Книга - The Jet-Set Seduction

The Jet-Set Seduction
Sandra Field


From the moment Slade Carruthers lays eyes on the beautiful Clea Chardin, he has to have her. But Clea has a reputation, and Slade doesn't share his women. If Clea wants him, she'll come on his terms.Clea isn't a loose woman, as everyone believes, but the label helps to protect herself from heartbreak. Now she's about to meet her match.So begins a jet-set seduction that takes Clea and Slade around the globe and ultimately to bed…









The Jet-Set Seduction

Sandra Field















Contents


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

COMING NEXT MONTH




CHAPTER ONE


A GARDEN party. Not his usual scene.

Slade Carruthers had stationed himself in one corner of the garden, a palm tree waving high over his head, his back flanked by California holly. The sun was, of course, shining. Would it dare do anything else for Mrs. Henry Hayward III’s annual garden party?

He was here on his own. As he preferred to be.

He was in between women right now; had been for quite a while. Maybe he’d grown bored with the age-old game of the chase, and the inevitable surrender that led, equally inevitably, to the end of yet another affair. Certainly for quite a while he hadn’t met anyone who’d tempted him to abandon his solitary status.

Casually Slade looked around. Belle Hayward’s guests were, as usual, an eccentric mixture of extremely rich, well-bred socialites and artistic mavericks. But every one of them knew the rules: suits and ties for the gentlemen, dresses and hats for the ladies. The two large men stationed at the iron gates had been rumored to turn away a famous painter in acrylic-spattered jeans, and an heiress in diamond-sprinkled capri pants.

The Ascot of San Francisco, Slade thought, amused. His own summerweight suit was hand-tailored, his shoes Italian leather, his shirt and tie silk. He’d even combed his unruly dark hair into some sort of order.

A young woman strolled into his field of view. Her head was bent as she listened to an elderly lady who looked familiar to Slade, and who was wearing a mauve gown that looked all too recently resurrected from mothballs. He searched for her name, realizing he’d met her here last year. Maggie Yarrow, that was it. Last of a line of ruthless steel magnates, possessor of a tongue like a blunt ax.

The young woman had broken both Belle’s rules. She was hatless and she was dressed in a flowing tunic over wide-legged pants.

Her wild tangle of red curls shone like flame in the sunlight.

Slade left his post under the palm tree and started walking toward her, smiling at acquaintances as he went, refusing a goblet of champagne from one of the white-jacketed waiters. His heart was beating rather faster than he liked.

As he got closer, he saw she had wide-spaced eyes of a true turquoise under elegantly arched brows; a soft, voluptuously curved mouth; a decided chin that added character to a face already imbued with passionate intelligence.

And with kindness, Slade thought. Not everyone would have chosen to pass the afternoon with a rude and dotty ninety-year-old. His nose twitched. Who did indeed smell of mothballs.

Then the young woman threw back her head and laughed, a delightful cascade of sound that pierced Slade to the core. Her hair rippled over her shoulders, gleaming as a bolt of silk gleams in the light.

He stopped dead in his tracks. His palms were damp, his heart was racketing in his chest and his groin had hardened. How could he be so strongly attracted to someone whose name he didn’t even know?

It looked as though his long months of abstinence were over.

If he didn’t meet her, he’d die.

Where the hell had that thought come from? Cool it, he told himself. We’re talking lust here. Plain old-fashioned lust.

As though she sensed the intensity of his gaze, the young woman looked straight at him. Her smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement. “Is something wrong?” she said. “Am I supposed to know you?”

Her voice was honey-smooth, layered like fine brandy; she had the trace of an accent. Slade said, “I don’t believe we’ve met, no. Slade Carruthers. Hello, Mrs. Yarrow, you’re looking well.”

The elderly lady gave an uncouth cackle. “Watch out for this one, girl. Richer than you by a city mile. Money and machismo—he’s one of Belle’s favorites.”

“Why don’t you introduce me anyway?” Slade said.

“Introduce yourselves.” Maggie Yarrow hitched at the shoulder of her gown. “Look at the pair of you—an ad for Beautiful People. California Chic. I need more champagne.”

Slade ducked as she swished her ebony cane through the air to get the attention of the nearest waiter. After grabbing a glass from his tray, she tossed back its contents, took another from him and walked in a dead-straight line toward her hostess.

Trying not to laugh, Slade sought out those incredible turquoise eyes again. “I’m not from California. Are you?”

“No.” She held out one hand. “Clea Chardin.”

Her fingers were slender, yet her handclasp was imbued with confidence; Slade always paid attention to handshakes. It also, he thought shakily, carried a jolt like electricity. He opened his mouth to say something urbane, witty, erudite. Instead he heard himself say, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

Clea tugged her hand free, to her dismay feeling desire uncoil in her belly; every nerve she possessed was suddenly on high alert. Danger, she thought. This man wasn’t her usual fare. Far from it. Taking a deep breath, she said lightly, “I read an article recently that said beauty is based on symmetry. So you’re complimenting me because my nose isn’t crooked and I’m not wall-eyed.”

Pull out all the stops, Slade thought. Because this is a woman you’ve got to have. “I’m saying your eyes are like the sea in summer when it washes over a shoal. That your hair glows like the coals of a bonfire on the beach.”

Disconcerted, Clea blinked. “Well,” she said, “poetry. You surprise me, Mr. Carruthers.”

“Call me Slade…and I can’t imagine I’m the first man to tell you how astonishingly beautiful you are.” He smiled. “Actually, your nose is slightly crooked. Adds character.”

“You mean I’m imperfect?” she said. “Now your face is much too strong to be called handsome. Compelling, yes. Rugged, certainly.” She smiled back, a smile full of mockery. “Your hair is the color of polished mahogany, and your eyes are like the Mediterranean late on a summer evening—that wonderful midnight-blue.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“I can’t imagine I’m the first woman to tell you how astonishingly attractive you are,” she riposted.

“You know what? Your skin’s like the pearly sheen inside a seashell.” And how he longed to stroke the hollow beneath her cheekbone, its smooth ivory warmth. Fighting to keep his hands at his sides, Slade added, “A mutual admiration society—is that what we are?”

“From the neck up only,” Clea said, deciding the time had come for a solid dose of the truth. “I’m not going near your body.”

He dropped his iron control long enough for his gaze to rake her from head to toe, from her softly shadowed cleavage to the seductive flow of waist, hip and thigh. On her bare feet she was wearing jeweled sandals with impossibly high heels. My God, he thought, I’m done for. “That’s very wise of you,” he said thickly, and looked around the crowded garden. “Given the circumstances.”

“I meant,” she said clearly, “that I’m literally not going near your body.”

“Scared to?”

“Yes.”

His choke of laughter was involuntary. “You’re honest, I’ll say that for you.”

She gave him an enigmatic smile; at least, she hoped it was enigmatic. “Where’s home for you, Slade?”

Tacitly accepting her change of subject, he answered, “Manhattan. And you?”

“Milan.”

“So your accent’s Italian?” he said.

“Not really. I grew up in France and Spain.”

“What brings you here?”

“I was invited.”

An answer that wasn’t an answer. He glanced down at her aqua silk trousers. “How did you get past the dragons at the gate? Belle’s dress code is set in concrete.”

She said demurely, “I arrived earlier in the day and changed in the house.”

“So you know Belle well?”

“I’d never met her before yesterday…nor had I met Maggie Yarrow. Just how rich are you, Slade Carruthers?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Carruthers…” Her eyes widened. “Not Carruthers Consolidated?”

“The same.”

