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‘That’s right,’ she said gamely. ‘I’m here to speak to him.’
Him being the hotel’s highest paying guest.
Khaled fully expected the staff to evaporate, but to his credit the concierge lingered. ‘Are you certain, mademoiselle?’
The hectic look on her face was ebbing away as she appeared to realise that the hotel management was offering her real assistance and not showing her the door.
She nodded slowly, and added, ‘Merci beaucoup,’ with an almost comically sincere look on her face, even as her eyes kept zoning in on her backpack.
Khaled gave it a light shake.
What did she have in there? The Crown Jewels? A nuclear weapon? After her little display, neither would have truly surprised him.
‘You’re not hurt?’ he asked as the hotel staff evaporated back into the luxurious fittings.
‘No,’ she huffed, looking around as if expecting another attack. ‘No thanks to your lunatic friends.’
‘Bodyguards.’
She blinked, clearly not familiar with the concept.
‘They are employed to look to my safety.’
‘Why?’
Why...? Khaled wasn’t often asked this question. Usually people were calling him sir and getting out of his way. ‘It is common in my line of business.’
‘Hmm.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘Yes, well, you need to put them on a leash.’
Struggling manfully with a desire to throw back his head and laugh, Khaled murmured, ‘I apologise unreservedly. It was an unforgivable breach of your human rights.’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You don’t sound particularly sincere.’
Was she going to argue with him about this too?
‘I guess you’re having some fun at my expense,’ she allowed slowly.
Unexpectedly he remembered the lack of support given to her by the other dancers yesterday, and the laughter that greeted her pronouncements.
‘My papa used to say all I needed was a curly wig and a red nose and I’d have a new job.’
He frowned. ‘Most fathers think their daughters are princesses.’
Gigi wondered if being seventeen years old and dancing onstage in a costume made of balloons she’d strategically popped with five other girls, until she was virtually down to her little yellow bikini, while her father systematically fleeced the audience had an attendant fairy tale.
‘My father raised me to live in the real world,’ she said uncomfortably, darting another glance at her backpack. Was he ever going to give it back?
Following her gaze, he proffered it. ‘I believe this belongs to you?’
She was obviously trying not to appear too eager but she still snatched at it, and clearly couldn’t help plastering it to her chest.
‘So, does this happen to you all the time? Bodyguards leaping out and knocking people over?’
‘You were coming towards me and you’d reached into your bag.’
She frowned. ‘Why is that a problem?’
He made a trigger gesture with his hand.
Her frown deepened.
‘A gun,’ he clarified.
‘A gun?’ Her voice rose. ‘They thought I had a gun!’ This notion was clearly as foreign to her as the French language she was so deliciously butchering with her accent.
A passing couple stared at them and she shut up.
Khaled tried not to smile.
‘I really don’t see that there’s anything funny about this,’ she said tightly.
‘Nyet—nothing funny.’
‘I didn’t come to shoot you—obviously. I came to speak to you about the cabaret.’
There was an awkward silence as he just looked at her.
She tried again.
‘I know it’s unorthodox, but I figured as we’d met...’
He folded his arms. ‘I remember you lying on the floor.’
Gigi wondered whether, if she’d been lying on the floor right now, he would have stepped over her and kept going. Probably.
She reviewed her options. She’d gone over it with Lulu last night and decided her best hope of success was to bring all the material she’d compiled on the cabaret’s star-studded history and her ideas for its future and lay it before him.
Be confident. Make an appeal to his better nature and leave any mention of Solange out of it. The last had been Lulu’s firm instruction.
‘Do not mention Solange.’
Well, she hadn’t. But maybe she hadn’t been plain enough.
‘It’s handy that you remember me,’ she said, overly bright. ‘You see, I’m spokesperson for the troupe.
‘You don’t say?’ He glanced at his watch.
She was already losing him.
For the first time Gigi noticed that he looked a bit more disreputable than she remembered him being yesterday, and it was only now she fully focussed on the T-shirt, running shoes and the pair of pricey sweats and what they represented.
‘Are you on your way to do some exercise?’ she asked, a little desperately.
