‘Not fun?’
‘You’re kidding? A twenty-four-hour flight by myself, and then I’d be there a week and one of dad’s girlfriends would arc up and I’d be hurtling back to Melbourne again. Both of them are self-obsessed—or should I say obsessed with their careers? I decided a long time ago when I have my babies I’ll be staying home with them.’
‘You want children?’
‘One day. Don’t you?’ She asked the question out of interest, without thinking of the overtones.
‘No.’ He plucked the gardening fork out of her hand and stabbed it into one of the pots. ‘But you’re right, Clementine. Kids need a stable home and two loving parents.’ Then he surprised her by stroking his hand gently over her head down her back to the ends of her hair. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have that.’
Nobody had actually said that to her before, and the simple acknowledgement touched something raw inside her. She bent her head, enjoying the feeling of him being there with her, stroking her, offering comfort.
‘Now I get it.’
‘What do you get?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘This fierce independence of yours.’
Clementine closed her eyes, feeling herself losing her grip on the hard realities she needed to keep at the forefront of her mind. This thing with Serge could very well be temporary. She couldn’t go swooping down the romantic slippery dip as she had their first night in New York and last night, because she’d only end up by herself in a heap at the bottom.
‘Come on.’ He stood up, offering her a hand and she took it uncertainly. ‘There’s somewhere I want to take you,’ he said.
‘Can I go like this?’ She indicated her crumpled pants and dirt-stained T-shirt.
‘You’re fine. I like you a bit rumpled.’ He put an arm around her. ‘There was one thing I wanted to say about last night. Not the fight—afterwards.’
Clementine swallowed and tried to look casual. ‘Oh?’ ‘You asked me how I felt. It feels good, Clementine. Being with you feels good.’
He took her downtown to his charity. A brown mission building in Brooklyn, housing a recreation centre for disadvantaged children.
‘We have them in every city where we have venues,’ he explained as they walked together through the gym. ‘Here and in Europe.’
‘This would be great publicity, Serge. The best antidote to Kolcek is to show what you’re doing here.’
‘Yeah, Mick says the same thing.’
‘Mick Forster? The guy I met at the gym?’
‘Da, he was the first trainer who would work with me when I got to the States. I wouldn’t be where I am without him. He’s the best in the business.’
Serge was speaking so freely she decided to take advantage of the moment. ‘So what’s Mick’s great idea?’
‘Well, for one I stop getting papped with women falling out of their dresses outside private parties.’
Clementine elbowed him hard in the ribs. ‘That’s not true! Is it true?’ Some of her sweet enthusiasm evaporated, and he noticed she put a little space between their bodies. Then, more uncertainly, ‘I hesitate to ask, but what are “private parties”?’
Bozhe, this woman could bring him to his knees.
He’d better get this over with quickly. ‘The business I’m in, kisa. There’s a lot of money, illegal gambling, drugs, you name it. Although we’ve done our best to clean it up. And there’s always women. I’m healthy, clean as a whistle. Always used condoms. But I’m not one of the white bread guys you’re used to. I’ve seen a lot and I’ve done a lot.’
He was nothing like the guys she was used to. Clementine knew it was silly to be shocked. She’d seen what he did for a living. She’d seen the women at those events. She’d seen the way they looked at him. He probably had phone numbers coming out of his pockets. Even that night she was with him.
The little show she’d given him in that shoe shop, which had seemed so daring to her—women probably did things like that for him all the time. Probably much more daring things.
Serge watched the emotions flickering across Clementine’s expressive face. He shouldn’t have told her. He’d upset her.
She gave him that negligent little shrug she’d perfected, but he knew now it covered up a lot of insecurity. ‘Still doesn’t tell me what private parties are.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He closed the gap between them and pushed her fringe up out of her eyes. ‘That’s all over.’
A wave of warmth swept through him as he looked into her anxious eyes and experienced an overwhelming urge to protect her from his past. She had a lot of swagger, but she could be incredibly sweet at times. This was one of those times. It was sitting on his ‘traditional Russian male’ button and not getting off.