“You’re doing all that cutting-edge research on environmentally sustainable power sources,” she said with genuine excitement, temporarily forgetting that Slade represented nothing but danger. She asked a penetrating question, Slade answered and for ten minutes they talked animatedly about wind power and solar systems.

Although she was both informed and interested, it was he who brought the conversation back to the personal. “How long are you staying in the area? I could show you the project we’re working on outside Los Angeles.”

“Not long enough for that.”

“I have a house in Florence,” he said.

She smiled at him, her lips a sensual curve. “I spend very little time in Italy.”

He couldn’t invite her for dinner tonight; it was a yearly ritual that he have dinner with Belle after the garden party so she could dissect all the guests and savor the latest gossip. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“I already have plans,” she said.

“Are you married? Engaged?” Slade said, failing to disguise the urgency in his voice. He had a few inflexible rules as far as women were concerned, one being that he never had an affair with a woman who was already taken.

“No and no,” she said emphatically.

“Divorced?” he hazarded.

“No!”

“Hate men?”

Clea smiled, her teeth even and white, her eyes laughing at him. His head reeled. “I like the company of men very much.”

“Men in the plural.”

She was now openly laughing. “In the plural overall, one at a time in the specific.”

Didn’t he operate the same way with women? So why did he hate her lighthearted response? He said, “I’m not inviting you for dinner tonight because Belle and I have an annual and long-standing date.”

Clea’s lashes flickered. For her own reasons, she didn’t like hearing that Slade Carruthers and Belle were longtime friends. She said calmly, “Then perhaps we aren’t meant to talk further about windmills.”

“Meet me tomorrow morning at Fisherman’s Wharf,” Slade said.

“Why would I do that?”

Because you’re so beautiful I can’t think straight. “So I can buy you a Popsicle.”

“Popsicle?” She stumbled over the word. “What’s that?”

“Fruit-flavored ice on a stick. Cheap date.”

She raised her brows artlessly. “So you’re tight with your money?”

“I don’t think you’d be overly impressed were I to splash it around.”

“How clever of you,” she said slowly, not altogether pleased with his small insight into her character.

“Ten in the morning,” he said. “Pier 39, near the Venetian carousel. No dress code.”

“Beneath your charm—because I do find you charming, and extremely sexy—you’re ruthless, aren’t you?”

“It’s hard to combine raspberry Popsicles with ruthlessness,” he said. Sexy, he thought. Well.

“I—”

“Slade, how are you, buddy?”

Slade said, less than enthusiastically, “Hello there, Keith. Keith Rowe, from Manhattan, a business acquaintance of mine. This is Clea Chardin. From Milan. Where’s Sophie?”

Keith waved his glass of champagne somewhat drunkenly in the air. “Haven’t you heard? The Big D.”

Clea frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Divorce,” Keith declaimed. “Lawyers. Marital assets. Alimony. In the last four months I’ve been royally screwed—marriage always boils down to money in the end, don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Clea said coldly.

Slade glanced at her. She was pale, her eyes guarded. But she’d never divorced, or so she’d told him. He said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Keith.”

“You’re the smart one,” Keith said. “He’s never married, Chloe. Never even been engaged.” He gulped the last of his champagne. “Evidence of a very shu—oops, sorry, Chloe, what I meant was superior IQ.”

“Clea,” she said, even more coldly.

He bowed unsteadily. “Pretty name. Pretty face. I’ve noticed before how Slade gets all the really sexy broads.”

“No one gets me, Mr. Rowe,” she snapped. “Slade, I should be going, it’s been nice talking to you.”

Slade fastened his fingers around the filmy fabric of her sleeve to stop her going anywhere. Then, in a voice any number of CEOs would have recognized, he said, “Keith, get lost.”

Keith hiccuped. “I can take a hint,” he said and wavered across the grass toward the nearest tray of champagne.

“He’s a jerk when he’s sober,” Slade said tightly, letting go of Clea’s sleeve, “and worse when he’s been drinking. Can’t say I blame Sophie for leaving him.”

Heat from Slade’s fingers had burned through her sleeve. Danger, her brain screamed again. “So you condone divorce?” Clea said, her voice like a whiplash.

“People make mistakes,” he said reasonably. “Although it’s not on my agenda. If I ever get married, I’ll marry for life.”

“Then I hope you enjoy being single.”

“Are you a cynic, Clea?”

“A realist.”

“Tell me why.”

She gave him a lazy smile that, Slade noticed, didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s much too serious a topic for a garden party. I want one of those luscious little cakes I saw on the way in, and Earl Grey tea in a Spode cup.”

Much too serious, Slade thought blankly. That’s what’s wrong. I’m in over my head, drowning in those delectable blue-green eyes. When have I ever wanted a woman as I want this one? “I’ll get you whatever you desire,” he said.

Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. “Desire is another very big topic. Let’s stick to want. What I want is cake and tea.”

Visited by the sudden irrational terror that she might vanish from his sight, he said, “You’ll meet me tomorrow morning?”

He wasn’t, Clea was sure, a man used to being turned down; in fact, he looked entirely capable of camping out on her hotel doorstep should she say no. Better, perhaps, that she meet him in a public place, use her usual tactics for getting rid of a man who didn’t fit her criteria, and then go back to Belle’s on her own.

“Popsicles and a carousel?” she said, raising her brows. “How could I not meet you?”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Fine.”

The tension slid from his shoulders. “I’ll look forward to it.” Which was an understatement if ever there was one.

She said obliquely, “I leave for Europe the next day.”

“I leave for Japan.”

Her lashes flickered. “Maybe I’ll sleep until noon tomorrow.”

“Play it safe?” He grinned at her. “Or do I sound incredibly arrogant?”

“I only take calculated risks,” she said.

“That’s a contradiction in terms.”

She said irritably, “How many women have told you your smile is pure dynamite?”

“How many men have wanted to warm their hands—or their hearts—in your hair?”

“I don’t do hearts,” Clea said.

“Nor do I. Always a good thing to have out in the open.”

She looked very much as though she was regretting her decision to meet him, he thought. He’d better play it cool, or Clea Chardin would run clear across the garden path and out of his life.

“Tea and cake,” he said, and watched her blink. Her lashes were deliciously long, her brows as tautly shaped as wings. Then she linked her arm with his; the contact surged through his body.

“Two cakes?” she said.

“A dozen, if that’s what you want,” he said unsteadily.

“Two is one too many. But sweets are my downfall.”

“Clams and French fries are mine. The greasier the better.”

“And really sexy broads.”

He said flatly, “Let’s set the record straight. First, I loathe the word broad. Secondly, sure I date. But I’m no playboy and I dislike promiscuity in either sex.”

So her tactics were almost sure to work, Clea thought in a flood of relief. “This is a charming garden, isn’t it?” she said.

For the first time since he’d seen her, Slade looked around. Big tubs of scented roses were in full bloom around the marquee, where an orchestra was sawing away at Vivaldi. The canopy of California oaks and palm trees cast swaying patterns of shade over the deep green grass, now trampled by many footsteps. The women in their bright dresses were like flowers, he thought fancifully.

Because Belle’s garden was perched on one of the city’s hilltops, a breeze was playing with Clea’s tangled curls. He reached over and tucked a strand behind her ear. “Charming indeed,” he said.

Her eyes darkened. Deliberately she moved a few inches away from him, dropping her hand from his sleeve. “Do you see much of Belle?” she asked.

“Not a great deal. I travel a lot with my job, and my base is on the East Coast…how did you meet her?”

“Through a mutual friend,” Clea said vaguely; no one other than Belle knew why she was here. “Oh look, miniature éclairs—do you think I can eat one without getting whipped cream on my chin?”