‘Da,’ he said with enviable cool, his gaze flicking down her body. ‘Are you here to help me out with that?’
‘Well, I’m hardly dressed for it.’ But she was talking to air, because he was gone, heading for the doors. He did that a lot.
Hitching her backpack, Gigi took off after him.
‘The thing is,’ she said, trying to keep up and not draw attention to herself, ‘and I know this is completely out of order, and you have every right to tell me to get lost, Mr Kitaev, but we’re all really concerned about our jobs. I thought if I could show you a few things you might understand where we’re coming from.’
‘What exactly have you got to show me?’ He didn’t break stride.
Well, the flyers and her presentation—but she needed a table for that and he was on the move.
Boy, was he on the move.
‘Lots,’ she said, mustering all the enthusiasm possible, given the situation. Only to bang straight into his back as he ground to a halt.
She looked up and swallowed. Hard. He was looking down at her in a way that made her want to pull a blanket around herself. A thick blanket. Possibly fire retardant.
Oh, boy.
‘Tell you what, Red. Can I call you Red?’
Red? Really? ‘Okay...sure.’
‘You talk; I’ll listen—if you can keep up.’
‘Keep up with what?’ she asked.
‘Can you run in those?’
Gigi glanced at her feet, baffled. ‘I guess so.’
But when she looked up he was already heading out.
She trailed him onto the pavement, only to watch him power off across the road framed by those two gorillas.
‘But I don’t want to run,’ she called after him, even as she began to do just that.
It wasn’t easy, with her backpack whacking her on the back like an uncomfortable metronome. The avenue was busy mid-morning. Gigi almost collided with a couple holding hands and her darting sideward leap to avoid disaster landed her in a puddle. Dirty water smeared her jeans.
Apparently he’d meant what he said—and, as much as it made her job harder, she could respect that. People who said what they meant and did what they said could be trusted. She hoped it would translate into a forthright exchange. If she could catch him.
She came close on the corner, just as he turned onto the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
‘Mr Kitaev?’ she hollered.
To her relief he slowed his pace.
‘Can you keep the shouting out of my name down to a low roar?’ he asked as she came alongside him.
‘Sure. Sorry.’
‘So you’re the rebel in the ranks?’
She cast him a worriedly baffled look. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Yesterday yours was an unusual approach.’
‘What approach? I didn’t approach you yesterday.’
‘The dive from that tank?’
What was he on about? ‘I did not throw myself off the tank to get your attention.’
‘Right...’
‘Honestly, I wouldn’t endanger my spinal column—I’m not stupid.’
‘Horosho.’
Gigi didn’t speak a word of Russian, but she got the subtext. He didn’t believe her.
Her temper broke like a wave. ‘Listen, I don’t need to create silly diversions to get a man’s attention!’
He thrust a staying arm in front of her as he checked the traffic.
‘A word of advice,’ he said, scanning the road. ‘Don’t squeeze your eyes shut. Just let them lie closed naturally, otherwise they twitch. It gave you away.’
What was he talking about now? Irritating man, with his dazzlingly dark brown eyes, the long, thick coal-black lashes sweeping over them above the sharp, deadly planes of his high cheekbones. If you liked that sort of thing...
‘I wasn’t twitching. When was I twitching?’
He meant her fall from the tank. He couldn’t possibly think... Good grief, she’d been virtually concussed!
‘You were twitching. And ditch the T-shirts while you’re at it,’ he said as his arm dropped away and he moved forward. ‘Play to your assets.’
‘What do you mean, my assets?’
He headed across the road.
Gigi’s gaze dropped to her chest. He didn’t mean what she thought he meant, did he?
‘Hey!’ she called, taking off after him. ‘I really don’t think you should be saying those kind of things to me!’
Although men had said worse. You had to have a thick skin in this business. But, really, if he was going to force her to run through the streets of Paris he could at least be polite to her! It wasn’t easy, even in her trainers. To make matters worse she had blisters upon blisters on the soles of her feet, from dancing in brand-new four-inch stilettos last night. Her feet were killing her!
