Untouched by His Diamonds by Lucy Ellis

Author:Lucy Ellis
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781408973325
Publisher: HarlequinUKLtd
Published: 2012-12-10T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE gym was a plain brick building. And Serge had been right about the sweat and testosterone. He introduced her to a man called Mick Forster, a fit guy in his fifties, who was polite but paid no more attention to her. All the other men in the room did three-sixtys as she moved through, and Clementine had never felt so conspicuous in her life. She was glad for once she had worn a neutral uniform of jeans, sweater and a vintage black velvet jacket.

She chose not to cling onto Serge’s hand. She wasn’t going to be the little woman on his arm. She folded her arms instead and wandered further into the gym, watching the athletes sparring, trying not to stare too long at any particular guy.

She was deep in man territory. It was nothing like her pretty pastel gym at home.

So this was how Serge had started out. Interesting.

She wandered back to find Serge deep in conversation with a group of men. She sat down on a bench. A short, strongly built young man slipped under the ropes and into the ring. A larger guy faced off with him, and Clementine watched with interest as they started feinting and jabbing, slicing the air with hands and feet. It was practice, it wasn’t about breaking skin, and it was fascinating to watch how the men pulled their punches and kicks. It was a sort of masculine ballet.

She noticed no one sat down beside her. There was nothing friendly about any of these guys, but she suspected it wasn’t personal. Her attention drifted back to Serge. He was talking in a low voice to Mick Forster, and they were both riveted to the sparring.

Then Mick said something, and it all happened at once. The blows made real contact. Clementine flinched as the men’s bodies collided. She averted her eyes but the sounds kept coming—fist connecting with bone.

‘Clementine, would you like to wait in the outer office?’ Serge was bending over her, blocking her view of the ring.

She nodded, didn’t argue. She felt embarrassed—and vaguely guilty.

‘What in the hell did you bring her here for?’ said Mick when Serge returned.

Serge felt an uncharacteristic surge of irritation with the older man. ‘My private life isn’t your business, Mick.’

‘She’s a distraction. You need to get your eyeline above her rack and back into the game, boy. A political move against this organisation and stadiums are going to close like mouse traps around the country.’

Serge’s expression remained bland as he said quietly, but with lethal emphasis, ‘If you refer to Clementine’s rack again all conversations are over, Mick—you got it?’

Mick Forster rolled back on his heels. ‘Well, well …’ was all he said. Then, in a lower voice, ‘Do you think she’s up to holding your hand and being photographed at a few charity events?’

Five minutes later Serge emerged. Clementine stood up. ‘Are you done?’

‘We’re moving, kisa.’

It wasn’t the same as being done, but he swept her along and seated in the car she said softly, ‘I’m sorry.

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