‘Can you hear me, mademoiselle?’

‘Her name is Gigi.’ The curly-haired brunette crouched down opposite him and supplied the name helpfully.

He was in Montmartre, in a shabby, past-its-use-by-date cabaret, with a cast of showgirls whose home cities ranged from Sydney to Helsinki to London—hardly any of them were actually French. Of course her name was Gigi.

He didn’t believe it for a second.

As if sensing his scepticism, she swept up her thick golden lashes with astonishing effect. A pair of blue eyes full of lively intelligence above angular cheekbones met his. Grew round, startled, and bluer than blue.

The colour of the water in the Pechora Sea.

He should know—he’d just flown in from it.

She sat up on her elbows and fixed him with those blue eyes.

‘Qui êtes-vous? Who are you?’

His question exactly.

He straightened up to assert a little dominance over her and settled his hands lightly on his lean muscled hips.

‘Khaled Kitaev,’ he said simply.

There was a ripple of reaction. But he didn’t take his eyes off Gigi as he calmly offered her his hand, and when she hesitated he leaned in and took what he wanted.

LUCY ELLIS creates over-the-top couples who spar and canoodle in glamorous places. If it doesn’t read like a cross between a dozen old fairytales you half know and a 1930s romantic comedy, it’s not a Lucy Ellis story. Come and read a rambling exposition on her books at lucy-ellis.com and drop her a line.

Caught in His

Gilded World

Lucy Ellis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Gigi is for you, Mum.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘GIGI, GET DOWN from there. You’re going to break your neck!’

Suspended two metres in the air, gripping the stage curtain between the tensed toes of her feet and using her slender muscled arms to propel herself upwards, Gigi ignored the commentary and made quick work of scaling the curtains alongside the four-metre-high fish tank. It was the same tank in which she would be swimming tonight, in nothing more than a G-string and a smile, with two soporific pythons: Jack and Edna. That was if she didn’t get fired first.

The ladder, which would have made this easier, had been folded away, but she was used to shimmying up ropes. She’d been doing it from the age of nine in her father’s circus. The velvet stage curtains were a doddle in comparison.

Now for the hard part. She grabbed hold of the side of the tank with one hand and swung a leg over, straddling the ledge and locking herself in place.

There was an audible sigh from below.

When Susie had yelled, ‘Kitaev’s in the building—front of house, stage left,’ pandemonium had broken loose. While the other girls had reached for their lipstick and yanked up their bra straps, Gigi had eyed the tank and, remembering its superb view once you were up there, hadn’t hesitated.

Susie had been right on the money, too. Down below, among the empty tables and chairs, deep in conversation with theatre management, was the man who held their future in his powerful hands, surrounded by an entourage of thugs.

Gigi’s eyes narrowed on those thugs. She guessed when you were the most hated man in Paris it helped to have minders.

Not that he appeared to need them. His back was to the stage but she could tell his arms were folded because his dark blue shirt was plastered across a pair of wide, powerful shoulders and a long, equally sculpted torso.

The man looked as if he broke bricks with a mallet for a living, not cabarets.

‘Gigi, Gigi, tell us what you can see? What does he look like?’

Big, lean and built to break furniture.

And that was when he turned around.

Gigi stilled. She’d seen pictures of him on the internet, but he hadn’t looked like that. No, the photographs had left that part out... The I’ve just stepped off a boat from a nineteenth-century polar expedition, during which I hauled boats and broke ice floes apart with my bare hands part.

A beard as dark and wild as his hair partially obscured the lower portion of his face, but even at this distance the strong bone structure, high cheekbones, long straight nose and intense deep-set eyes made him classic-film-star gorgeous. His thick, glossy and wavy inky hair was so long he’d hooked some of it back behind his ears.

He looked lean and hungry and in need of civilising—and why that should translate into a shivery awareness of her own body wasn’t something Gigi wanted to investigate right now as she wobbled, gripping the side of the tank.

Not when she had to talk to him and make him listen.

He wasn’t going to listen. He looked as if he would devour her.

Self-preservation told Gigi that a smart girl would shimmy back down the curtain and mind her own business.

‘What’s happening?’ called up Lulu, who clearly wasn’t able to mind her own business either, because she had climbed onto an upturned speaker below and was tugging on Gigi’s ankle.

‘I don’t know,’ Gigi called back. ‘Give me a minute—and stop pulling at me, Lulu Lachaille, or I really will fall.’

Chastened, Lulu let go, but there was an answering hum of protest from below.

‘You’re not a monkey, G. Get down!’

‘She thinks she’s made of rubber. If you fall, Gigi, you won’t bounce!’

‘Gigi, tell us what you can actually see! Is it really him?’

‘Is he as gorgeous as he looks in all the photos?’

