Sandra Field - The Jet-Set Seduction

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 this morning, and it hasn’t changed. You can give me your phone number, if you like—and if I’m ever at a loose end, I’ll call you.”

So she was lumping him together with what she called, so amorphously, the field. Slade said, lifting one brow, “I dare you to make a date with me. More than that, I dare you to get to know me. In 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.”