He should try doing double performances six days a week, forty weeks of the year for five years—in heels—and see how he liked being made to run on hard pavement.
She stumbled and narrowly avoided a fire hydrant, and then dodged around a small dog on a leash.
Stupid Parisians and their dogs...
When she caught up with him she panted, ‘I’m just trying to represent the troupe!’
‘Why? What do the troupe want?’
Gigi stared at him. The man had barely broken a sweat. It was so unfair.
‘An opportunity—a chance to prove themselves. A pay-rise!’
She tacked on the last because really, at this point, she might as well go for gold. She wanted to add, And not to service you sexually! But shouting that in the street was further than she was prepared to go.
She was really hoping she wouldn’t have to bring Solange up—and not just because it was bound to antagonise him. Frankly, it was embarrassing. But, given he hadn’t showed at the cabaret last night, she couldn’t imagine him showing tonight and wondered how he’d manage to hook up with Solange after all. Not that he’d necessarily ever intended to.
It had already crossed her mind that Solange might be lying. It wouldn’t be the first time.
A knot in her chest Gigi hadn’t known was there loosened a bit.
Not that she’d spent a lot of time thinking about it... She’d just discussed it a little with Lulu last night over crêpes, as they’d walked home up the hill to their flat behind Sacré-Coeur.
The things other girls did to get ahead in the business... The things they would never do... The things they might be prepared to compromise on should they be pushed to the edge...
It had ended in Lulu posing the question, ‘So, if your grandma needed a kidney transplant and the only way to get it was to sleep with him, would you do it?’
Gigi had pretended to consider it. ‘I think I’d have to.’
Lulu had nodded. Then she’d looked at her with those big brown eyes and said solemnly, ‘What if she didn’t need a kidney transplant?’
Which was when they had both dissolved into giggles.
But in the light of day Gigi knew a better question was how would Solange approach this situation?
For one thing, she wouldn’t be pounding the pavement after him, blisters bursting in her trainers. Not that Solange had the intelligence to understand that their jobs were at stake. No, all she saw was a sexy, famous man and she wanted her piece.
Had she had her piece?
Gigi eyed his long broad back, the muscles shifting as he kept up a powerful driving pace. It didn’t take much imagination to envisage all that effortless masculine grace and power translating itself into something more intimate, something that required skill and rhythm, something—
Something she shouldn’t even be thinking about!
What was wrong with her? His sex life wasn’t her business, she told herself sternly, although she was fast losing sight of exactly what was her business with him.
Exhaling, she came to a stop. This was useless. He wasn’t listening to her. He was amusing himself and she’d turned herself into the punchline of his joke. Nothing new there.
Her shoulders slumped. There didn’t seem much point in pursuing this.
Which was when she realised he’d turned back. He moved like some predatory king of the beasts, deceptively at ease as he padded lightly but with a natural authority through the crowds towards her, and the female in her fluttered responsively.
The way he was looking at her as he approached, she could have been the only woman on the street.
Stupid female—she was going to get torn apart if she wasn’t careful.
He circled her, forcing her to turn, and turn again, as he looked her up and down.
‘What exactly are you going to do for this pay-rise, Red?’
‘Dance,’ she responded with a little frown.
‘Right.’ He winked at her and took off again, and she found herself hurrying after him.
This time he kept it to a slow lope, his attention on her. Maybe at last she could get him to listen.
‘And when do you take your clothes off?’
‘Pardon?’ she squeaked.
‘That’s the bit I’m interested in, Red. I assume I get to see this private dance if I take you back to the hotel?’
Gigi almost hit a traffic sign. She put out her hands to grab the pole.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Women throw themselves at me all the time. Why would you be any different?’
‘I’m not here for that,’ she said impatiently, trying to work out what he meant by ‘private dance’.
‘“That” is sex, and I can get it anywhere. You’ll have to up the ante, Red.’
She almost stumbled over her feet. Sex? She wasn’t offering him sex! Who had said anything about sex?
But he was getting away, and it shot through Gigi, hot and scalding, that this might be the last thing they ever discussed and he was going to go away thinking she was...well, Solange!
