He hesitated.
Did it matter?
This was his favourite type of female. A woman with a sparkle in her eyes and a willingness to just enjoy herself. No ties, no drama. No happy-ever-afters.
This girl was clearly that woman.
Libido humming nicely, he gave her body a comprehensive, less polite once-over. In response she surprised him. Her hands knotted up in her lap and her shoulders tensed. That little Mona Lisa smile flickered and vanished. She turned the lights down low on her eyes with those thick lashes.
Chastened, he put a clamp on his imagination.
It was a reminder that he needed to be kind and considerate and gentlemanly—as he would be with any other woman.
And look after her until she waved goodbye in a few days’ time.
She was going on a date with the Cossack.
Clementine’s imagination was beginning to gallop, but before it did perhaps she should take the opportunity to clear a few things up. But what was she going to say? I don’t make a practice of putting on sex shows for strange men? I’ve agreed to dinner but that’s it. I’m a nice girl.
But he had asked her to dinner, hadn’t he?
And he’d rescued her.
That was huge. She was still feeling a little breathless over that.
And, honestly, how nice a girl was she?
He really should be rewarded.
A little smile formed on her lips.
She needed to think this through. She’d seen the way he’d looked her over, as if making a sexual inventory of the bits he’d like. She knew which way this road led and she didn’t want to walk it again. Not even for a Cossack whose incredible green eyes made her tremble behind the knees and her nipples perk up.
He had one arm spread along the top of the seat, so that his hand hung just inches from her shoulder. He had positioned himself so he was angled towards her, long muscular legs stretched out. Without his jacket she could see the hard width of his shoulders and the taut flat belly delineated by the fitted dark blue shirt, crisp on his large frame. He really was mouthwateringly delicious.
For crying out loud—she had to stop this now! She didn’t even know his name, or he hers. She could remedy that, at least.
‘I’m Clementine Chevalier, by the way,’ she said, sticking out her hand in a forthright fashion.
‘Clementine.’ His accent did wonderful things to her name. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and she felt the tingle all through her girly bits as he turned her endeavour to keep their interaction on a guy-to-guy basis into an old-fashioned gesture. The sort of gesture that got her just where her inner princess lived.
‘I am Serge—Serge Marinov.’ Serj, she pronounced silently, practised it a couple of times. It was far too sexy. She was such a goner.
Expectation shimmered in the air. The car had glided to a halt. Clementine registered belatedly that they were no longer moving and hit ground level as real life intruded again. She reached for her boots.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ She sounded breathless even to her own ears. ‘Should I give you my address or shall I meet you somewhere …?’ She trailed off.
‘I will collect you,’ he said, as if this was the only logical response, ‘and I think you should let me handle the embassy.’
Okay. She wasn’t going to argue over that. ‘You really want this date,’ she observed as he opened her door, helped her out.
He gave her an inscrutable smile. ‘How am I doing?’
‘How do you think?’ She threw a feminine sway into her hips and preceded him into the building, enjoying herself far too much.
People were looking at them.
Probably wondering what a girl like her was doing with a guy like him.
She was wondering the same thing.
Clementine had pictured queues, waiting endlessly, forms to be filled in. Apparently Serge Marinov didn’t live in that world. He lived in a parallel universe where you were taken upstairs to a plush office and offered tea or coffee or something stronger, and where a senior official turned up in a neat business suit and low heels, eyes lighting up as she focussed on Serge. The woman was so poised and elegant, her flirtatiousness pitch perfectly low-key, giving Clementine a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew women must fawn over him all the time.
Yet he had saved her from who knew what in that underpass, and he’d asked her out to dinner, and now he was making a difficult situation evaporate. He was putting in all the work. And within an astonishing half an hour Clementine was sorted: passport, visa, bank account. All of it done and dusted.
‘Who on earth are you?’ she blurted out as they descended the marble stairs of the embassy building. It was shabby and worn, but the interior had clearly once been a beautiful example of early nineteenth-century classicism. In any other situation she would have lingered to take it all in, but right now all she was interested in was the man beside her.