The Jet-Set Seduction. Sandra Field
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bed and out.”
Her nostrils flared. “You’re being very childish.”
“Am I? If we stop taking risks, something in us dies.”
“Risks can kill!”
“I assure you, I don’t have homicide in mind.” Kill, he thought. That’s a strong word.
Her breasts rising and falling with her agitated breathing, Clea said, “Men don’t stick around long enough for women to get to know them.”
“Generalizations are the sign of a lazy mind.”
“The first sign of trouble, you’ll be gone faster than I can say au revoir.”
“You’re being both sexist and cowardly,” he said.
Her chin snapped up. “Who gave you the right to stand in judgment on me?”
“Deny it, then.”
“I’m not a coward!”
Slade said softly, “Prove it to me. More important, prove it to yourself.”
Toying with the olive in her glass, Clea said raggedly, “You’re talking about us getting to know each other. Yet you never let any of your women close enough to hurt you.”
He said grimly, “You may be the exception that proves the rule.”
And how was she supposed to interpret that? “I like my life the way it is,” she said. “Why should I change?”
“If you didn’t want to change, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.”
He was wrong. Completely wrong. “Do you do this with every woman you meet?”
“I’ve never had to before.”
“So why are you bothering now?”
“Clea, I don’t want to play the field,” he said forcibly. “Right now it’s you I want. You, exclusively. Because deep down I don’t really believe you are a coward.”
“Just sexist,” she said with a flare of defiance.
“Don’t you get bored playing the field?”
She said nastily, “I’ve not, so far, been bored with you.”
“Then I’ll make another dare—date me until you do get bored.” Slade pushed a piece of paper across the table to her. “My personal assistant’s phone number in New York. His name’s Bill and he always knows where I can be reached.”
She stared down at the paper as if it might rear up and bite her. Her second line of defense, she thought wildly, what had happened to it? Hadn’t Slade jumped in ahead of her, daring her to date him? Worse, to go to bed with him? “I’m not interested in your money,” she blurted, trying to collect her wits. “I have plenty of my own.”
“I never thought you were.”
The Test, she thought. Now’s the time. Do it, Clea. She glanced up, her accent pronounced, as it always was when she was upset. “Very well, Slade…I also can make dares.”
“Go ahead.”
“Meet me in the Genoese Bar in Monte Carlo, three weeks from now. In the evening, anytime after seven-thirty. Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.”
“Name the day,” he said.
“Ah,” she said smoothly, “that’s part of the dare. I’m not telling you which evening. Either I’m worth waiting for, or I’m not—which is it?”
“But you will turn up?”
Her eyes flashed fire. “I give my word.”
“Then I’ll wait for you.”
“It stays open until 2:00 a.m., and the music is deafening,” she said with a malicious smile. “You won’t wait. No man would. Not when the world’s full of beautiful women who are instantly available.”
“You underrate yourself,” he said softly. Reaching over with his finger, he traced the soft curve of her mouth until her lip trembled. “I’ll wait.”
Fear flickered along her nerves. He wouldn’t wait. Not Slade Carruthers, who—she’d swear—had never had to wait for a woman in his life. Tossing her head, she said, “If you’re unfamiliar with Monte Carlo, anyone can direct you to the Genoese—it’s well known.”
“Monte Carlo—where life’s a gamble and the stakes are high.”
“High stakes? For you, maybe—not for me.” Which was another barefaced lie.
“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t know how to gamble, Clea…tomorrow I’ll give Bill your name. You have only to mention it, and he’ll make sure I get any messages from you.”
She said, so quietly that the drifting jazz melody almost drowned her out, “I must be mad to have suggested a meeting between us. Even one you won’t keep.”
She looked exhausted. Slade drained his whisky. “Finish up,” he said, “and I’ll take you back to the lobby. Then I’ll be on my way—my flight’s early tomorrow.”
Her face unreadable, she said, “So you’re not putting the moves on me tonight?”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t gamble when the deck’s stacked against me—that’s plain stupidity.”
“At any table, you’d make a formidable opponent.”
He pushed back his chair. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on, you look wiped.”
“Wiped? I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound flattering.”
He took her hand and brought her to her feet. Standing very close to her, his eyes caressing her features, he said huskily, “It means tired out. In need of a good night’s sleep. When you and I share a bed, sleep won’t be the priority.”
“When we share a bed?” she said, looking full at him. “I’ve never liked being taken for granted.”
His eyes were a compelling midnight-blue, depthless and inscrutable. Charismatic eyes, which pulled her to him as though she had no mind of her own. She felt herself sway toward him, the ache of desire blossoming deep in her belly and making nonsense of all her defenses. Reaching up, she brushed his lips with hers as lightly as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, then just as quickly stepped back.
Her heart was hammering in her breast. So much for keeping him at a distance, she thought, aghast. What was wrong with her?
For once Slade found himself bereft of speech. Going on impulse, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with lingering pleasure, watching color flare in her cheeks. Then, calling on all his control, he looped one arm lightly around her shoulders and led her back to the lobby. The light from the crystal chandeliers seemed excessively bright. He said, “The Genoese. In three weeks. If you need anything in the meantime, call me.”
“I won’t call you,” Clea said. Turning on her heel, she crossed the vast carpet to the elevators.
Nor did she.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE Genoese Bar on a cool damp evening in November should have been a welcome destination. Slade had walked from his hotel, with its magnificent view of the Port of Monaco and the choppy Mediterranean, past the obsessively groomed gardens of the casino to a curving side street near the water where a discreetly lit sign announced the Genoese. It was exactly seven-thirty.
The bar, he saw with a sinking heart, was underground, down a flight of narrow, winding stairs.
His nightmare, once again.
He was thirty-five years old now. Not eleven. He should be able to walk down a flight of stairs and spend six