Her legs stopped working and she just stood there, watching his lean muscular form pound a little further into the distance. Frustrated beyond belief.
‘I am not here to have sex with you!’ she hollered after him.
CHAPTER FIVE
PASSERS-BY ALMOST got whiplash, reacting to her announcement, but Gigi told herself it wasn’t that bad. What stank was the fact that this awful, sexist, conceited man thought she had so little respect for herself she’d offer up her body...for what? A pay-rise?
He’d ground to a dangerously ominous halt and now came loping back towards her, his expression enough to send all her ‘flee and survive’ instincts into overdrive.
‘What is this?’ he growled.
‘I could ask you the same question.’ Her voice only shook a little bit. ‘Is this how you got your—your grubby hands on L’Oiseau Bleu? By goading Ahmed el Hammoud until he buckled and...and put us in the pot?’
‘Interesting turn of phrase.’ His gaze narrowed, assessing. ‘Know him well, do you, Red?’
Do not rise to the bait, she told herself. He’s doing this to work you up into a frenzy so you’ll go away.
‘Even more interesting,’ he continued conversationally—as if he wasn’t crowding her and leaving only a hand span of space between them, as if the hot, hard reality of him wasn’t pushing her on the back foot. ‘Now that I’ve seen the place I know why it was “in the pot”, as you put it. I should have folded.’
‘Really?’ Her voice came out all high and airless. ‘I don’t think you’d fold for anyone or anything. I think you like to win, Mr Kitaev, and that means someone has to lose. I don’t intend for that to be our fate.’
He was looking at her as if she truly interested him for the first time.
‘And what exactly are you going to do, Miss Valente?’
‘Fight you.’
Khaled almost smiled.
‘Go ahead.’ He thought of the people lining up to do just that, half a world away. ‘Take your best shot.’
‘I will,’ she volleyed back. ‘Solange Delon!’
She said this as if they were magic words. Clearly it was meant to mean something to him.
‘Solange Delon...’ she said again, but this time with less confidence, given the lack of a response. ‘You asked her to come for drinks. With you. Tonight.’
Nothing.
Gigi could feel the ground shifting under her feet. Somehow she’d got something wrong...
A faint smile began to tug at the firm, sensual line of his mouth.
Gigi’s temper quivered. He had no right to smile like that. Not when he didn’t even have the decency to own up to it. If there was anything to own up to...
‘I just don’t think it’s right,’ she proffered into his continuing silence. ‘Picking up a showgirl like one of those plastic Eiffel Towers you buy at a kiosk outside the metro—a souvenir of your trip.’
‘Is that what you think, Gigi?’ His tone was deceptively soft. ‘Or is that what you’ve read?’
Taken aback, Gigi hesitated.
Well, everyone had read it. The marauding Russian, grabbing whatever he could get—cultural artefacts, real estate, women.
She had an odd little visual of him as a cartoonish King Kong, pushing a fistful of showgirls into his open mouth, legs everywhere.
Despite everything, a little part of her wanted to smile.
‘I suppose you’re going to say it’s not true?’ she prompted into the tense silence.
He didn’t respond.
‘To be fair, I guess some of it is exaggeration,’ she allowed tightly, knowing she was losing ground fast.
He gave her an unamused half-smile. ‘Possibly.’
She reddened.
This wasn’t where she’d intended to take things today—she was supposed to be professional.
‘Like I said, women throw themselves at me all the time.’
‘I guess you can’t help being beautiful,’ she said grudgingly, then closed her eyes briefly. Don’t tell him he’s beautiful, eejit.
‘I was going to say that money has an odd effect on people.’ He was watching her as if she fascinated him. ‘But if you’re going to throw compliments at me, Gigi, you could try aiming at something I might respond to.’ His dark Russian accent had a lazy inflection, as if he was enjoying this. ‘Most men aren’t interested in being told they’re beautiful.’
‘I’m speaking objectively,’ she said stiffly. ‘Obviously you’re good-looking...’
‘Downgraded from beautiful? Keep going.’
