‘Since last night. I heard you on the phone to your friend, and I got the impression you were a little homesick, kisa. I thought you might miss Europe.’
‘No, I—’ She broke off, unable even to start that sentence, which ended in because I love you. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Serge, what are we doing? What’s going on?’
She was asking him about what this did to the boundaries of this temporary sexual relationship of theirs, and she knew he knew it.
His green eyes caught hers. ‘I’m taking you to Paris, Clementine, because in two days’ time it’s your birthday. I thought you might like to mark it with a trip somewhere special—for both of us. Something we can remember.’
Everything had been so awful, she realised for the first time, and now suddenly it wasn’t. It was better than wonderful.
Happiness bubbled up from some spring inside her she hadn’t known existed until that moment. It spurted like a geyser, and she did the only thing a girl could do in that moment. She flung herself across the seat at him, wrapped herself around him and sang, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
And it had absolutely nothing to do with Paris and everything to do with this dear, generous man.
Serge felt slightly stiff beneath her onslaught, but his arms enfolded her. She buried her head in his shoulder and sniffled.
‘You cannot cry, Clementine, this is good news. This is fun for us.’
She drew back to frame his beautiful male face with her hands. ‘Yes, lots of fun,’ she agreed, eyes wet, biting her lip.
Did he have even the faintest idea how much this meant to her? Probably not. But that didn’t take an ounce of specialness out of his gesture.
‘You’re such an emotional girl, Clementine,’ he teased. ‘Where’s my happy, funny girl?’
‘She’s here.’ She flung herself back into his arms. She would make an effort to be more of what he wanted. She wouldn’t drip all over him. She would be absolutely herself, with her big, sincere Slugger to back her up.
This was the second hotel she’d walked into with Serge, and it was a lifestyle she could get very used to. Lavish surroundings, invisible staff making their lives feel effortless…
There were surprises everywhere for her: the view of the Plâce de la Concorde, the drawers full of slinky underwear, the armoire layered with evening gowns and dresses for the day. Enough for her to change twice a day for a week.
How had he come up with all this?
‘Personal shopper.’ He shrugged it off, watching her fingering the eau-de-nil silk of a sheer evening gown. With his shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed up, hair rumpled, lounging back on the vast bed, he looked like a rather louche king, surveying all he owned.
‘Put it on, Clementine, so I can take it off.’
She smiled over her shoulder at him. Slowly she began to unzip, shimmy and strip. She unsnapped her bra and worked down her knickers. She didn’t turn around. Then she stepped into the silk gown. It felt cool, like water on her skin, and she shivered although the room temperature was pleasant. Slowly she turned around, having no idea how it looked on her until she met Serge’s eyes. Her throat ran dry. Her pulse sped up.
He was off that bed and had her flush against him so fast all she could do was squeak, ‘Don’t you dare hurt my dress!’ and then sigh.
They had dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Seine, with a view of the lights of Nôtre Dame. Clementine wore her dress, unscathed.
The next day they wandered through the city, visiting a few tourist sites but mostly meandering. Until they washed up on the doorstep of an exclusive jeweller, when Serge took her hand and said, almost formally, ‘Allow me to do this for your birthday, Clementine.’
What could she say? It was an entirely novel feeling, being escorted into a jeweller’s, being sat down and having endless pieces brought out for her selection. Everything was expensive. Walking through the door, Clementine had fancied the rarefied air they were breathing must cost at least an arm and a leg. Yet she didn’t feel awkward at all. It felt amazingly special. He made her feel special.
In the end she chose a pair of pink diamond earrings.
Her taste was praised by the staff. Serge said merely, ‘Happy?’
‘Happy.’ It was an inadequate word for how she was feeling, but Serge seemed content with it.
Her birthday dawned cold and a little misty—very unusual for June—but the day turned into a picture-perfect summer’s day. Serge had organised a balloon flight over the Loire, and lunch and an overnight stay at a private château he explained was owned by friends who were happy for them to put it to some use. Clementine had ceased to pinch herself, but leaning against the stone terrace rail of a sixteenth-century châ-teau drinking champagne, rubbing elbows with her gorgeous Russian lover, was not something she was going to forget in a hurry. And she said so.