Lucy Ellis - Untouched by His Diamonds

She shouldn’t be encouraging this. She should turn around on this crowded street and confront him. But she didn’t. She slowed down. She put a little more sway in her hips and kept walking.

She checked again. He was clocking her, but not closing in. She felt relatively safe.

Serge pulled back his pace momentarily as Boots turned out of the Nevsky, watched her cross against the schizophrenic traffic, earning a few hoots and screeching tyres from drivers—probably more at the sight of those long legs than any traffic infringement.

She had a real energy in her body that translated into the sexiest walk he had ever seen on a woman. And what struck him was the fact that she seemed utterly oblivious to the chaos she caused around her.

He didn’t want to lose her.

Clementine risked another glance over her shoulder but she couldn’t see him. Disappointment slowed her walk, prosaic reality returning with every step. Game over. Damn.

Up ahead was the underpass. She hated those mucky tunnels, never felt completely safe, but it was the only route she knew. The boots were starting to rub, and without the distraction of her ridiculous sexual fantasy the worries of the day began to crowd into her mind.

Serge stood at the kerb and watched as she began to descend into the underpass on her own. He saw the danger closing in around her at the same moment, and without another thought launched into a run.

Bozhe , this woman took chances. She’d known he was on her tail, and now two men were honing in on her bag, flapping on that lavish hip, and she just kept walking, lost in her own little world.

She shouldn’t be let out on her own . The thought briefly crossed his mind before the more savage Take them down intruded and he lunged into the underpass, aiming at the guy who was already reaching for the strap of her bag.

He grabbed her assailant by the scuff of his neck and dragged him off.

It was satisfying to use his body for something other than sitting in a plane and a car. He was fit—boxing and running took care of that—but to fight was in his blood and he hadn’t had one in many years.

Not that it was proving much of a challenge. The first assailant launched a fist that he blocked.

Instead of acting smart and getting the hell out of the way, Boots was launching an attack of her own with her bag, smacking it with gusto into the back of the head of the guy nearest her.

She distracted him and the first guy got in a lucky punch, grazing his face. Fast was best, and Serge slugged him one, then zeroed in on the second thug who moved fast, snatching the bag she was flapping around as if it was a club.

At least she wasn’t stupid. She let go, and the guy started running. The one on the ground crawled to his feet and took off, leaving Serge flexing his knuckles and alone with Boots.

‘You let him go!’ She was standing there in that short skirt, looking outraged.

At him.

Serge shrugged, rubbing his abused jaw. He didn’t feel like explaining that beating both men to a pulp was the only way he could have kept them there, and that her safety had been foremost in his mind. Instead he opted for the more obvious standby. ‘Are you all right?’

‘They took my bag!’ she wailed.

Foreign. British? Her voice was pitched low, slightly husky.

‘You’re lucky that’s all they took,’ he answered her in English. ‘These underpasses aren’t safe. If you’d read your guidebook, moya krasavitsa , you’d know that.’

She looked at him with clear grey eyes full of reproach.

‘So it’s my fault, is it?’

She had her hands on her hips now, stretching that white satin blouse across her breasts until the buttons strained. Bozhe , there was black lace under the white. This girl seemed incapable of keeping her clothes on. She was a walking incitement to the male libido. What did she expect was going to happen to her if she went around dressed like this?

Bizarrely, he wanted to tear off his jacket and wrap it around her—which would just ruin his view.

She wasn’t quite what he’d expected up close. She was better, but in a less upfront, more feminine way, and the longer he looked at her the more other things began to leap out besides the obvious. Up close she was younger than he had imagined—closer to twenty than thirty. It was all that make-up. She didn’t need it. Her skin was luscious, like a ripe peach.

She swore creatively, pushing the fringe off her forehead. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said fiercely.

He had the answer to that, but he would wait for her to suggest it.

Hands still firmly on her hips, she walked a few steps in the other direction, then turned and met his eyes properly for the first time. Some of the agitation had left her, and she turned up a face more interesting than conventionally attractive. She had thick brown eyelashes and clear grey eyes and a dappling of freckles across her nose.

She really was lovely.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’ve been very rude to you. Thanks for scaring them off. You didn’t have to, but it was a nice thing to do.’

He hadn’t expected that—or her sincerity. He shrugged it off. He didn’t need to get sentimental about picking up a girl in downtown St Petersburg. He only had to drop his gaze ever so slightly to remind himself she wasn’t a shrinking violet.

‘Don’t men look after women where you come from, kisa ?’

‘I imagine they do.’ She gave an awkward shrug, then another one of those little smiles of hers. ‘Just not me. But thanks again.’

With that she took off, the slender heels on those boots clicking on the cobbles. She held out her arms stiffly from her body, as if balancing herself, a gesture that reminded him she had experienced a nasty shock.

He couldn’t believe she was walking away.

Damn . ‘Hold up.’

