The Jet-Set Seduction. Sandra Field

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Then movement caught his eye. A woman was waving to him. It was Clea, seated on the gold-painted sidesaddle of a high-necked horse, clasping the decorated pole as she went slowly up and down. He waved back, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

      She’d come. The rest was up to him.

      The brim of her huge, flower-bedecked sun hat flopped up and down with the horse’s movements. Her legs were bare, pale against her mount’s dark flanks. Bare. Long. Slender.

      As the carousel came to a stop, she slid to the floor. She was wearing a wildly flowered skirt that fell in soft folds around her thighs, a clinging top in a green so vivid it hurt his eyes and matching green flat-heeled sandals. The skirt should be banned, Slade thought. Or was he even capable of thought through a surge of lust unlike any he’d ever known?

      Clea walked toward Slade, her heart jittering in her chest. He was so overpoweringly male, she thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged, with an aura of power that she was almost sure he was unaware of, and which in consequence was all the more effective. She came to a halt two feet away from him. “Buon giorno.”

      “Come sta?”

      “Molto bene, grazie.” She gave him a dazzling smile that reduced his brain to mush. “This is a fun place, Slade, I’m glad you suggested it.”

      “Popsicles,” he said firmly, and led her to the little booth decorated with big bunches of rainbow-hued balloons.

      She chose grape, he raspberry. Sucking companionably, they wandered in and out of the boutiques and stands, Slade purposely keeping the conversation light. Belle was no fool, and had, in her way, only confirmed his own suspicions: Clea had been badly burned and it behooved him to take it slow.

      Slow? When she went back to Europe tomorrow?

      Slow. He made frequent trips to Europe.

      They watched a very talented mime artist, and a somewhat less talented musician, tossing coins into their hats. Out of the blue Clea said, “Did you enjoy your СКАЧАТЬ