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As if sensing his indecision, she chose that moment to turn her head over one pretty shoulder and give him a smile Mona Lisa would have envied. Subtle, but it was there. Come and get me.
Then she was off with a swish of her long hair.
Serge propelled himself away from the car, and with a brusque instruction to his driver to follow took off after her.
Clementine hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d cast a last look over her shoulder, and when she’d seen his gaze was still glued to her she’d smiled. Apparently that was enough—because now he was coming after her.
Instinctively she sped up, her whole body tightening with anticipation.
When she checked again he was still there, impossible to miss, taller than anyone else, a big, insanely gorgeous man, with chestnut hair falling carelessly over his temples, curling at the base of his broad neck. In the bright sunshine she could see the faint shadow of where he’d shaved, and the square cut of his chin and the sheer bravado of his grin as he caught her looking.
She shouldn’t be encouraging this. She should turn around on this crowded street and confront him. But she didn’t. She slowed down. She put a little more sway in her hips and kept walking.
She checked again. He was clocking her, but not closing in. She felt relatively safe.
Serge pulled back his pace momentarily as Boots turned out of the Nevsky, watched her cross against the schizophrenic traffic, earning a few hoots and screeching tyres from drivers—probably more at the sight of those long legs than any traffic infringement.
She had a real energy in her body that translated into the sexiest walk he had ever seen on a woman. And what struck him was the fact that she seemed utterly oblivious to the chaos she caused around her.
He didn’t want to lose her.
Clementine risked another glance over her shoulder but she couldn’t see him. Disappointment slowed her walk, prosaic reality returning with every step. Game over. Damn.
Up ahead was the underpass. She hated those mucky tunnels, never felt completely safe, but it was the only route she knew. The boots were starting to rub, and without the distraction of her ridiculous sexual fantasy the worries of the day began to crowd into her mind.
Serge stood at the kerb and watched as she began to descend into the underpass on her own. He saw the danger closing in around her at the same moment, and without another thought launched into a run.
Bozhe, this woman took chances. She’d known he was on her tail, and now two men were honing in on her bag, flapping on that lavish hip, and she just kept walking, lost in her own little world.
She shouldn’t be let out on her own. The thought briefly crossed his mind before the more savage Take them down intruded and he lunged into the underpass, aiming at the guy who was already reaching for the strap of her bag.
He grabbed her assailant by the scuff of his neck and dragged him off.
It was satisfying to use his body for something other than sitting in a plane and a car. He was fit—boxing and running took care of that—but to fight was in his blood and he hadn’t had one in many years.
Not that it was proving much of a challenge. The first assailant launched a fist that he blocked.
Instead of acting smart and getting the hell out of the way, Boots was launching an attack of her own with her bag, smacking it with gusto into the back of the head of the guy nearest her.
She distracted him and the first guy got in a lucky punch, grazing his face. Fast was best, and Serge slugged him one, then zeroed in on the second thug who moved fast, snatching the bag she was flapping around as if it was a club.
At least she wasn’t stupid. She let go, and the guy started running. The one on the ground crawled to his feet and took off, leaving Serge flexing his knuckles and alone with Boots.
‘You let him go!’ She was standing there in that short skirt, looking outraged.
At him.
Serge shrugged, rubbing his abused jaw. He didn’t feel like explaining that beating both men to a pulp was the only way he could have kept them there, and that her safety had been foremost in his mind. Instead he opted for the more obvious standby. ‘Are you all right?’
‘They took my bag!’ she wailed.
Foreign. British? Her voice was pitched low, slightly husky.
‘You’re lucky that’s all they took,’ he answered her in English. ‘These underpasses aren’t safe. If you’d read your guidebook, moya krasavitsa, you’d know that.’
She looked at him with clear grey eyes full of reproach.
‘So it’s my fault, is it?’
She had her hands on her hips now, stretching that white satin blouse across her breasts until the buttons strained. Bozhe, there was black lace under the white. This girl seemed incapable of keeping her clothes on. She was a walking incitement to the male libido. What did she expect was going to happen to her if she went around dressed like this?