“Another calculated risk,” he said.

“One I shall take.”

Had he ever seen anything sexier than Clea Chardin, in broad daylight and surrounded by people, licking a tiny patch of whipped cream from her lips? Although sexy was far too mundane a word for his primitive and overwhelming need to possess her; or for the sensation he had of plummeting completely out of control to a destination unknown to him. Every nerve on edge, every sense finely honed. For underneath it all, wasn’t he frightened?

Frightened? Him, Slade Carruthers? Of a woman?

“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Slade?”

“What? Oh, sorry, of course I am.” He took a square from the chased silver platter and bit into it. It was a date square. He hated date squares. He said, “The summer my mother learned how to make chocolate éclairs, my father and I each gained five pounds.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Manhattan. My parents still live there. My mother’s on a health kick now, though. Soy burgers and salads.”

“And what does your father think of that?”

“He eats them because he adores her. Then at least once a week he takes her out for dinner in SoHo or GreenwichVillage and plies her with wine and decadent desserts.” Slade’s face softened. “The next day it’s back to tofu and radicchio.”

“It sounds idyllic.”

The sharpness in her voice would have cut paper. “You don’t sound amused.”

“I’m not a believer in marital bliss, whether flavored with tofu or chocolate,” she said coldly. “Ah, there’s Belle…if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to her before I leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She plunked her half-empty cup on the linen tablecloth so hard that tea slopped into the saucer. Then she threaded her way through the crowd toward Belle, her hair like a beacon among the clusters of pastel hats. Slade watched her go. Prickly wasn’t the word for Clea Chardin.

Although she claimed never to have been married, some guy had sure pulled a dirty on her. Recently, by the sound of things, and far from superficially.

He’d like to kill the bastard.

Maybe Belle would fill him in on the details at dinner tonight. After a couple of glasses of her favorite Pinot Noir.

He wanted to know everything there was to know about Clea Chardin.




CHAPTER TWO


THAT evening, Slade waited until he and Belle were halfway through their grilled squab, in a trendy French restaurant on Nob Hill, before saying, “I met Clea Chardin at your party this afternoon, Belle.”

Belle’s fork stopped in midair. While her hair was unabashedly gray, her shantung evening suit was pumpkin-orange, teamed with yellow diamonds that sparkled in the candlelight. Her eyes, enlarged with lime-green mascara, were shrewd: Belle harbored no illusions about human nature. Slade was one of the few people who knew how much of her fortune went to medical clinics for the indigent.

“Delightful gal, Clea,” she said.

“Tell me about her.”

“Why, Slade?”

“She interests me,” he hedged.

“In that case, I’ll leave her to do the telling,” Belle said. “The sauce is delicious, isn’t it?”

“So that’s your last word?”

“Don’t play games with Clea. That’s my last word.”

“I’m not in the habit of playing games!”

“No? You’re thirty-five years old, unmarried, hugely rich and very sexy…why hasn’t some woman snagged you before now?” Belle answered her own question. “Because you know all the moves and you’re adept at keeping your distance. I’m telling you, don’t trifle with Clea Chardin.”

“She struck me as someone who can look after herself.”

“So she’s a good actor.”

Belle looked distinctly ruffled. Choosing not to ask why Clea was so defenseless, Slade took another mouthful of the rich meat and chewed thoughtfully. “Maggie Yarrow was in fine form,” he said.

Belle gave an uncouth cackle. “Don’t know why I invite her, she gets more outrageous every year. Nearly decapitated one of my waiters with that cane of hers…which reminds me, did you see what the senator’s wife was wearing? Looked like she ransacked the thrift shop.”

He knew better than to ask why Belle had slackened her infamous dress code for Clea. “Will your lawn recover from all those stiletto heels?”

“A whole generation of women crippled,” Belle said grandly. “What’s a patch of grass compared to that?”

He raised his glass. “To next year’s party.”

She gave him the sweet smile that came rarely and that he cherished. “You be sure to be here, won’t you, Slade? I count on it.”

“I will.”

His affairs never lasted more than six months; so by then, he’d no longer be seeing Clea. Game over.

Oddly, he felt a sharp pang of regret.



The next morning Slade was walking along Pier 39 past the colorful moored fishing boats. It was October, sunniest month in the city, and tourists still thronged the boardwalk, along with buskers joking raucously with the crowds. The tall spire of the carousel beckoned to him, the lilt of its music teasing his ears. Would Clea be there? Or would she have thought the better of it and remained in her hotel?

He had no idea where she was staying. Added to that, she was going back to Europe tomorrow. If she was determined not to be found, Europe was a big place.

He walked the circumference of the fence surrounding the carousel, his eyes darting this way and that. No Clea. She’d changed her mind, he thought, angered that she should trifle with him. But underlying anger was a depth of disappointment that dismayed him.

Then movement caught his eye. A woman was waving to him. It was Clea, seated on the gold-painted sidesaddle of a high-necked horse, clasping the decorated pole as she went slowly up and down. He waved back, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

She’d come. The rest was up to him.

The brim of her huge, flower-bedecked sun hat flopped up and down with the horse’s movements. Her legs were bare, pale against her mount’s dark flanks. Bare. Long. Slender.

As the carousel came to a stop, she slid to the floor. She was wearing a wildly flowered skirt that fell in soft folds around her thighs, a clinging top in a green so vivid it hurt his eyes and matching green flat-heeled sandals. The skirt should be banned, Slade thought. Or was he even capable of thought through a surge of lust unlike any he’d ever known?

Clea walked toward Slade, her heart jittering in her chest. He was so overpoweringly male, she thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged, with an aura of power that she was almost sure he was unaware of, and which in consequence was all the more effective. She came to a halt two feet away from him. “Buon giorno.”

“Come sta?”

“Molto bene, grazie.” She gave him a dazzling smile that reduced his brain to mush. “This is a fun place, Slade, I’m glad you suggested it.”

“Popsicles,” he said firmly, and led her to the little booth decorated with big bunches of rainbow-hued balloons.

She chose grape, he raspberry. Sucking companionably, they wandered in and out of the boutiques and stands, Slade purposely keeping the conversation light. Belle was no fool, and had, in her way, only confirmed his own suspicions: Clea had been badly burned and it behooved him to take it slow.

Slow? When she went back to Europe tomorrow?

Slow. He made frequent trips to Europe.

They watched a very talented mime artist, and a somewhat less talented musician, tossing coins into their hats. Out of the blue Clea said, “Did you enjoy your dinner with Belle?”

“I did, yes. We go back a long way—she’s known my parents for years.”

“Ah yes, your estimable parents.”

“I like my parents and I’m not about to apologize for it,” Slade said, a matching edge to his voice.

“It’s none of my business how you feel about them.”

He reached over and wiped a drop of purple from her mouth with his fingertip. “Why don’t you believe in marital harmony?”

As she bit her lip, it was as much as he could do to keep his hands at his sides. “I told you—I’m a realist. Oh look, what gorgeous earrings.”

She dragged him over to a kiosk selling abalone earrings that shimmered turquoise and pink. Lifting one to her ear, she said, “What do you think?”

“They clash with your sweater. But you could wear anything, and you’d still look devastatingly beautiful.” Anything, he thought. Or nothing.

She laughed. “Oh, you Americans—so direct. The earrings, Slade, the earrings.”

“They match your eyes. Let me buy them for you.”

“So I’ll be indebted?”

“So I’ll have the pleasure of knowing that perhaps, occasionally, you’ll think of me.”

