notch to a game of skill where the name of the game was her pleasure, not how he felt when she was soft and sweet in his arms. But he would have had to be blind, deaf and dumb not to hear the emotion in her voice as she cried out his name, or see the question in her eyes before she drifted, exhausted, off to sleep. She knew the difference now. She knew he was holding back.

But he didn’t have a choice. It had never been that way with anyone before, and it could never be that way between them again.

‘No, I don’t know,’ she said, her voice suddenly pitched lower. ‘No, I haven’t rented anything. I might be back. I don’t know.’

His heartbeat slowed.

‘It’s not quite what I expected.’

She was thinking about going back to London?

Every muscle in his body went on high alert. His fingers slid away from the buttons of his shirt.

Clementine gone.

This house empty.

He stood there, his head bent, breathing steadily, deeply. He told himself it was for the best.

Usually a chat with Luke lifted her spirits, but tonight Clementine felt worse than ever. It was his questions: about Serge, about her plans. They’d made her realise she couldn’t make plans because none of them involved the man she loved. She was allowed in, but only so far with Serge. Even now
their intimacy felt forced, and all about the business. Instead of making her feel more secure, as she had hoped, putting herself forward as public girlfriend only made her feel lost. Because it wasn’t true—and having your picture in the paper didn’t make it so.

Worse, their emotional intimacy the night of the fight hadn’t been repeated. Serge was as attentive as ever, driving her pleasure, but she felt his restraint like a slap in the face. It clearly wasn’t what he wanted. It was as if now she had seen how good it could be every time he touched her was a reminder of what they no longer had.

She inhaled deeply as she advanced on the kitchen. Cooking smells. Serge had only a skeleton staff, and they were never here on weekend evenings, so she knew
he
had to be cooking.

Unable to believe it, she lingered in the doorway, just watching. He looked sensational. A male animal out of the wild and giving a good impression of being domesticated.

‘You’re cooking.’

‘I can also make beds, sweep floors and clean toilets with a small wire brush. Army training.’

‘I’m impressed—although a little put off by the toilets.’

‘I thought we could eat and watch an old movie and have an early night.’

Clementine told her heart not to leap but it did.

‘Before D-Day?’

‘You don’t have to do this, Clementine.’ He was suddenly deadly serious and her heart thumped in response.

‘No, I want to, Serge. I want to do this for us.’ She could have cursed at the slip of her tongue. She’d meant to say
you
, hadn’t she?

Serge’s benign expression didn’t slip. He merely handed her a glass of red wine. ‘To us,’ he said, clinking her glass with his, but his eyes remained cool and almost watchful.

* * *

Although she’d had a dress picked out for the occasion, at the last moment it looked all wrong.

She should be good at this. She employed this skill all the time in her job. Making people see what she wanted them to see, shifting points of view, spruiking the product. Except today the product was herself, and the girl trawling through her ad hoc wardrobe wasn’t finding anything. Serge put his head in the door.

‘You’ve got fifteen, Clementine.’

‘Yes, fine,’ she said distractedly, not wanting to ruin a moment of today by making them late. Serge must have some nerves. He was facing a hostile media.

He hesitated, and suddenly his arm shot out and he whipped her green dress out with its hanger.

‘Wear this.’

She’d worn it on their first date and she wondered if he remembered. Probably not. Why would he? And it would definitely not do.

‘Thanks. I’ll be with you in ten.’ She purposely turned her back on him and reinstated the green satin to its place, reached for another dress with a great deal more material.

Serge consulted his watch. He could hear Clementine rushing about, the sounds of drawers closing, doors creaking, little swear words. Something about the noise she was making, the trouble she was going to, touched a part of him he was not familiar with.
I’m going to miss this
. The thought moved through him, leaving only a troubled sense of having lost something in its wake.

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.