Gigi rolled her eyes. At least Lulu understood that this man was not going to take his winnings seriously. But the other girls—poor fools—didn’t see it that way. They were all operating under the belief that a rich guy in want of entertainment would scoop up a lucky showgirl and whisk her away to a life of unlimited shopping.

Probably alerted by all the noise, Kitaev looked up.

His attention shot to the aquarium so fast she barely had time to think. Certainly it was too late to draw herself back behind the curtain.

His gaze fastened on her.

It was like being slammed into a moving object at force. There was a buzzing in Gigi’s ears and suddenly her balance didn’t seem as reliable as it had been a moment ago.

She made a little sound of dismay as her belly slipped a few notches from her holding place atop the aquarium.

He was looking up at her now, as if she was what he had come to see.

Gigi slipped another inch and grappled for purchase.

Then two things happened at once.

He frowned, and Lulu gave an extra-hard tug on her ankle.

Gigi knew the moment she lost her balance because there was nothing she could do to save herself other than prepare for the fall. And with a little gasp she came tumbling down.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS POSSIBLE Khaled would never have known he owned this little piece of Montmartre if someone had not got hold of a list of Russian-owned properties in Paris and published them. Apparently it was fine to buy up significant real estate in the Marais and down south on the Riviera, but touch one of Paris’s cabarets and lo and behold you were the most hated man in the city.

Not that Khaled paid attention to what other people thought of him. He’d learned that lesson many years ago, as the son of a Russian soldier who had destroyed his mother’s life and brought shame on her family.

Growing up among people who shunned him had formed on him a tough hide, along with the ability to use his fists—although nowadays he was more likely to use his power and influence in a fight—and the wherewithal to take nothing personally.

‘Emotional detachment’ a woman he’d briefly dated had called it. All skill, but no heart.

Detachment had served him well. Wallowing in emotion probably would have got him killed before he was twenty in the part of the world he came from. He had grown up fast and hard and had survived because of it. Then he had flourished in the bear pit that was the Moscow business world. He knew how to get what he wanted and he didn’t let sentiment cloud his reasoning.

What made him a bad bet for a woman looking to nest sent the stock prices of his companies regularly soaring. Not that he was uninterested in women. He had a healthy interest in the species—although the turnover had recently stopped. It wasn’t down to emotional emptiness, or an absence of libido, but sheer boredom at the lack of challenge.

He was a hunter. It was intrinsic to his nature to take up a scent, to track, to chase, to make the kill.

Then he got bored.

He had been bored for a long time. Months now.

Then he looked up.

What in hell was that?

When a man stepped inside one of Paris’s famous cabarets he was primarily looking to see that most legendary of creatures: a Parisian showgirl.

Long-legged, alluring, topless...

That wasn’t what he was looking at.

Granted, he’d been living in tents, yurts and huts for the past six weeks, bathing in rivers, eating out of cans and off the carcasses of what they could kill. A hallucination involving a woman might well be the result—although he doubted this was what his mind would come up with. Because he’d swear he’d just got a glimpse of a knobby-kneed Tinker Bell in an animal print leotard, perched on top of the tank in which he’d been told a beautiful semi-naked showgirl would be swimming tonight—with pythons.

Almost before he could account for what he was seeing, the curious apparition vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared, followed by a thump and vague female shrieks.

‘Do you want to check that out?’ he asked of the two Danton brothers, both of whom were clearly sweating bullets over his unannounced appearance.

Neither man moved.

‘The girls are in rehearsal,’ said Martin Danton nervously, as if that explained everything.

His security detail looked around, clearly expecting all twenty-four luscious Bluebirds to come can-canning across the empty stage.

‘Would you like to see a rehearsal?’ Jacques Danton volunteered, catching hold of the shift in male attention eagerly. A little too eagerly.

The two Frenchmen who managed the place were nervous as cats on a hot tin roof—as well they might be. Although Khaled suspected their nerves were nothing more than a natural response to having their shaky business practices put under the microscope.

‘My lawyers will be in touch today,’ he informed them calmly. ‘I want to take a look at how the place is doing.’

‘We’re a Parisian institution, Mr Kitaev!’ they chorused.

‘So the French media have hammered home all week,’ he replied, with the same measured calm. ‘But it’s a business, and I like to know how all my businesses are doing.’

Frankly, he wouldn’t be here now if the press hadn’t exploded last week with spurious accusations that he was the equivalent of the Russian Army—marching on Paris, ripping up its pretty boulevards and despoiling French culture. Turning their city into Moscow-by-the-Seine.

All because he’d won a cabaret in a card game.

Now, having pretty much run his eye over what was making it difficult for him to move around the city without security, he was ready to organise its disposal.