“I promise that perhaps, occasionally, I will,” she said, removing the gold hoops she was wearing and tucking them in her purse. Increasingly, she was finding it difficult not to like Slade. Didn’t that make him all the more of a threat?

“Let me,” Slade said, and with exquisite care inserted the silver hooks into her lobes. Her skin was as smooth as he’d imagined it. Deep within him, desire shuddered into life.

Her irises had darkened, as though a cloud had covered the sea. He stepped back, reaching for his wallet and paying for the earrings. “They look great on you.”

She struggled to find her voice. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said formally.

Between them, unspoken, crackled the electric awareness of sexual attraction. Slade said abruptly, “You know I want you. You’ve probably known it from the first moment we met.”

“Yes, of course I know—which doesn’t mean we do anything about it…other than enjoy each other’s company on a sunny morning in October.” She fluttered her lashes at him in deliberate parody. “Are you enjoying my company?”

“Very much. Don’t fish, Clea.”

“Where better than on Fisherman’s Wharf?” As he chuckled, she went on calmly, “We’re talking about sex between two total strangers here. Possibility is so often more interesting than actuality, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not when one of the strangers is you.”

“You have a pretty way with a compliment.”

He said, fixing her with his gaze, “Possibility’s on a par with fantasy. Nothing wrong with fantasy—last night I had a few about you I’d be embarrassed to describe. But actuality is real. Real and risky. That’s the catch, isn’t it?”

She said through gritted teeth, “I don’t sleep with someone I don’t know.”

“That’s easily fixable. We can get to know each other.”

“Slade, I’ve been told I’m beautiful, and I know I’m rich. Consequently I’ve learned to choose my partners carefully. I already told you that you scare me—you’re the last man I’d have an affair with.”

He shouldn’t have been so direct. But he had a horrible sense of time running out, along with the even worse sense that nothing he was saying to her was making any real or lasting impression. Welcome to a new experience, Slade thought wryly. He’d never before had to work at getting a woman interested in him; fighting them off was his area of expertise.

“There’s a bakery a couple of blocks from here that sells crusty sourdough bread,” he said. “I always take some home with me.”

He heard the tiny puff as she let out her breath. “Let’s go,” she said agreeably. “Do you like to cook?”

“I do. Sheer self-defense. I eat out a lot, and it’s relaxing to stay home and cook for myself. My specialties are bouillabaisse and pumpkin pie. I’ll make them for you sometime.”

“Perhaps. Occasionally,” she said, her eyes full of mockery.

“For sure. At least once.”

“You don’t like opposition.”

“Neither, dear Clea, do you.”

She laughed. “Who does? Tell me about sourdough bread—it doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

Impatient of small talk, suddenly desperate for details beyond the superficial, Slade said, “How old are you, Clea?”

“Old enough to enjoy flirtation without—how do you say it?—strings attached.” She stepped off the boardwalk onto the sidewalk at the end of the wharf. “As for—”

Shouting and swearing, a gang of teenagers surged around the nearest building. Three of them collided head-on with Slade. Automatically he threw his arms around Clea, pulling her close to his body for protection, his feet planted hard on the tarmac.

“Sorry!” one of the kids yelled. Another gave a loud whoop. None of them stopped.

Slade stood very still. Clea’s body was crushed to his, her breasts jammed against his chest. One of his arms encircled her hips, the other her waist; for a heart-stopping moment he felt her yield to him.

Her floppy hat had been shoved to the back of her head. He bent his own head and found her lips in a kiss that he wanted to last forever.

And again she yielded to him, a surrender all the more potent for being unexpected. He brought one hand up, tangling it in her hair, so silky and sweet-scented, and deepened the kiss, his lips edging hers apart. Her fingers were digging into his nape; her tongue was laced with his, teasing him, tasting him, driving him out of his mind.

As animal hunger surged through him, he forgot he was on a city sidewalk; forgot all Belle’s warnings and his own advice. Robbed of any vestige of caution, he muttered, “I feel as though I’ve been waiting for you my whole life…God, how I want you!”

His words sliced through the frantic pulsing of Clea’s blood, and brought in their wake an ice-cold dash of reality. She stiffened, then pushed hard against Slade’s chest. “Stop!” she gasped. “What are we thinking of?”

“We’re not thinking at all, which is just the way it should be,” he said thickly, lifting her chin with his fingers and bending to kiss her again.

“Slade, stop—you mustn’t, I don’t want you to.”

His gaze bored into hers. “Yes, you do.”

She sagged in his embrace, her forehead resting on his chest. He was right. She had wanted him, in the most basic of ways, her body betraying her into a response that, in retrospect, appalled her. “You took me by surprise, that’s all,” she said weakly.

Keeping one arm around her waist, he said, “We’re going into a restaurant on the pier, we’re having lunch together and we’re talking this through. No perhaps, no opposition.”

All the fight had gone out of her; she looked both frightened and defenseless. Slade hardened his heart and headed back along the pier to a restaurant that specialized in seafood. Because they were early for lunch, he was able to get a table in one corner, overlooking the bay. A table with a degree of privacy, he thought, and sat down across from her.

She picked up the menu; to his consternation, he saw how she had to rest it on the table to disguise the trembling of her hands. But by the time she looked up, she had herself under control again. Unsmiling, she said, “I’ll have the sole.”

Quickly he ordered their food, along with a bottle of Chardonnay from a Napa Valley vineyard. The service was fast; within minutes he was raising his glass of chilled pale golden wine. “To international relations,” he said with a crooked smile.

Her mouth set, she said, “To international boundaries,” and took a big gulp of wine. Putting her glass down, she said, “Slade, let’s get this out of the way, then maybe we can go back to enjoying each other’s company. What happened out there on the sidewalk—it frightened me. I don’t want a repeat, nor do I want to discuss the reasons you frighten me. And, of course, it simply confirmed what I’ve already told you—I’m not available. No sex. No affair. Is that understood?”

Banking his anger, Slade said curtly, “Of course it’s not understood—how could it be when I have no idea why I frighten you? It’s certainly not my intent to do so.”

“I didn’t say it was.” She took another reckless gulp of wine. “We’re strangers—and strangers we’ll remain. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I want far more than that.”

“We don’t always get what we want. You’re old enough to know that.”

“You kissed me back, Clea. And I’m going to get what I want.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. “No, you’re not.” Quickly she reached for her purse. It was time to produce her usual line of defense with a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Hadn’t she known when she’d left the hotel this morning that she’d need it with Slade Carruthers?

Taking out an envelope, she plunked it on the table. “You should take a look at this.”

“Are you about to ruin my appetite?” he said.

“Just look at it, Slade.”

The envelope was full of clippings from various tabloids and newspapers the width of Europe. Clea was pictured in every article, hair up, hair down, in evening gowns and jewels, in skimpy bikinis, in jeans and boots. Accompanied by, Slade saw, a succession of men. Aristocrats, artists, businessmen: none of them looking at all unhappy to be escorting the rich, the elegant, the charming Clea Chardin.

“What are you trying to tell me?” he said carefully.

“What does it look like?”

“Like you date a lot of different men.”

“Date?” she repeated, lifting one brow.

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve slept with all of them?”

“Not all of them, no,” she said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth. She should have said, “With none of them.” But a reputation for flitting from man to man was, at times, extremely useful; right now she needed every weapon she could lay her hands on.

The waiter put their plates in front of them, said, “Enjoy,” and left them alone again.

Clea said, as if there’d been no interruption, “If you want to take me to bed, you should know what you’re getting into. I date lots of men and that’s the way I like it.”

Her hair shimmered in the light. Slade flicked the clippings with his finger. “So I’d be just one more guy to add to the list.”

