do and you’ve said those terrible things to him and you’re never going to see him again.
What had she done?
What had she done?
Her feet were moving. She could see him a long way from her now. She wanted to run but it wouldn’t be any use. She could see him getting into his car. She opened her mouth to call out to him but her throat had closed up, and then she just stopped, dead in the middle of the pavement, as his sports car swiftly rejoined the traffic.
She still had Luke’s mobile. She had Serge’s number. She began rummaging in her bag. What would she say to him?
I’ve changed my mind. I want to come. I want to see where this leads me…where you lead me…
‘Clem.’ Luke had caught up with her. ‘What is it, darl? What’s going on?’
It was the reality of Luke’s voice and the memories that came back with it that had her dropping the phone back into her bag, the frenzy of feeling subsiding. Luke had helped pick up the pieces when the Joe Carnegie incident had exploded in her face. She had slept in his and his partner Phineas’s spare room for a week, and he had cared for her with all the kindness and tenderness she had never found in any of the guys she’d dated.
Serge Marinov was no different. She’d imagined him as her hero come to life, but her history told her the odds were against it ever working out.
Her best friend Luke was a reminder that she deserved more.
It wasn’t in her nature to mope. There was work to do, and she was kept busy all afternoon sweet-talking the snooty representative of a high-profile fashion magazine who had been housed in the Grand Hotel Europe instead of the Astoria Hotel.
Try the Vassiliev Building, she thought, even as she twittered on about the incredible history of the Grand Hotel. The painful irony being she only had those stories because Serge had told them to her on their magical date. She must have been convincing because the woman, mollified, agreed to a larger suite in the hotel.
I can do this, she thought, walking through the lobby. She was spending the night with Luke, unable to face even one more night in the fleapit. Her dress was upstairs and she intended to take a long hot shower.
She had a party to go to. Parties she could do. It was men she had a problem with.
As she stepped into the elevator one of the species gave her a covert once-over and she narrowed her eyes, mean as a dunked cat.
She was still feeling prickly as she moved through the crowd at the launch. The fashion show didn’t go smoothly, but it was the hiccups that made it fun. The models galloped down the runway—pretty boys carting luggage, wearing watches, flashing cocky grins at the cameras. Clementine did her usual meet-and-greet, brain switched off, dress switched on. She loved this black velvet evening gown. It was elegant and flattering, and Verado had loaned her a string of diamonds to wear around her neck. She was a walking advertisement tonight, and it suited her down to the ground. She was good at her job and it correspondingly made her feel good about herself.
If men thought she could be bought maybe it was time to start asserting her financial independence. She earned a reasonable living. She just had an expensive clothing habit. But she was twenty-five years old. It was time to stop living like a teenager and start looking towards her future. The fairytale husband and three children might never materialise—and given her romantic history and today’s disaster it felt further away than ever. She needed to look after herself. Protect herself. And that meant settling into her career.
She was turning from one group of buyers to cross the floor to another when she saw him.
Six and a half feet of Russian male wasn’t easy to miss. He was all dressed up in a tux, his unruly hair tamed. He looked devastating, a powerful man among many lesser men, and for a moment in time she merely stared. Until she recognised theolder gentleman he was speaking to was Giovanni Verado
What had she done?
What had she done?
Her feet were moving. She could see him a long way from her now. She wanted to run but it wouldn’t be any use. She could see him getting into his car. She opened her mouth to call out to him but her throat had closed up, and then she just stopped, dead in the middle of the pavement, as his sports car swiftly rejoined the traffic.
She still had Luke’s mobile. She had Serge’s number. She began rummaging in her bag. What would she say to him?
I’ve changed my mind. I want to come. I want to see where this leads me…where you lead me…
‘Clem.’ Luke had caught up with her. ‘What is it, darl? What’s going on?’
It was the reality of Luke’s voice and the memories that came back with it that had her dropping the phone back into her bag, the frenzy of feeling subsiding. Luke had helped pick up the pieces when the Joe Carnegie incident had exploded in her face. She had slept in his and his partner Phineas’s spare room for a week, and he had cared for her with all the kindness and tenderness she had never found in any of the guys she’d dated.
Serge Marinov was no different. She’d imagined him as her hero come to life, but her history told her the odds were against it ever working out.
Her best friend Luke was a reminder that she deserved more.
It wasn’t in her nature to mope. There was work to do, and she was kept busy all afternoon sweet-talking the snooty representative of a high-profile fashion magazine who had been housed in the Grand Hotel Europe instead of the Astoria Hotel.
Try the Vassiliev Building, she thought, even as she twittered on about the incredible history of the Grand Hotel. The painful irony being she only had those stories because Serge had told them to her on their magical date. She must have been convincing because the woman, mollified, agreed to a larger suite in the hotel.
I can do this, she thought, walking through the lobby. She was spending the night with Luke, unable to face even one more night in the fleapit. Her dress was upstairs and she intended to take a long hot shower.
She had a party to go to. Parties she could do. It was men she had a problem with.
As she stepped into the elevator one of the species gave her a covert once-over and she narrowed her eyes, mean as a dunked cat.
She was still feeling prickly as she moved through the crowd at the launch. The fashion show didn’t go smoothly, but it was the hiccups that made it fun. The models galloped down the runway—pretty boys carting luggage, wearing watches, flashing cocky grins at the cameras. Clementine did her usual meet-and-greet, brain switched off, dress switched on. She loved this black velvet evening gown. It was elegant and flattering, and Verado had loaned her a string of diamonds to wear around her neck. She was a walking advertisement tonight, and it suited her down to the ground. She was good at her job and it correspondingly made her feel good about herself.
If men thought she could be bought maybe it was time to start asserting her financial independence. She earned a reasonable living. She just had an expensive clothing habit. But she was twenty-five years old. It was time to stop living like a teenager and start looking towards her future. The fairytale husband and three children might never materialise—and given her romantic history and today’s disaster it felt further away than ever. She needed to look after herself. Protect herself. And that meant settling into her career.
She was turning from one group of buyers to cross the floor to another when she saw him.
Six and a half feet of Russian male wasn’t easy to miss. He was all dressed up in a tux, his unruly hair tamed. He looked devastating, a powerful man among many lesser men, and for a moment in time she merely stared. Until she recognised theolder gentleman he was speaking to was Giovanni Verado
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