by Lucy Ellis
He’d got the distinct impression those were her nipples he was seeing on that screen. It took a manful effort not to let his gaze drift down to her chest, given that the real thing had been under his hands not long ago, and the memory of her nipples poking enthusiastically into his palms wasn’t going away.
More blood rushed to his groin.
No, that wasn’t going away either.
‘Bare breasts are a traditional part of French cabaret,’ Gigi said, looking blameless as sunlight. ‘But a cabaret is not a strip joint. The emphasis in French cabaret is on fun, humour and glamour. There’s no sleaze.’
‘The entertainment division of the Kitaev Group is principally gaming and music venues.’ He watched her teeth sink into the lush promise of her lower lip and found his voice had thickened again when he added, ‘No poles.’
* * *
Gigi wasn’t too sure if she believed him. Oh, she believed him about the poles, but his plan for L’Oiseau Bleu was another thing.
Gaming and music venues?
Don’t frown, she told herself.
‘You don’t look too happy about that, Gigi.’
She understood that he was humouring her, but she took his question seriously all the same. ‘I’m just concerned, given you own some pretty outlandish venues.’
He gave her a smile. ‘I admit the Oasis Pearl in Dubai is fairly over the top, but it has to be to compete.’
Gigi made a mental note to look up the Oasis Pearl on the internet.
‘And what would make L’Oiseau Bleu...compete?’ She tested out the word and tried to sound as if she knew of what she spoke.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
Drat.
‘I’m not really a businesswoman,’ she mumbled, ‘I’m a dancer.’
‘Why did you come to me, Gigi?’
It was a good question, and one she’d asked herself many times over since she’d discovered L’Oiseau Bleu had passed into new hands.
‘I guess it’s because the other girls needed a spokesperson and I kind of elected myself.’ She met his eyes. ‘And, unlike them, I know what L’Oiseau Bleu once was, and I have an idea of what it could be again. With the right person at the helm.’
There it was. The sincerity. Khaled couldn’t deny that she appeared to believe what she said. It went against his grain to lie to her, but after her little performance on the Champs-Élysées he couldn’t risk handing over the sensitive information that he was passing on the cabaret only to see it broadcast the length and breadth of Paris before nightfall.
Gigi had a mouth on her. She’d proved it.
He couldn’t risk telling her the truth.
‘The other girls are loyal to the theatre,’ she said quickly, as if wanting to disabuse him of the notion she was a one-woman crusade, ‘but I don’t think they really understand how far downhill the cabaret has gone in the past few decades...’ She trailed off. ‘Sorry, I get carried away. You don’t have to do anything. I mean, you could sell us on. It’s not as if we saw anything of the last owner.’
‘Ahmed el Hammoud?’
‘We never met him. Do you know him?’
‘I know he’s useless at cards.’ The oil sheikh’s incompetence at poker meant Khaled now possessed some nice Arabian breeding stock and a tinpot cabaret that time forgot in Paris. And this girl.
No, she didn’t come with ownership papers—more was the pity. Khaled smiled privately to himself.
‘Is that really how you ended up with us?’
He glanced her way, almost literally tripping over that shy look she was so good at giving him.
It just muddied the waters—had him wanting to lecture her on coming up to a stranger’s hotel room and at the same time wanting to drive her down backwards onto this sofa, scatter the cushions and reacquaint himself with the sweet, sensual response she’d given him in the bedroom.
He cleared his throat. ‘I have a regular poker game with a group of guys I’ve known since my army days.’
‘Where you got those terrible scars?’
‘Da—some.’
It hadn’t been a smart move showing her those scars. It had led to her hands on his body and his on hers.
Khaled slumped back on the sofa beside her and massaged the back of his neck, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing and knowing he had to wind this up.
‘How long did you serve?’ she wanted to know.
‘Two years.’
‘I guess you saw active service?’
‘Chechnya, Afghanistan,’ he said briefly, and a visual of heat and dust and sweat streaming between the bridge of his nose and a rifle sight bloomed in his mind. God, how he’d hated it.
‘Was it your choice?’
Khaled gave a shrug, a little surprised by the question. Few people asked. ‘It’s difficult to escape conscription—but, yes, in many ways it was my choice. My father was a professional soldier.’
She sat forward and tucked one leg under her. Clearly interested.
‘Did you want to follow him into the army?’
‘Talkative little thing, aren’t you?’
‘I’m just curious.’
He could give her the truth, that military service had opened up his life in unexpected ways and had transformed his life. He’d learned that his father was a hero, that he came from a long line of professional soldiers, and that his own beliefs about who he was and where he came from had been false and fed to him as a youth by the only father he had ever known. Leaving him with the huge trust issues he carried to this day.
But he opted for the generic. ‘It’s something we must all do.’
Her world of feathers and stage make-up was so far from what he’d seen as to be another planet. And yet he couldn’t help remembering those marks he’d seen on her feet, and the way she’d curled up like a snail on the vanity to hide them.