“You don’t have to keep on seeing me if you don’t like the way I operate,” she said mildly.

He didn’t like it. At all. “Are you saying if we had an affair, you wouldn’t be faithful to me for its duration?”

“That’s the general idea,” she said, wondering why she should feel so ashamed of her duplicity when she was achieving her aim: to send Slade Carruthers in the opposite direction as quickly as she could.

Slade looked down at his cioppino. He wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. Picking up his spoon, he said, “I happen to have a few standards. I’m not into long-term commitment or marriage, but when I have a relationship with a woman I expect fidelity, and I promise the same.”

She shrugged. “Then let’s enjoy our lunch and say goodbye.”

He said with dangerous softness, “Perhaps I could change your mind. On the subject of standards.”

“You’re not going to get the chance.”

“I make frequent trips to Europe. If we exchange e-mail addresses, we can keep in touch and arrange to meet some time.”

She was attacking her sole as though she couldn’t wait to be rid of him. “No. Which, as I’m sure you know, is spelled identically in English and Italian.”

He’d never begged a woman for anything in his life. He wasn’t going to start with Clea Chardin. “Commitment is what you’re really avoiding. Why?”

Clea put down her knife and fork and looked right at him, her remarkable eyes brilliant with sincerity. “I don’t want to hurt you, Slade. And hurt you I would, were you to pursue me, because—as you just pointed out—our standards are different. So I’m ending this now, before it begins.”

He said sharply, “I don’t let women close enough to hurt me.”

Her temper flared. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You must have hurt some of those other men.”

“They knew the score and were willing to go along with me.”

Cut your losses, Slade thought. Get out with some dignity. What’s the alternative? Grovel?

Not your style.

Biting off his words, anger rising like bile in his throat, Slade said, “So you’re going to play it safe. Ignore that kiss as if it never happened.”

With a huge effort Clea kept her eyes trained on his. “That’s right.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say.” Picking up his spoon, he choked down a mouthful of the rich tomato broth.

She was eating her fish as fast as she could. She hadn’t lost her appetite, Slade thought sourly. Why should she? He didn’t matter a whit to her.

Rationally he should be admiring her for turning her back so decisively on all his money. Unfortunately he felt about as rational as a shipwrecked sailor brought face-to-face with Miss America.

Clea drained her wine. “You’re sulking.”

He put his spoon down with exaggerated care. “If you don’t know the difference between sulking and genuine passion, you’re worse off than I suspected.”

She paled. Surely he hadn’t guessed that she’d never known genuine passion? Reaching in her purse, she extracted a bill, tossed it on the table and said coldly, “That’s to pay for my lunch. Goodbye, Slade.”

Pushing back her chair, she walked away from him, her hips swaying in her flowered skirt. With an effort that made him break out into a cold sweat, Slade stayed where he was, his fingernails digging into the chair. Be damned if he’d chase after her.

He picked up his glass, tossed back the contents and addressed his seafood stew. He would never in his life order cioppino again.

He’d never go to bed with Clea Chardin, either: if it came to a battle of wills, he was going to be the one in control. Not her. So he’d better forget the highly erotic fantasies that had disturbed his sleep all night.

The empty chair across from him was no fantasy, nor was the twenty-dollar bill lying beside Clea’s plate. The money felt like the final insult.

He’d give it to the first panhandler he met.

Through the plate glass window, Slade watched the waters of the bay sparkle in the sunshine. He felt as though he’d been presented with a jewel of outstanding brilliance. But before he could touch it, it had been snatched from his reach.




CHAPTER THREE


AT THREE o’clock that afternoon in his hotel room, Slade was on the telephone punching in Sarah Hutchinson’s extension. Sarah was Belle’s cook, whom Slade had known for years, and whose chocolate truffles he liked almost as much as he liked her. When she answered, he said, “Sarah, it’s Slade Carruthers.”

“Mr. Slade, what a nice surprise…how are you?”

They chatted for a few minutes about the garden party, then Slade said easily, “I’ve mislaid my appointment book—Mrs. Hayward’s having dinner with Clea Chardin tonight, isn’t she?” He waited for her reply, his heart thumping so loudly he was afraid she’d hear it over the phone.

“That’s right. Seven o’clock.”

“Just the two of them?”

“Private, that’s what Mrs. Hayward said.”

“Great—I’ll call Belle in the morning, then. No need to mention this, Sarah, she’ll think I’m having a memory lapse. How are your grandchildren?”

He patiently listened to their many virtues, then hung up. All he had to do now was decide on a course of action. Gate-crash Belle’s place? Or find a bar, get royally drunk and cut his losses?

Slade started prowling up and down the room, as restless as a caged tiger. Why had he phoned Sarah Hutchinson? Why couldn’t he—for once in his life—accept that a woman didn’t want to go to bed with him?

The answer was simple: because he wanted Clea as he’d never wanted a woman before.

Or was it that simple? Clea had been so ardent in his arms, then so frightened by her own response. Neither reaction had been fake, he’d swear to it. By touching her physically, he’d touched her emotions in a way that had terrified her.

So she’d very cleverly produced the clippings, refused any prospect of fidelity and taken her leave. She’d played him, he thought. And he’d fallen for it.

It wasn’t going to happen again. Be damned if he was going to sit back and let Clea Chardin vanish from his life. He wanted her and he was going to have her. On his terms.

All of which meant he’d better have a plan of action in mind before nine-thirty tonight.

At nine-thirty, however, when Slade pressed the heavy brass bell on the Hayward front door, he felt devoid of anything that could be called a plan. He’d have to wing it. But this time he’d be the one in control.

Carter, the butler, let him in and left him in the formal parlor, where family photographs in sterling silver frames covered every available surface. The furniture represented, in Slade’s opinion, the very worst of Victorian excess. Over the elaborate wrought-iron fireplace, a stuffed stag’s head gazed down its aristocratic nose at him.

There was a painting by the fireplace, a small dark oil. Curious, he wandered over to look at it. A man in chains, head bowed in utter defeat, was being led by three armored guards into the black maw of a cave. Slade knew, instantly, that the prisoner would never emerge into daylight again.

It was his own lasting nightmare, he thought, his palms damp, his fingers curled into fists: the nightmare that had tormented him ever since he was eleven. His limbs heavy as lead, he turned away from the painting, staring instead at an innocuous watercolor of a sunny meadow.

“Slade,” Belle exclaimed, “is anything wrong? Your parents? You look terrible!”

He fought to banish the nightmare where it belonged, deep down in his psyche. While Belle knew the reason behind it, she had no idea of its extent, and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said with real compunction. “My parents are fine. I’m here because I need to see Clea.”

Her smile vanishing as if it had been wiped from her face, Belle said, “How did you know she’s here?”

“I got it out of Sarah and you’re not to blame her. Clea and I had lunch today, Belle. But we left some loose ends about our next meeting. I head off to Japan tomorrow and she’s going back to Europe, so I figured it was simplest if I turned up on your doorstep and gave her a lift back to her hotel.”

Tonight Belle was wearing a rust-brown linen dress that did little for her complexion. Rubies gleamed in her earlobes. She looked like a highly suspicious rooster, Slade thought with a quiver of amusement, and said truthfully, “I don’t want Clea to disappear from my life—there’s something about her that really turns my crank.”

Belle said flatly, “If she doesn’t want to drive to the hotel with you, I’m not pushing her.”

He hesitated. “She dates a lot of men, so she told me. But when I kissed her, she acted like a scared rabbit. Do you have any idea why?”

“If I did, do you think I’d tell you?”

“I’m not out to hurt her, Belle.”

“Then maybe you’d better head right out the front door.”

