Untouched by His Diamonds Read Online Free PDF Page B

giving him little backward glances over her shoulder as the restaurant’s owner, Igor Kaminski, led them to their table. It brought back his uncharacteristic pursuit of her up the Nevsky, and fancifully he acknowledged that despite corralling her into a dinner date nothing had changed. She was still a step ahead, as elusive as ever, and he was enjoying it.
    She gave an exclamation of delight as they reached their table, and he observed Igor grow about a foot as he gave her a potted history of the restaurant. Then she did that thing all women did as he seated her, smoothing her hands over her lavish hips and thighs to adjust her skirt. Somehow Clementine managed to turn it into a performance of female sensual pleasure. Igor stood there, a big smile on his broad, unhandsome face, watching her.
    Am I supposed to hit him or order? Serge wondered, only half amused. He broke the spell by asking Clementine what she would like to drink.
    She gave him one of those sweet little smiles. ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’
    He ordered Georgian wine, and Igor returned with the menus himself, flanked by three men Serge knew were his sons. Clementine was enjoying herself, so he sat back and let the good-natured teasing unroll as
zakouski
was served and the men encouraged Clementine to taste—pickled mushrooms dipped in sour cream, different varieties of caviar,
ikra
fresh from the Caspian, salty
sevruga
. She washed it down with a mouthful of her wine, and Serge observed her trying to make sense of the heavily accented English, giving everyone equal attention.
    Their table was busy in a noisy restaurant. This wasn’t what he had pictured doing tonight. Food, alcohol, a little sweet-talking and Clementine gasping his name for a few enjoyable hours had been the plan.
    Then Clementine leaned towards him and said, ‘When does our date start, Slugger?’
    Serge beckoned Igor over, whilst not taking his eyes off her, and murmured something to the owner. Their company evaporated, leaving them alone.
    ‘Everyone’s so friendly,’ she confided over the rim of her glass. ‘They certainly know you.’
    ‘I think,
kisa
, the drawcard is you,’ he observed wryly.
    ‘Don’t be silly.’ As she slid her spoon through her soup her eyes teased him.
    The little red candles in the glass bowls on the table between them cast a tantalising glow over her heart-shaped face. Her lightly tanned bare skin—what he could see of it—had the burnish of pale honey, extending from the curve of her shoulders, the slender length of her arms all the way down to those long-fingered hands and the gold bangles that clinked around her wrists.
    A girl who looked like this, with the level of independenceClementine exhibited, knew exactly what she was doing. She had to know what tonight was all about. She was going home on Saturday, which meant it had to be tonight or tomorrow.
    The anticipation was beginning to burn.
    ‘So, what is it that brings you here, Clementine?’ He needed to do his bit—the what-do-you-do, tell-me-your-story routine—before the food and alcohol kicked in and he put thoughts of a soft mattress and his hard body into that pretty head of hers.
    ‘Is it time to get to know one another?’ she teased, wishing her tummy wasn’t fluttering. She’d done this before—flirting in a public place. But it didn’t feel public. It felt very, very intimate. Maybe too intimate for a first date.
    He leaned towards her. ‘Only if you want to,
kisa
.’
    His eyes made her so aware of herself she was sure she was blushing. Trying to get back on track, she decided to fire some questions of her own at him.
    ‘So you’re a regular?’
    ‘When I’m in town.’
    ‘A different girl every time?’
    ‘I’ve been known to drop in alone,’ he replied, noticing the way her index finger had stopped drifting up and down the stem of her glass and she was gripping it now. What was the problem? Different girls? Did she need a little reassurance that he didn’t