He frowned. Mostly it was his own fiercely protective reaction that continued to unsettle him, especially when he’d learned that some of that violence had been meted out by what sounded like a disgrace of a father.
‘Military service is boredom punctuated by adrenalin,’ he found himself confessing. ‘And a lot of poker. I got very good at it.’ He angled a smile her way. ‘When I was a kid I used to play cards for spent bullet cartridges.’
Hell, why had he told her that?
‘Bullets, huh? I guess where you come from is a long way from the dressing rooms and trailers I was raised in.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘You’d probably prefer them to a cabaret you don’t want.’
‘I don’t know,’ he mused, unable to resist the siren call of her eyes shyly meeting his. ‘I wouldn’t have met you.’
Her mouth trembled into a half-smile and then she pulled it tight again, looking away. He knew the feeling.
He rubbed his jaw, knowing he should be winding this up—only to encounter the beard he’d ignored for weeks now. Usually after a couple of months away on a trek he’d be freshly shaven and snapped back into his Italian suits, hunkering down in his offices in Moscow and hitting the ground running.
Diverting to Paris straight from the Arctic shelf meant he’d come without that symbolic shift between two worlds.
Maybe that was why he was tempting fate here. The wilderness of his previous environment was still running through his blood...
He cleared his throat. ‘Gigi, in the bedroom—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ She cut him off hurriedly, looking cornered. She stumbled to her feet. ‘I mean, it was just a stupid thing, right? Better we forget about it.’
A stupid thing? He didn’t think so. His hunter’s instinct kicked in.
Gigi set about clumsily gathering her things. ‘I should get out of your hair.’
�
�I’m taking you home.’
The words formed and his certainty solidified around them.
‘No, that’s all right.’ She was busily packing up her laptop.
‘I’m taking you home.’
Gigi tried to ignore the little kick she got out of his assertiveness. Because, really, she shouldn’t like being told what to do.
But she could literally hear her heart hammering in her ears, and more liquid heat was pooling between her thighs. It was embarrassing. It was also unprecedented in The Romantic History of Gigi Valente. So far officially two pages, along with today’s Special Addition, and not much going on for the foreseeable future.
She couldn’t understand the effect this man—of all men—had on her.
Obviously he had it all going on. He was gorgeous, he was powerful, and his fathoms-deep masculine voice with that accent was designed to be meltingly effective on a woman’s hormones...
But if she had to pinpoint it she’d say it was in his eyes and the way he looked at her. As if he wanted to do all kinds of things with her that another woman would slap him for, and that instead made her feel beautiful and female and, yes, fluttery.
She just wasn’t a fluttery kind of girl.
She zipped her finger into the backpack.
Ouch!
Shoving her middle finger in her mouth, she tried not to look at him. He was being so reasonable, which wasn’t helping, and now he wanted to drive her home.
Didn’t he understand that if she spent any more time with him she might very well push him down, climb on top of him and make him kiss her all over again?
Or, worse, make him stroke her breasts—because her nipples were like tight little marbles and they felt tingly, and she only had to close her eyes to remember how it had felt to be pressed up into his big hands...
She swallowed hard and kept her head down.
‘You don’t need to drive me home.’ She slung the backpack over her shoulder. ‘I can grab a taxi.’
Actually, she would find a vélib station and bike it home. Taxis were for rich people, or girls who danced at the Lido.
She adjusted the strap on her backpack to give herself something to do when he didn’t reply. Raised her eyes. He was looking down at her as if she’d said something bizarre, and then he flashed her a scarily intimate look that told her he knew exactly how damp her knickers were.
‘You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen my car.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘TAKE A LEFT up here and we’re at the top of the street.’
Khaled didn’t know what he’d expected. Something tight on space and utilitarian, given the area. Montmartre had come a long way from the fields and cheap lodgings of its artistic heyday. Apartment dwelling wasn’t cheap in these parts. And he’d seen what the showgirls were paid—it wasn’t a lucrative profession.
He hadn’t expected the little dead-end cobbled street, the high grey stone walls or the four-storeyed petit mansion peering overhead.
He parked his yellow Spyder Lamborghini on the roadside between a couple of not inconsiderably priced cars and eased back to take a look at Gigi.
‘This is it?’
She was taking off her belt. ‘Sure.’
He watched her for a moment, running her hand over the door, trying to get out. She appeared to be in a hurry. He could have leaned across and done it for her. Instead he opened his own door and strolled around to her side of the car. He lifted the door and watched her get out, taking in those incredible legs and the pert roundness of her behind.
‘Thanks.’ She lugged her backpack over her shoulder. ‘Are you coming up?’
‘Do you usually let men you hardly know into your flat?’
She gave him a surprised look, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before, and then reached into her jacket and brought out a small tube, brandishing it like a gunslinger.
‘I’m packing heat.’
‘What’s that?’ He took it from her, examining the simple pump-style device.
‘A high-frequency alarm. All the girls at the cabaret have them.’
‘I take it this was the Dantons’ idea.’