He said tightly, “You’ve known me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Have you ever seen me chase after a woman before?”

“I’ve seen you treat women as though they’re ornaments sitting on a shelf—decorative enough, but not really worth your full attention.”

He winced. “Clea gets my full attention just by being in the same room. So she’s different from the rest.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“You’re an old friend, and I’m asking you to trust me,” Slade said, any amusement long gone. “Clea’s knocked me right off balance. No other woman’s ever come close to doing that. All I want is the chance to drive her back to her hotel—I’m not going to jump on her the minute she gets in the car!”

“And if she says no?”

“She won’t.”

Belle snapped, “If you hurt that gal, I’ll—I won’t invite you to next year’s garden party.”

It was a dire threat. “Belle, I’ll go out on a limb here. I want Clea, no question of that, but I have this gut feeling she’s not really running away from me, she’s running from herself. And I don’t give a damn if that sounds presumptuous.”

For a long moment Belle simply stared at him. Then she said, “I’ll ask her if she wants a drive back to her hotel.”

The massive oak door swung shut behind her. The stag’s upper lip sneered down at him. Turning his back on the dark little oil painting, Slade jammed his hands in his pockets and stared down at the priceless, rose-embroidered carpet. He felt like his life were hanging in the balance.

How melodramatic was that? Sex was all he wanted. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Five minutes later—he timed it on his watch—the door was pushed open. Clea marched through, followed by Belle in her rust-brown dress. Clea’s dress was ice-pale turquoise, calf-length, fashioned out of soft jersey; her hair had been tamed into a coil on the back of her head. With a physical jolt, Slade saw she was still wearing the earrings he’d given her earlier in the day.

Clea said crisply, “I said goodbye to you this morning.”

“It wasn’t goodbye. More like au revoir.”

“My hotel is exactly four blocks from here—I can walk.”

“If you won’t go with me, you’re going in a cab.”

Clea glared at him, then transferred that glare to Belle. “This man is your friend?”

Belle said calmly, “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have made it past the front door.”

Clea’s breath hissed between her teeth. When had she ever felt as angry as she did now? Angry, afraid, cornered and—treacherously, underneath it all—ridiculously happy to see Slade. Happy? When the man threatened to knock down the whole house of cards that was her life? “All right, Slade, you can drive me to my hotel,” she said. “But only because I don’t want to waste my time arguing with you.”

“Fine,” he said, unable to subdue his grin.

She said furiously, “Your smile should be banned—lethal to any female over the age of twelve.”

Belle smothered a snort of laughter. “You’ve got to admit he’s cute, Clea.”

“Cute?” Slade said, wincing.

“Cute like a high voltage wire is cute,” Clea snapped.

“Certainly plenty of voltage between the two of you,” Belle remarked, leading the way to the front door, where she took a lacy shawl from the cupboard and passed it to Slade. Dry-mouthed, he draped it over Clea’s shoulders.

Belle leaned forward to kiss Clea on the cheek. “We’ll talk next week.”

“Monday or Tuesday.” Clea’s voice softened. “Thank you, Belle.”

“Slade’s a good man,” Belle added.

Clea’s smile was ironic. “Maybe I prefer bad men.”

Slade said in a voice like steel, “Good, bad or indifferent, I really dislike being discussed as though I don’t exist.”

Belle said lightly, “Indifferent wouldn’t apply to either one of you. Good night.”

Slade and Clea stepped out into the cool darkness, which was still scented with roses, and the door closed behind them. He reached over and plucked a pale yellow bloom; she stood as still as one of the marble statues flanking the driveway as he tucked it into her hair. “I think that’ll stay,” he said, tugging on the stem.

Her eyes were like dark pools. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“You’re still wearing the abalone earrings,” he retorted. “Doesn’t that make you one as well?”

“They go with my dress.”

“We’re arguing again.”

“How unromantic,” she said. As he helped her into his rented car, a speedy silver Porsche, the slit in her skirt bared her legs in their iridescent hose. Taking her time, she tucked her feet under the dash, straightened her skirt and smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said with perfect composure.

Slade took a deep breath, shut her door and marched around to the driver’s seat. His next job was to convince her that he was going to become her lover. And by God, he was going to succeed.

“I’ll buy you a drink at the hotel,” he said, and turned onto the street.

By now, Clea had managed to gather her thoughts. It was time for her second line of defense, she decided. One she would have no scruples using with Slade. She called it, privately, The Test, and it had rarely failed her. She was certain it would work with Slade Carruthers, a man used to wielding power and being in command. “A drink would be nice,” she said.

“That was easy.”

“I dislike being predictable.”

“You don’t have a worry in the world.”

He’d made it past the first hurdle, Slade thought, and concentrated on his driving. After leaving the car with the hotel valet, he led her into the opulent lobby. Marble, mahogany, oriental carpeting and a profusion of tropical blooms declared without subtlety that no expense had been spared. He said, “I would have thought something less ostentatious would have been more to your liking.”

“Belle made the reservations.”

It was definitely Belle’s kind of place. In the bar, a jazz singer was crooning, her hands wandering the keys of the grand piano. They made their way to a table near the dark red velvet curtains with their silken tassels. The ceiling was scrolled in gold, the walls layered in damask of the same deep red.

Waiting until the waiter had brought their drinks, Slade said, “The clippings you showed me this morning threw me, Clea, as no doubt you intended. Nor did I like your terms. But I gave up much too easily.”

She took a delicate sip of her martini. “You’re used to women chasing you.”

“I have a lot of money—it’s a powerful aphrodisiac.”

She raised her brows. “Now who’s the cynic?”

He leaned forward, speaking with all the force of his personality. “Clea, I want you in my bed…and I’m convinced that you want to be there, too. I travel a lot, we can meet anywhere you like.”

Clea said evenly, hating herself for the lie, “I play the field, I have a good time and move on. That’s what I told you this morning, and it hasn’t changed. You can give me your phone number, if you like—and if I’m ever at a loose end, I’ll call you.”

So she was lumping him together with what she called, so amorphously, the field. Slade said, lifting one brow, “I dare you to make a date with me. More than that, I dare you to get to know me. In bed and out.”

Her nostrils flared. “You’re being very childish.”

“Am I? If we stop taking risks, something in us dies.”

“Risks can kill!”

“I assure you, I don’t have homicide in mind.” Kill, he thought. That’s a strong word.

Her breasts rising and falling with her agitated breathing, Clea said, “Men don’t stick around long enough for women to get to know them.”

“Generalizations are the sign of a lazy mind.”

“The first sign of trouble, you’ll be gone faster than I can say au revoir.”

“You’re being both sexist and cowardly,” he said.

Her chin snapped up. “Who gave you the right to stand in judgment on me?”

“Deny it, then.”

“I’m not a coward!”

Slade said softly, “Prove it to me. More important, prove it to yourself.”

Toying with the olive in her glass, Clea said raggedly, “You’re talking about us getting to know each other. Yet you never let any of your women close enough to hurt you.”

He said grimly, “You may be the exception that proves the rule.”

And how was she supposed to interpret that? “I like my life the way it is,” she said. “Why should I change?”

“If you didn’t want to change, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.”

He was wrong. Completely wrong. “Do you do this with every woman you meet?”

“I’ve never had to before.”

“So why are you bothering now?”

“Clea, I don’t want to play the field,” he said forcibly. “Right now it’s you I want. You, exclusively. Because deep down I don’t really believe you are a coward.”

“Just sexist,” she said with a flare of defiance.

“Don’t you get bored playing the field?”

She said nastily, “I’ve not, so far, been bored with you.”