She looked over her shoulder.

‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

She hesitated, looked at him with those doe eyes, and said, ‘No, I don’t think so. But thanks, Slugger,’ and damn well kept walking.

Click, click, click.

GODDAMN. Unbelievable…

Clementine hobbled over a puddle, heading towards the light at the end of the underpass, cursing under her breath. She tried to focus on the practicalities. She would have to find the embassy. She would have to borrow money from her friend Luke. She would have to phone her bank in London. She would do it all once she’d had a little sit-down and a cry.

Her handbag was her lifeline.

It was her own fault. She was usually much more street smart than this. She’d been so wrapped up in her little fantasy with the Cossack she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d ruined that too. She’d been too shaken, too tongue-tied to do anything more than try to block him out whilst she extricated herself from the situation even after he’d rushed in to save her.

Her chest gave a little flutter at that thought. He’d been magnificent. He’d just handled it. You didn’t run into guys like that in London.

The light hit her face and, pulling awkwardly at her skirt, she ascended the steps. She was chilled despite the sun, and that was her own fault too. She should have changed out of this ridiculous outfit Verado liked her to wear, back into her street clothes. But there hadn’t been time, and she’d left the bag of clothes at the store, and now she was wandering the streets of St Petersburg in great boots but frankly looking a little too uncovered for her own liking.

Emerging into the street, she hobbled over to a nearby kiosk and took a seat. She was really shivering now, and it didn’t have much to do with her lack of layers. She supposed it was delayed shock, but she also felt naked without her bag—vulnerable. She was used to depending on herself and that bag had everything she needed to keep herself safe. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t sent the Cossack away.

It was useless going back to her lodgings. She needed to head back into the city centre, find Luke.

That was when she saw the limo. It was idling across the road, one of its doors angled wide, and then she saw him, striding straight towards her. He’d removed his jacket and had his hands shoved into his pockets, so that the fabric of his superfine blue shirt pulled taut across a muscular chest and abdomen. Clementine’s miserable thoughts dwindled to a virtual halt. He looked powerful and it wasn’t just his size. It was the way he held himself, with tremendous confidence and that measured response to what was going on around him she had seen in action in the underpass.

But what he was giving her now was full sensual male interest. Clementine told herself she could handle men, but all her female instincts were telling her she couldn’t handle this man at all.

He was so male as to be of another species.

Big shoulders, big arms, hard thighs—long and lean and coming straight at her.

He’d crunched bones for her, broken skin, shed blood.

‘Come on, get in. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’ He spoke abruptly, his voice deep and deliberate.

She just sat there, looking up, trying to clamber over the overwhelmed feeling to something more considered.

He lifted those big hands of his. ‘I’m a good guy. I don’t wish you any harm. You need some help, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Clementine said softly, distracted by the intensity of his green eyes.

‘Are you staying far from here?’

Clementine knew she should tell him nothing and refuse the ride. But he had helped her. He had put himself at risk for a stranger. This was a good guy. This was a very, very sexy man. This would buy her a little more time with him. And she was so tired of looking after herself. It wouldn’t hurt to accept a lift.

‘Do you know where the Australian embassy is?’

‘I’ll find it.’

And she believed he would.

Serge gave directions to his driver, watched as those long legs folded themselves into his car, slid in alongside her, observed her scoot over to put a respectable distance between them. Then she shifted forward and leant down.

She was unzipping the boots.

The shell of each boot collapsed and she tugged one stockinged foot out, then the other, revealing her long legs in those sheer pale stockings that gleamed like silk. Her activity seemed unselfconscious, as if he couldn’t possibly be interested, but of course she had to know what she was doing. She wriggled her toes and cocked a curious look at him up through her lashes.

‘Sorry, honey,’ she said. ‘They’re new, and they’re rubbing.’

She pressed her knees primly together and folded her hands in her lap, utterly ladylike.

She was incredible.

‘You’re Australian? From Sydney?’ His own voice sounded hoarse, and he gave an inward laugh at his susceptibility to this woman.

‘Melbourne.’ She smiled, her eyes not quite meeting his. It was such a subtle smile. She kept her lips pursed, as if she was keeping a secret.

If only she’d stop rubbing her knees together. The shub-shub of the fabric was highly stimulating to his imagination.

‘So far away. What are you doing in Petersburg? Business or pleasure?’

‘Both. I’m here working.’ She gave a little shrug as if it wasn’t important. Those lips parted into a more open smile. ‘But I’ve dreamed of seeing St Petersburg. It’s so romantic, so full of history.’

‘You like what you’ve seen so far?’

‘Very much.’ She gave him a sidelong look, making it clear she wasn’t talking about the city—and didn’t that just notch up the temperature in the car? She turned her head away, made a show of looking out of the window, exposing the length of her lovely pale throat, and he dwelt on the golden tendrils of silky hair tickling against her neck.