She shook her head. ‘Jacques considers what we do off the clock our own business—he’s not big on the health and safety thing. But some of the girls have had problems with patrons following them when they leave the theatre, so I got Martin to introduce a courtesy bus system, which is great. Lulu and I use that all the time.’
‘Who supplied the alarms?’
‘Me. I got one for Lulu, after she was almost attacked one night, and grabbed one for myself too. The guy who sold them to me gave me a discount for a box of two dozen. So I got enough for the other girls.’
‘Basically, you’re doing the Dantons’ job for them?’
Her expressive face gave her away. She obviously didn’t want to down-talk the cabaret’s management in front of him, but at the same time it was fairly clear what was going on.
‘I guess if something needs to be done you do it, right? Besides, Lulu could have been in real trouble that night.’
‘One of the dancers was attacked?’ Khaled was frowning.
‘Not “one of the dancers”,’ she said, with a little frown to match his. ‘Lulu. She went out with this guy a couple of times, and then she said thanks but no thanks, and he followed her home and wouldn’t take no for an answer. If I hadn’t been here I don’t know what would have happened.’
Her natural animation had drained away and she folded her arms across her chest self-protectively. ‘Plus we work at night, so personal security is pretty important. You can’t be in this business without learning how to look out for yourself.’
‘You carry a small alarm,’ he said, struggling with primitive feelings that had no place here, with a girl who was certainly of a time and a place where she could look after herself, ‘and you think this is security enough?’
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ she replied simply.
He made a note to himself to beef up security at L’Oiseau Bleu. The cabaret he wouldn’t be holding on to.
At the gate she keyed in the alarm code and pushed.
The courtyard was small and immaculate.
A black mop came hurtling across the stones to fling itself at Gigi’s knees. She swept the ball up in her arms amidst much unhygienic kissing and cooing.
‘This is Coco—he’s Lulu’s baby. Say hello, Coco.’
Khaled watched this interaction with a degree of mild male apprehension.
Normally women who treated defenceless animals as substitute children really didn’t do it for him, and surely it was a warning sign that at some point this roving maternal instinct was going to be turned in a more natural direction.
But that was some other guy’s problem. He could relax about the dog. It wasn’t even her dog.
Forget about the dog.
‘Here. You hold Coco while I let us in.’ She shoved the fluff ball at his chest.
Khaled tensed. It’s a dog, not a baby, he reiterated, and held the creature up, observing its shiny eyes, wet nose and glossy coat. Coco was clearly in good health and well looked after. He lifted the squirming ball a little higher and confirmed that Coco was indeed a he.
Gigi opened the front door and he put the dog down. It rushed forward and up the stairs.
‘We’re on the top floor,’ she said, crossing the well-lit atrium and preceding him up the steps.
We? How the hell did she afford this on her wages? She barely made enough at that cabaret to live in a cardboard box in central Paris. He knew—he’d seen the books.
But his eyes were caught by Gigi’s small round derrière, several steps in front of him and right on his eye level, and all the questions got pushed aside in favour of just appreciating the v
iew. Her bottom should be illegal. In those jeans it was packaged for maximum impact. The soft denim wrapped around her as if it loved her body. He couldn’t blame it.
He followed her into a brightly lit open-plan room with windows looking out over the rooftops. It was a nice view. The floorboards shone. There was a loft bedroom above and circular metal stairs.
Gigi shrugged off her jacket and tossed it onto a chair.
His mouth dried up.
He hadn’t got much of a look when she’d been under him on the bed, but now he could see the full effect of a tight pink T-shirt advertising the slogan ‘Dancing Queen’ in glittery dark pink letters across the high round curves of her breasts.
He’d had those breasts resting against his hands, felt the curve of her nipples rise to points under his thumbs.
She looked lovely and playful—and so sexy it hurt.
The blood zoomed so fast from his brain to his groin he could only be thankful he’d put his jacket on.
‘Dancing Queen?’ he said, a little stupidly.
Gigi glanced down at her chest, looked up, and beamed like a torch.
‘I love Abba. Want a cup of tea?’
‘Chay...tea?’ he echoed. He never drank tea. ‘Spasiba.’
He knew he should be pounding down those stairs and driving away. Didn’t he have meetings this afternoon? Instead he found himself moving around the room while she busied herself in the kitchenette, taking in the simple furnishings and girly throw cushions, the pile of books beside a small bookcase that had overflowed, a couple of framed prints that under closer inspection proved to be old numbers of Le Petit Journal, with illustrations of dancing girls—one from the Moulin Rouge, the other from a circus. No sign of male cohabitation.
She was saying something about the cabaret...about wanting to show him some memorabilia.
He drew closer to a twelve-by-twelve photographic portrait framed on the wall. For a moment he thought it was Gigi. The same sharp angular cheekbones were catching the light, the point of her chin, but the eyes were dark and sloe-shaped, the nose small. The face was more conventionally attractive, but lacking the energy which animated Gigi’s striking features. Struck by the similarity to the woman with him, the last thing he noticed was that she appeared to be naked. Except for an ostrich feather fan.