He had meetings lined up this afternoon, so L’Oiseau Bleu’s time was almost up.

There was an interruption as a winsome girl with a mop of dark curls stuck her head through the curtain.

‘Jacques...’ she whispered.

The older man frowned. ‘What is it, Lulu?’

‘There’s been an accident.’

‘What sort of accident?’

‘One of the girls has hit her head.’

With a Gallic gesture of acceptance, Jacques Danton muttered something that sounded like, ‘Zhee-zhee,’ and excused himself, pounding up onto the stage and into the wings.

Khaled’s gaze flickered to the empty tank, towering over the stage. He still wasn’t sure what it was he’d seen but he was interested in finding out.

He moved and his security team swarmed up onto the stage with him.

‘I don’t really think this is a good idea,’ protested Martin Danton as he mobilised himself behind them, exhibiting the first bit of backbone Khaled had seen in either man.

He and his brother had been managing the cabaret for some fourteen years, according to the records. Managing it into the ground, Khaled suspected.

He made his way behind the curtains and through a jungle of stage props, stepping over various crates and boxes, and ducking overhanging cords and wires that probably constituted health and safety risks that would close the place down.

When he saw her she was lying sprawled on the stage floor.

Jacques Danton was ignoring her in favour of remonstrating with the little brunette. It had the effect on Khaled that all the mismanagement and blundering about hadn’t yet delivered. He shouldered the Frenchman out of the way and went to her aid.

Hunkering down, he discovered that on closer inspection, despite her eyes remaining closed, he could see her delicate eyelids twitching.

His mouth firmed.

Little faker.

Looking up, he judged the height and recognised that although she’d fallen she couldn’t have done much damage.

On cue, a clutch of other Lycra-clad, giggling, whispering twenty-something female dancers closed in around him. Khaled had had a similar experience only days ago, in the highlands of the Caucasus with a herd of jeyran gazelles. One minute he’d been naked, waist-deep in a clear stream, the next he’d been surrounded by knobby-kneed deer intent on drinking their fill.

He looked around to note that his security team appeared as bemused as he was feeling.

What were they going to do? Tackle them?

Obviously he’d been set up, and this was a stunt to get him backstage. But the girls appeared as harmless as the deer. He looked down at the one gazelle who’d separated herself from the herd. She lay there, unnaturally still, but those eyelids gave her away, twitching at high speed as if she’d attached a jump lead to them.

He pressed back one of the delicate folds. ‘Can you hear me, mademoiselle?’

‘Her name is Gigi.’ The curly-haired brunette had crouched down opposite him and supplied the name helpfully.

He was in Montmartre, in a shabby, past-its-use-by-date cabaret, with a cast of showgirls whose cities of origin ranged from Sydney to Helsinki to London—hardly any of them were actually French. Of course her name was Gigi.

He didn’t believe it for a second.

As if sensing his scepticism, she swept up her thick golden lashes with astonishing effect. A pair of blue eyes full of lively intelligence above angular cheekbones met his. Grew round, startled, and bluer than blue.

The colour of the water in the Pechora Sea.

He should know—he’d just flown in from it.

He watched as the points in her face—a gorgeous Mediterranean nose, a wide pink mouth and a pointed chin, all framed by wild red hair—seemed to coalesce around those same eyes.

His chest felt tight, as if he’d been kicked under the ribs.

She sat up on her elbows and fixed him with those blue eyes.

‘Who are you? Qui êtes-vous?’ Her accent happily butchered the French with the sing-song cadence of Ireland blurred with something a little more international.

Qui êtes-vous?

His question exactly.

He straightened up to assert a little dominance over her and settled his hands lightly on his lean muscled hips.

‘Khaled Kitaev,’ he said simply.

There was a ripple of reaction.

‘Ladies...’ he added. But he didn’t take his eyes off Red as he calmly offered her his hand, and when she hesitated he leaned in and took what he wanted.

* * *

Gigi had been falling professionally since she was nine years old, but that hadn’t prevented her flailing backwards and striking her head and her tailbone on the stage boards. She was currently seeing two hands and was not sure which one to take.

‘Get up!’ Jacques was hissing at her like a goose.

The option was taken out of her hands by Kitaev, who plucked her effortlessly off the ground and deposited her on her feet in front of him. Only the room swayed and her legs weren’t co-operating.

It didn’t help either that she now found herself in the invidious position of having to tilt her head back even though she was five eleven—because he was that big—and he was standing far too close...looking at her.

Boy, oh, boy, the way he was looking at her!

Gigi blinked rapidly to clear her vision.

Sometimes men looked at you as if all they wanted was to see you naked. Gigi accepted this as an occupational hazard even if she hated it. Sometimes they made unwanted and sleazy advances, but she’d learned to combat those too.

