The Jet-Set Seduction. Sandra Field
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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