The Jet-Set Seduction

So her tactics were almost sure to work, Clea thought in a flood of relief. “This is a charming garden, isn’t it?” she said.

For the first time since he’d seen her, Slade looked around. Big tubs of scented roses were in full bloom around the marquee, where an orchestra was sawing away at Vivaldi. The canopy of California oaks and palm trees cast swaying patterns of shade over the deep green grass, now trampled by many footsteps. The women in their bright dresses were like flowers, he thought fancifully.

Because Belle’s garden was perched on one of the city’s hilltops, a breeze was playing with Clea’s tangled curls. He reached over and tucked a strand behind her ear. “Charming indeed,” he said.

Her eyes darkened. Deliberately she moved a few inches away from him, dropping her hand from his sleeve. “Do you see much of Belle?” she asked.

“Not a great deal. I travel a lot with my job, and my base is on the East Coast…how did you meet her?”

“Through a mutual friend,” Clea said vaguely; no one other than Belle knew why she was here. “Oh look, miniature éclairs—do you think I can eat one without getting whipped cream on my chin?”

“Another calculated risk,” he said.

“One I shall take.”

Had he ever seen anything sexier than Clea Chardin, in broad daylight and surrounded by people, licking a tiny patch of whipped cream from her lips? Although sexy was far too mundane a word for his primitive and overwhelming need to possess her; or for the sensation he had of plummeting completely out of control to a destination unknown to him. Every nerve on edge, every sense finely honed. For underneath it all, wasn’t he frightened?

Frightened? Him, Slade Carruthers? Of a woman?

“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Slade?”

“What? Oh, sorry, of course I am.” He took a square from the chased silver platter and bit into it. It was a date square. He hated date squares. He said, “The summer my mother learned how to make chocolate éclairs, my father and I each gained five pounds.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Manhattan. My parents still live there. My mother’s on a health kick now, though. Soy burgers and salads.”

“And what does your father think of that?”

“He eats them because he adores her. Then at least once a week he takes her out for dinner in SoHo or GreenwichVillage and plies her with wine and decadent desserts.” Slade’s face softened. “The next day it’s back to tofu and radicchio.”

“It sounds idyllic.”

The sharpness in her voice would have cut paper. “You don’t sound amused.”

“I’m not a believer in marital bliss, whether flavored with tofu or chocolate,” she said coldly. “Ah, there’s Belle…if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to her before I leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She plunked her half-empty cup on the linen tablecloth so hard that tea slopped into the saucer. Then she threaded her way through the crowd toward Belle, her hair like a beacon among the clusters of pastel hats. Slade watched her go. Prickly wasn’t the word for Clea Chardin.

Although she claimed never to have been married, some guy had sure pulled a dirty on her. Recently, by the sound of things, and far from superficially.

He’d like to kill the bastard.

Maybe Belle would fill him in on the details at dinner tonight. After a couple of glasses of her favorite Pinot Noir.

He wanted to know everything there was to know about Clea Chardin.

CHAPTER TWO

THAT evening, Slade waited until he and Belle were halfway through their grilled squab, in a trendy French restaurant on Nob Hill, before saying, “I met Clea Chardin at your party this afternoon, Belle.”

Belle’s fork stopped in midair. While her hair was unabashedly gray, her shantung evening suit was pumpkin-orange, teamed with yellow diamonds that sparkled in the candlelight. Her eyes, enlarged with lime-green mascara, were shrewd: Belle harbored no illusions about human nature. Slade was one of the few people who knew how much of her fortune went to medical clinics for the indigent.

“Delightful gal, Clea,” she said.

“Tell me about her.”

“Why, Slade?”

“She interests me,” he hedged.

“In that case, I’ll leave her to do the telling,” Belle said. “The sauce is delicious, isn’t it?”

“So that’s your last word?”

“Don’t play games with Clea. That’s my last word.”

“I’m not in the habit of playing games!”

“No? You’re thirty-five years old, unmarried, hugely rich and very sexy…why hasn’t some woman snagged you before now?” Belle answered her own question. “Because you know all the moves and you’re adept at keeping your distance. I’m telling you, don’t trifle with Clea Chardin.”

“She struck me as someone who can look after herself.”

“So she’s a good actor.”

Belle looked distinctly ruffled. Choosing not to ask why Clea was so defenseless, Slade took another mouthful of the rich meat and chewed thoughtfully. “Maggie Yarrow was in fine form,” he said.

Belle gave an uncouth cackle. “Don’t know why I invite her, she gets more outrageous every year. Nearly decapitated one of my waiters with that cane of hers…which reminds me, did you see what the senator’s wife was wearing? Looked like she ransacked the thrift shop.”

He knew better than to ask why Belle had slackened her infamous dress code for Clea. “Will your lawn recover from all those stiletto heels?”

“A whole generation of women crippled,” Belle said grandly. “What’s a patch of grass compared to that?”

He raised his glass. “To next year’s party.”

She gave him the sweet smile that came rarely and that he cherished. “You be sure to be here, won’t you, Slade? I count on it.”

“I will.”

His affairs never lasted more than six months; so by then, he’d no longer be seeing Clea. Game over.

Oddly, he felt a sharp pang of regret.

The next morning Slade was walking along Pier 39 past the colorful moored fishing boats. It was October, sunniest month in the city, and tourists still thronged the boardwalk, along with buskers joking raucously with the crowds. The tall spire of the carousel beckoned to him, the lilt of its music teasing his ears. Would Clea be there? Or would she have thought the better of it and remained in her hotel?

He had no idea where she was staying. Added to that, she was going back to Europe tomorrow. If she was determined not to be found, Europe was a big place.

He walked the circumference of the fence surrounding the carousel, his eyes darting this way and that. No Clea. She’d changed her mind, he thought, angered that she should trifle with him. But underlying anger was a depth of disappointment that dismayed him.