The Jet-Set Seduction

“Beneath your charm—because I do find you charming, and extremely sexy—you’re ruthless, aren’t you?”

“It’s hard to combine raspberry Popsicles with ruthlessness,” he said. Sexy, he thought. Well.

“I—”

“Slade, how are you, buddy?”

Slade said, less than enthusiastically, “Hello there, Keith. Keith Rowe, from Manhattan, a business acquaintance of mine. This is Clea Chardin. From Milan. Where’s Sophie?”

Keith waved his glass of champagne somewhat drunkenly in the air. “Haven’t you heard? The Big D.”

Clea frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Divorce,” Keith declaimed. “Lawyers. Marital assets. Alimony. In the last four months I’ve been royally screwed—marriage always boils down to money in the end, don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Clea said coldly.

Slade glanced at her. She was pale, her eyes guarded. But she’d never divorced, or so she’d told him. He said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Keith.”

“You’re the smart one,” Keith said. “He’s never married, Chloe. Never even been engaged.” He gulped the last of his champagne. “Evidence of a very shu—oops, sorry, Chloe, what I meant was superior IQ.”

“Clea,” she said, even more coldly.

He bowed unsteadily. “Pretty name. Pretty face. I’ve noticed before how Slade gets all the really sexy broads.”

“No one gets me, Mr. Rowe,” she snapped. “Slade, I should be going, it’s been nice talking to you.”

Slade fastened his fingers around the filmy fabric of her sleeve to stop her going anywhere. Then, in a voice any number of CEOs would have recognized, he said, “Keith, get lost.”

Keith hiccuped. “I can take a hint,” he said and wavered across the grass toward the nearest tray of champagne.

“He’s a jerk when he’s sober,” Slade said tightly, letting go of Clea’s sleeve, “and worse when he’s been drinking. Can’t say I blame Sophie for leaving him.”

Heat from Slade’s fingers had burned through her sleeve. Danger, her brain screamed again. “So you condone divorce?” Clea said, her voice like a whiplash.

“People make mistakes,” he said reasonably. “Although it’s not on my agenda. If I ever get married, I’ll marry for life.”

“Then I hope you enjoy being single.”

“Are you a cynic, Clea?”

“A realist.”

“Tell me why.”

She gave him a lazy smile that, Slade noticed, didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s much too serious a topic for a garden party. I want one of those luscious little cakes I saw on the way in, and Earl Grey tea in a Spode cup.”

Much too serious, Slade thought blankly. That’s what’s wrong. I’m in over my head, drowning in those delectable blue-green eyes. When have I ever wanted a woman as I want this one? “I’ll get you whatever you desire,” he said.

Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. “Desire is another very big topic. Let’s stick to want. What I want is cake and tea.”

Visited by the sudden irrational terror that she might vanish from his sight, he said, “You’ll meet me tomorrow morning?”

He wasn’t, Clea was sure, a man used to being turned down; in fact, he looked entirely capable of camping out on her hotel doorstep should she say no. Better, perhaps, that she meet him in a public place, use her usual tactics for getting rid of a man who didn’t fit her criteria, and then go back to Belle’s on her own.

“Popsicles and a carousel?” she said, raising her brows. “How could I not meet you?”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Fine.”

The tension slid from his shoulders. “I’ll look forward to it.” Which was an understatement if ever there was one.

She said obliquely, “I leave for Europe the next day.”

“I leave for Japan.”

Her lashes flickered. “Maybe I’ll sleep until noon tomorrow.”

“Play it safe?” He grinned at her. “Or do I sound incredibly arrogant?”

“I only take calculated risks,” she said.

“That’s a contradiction in terms.”

She said irritably, “How many women have told you your smile is pure dynamite?”

“How many men have wanted to warm their hands—or their hearts—in your hair?”

“I don’t do hearts,” Clea said.

“Nor do I. Always a good thing to have out in the open.”

She looked very much as though she was regretting her decision to meet him, he thought. He’d better play it cool, or Clea Chardin would run clear across the garden path and out of his life.

“Tea and cake,” he said, and watched her blink. Her lashes were deliciously long, her brows as tautly shaped as wings. Then she linked her arm with his; the contact surged through his body.

“Two cakes?” she said.

“A dozen, if that’s what you want,” he said unsteadily.

“Two is one too many. But sweets are my downfall.”

“Clams and French fries are mine. The greasier the better.”

“And really sexy broads.”

He said flatly, “Let’s set the record straight. First, I loathe the word broad. Secondly, sure I date. But I’m no playboy and I dislike promiscuity in either sex.”