The Jet-Set Seduction. Sandra Field
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I’ve learned to choose my partners carefully. I already told you that you scare me—you’re the last man I’d have an affair with.”
He shouldn’t have been so direct. But he had a horrible sense of time running out, along with the even worse sense that nothing he was saying to her was making any real or lasting impression. Welcome to a new experience, Slade thought wryly. He’d never before had to work at getting a woman interested in him; fighting them off was his area of expertise.
“There’s a bakery a couple of blocks from here that sells crusty sourdough bread,” he said. “I always take some home with me.”
He heard the tiny puff as she let out her breath. “Let’s go,” she said agreeably. “Do you like to cook?”
“I do. Sheer self-defense. I eat out a lot, and it’s relaxing to stay home and cook for myself. My specialties are bouillabaisse and pumpkin pie. I’ll make them for you sometime.”
“Perhaps. Occasionally,” she said, her eyes full of mockery.
“For sure. At least once.”
“You don’t like opposition.”
“Neither, dear Clea, do you.”
She laughed. “Who does? Tell me about sourdough bread—it doesn’t sound very appetizing.”
Impatient of small talk, suddenly desperate for details beyond the superficial, Slade said, “How old are you, Clea?”
“Old enough to enjoy flirtation without—how do you say it?—strings attached.” She stepped off the boardwalk onto the sidewalk at the end of the wharf. “As for—”
Shouting and swearing, a gang of teenagers surged around the nearest building. Three of them collided head-on with Slade. Automatically he threw his arms around Clea, pulling her close to his body for protection, his feet planted hard on the tarmac.
“Sorry!” one of the kids yelled. Another gave a loud whoop. None of them stopped.
Slade stood very still. Clea’s body was crushed to his, her breasts jammed against his chest. One of his arms encircled her hips, the other her waist; for a heart-stopping moment he felt her yield to him.
Her floppy hat had been shoved to the back of her head. He bent his own head and found her lips in a kiss that he wanted to last forever.
And again she yielded to him, a surrender all the more potent for being unexpected. He brought one hand up, tangling it in her hair, so silky and sweet-scented, and deepened the kiss, his lips edging hers apart. Her fingers were digging into his nape; her tongue was laced with his, teasing him, tasting him, driving him out of his mind.
As animal hunger surged through him, he forgot he was on a city sidewalk; forgot all Belle’s warnings and his own advice. Robbed of any vestige of caution, he muttered, “I feel as though I’ve been waiting for you my whole life…God, how I want you!”
His words sliced through the frantic pulsing of Clea’s blood, and brought in their wake an ice-cold dash of reality. She stiffened, then pushed hard against Slade’s chest. “Stop!” she gasped. “What are we thinking of?”
“We’re not thinking at all, which is just the way it should be,” he said thickly, lifting her chin with his fingers and bending to kiss her again.
“Slade, stop—you mustn’t, I don’t want you to.”
His gaze bored into hers. “Yes, you do.”
She sagged in his embrace, her forehead resting on his chest. He was right. She had wanted him, in the most basic of ways, her body betraying her into a response that, in retrospect, appalled her. “You took me by surprise, that’s all,” she said weakly.
Keeping one arm around her waist, he said, “We’re going into a restaurant on the pier, we’re having lunch together and we’re talking this through. No perhaps, no opposition.”
All the fight had gone out of her; she looked both frightened and defenseless. Slade hardened his heart and headed back along the pier to a restaurant that specialized in seafood. Because they were early for lunch, he was able to get a table in one corner, overlooking the bay. A table with a degree of privacy, he thought, and sat down across from her.
She picked up the menu; to his consternation, he saw how she had to rest it on the table to disguise the trembling of her hands. But by the time she looked up, she had herself under control again. Unsmiling, she said, “I’ll have the sole.”
Quickly he ordered their food, along with a bottle of Chardonnay from a Napa Valley vineyard. The service was fast; within minutes he was raising his glass of chilled pale golden wine. “To international relations,” he said with a crooked smile.
Her mouth set, she said, “To international boundaries,” and took a big gulp of wine. Putting her glass down, she said, “Slade, let’s get this out of the way, then maybe we can go back to enjoying each other’s company. What happened out there on the sidewalk—it frightened me. I don’t want a repeat, nor do I want to discuss the reasons you frighten me. And, of course, it simply confirmed what I’ve already told you—I’m not available. No sex. No affair. Is that understood?”
Banking his anger, Slade said curtly, “Of course it’s not understood—how could it be when I have no idea why I frighten you? It’s certainly not my intent to do so.”
“I didn’t say it was.” She took another reckless gulp of wine. “We’re strangers—and strangers we’ll remain. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I want far more than that.”
“We don’t always get what we want. You’re old enough to know that.”
“You kissed me back, Clea. And I’m going to get what I want.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. “No, you’re not.” Quickly she reached for her purse. It was time to produce her usual line of defense with a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Hadn’t she known when she’d left the hotel this morning that she’d need it with Slade Carruthers?
Taking out an envelope, she plunked it on the table. “You should take a look at this.”
“Are you about to ruin my appetite?” he said.
“Just look at it, Slade.”
The envelope was full of clippings from various tabloids and newspapers the width of Europe. Clea was pictured in every article, hair up, hair down, in evening gowns and jewels, in skimpy bikinis, in jeans and boots. Accompanied by, Slade saw, a succession of men. Aristocrats, artists, businessmen: none of them looking at all unhappy to be escorting the rich, the elegant, the charming Clea Chardin.
“What are you trying to tell me?” he said carefully.
“What does it look like?”
“Like you date a lot of different men.”
“Date?” she repeated, lifting one brow.
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve slept with all of them?”
“Not all of them, no,” she said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth. She should have said, “With none of them.” But a reputation for flitting from man to man was, at times, extremely useful; right now she needed every weapon she could lay her hands on.
The waiter put their plates in front of them, said, “Enjoy,” and left them alone again.
Clea said, as if there’d been no interruption, “If you want to take me to bed, you should know what you’re getting into. I date lots of men and that’s the way I like it.”
Her hair shimmered in the light. Slade flicked the clippings with his finger. “So I’d be just one more guy to add to the list.”
“You don’t have to keep on seeing me if you don’t like the way I operate,” she said mildly.
He