Serge wasn’t sharing anything this morning except his open wallet.
It burned.
It was still burning a few hours later, as she schlepped with her bags up the steps. The boxes of groceries were on delivery, but she had carried little delicacies herself: cheeses and a French wine, and some lovely Chinese tea, and those godawful pickled herrings Serge liked.
She’d done it all despite being arm candy.
Flavour of the month. That was her.
Carrying the groceries.
As she approached the kitchen she could hear male voices. She left the bags on the bench and wandered curiously but warily into the drawing room. Serge was on his feet. About a dozen other men were sitting and standing around the room. Expensive weekend casual was the dress code, but the guys didn’t look like your typical buttoned-down execs. The atmosphere vibrated with tension, and Serge didn’t look happy. Her self-pity evaporated.
Only a couple of people noticed her at first, and then like an avalanche the focus of the room turned on her, the same male interest she’d been getting since she was fifteen.
Serge glanced up. The look on his face said it all and her heart sank. She took a backward step, then stood her ground. Thirteen pairs of male eyes—all directed at her.
Serge moved to her side, introducing her to the men in rapidfire succession and then gently but inexorably leading her to the door. ‘We’ve got a lot to discuss, Clementine. It could take a while.’ His tone clearly said make yourself scarce.
‘Fair enough.’ Feeling excluded, but knowing it wasn’t personal, she retraced her steps and set about piling up a few plates with bruschetta, olives, cheeses, opening up a bottle of wine.
She had an idea this was about the fallout from the Kolcek disaster, and from the conversation drifting in it sounded as if she was on the money.
A heavy-set man with tattoo sleeves on both arms peeking out of his T-shirt came into the kitchen.
Behind him was Liam O’Loughlin, the promotions guy she had spoken to yesterday. She already knew she didn’t like him. He compounded it by copping a look down the front of her shirt as she picked up an empty hemp bag and began folding it.
Then another man and another strolled into the kitchen, and suddenly she was standing by the island bench surrounded by five big men, all of them clearly starved of female company if their slightly inane expressions were anything to go by.
‘Is this a convention or something?’ she enquired smartly, to hide her subtle unease.
‘Alex Khardovsky—president of the Marinov Corporation. Serge and I are old friends.’ The heavy-set guy reached over the bench and shook her hand. ‘Heard a lot about you, Clementine.’
Clementine’s smile didn’t falter, but she couldn’t help the cold trickle at the idea Serge had talked about her, wondering what he had said.
‘You’ve domesticated Serge Marinov,’ said Liam O’Loughlin smarmily. ‘Many women have tried and failed.’
Clementine didn’t respond. She hated this sort of drivel and she really didn’t like guys who couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves.
‘What I heard was that you worked in PR for Verado, Clementine,’ interrupted Alex.
‘That’s right. Lots of free golf clubs and cigar clippers.’
The men laughed. Clementine pushed a glass of wine towards Alex and began pouring a couple more glasses. She didn’t bother with Liam O’Loughlin.
‘So you guys are all here about that fighter who’s up on assault charges, right?’
‘It doesn’t go away,’ answered a fair-haired guy with the buzz-cut.
Here goes nothing, thought Clementine, and addressed Alex.
‘Your problem is managing the fallout from that big famous trial, right? You had trouble a few years ago with the media about some of your fighters’ extra-curricular activities and now it’s all coming back to bite you.’ She pushed the platters of food towards the other men. ‘Seems to me what you need is a blanket print, cable publicity blitz, pushing what’s great about the sport and taking the emphasis off this over-the-top macho rubbish. Highlight the athleticism. Maybe get some of those fighters to turn up at high-profile charity events—and not on their own. You want wives and kids in tow.’
She looked up and saw Serge leaning against the doorframe. She hadn’t known she was so nervous until she realised she wasn’t alone. Confidence had her straightening her spine.
‘Keep going,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘I’m taking notes.’
Clementine blew air up her fringe. This still wasn’t easy.
‘Yes, well…you need to get more women into your front row. Lots of famous guys there last night, but stag. Plays up to the problem you’ve got with Kolcek—young guys, too much testosterone, too much money, running around disrespecting women.’