She flushed. ‘Look, I’m not going to stand here and discuss your looks.’
‘You’re attracted to me.’
Gigi went rigid. ‘I am not! You’re nothing like my type.’
‘What is your type?’
‘Sensitive, caring, an animal-lover, good to his mum...’ Gigi wasn’t sure how they’d got on to this topic, but she did have a list if he wanted to hear it.
‘Gay?’
Gigi almost choked. She put her hands on her hips. ‘You sound like the stereotype of a homophobic Russian he-man.’
He smiled. ‘I’m not homophobic,’ he said comfortably, ‘and I’m fast revising my opinion of you, Red.
‘Oh, and what opinion is that?’
‘You’re not here to have sex with me—you’re going to pester me into giving you whatever it is you want.’
Gigi turned pink and told herself she’d rather be a pest than have him think she was trading sexual favours for...well, favours. Only she wasn’t making a nuisance of herself, was she?
‘You asked me what my type was,’ she defended herself. ‘And I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance, but you asked me to run with you!’
‘You need a new type.’
He was smiling openly at her now, but instead of feeling irritated she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She wished it would stop—it was most distracting. He should stop smiling too.
He was right. She did need a new type.
But it wasn’t going to be him.
Not that he was offering. Apparently she was a pest. Gigi tried not to mind that too much. Besides, gorgeous Russian gazillionaires didn’t date jobbing dancers.
Lead dancers at the Lido, maybe. Not chorus girls at L’Oiseau Bleu.
She worried at her lower lip. Was she being a pest? There was something so certain and old-fashioned about his masculinity that everything he said had weight to it.
She hadn’t had much male certainty in her life. The men she knew were for the most part equivocal and slippery. Witness her dad—and more latterly the Danton brothers, who had effectively stuffed up the only home she’d truly ever had since her mother’s death.
Gigi took a breath. Now was not the time to think about what made her want to howl. It was the time to do something about it.
‘Look,’ she said, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm. ‘Let’s just forget you said what you said, and you forget I said what I said, and we’ll start again.’
Even to her own ears it sounded lame, but right now it was all she had.
He was looking at her hand and she moved to snatch it back, but he caught her fingers between his.
Her eyes jerked up to his, but before she could ask him what he thought he was doing a shower of gravel spattered at their feet, sending Gigi’s confused thoughts flying as she followed its source to two boys who were old enough to know better.
A woman who was obviously their mother was on one of the culprits in an instant, clipping him behind the ear as she took hold of the smallest boy’s arm none too gently.
‘Quittez notre cabaret tout seul!’ she said in a tense, tight voice with a sideward glare at Kitaev. ‘Barbare!’ she spat.
Leave our cabaret alone! Barbarian!
A young couple had stopped, and the girl pulled out her phone to take a picture.
An older man said, ‘Why don’t you go back to London, where you belong?’
Gigi would have seen more, but Kitaev had stepped in front of her, effectively blocking her view.
For a moment Gigi was confused. Was he shielding her? She stared up at his broad back and felt quite odd, because no man had ever looked to her welfare before, and that it should be this man was, well...confusing.
He didn’t even like her.
But she never could stand bullies.
If you can’t take the criticism, Gigi, you shouldn’t be on the stage.
Fair enough, but her two-faced bully of a father’s critiques stayed with her to this day: too freckly, too red, too skinny, too stupid, too much trouble.
She’d learned to blank her expression and keep going. She hadn’t had much choice.
Kitaev appeared to be doing the same.
Taking it.
Well, she didn’t have to.
She scooted around him. ‘Hey! Who do you think you are—talking to people you don’t even know like that?’
In disbelief Khaled watched Gigi walk up to the woman clutching at the necks of her boys’ T-shirts.
‘No wonder your children have no manners if this is how you behave—and you, sir—’ she gestured to the older gentleman ‘—you should get your facts right. He doesn’t even live in London! None of you have seen what he’s going to do with the cabaret. You’re just condemning him out of hand. All of you!’
Given Red’s opinion of him, this was interesting.
‘Why don’t you wait and see before passing judgement? He might just surprise you.’