“Then I’ll make another dare—date me until you do get bored.” Slade pushed a piece of paper across the table to her. “My personal assistant’s phone number in New York. His name’s Bill and he always knows where I can be reached.”

She stared down at the paper as if it might rear up and bite her. Her second line of defense, she thought wildly, what had happened to it? Hadn’t Slade jumped in ahead of her, daring her to date him? Worse, to go to bed with him? “I’m not interested in your money,” she blurted, trying to collect her wits. “I have plenty of my own.”

“I never thought you were.”

The Test, she thought. Now’s the time. Do it, Clea. She glanced up, her accent pronounced, as it always was when she was upset. “Very well, Slade…I also can make dares.”

“Go ahead.”

“Meet me in the Genoese Bar in Monte Carlo, three weeks from now. In the evening, anytime after seven-thirty. Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.”

“Name the day,” he said.

“Ah,” she said smoothly, “that’s part of the dare. I’m not telling you which evening. Either I’m worth waiting for, or I’m not—which is it?”

“But you will turn up?”

Her eyes flashed fire. “I give my word.”

“Then I’ll wait for you.”

“It stays open until 2:00 a.m., and the music is deafening,” she said with a malicious smile. “You won’t wait. No man would. Not when the world’s full of beautiful women who are instantly available.”

“You underrate yourself,” he said softly. Reaching over with his finger, he traced the soft curve of her mouth until her lip trembled. “I’ll wait.”

Fear flickered along her nerves. He wouldn’t wait. Not Slade Carruthers, who—she’d swear—had never had to wait for a woman in his life. Tossing her head, she said, “If you’re unfamiliar with Monte Carlo, anyone can direct you to the Genoese—it’s well known.”

“Monte Carlo—where life’s a gamble and the stakes are high.”

“High stakes? For you, maybe—not for me.” Which was another barefaced lie.

“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t know how to gamble, Clea…tomorrow I’ll give Bill your name. You have only to mention it, and he’ll make sure I get any messages from you.”

She said, so quietly that the drifting jazz melody almost drowned her out, “I must be mad to have suggested a meeting between us. Even one you won’t keep.”

She looked exhausted. Slade drained his whisky. “Finish up,” he said, “and I’ll take you back to the lobby. Then I’ll be on my way—my flight’s early tomorrow.”

Her face unreadable, she said, “So you’re not putting the moves on me tonight?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t gamble when the deck’s stacked against me—that’s plain stupidity.”

“At any table, you’d make a formidable opponent.”

He pushed back his chair. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on, you look wiped.”

“Wiped? I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound flattering.”

He took her hand and brought her to her feet. Standing very close to her, his eyes caressing her features, he said huskily, “It means tired out. In need of a good night’s sleep. When you and I share a bed, sleep won’t be the priority.”

“When we share a bed?” she said, looking full at him. “I’ve never liked being taken for granted.”

His eyes were a compelling midnight-blue, depthless and inscrutable. Charismatic eyes, which pulled her to him as though she had no mind of her own. She felt herself sway toward him, the ache of desire blossoming deep in her belly and making nonsense of all her defenses. Reaching up, she brushed his lips with hers as lightly as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, then just as quickly stepped back.

Her heart was hammering in her breast. So much for keeping him at a distance, she thought, aghast. What was wrong with her?

For once Slade found himself bereft of speech. Going on impulse, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with lingering pleasure, watching color flare in her cheeks. Then, calling on all his control, he looped one arm lightly around her shoulders and led her back to the lobby. The light from the crystal chandeliers seemed excessively bright. He said, “The Genoese. In three weeks. If you need anything in the meantime, call me.”

“I won’t call you,” Clea said. Turning on her heel, she crossed the vast carpet to the elevators.

Nor did she.




CHAPTER FOUR


THE Genoese Bar on a cool damp evening in November should have been a welcome destination. Slade had walked from his hotel, with its magnificent view of the Port of Monaco and the choppy Mediterranean, past the obsessively groomed gardens of the casino to a curving side street near the water where a discreetly lit sign announced the Genoese. It was exactly seven-thirty.

The bar, he saw with a sinking heart, was underground, down a flight of narrow, winding stairs.

His nightmare, once again.

He was thirty-five years old now. Not eleven. He should be able to walk down a flight of stairs and spend six hours in a windowless room without hyperventilating.

Yeah, right.

Clea, he was almost sure, wouldn’t arrive until Friday. If this was some sort of test, why would she meet him any sooner? Unless she thought he wouldn’t bother turning up until Friday, and in consequence came tonight.

It was useless trying to second-guess her. Taking a deep breath of the salt-laden air, Slade walked slowly down the stairs and pushed open the heavy, black-painted door.

The noise hit him like a blow. Rap, played as loud as the sound equipment could handle it. He’d never been a fan of rap.

He let the door shut behind him, his heart thudding in his chest. The room was vast, tables all around its circumference, a small dance floor in the center under flickering strobes that instantly disoriented him. A big room, he thought crazily. Not cupboard-size, like the one he’d never been able to forget.

Come on, buddy, you can do this.

Leaning against the wall, he let his gaze travel from face to face, wishing with all his heart that Clea’s would be among them. It was a young crowd, in expensive leather and designer jeans, the women’s silky hair gleaming like shampoo ads, the energy level frenetic.

Clea was nowhere to be seen.

Slade claimed an empty table near the door, where he could see anyone who entered or left. Shucking off his trench coat, he sat down and ordered a bottle of Merlot and a dish of nuts. Automatically he located the Exit signs, wishing the ceiling didn’t feel so low, wishing they’d turn off the strobe lights. Wishing that he’d never met Clea Chardin.

His hormones were ruling his life, he thought savagely. How he resented the hold she had on him, with her slender body and exquisite face! But no matter how fiercely he’d fought the strength of that hold, he couldn’t dislodge it. God knows he’d tried hard enough the last three weeks.

She, in all fairness, had no idea how arduous a test she’d devised for him by making him wait in an underground bar.

As the array of bottles at the mirrored bar splintered and flashed in the strobes, dancers writhed to the primitive, undoubtedly hostile music. The little underground room had been quiet. Dead quiet. Frighteningly, maddeningly quiet.

All these years later, Slade still did his best never to think about the kidnapping that had so altered his life. At age eleven, he’d been snatched from the sidewalk near his school, drugged and kept in darkness in a small room below the ground, for a total of fifteen days and fourteen nights.

The kidnappers, he’d learned later, had been demanding ransom. The FBI, working with admirable flair and efficiency, had tracked down the hiding place, taken the kidnappers into custody and rescued him. Apart from the drugs, aimed at keeping him quiet and administered from a syringe by a masked man who never spoke to him, he was unharmed.

He’d never forgotten his mother’s silent tears when she’d been brought face-to-face with him at the police station, or the deeply carved lines in his father’s face.

The lasting aftereffect had been a phobia for dark, underground spaces. Right now, to his mortification, his palms were damp, his throat tight and his heart bouncing around in his chest. Just like when he was eleven.

A woman in a black leather jerkin and miniskirt sidled up to his table. Pouting her red lips, she said over the thud of the bass, “Want to dance?”

So she’d picked him out as an American. “No, thanks,” he said.

She leaned forward, presenting him with an impressive cleavage. “You didn’t come here to be alone.”

“I’m waiting for someone,” he said in a clipped voice. “I’d prefer to do that alone. Sorry.”

Smoothing the leather over her hips, she shrugged. “Change your mind, I’m over by the bar.”

By 2:00 a.m., when the bouncer closed the bar, Slade had been propositioned six times, felt permanently deafened and was heartily tired of Merlot and peanuts. His claustrophobia had not noticeably abated.

