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make a habit of picking up women off the street?
    Actually, this was a first—but he didn’t want to draw attention to it, remind her they had only met this afternoon. For all her free and easy vibe, he was getting the distinct impression Clementine was more than capable of putting the brakes on this.
    ‘So, tell me why you’re in Petersburg?’ He needed to distract her.
    ‘I’m here for Verado—the Italian luxury goods company.’
    ‘
Da
, I know them.’
    ‘They’re doing a promotion for their flagship store on the Nevsky. That’s me—PR girl.’
    Serge sat back, absorbing her pride in her job. PR. Of course. What else would a girl like this do but charm and influence people for a living?
    ‘The grand opening is tomorrow night and then it’s all over. Back to London.’
    Serge had lost interest in her job. He was much more interested in the different lights he could see in her hair—golds and reds and browns. Was it natural? Probably not.
    ‘I imagine you’re very good at public relations?’
    ‘I guess I am. I like people.’ She noticed he was paying more attention to looking her over and it flustered her. ‘I’m not that keen on Verado—all very old-world sexist misogynist management—but it’s my job to make them look good, so I do what I can.’
    Serge was tempted to comment that the fleapit she was currently inhabiting told him more about her job than words. Instead he said, ‘What else do you do, Clementine, besides influence people?’
    ‘Do you really want to know?’
    There was something in the way she asked, angling up her chin but with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. He hadn’t expected that.
    ‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, surprising himself.
    She gave him a curious look he couldn’t read. ‘Truthfully, not much lately. All I seem to do is work.’
    ‘You’re a beautiful woman. No serious boyfriend?’
    She met his eyes candidly. ‘I wouldn’t be out with you if I had.’
    Serge lounged back, rolling his shoulders, all big lazy Russian male.
    Honestly, thought Clementine, what
was
it about men and competition?
    He sipped his brandy, his eyes warm on her face, her bare shoulders.
    ‘What about you?’ She tossed back her hair, giving him her hundred-watt smile. ‘Why isn’t a rich, gorgeous guy like you taken?’
    ‘Gorgeous?’ He looked amused. ‘Good to know I measure up,
kisa
.’
    He hadn’t answered the question. Clementine’s smile faded. Okay, it didn’t mean he was married or had a girlfriend or anything.
    ‘So no one’s waiting up for you at home?’ The question sounded so gauche she could have kicked herself.
    ‘No.’ He settled his glass on the table. ‘No one.’
    It bothered her. He studied her suddenly tense face intently. ‘What gave you the idea I was married?’
    ‘A girl can’t be too careful,’ she said lightly.
    Da
, he could imagine an endless stream of guys hitting on her. Married men. Single. Hell, gay men. Any man with a pulse.
    He had a personal distaste for adultery. He didn’t fool around with married women, ever. So why in the hell did it annoy him so much that she had brought it up?
    It was the idea of a married man making a play for her.
    Any man.
    Because he wanted her. For himself. Exclusively.
    And why in the hell did he feel that at any moment she could get up, excuse herself from the table and never come back?
    Clementine knew there was something about her that attracted guys like this. Good-looking, confident men, who thought they could bulldoze her into bed. And they always had money. Luke said it was her personality, but he meant herconfidence. She was a girl who liked to dress up and flirt. She always had. She intimidated a lot of nice guys who were too scared to approach her, imagining every night of her week was booked, or who—like Serge—wanted to know why she wasn’t in a relationship.
    She had been. In two short-lived unsatisfactory relationships with nice guys who in the end had bored her silly. She recognised