He climbed the stairs and emerged onto the sidewalk. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he strode east along the waterfront, where buildings crowded down the hillside to a pale curve of sand. Useless to think of sleeping until he’d walked off those agonizingly long hours.

He should leave Monaco. Forget this whole ridiculous venture. Was any woman worth two more evenings in the Genoese Bar? After all, what did he really know about Clea? Sure, she’d given her word. But was it worth anything? What if she didn’t show up? What if she’d spent the evening in Milan with one of the many men she’d mentioned, laughing to herself at the thought of Slade sitting in a crowded bar on the Riviera in November?

She was making a fool of him. He hated that as much as he hated being confronted by the demons of his past.

And how could he lust after a woman whose sexual standards, to put it mildly, were by no means exacting? Promiscuous, he thought heavily, and knew it was a word he’d been repressing for the last three weeks.

She looked so angelic, yet she’d slept with men the length and breadth of Europe. The clippings and her own admission proved it.

He should fly back to New York in the morning and forget the redhead with the vivid eyes, dancing intelligence and lax morals. Hadn’t she done her best from the beginning to discourage him? The Genoese Bar was the final touch. After three nights of his life wasted in a futile vigil, he wouldn’t be in any hurry to search her out.

Which meant, of course, that she’d won.

At three-thirty Slade’s head hit the pillow; at five-forty-two he was jerked awake from a nightmare of a syringe impaling him to a dirty mattress; and at eight that evening, he was again descending the stairs of the Genoese Bar. Clea didn’t show up that night, either. Nor had she appeared by one-thirty the following night.

By Friday Slade’s vigil in the bar had become as much a test of his courage and endurance as anything to do with Clea. He was intent on proving to himself that he could stick it out for one more night; that the low ceiling and dark corners weren’t able to drive him up the stairs in defeat.

That night he was drinking Cabernet Sauvignon. He had a headache, he was sleep-deprived, he was in a foul mood. He sure didn’t feel the slightest bit romantic.

At one-forty, Clea walked down the stairs into the bar.

Slade eased well back into the shadows as she stood on the stairs looking around, her red hair in its usual wild swirl. Her jade-green evening suit boasted a silk camisole that clung to her breasts. He fought down a jolt of lust that infuriated him.

Be damned if he was going to fall at her feet in abject gratitude because she’d finally shown up.

From his stance against the wall he watched her search the room from end to end, checking out the men at the bar, the dancers, the seated, noisy crowd. On her face settled a look compounded of satisfaction, as though she’d proved her point, along with a sharp, and very real, regret.

The regret interested him rather more than he cared for.



Clea took the last of the stairs into the bar and wormed her way across the dance floor, her eyes darting this way and that. She couldn’t see Slade anywhere. So he’d failed The Test. Given up. If indeed, he’d ever been here at all.

I’ll wait, he’d said. But he’d lied.

A cold lump had settled in her chest. Hadn’t she believed him when he’d said he’d wait for her? So, once again, her low opinion of the male of the species had been confirmed, rather more painfully than usual. She straightened her shoulders and tried to relax the tension in her jaw; when she reached the bar she ordered a glass of white wine and gave the room one more sweep.

Two men and a woman were edging toward her, old friends from Cannes; she hugged each of them, tossed back her wine and, with a defiant lift of her chin, walked out onto the dance floor with the taller of the two men.

Slade, watching, saw how the man’s arm encompassed her waist, how his fingers were splayed over her hip. His anger rose another notch. Playing the field…her specialty.

He put his glass down on the table and strode across the room. Tapping the man on the shoulder, he said loudly, over the pounding rhythms of drums and bass guitars, “She’s mine. Get lost.”

Clea gave a shocked gasp. “Slade!”

“Did you think I wouldn’t be here?” he said with disdain. “Tell your friend to vamoose. If he values living.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Stefan,” she said, her heartbeat competing with the drums. “It’s okay, I know Slade.”

“On, no, you don’t,” Slade said, standing so close to her he could see a tiny fleck of mascara on her lower eyelid. “If you knew me, we wouldn’t have had to indulge in this stupid charade.”

“You agreed to it.”

“You know what I want to do right now? Throw you over my shoulder, haul you out of this god-awful bar and carry you to the nearest bed.”

He looked entirely capable of doing so. She said faintly, “Bouncers don’t like it when you do things like that.”

“It’d make me feel a whole lot better.”

“I suggest we have a drink, instead.”

“Scared of me, Clea?”

“Of a six foot two, one hundred ninety pound, extremely angry male? Why would I be scared?”

“I like you,” he said.

She blinked. “Five seconds ago you looked as though you wanted to throttle me.”

“Five minutes ago you looked extremely disappointed when you thought I wasn’t here.”

“You exaggerate!”

“I don’t think so. Let’s dance, Clea.”

“Dance? With you? No way.”

“I’ve sat in this bar for three long nights,” he grated. “I’ve been propositioned, I’ve drunk inferior wine and I’ve been bored out of my skull. The least you can do is dance with me.”

He’d waited for her. He’d passed The Test. Now what was she supposed to do? “You asked for it,” she said recklessly.

The floor was crowded and the music raucous. Her eyes blazing with an emotion Slade couldn’t possibly have named, Clea raised her arms above her head and threw back her mane of hair as movement rippled down her body. Lust stabbed his loins, hot and imperative. Holding her gaze with his, he matched her, move for move, and deliberately refrained from laying as much as a finger on her.

He didn’t need to. Pagan as an ancient goddess, hips swaying, nipples thrusting against the thin silk of her camisole, Clea danced. Danced for him alone. Danced as though they were alone. Danced until he thought he might die of unfulfilled desire.

The music ended abruptly. Into the ringing silence, the barkeeper said, “Closing time, ladies and gentlemen.”

Clea bit her lip, her breasts heaving. “You did it again,” she whispered. “Made me forget who I am.”

Slade dropped his hands to her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. “Good,” he said. Dancing with her had also, for the space of four or five minutes, blanked out the fact that he was underground in a dark room.

Quite a woman, this Clea Chardin.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I need some fresh air.”

So did he. Slade took her firmly by the hand and led the way up the narrow stairs.

Outside, under a star-spattered sky, Clea took a long, steadying breath, trying to forget how wantonly she’d swayed and writhed on the dance floor. “I’m hungry,” she said in faint surprise. “I forgot to eat dinner.”

He’d been gulping air obsessively, hoping his enormous relief at being in the open air wouldn’t show. But Clea said, puzzled, “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

He spoke the literal truth. “I spent far too long cooped up in that bar—not sure I’ve got any eardrums left.” Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, he added, “Food—that’ll help.”

He set off at a killing pace along the brick sidewalk, which was lit by lamps atop curving iron posts. Distantly he could hear the soft shush of waves against the breakwater. A breeze rustled the tall cypresses, while palm fronds rattled and chattered edgily. Clea said breathlessly, “I said I was hungry, not starving. You could slow down.”

“Sorry,” he said, and moderated his pace. “How do you know Stefan?”

“I met him in Nice last year. He designs yachts for the very, very rich.”

“Have you slept with him?”

“No.”

“Do you own a yacht?”

She grinned. “I get seasick on a sheltered lagoon.”

“But if you didn’t, you could afford one of Stefan’s yachts.”

“My grandfather left me the bulk of his fortune. Payton Steel, have you heard of it?”

“Very, very rich,” Slade said, tucking the name away in his mind. So her parents must be dead: a loss contributing to what he was beginning to suspect was a deep, underlying loneliness. Or was he way out to lunch? “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”





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