This man wasn’t doing any of those things. His eyes weren’t desperate, greedy, pulling at her admittedly ratty leotard as if seeing her naked was all he cared about.

No, this man’s eyes held intent. They said something else entirely. Something no man had ever promised her. He was going to strip her naked and pleasure her body as she’d never been pleasured before. And then he was going to take her job and bin it.

‘You can’t do that!’ Gigi blurted out.

‘Do what, dushka?’ He spoke lazily, in a deep Russian accent, as if he had all the time in the world.

There was a titter among the other girls.

‘Whatever it is you have planned...’ Gigi’s voice trailed off, because it didn’t sound as if either of them were talking about the cabaret.

‘At the moment,’ he responded, with a flicker of something certainly beyond her experience in those dark and distant eyes, ‘not much besides lunch.’

The laughter around them drowned out any response—which was just as well, because it didn’t take much imagination to see that this man had absolutely no interest in anything here—and Gigi felt her initial frustration build once more.

He didn’t care what happened to this place. The other girls didn’t care. They would care, however, when they didn’t have jobs.

But it wasn’t just about losing a job. This was her home.

The anguish that pulled through Gigi like an undertow was real. It was the only place she had ever felt she really belonged since her mother’s sudden death had upended her safe, secure world.

She’d served her time with her father until she’d been able to make her leap across the Channel onto the stage boards of what had seemed then to be a dream job.

Although, to be honest, if you’d asked her last week about her job she would have rolled her eyes and complained about the hours, the pay and the lousy chorie.

The Moulin Rouge, it wasn’t.

But this wasn’t an average day. This was the day everything she’d stitched together from her earliest life with her mother was threatening to come undone.

Gigi was not going to let that happen. She couldn’t let it happen.

Besides, this wasn’t any ordinary theatre. The most amazing women had danced here. Mistinguett, La Belle Otero, Josephine Baker—even Lena Horne had sung on this stage.

And then there was Emily Fitzgerald. Nobody remembered her—she’d never been famous...just a beautiful chorus girl among many who had danced on this stage for five short years. Her mother.

When she fell pregnant to smooth-talking Spanish showman Carlos Valente she had been forced to return home to her family in Dublin, her Paris dream over. But from the moment she’d been able to stand Gigi had had her feet stuffed into pointe shoes, had been pushed in the direction of a stage and raised on stories of the Bluebird in its fabulous heyday.

Of course it hadn’t been anything like those stories when she’d landed at its door aged nineteen, but unlike the other girls she knew how truly special L’Oiseau Bleu had once been...and could be again.

She’d been working on the Dantons. She’d been sure she was halfway to getting some improvements made to the routines...

Only now he was getting in the way.

At a loss as to where to start, it was then that she remembered she did have something that could speak for her. Folded up and stuck down her sports bra.

She tugged it out, sadly crumpled, and smoothed down the single page. It was a printout Lulu had made from a burlesque blog they both followed: Parisian Showgirl.

She looked up to find Kitaev was still watching her and had probably got an eyeful of her frayed purple bra. She knew this wasn’t looking a whole lot professional, but she hadn’t meant to come crashing down, she hadn’t meant for him to come hunting around backstage, and right now all she had was...this. It just happened to be in her bra.

Something close to amusement shifted in those dark, watchful eyes. ‘What else do you keep in there?’

His voice was pure Russian velvet, quiet and low-pitched, but a bit like a seismic shift in the earth’s plates. You felt it in your bones...and other places.

Gigi experienced a whole body flush and drew herself up stiffly. ‘Nothing,’ she said uncertainly.

A couple of the girls tittered.

Ignoring them, she held out the page until he took it.

Gigi watched him run a cursory glance over the print. She knew it by heart.

Paris is in revolt over the news that Russian oligarch Khaled Kitaev, one of Forbes’ richest men under forty, got lucky in a game of poker.

Kitaev, whose fortune is in oil but who, like most Russian businessmen, seems to have branched out into property and entertainment until his holdings resemble nothing less than the behemoth nervous European business columnists fear will simply devour everything in its path—yes, that Kitaev—has taken possession of one of Paris’s famous cabarets.

And this isn’t just any theatre, people, it’s one of Montmartre’s oldest cabarets: L’Oiseau Bleu. Home of the Bluebirds. A charming, old-time cabaret—but for how long?

Judging from the media reaction, it appears the French aren’t going to take this one lying down.

His hand closed over the piece of paper and crunch—it was nothing more than a small ball in his large fist.

Gigi couldn’t help feeling they were all a little like that ball of paper, and just as disposable.

‘What do you want to know?’

He made it sound so easy, but she wasn’t fooled. His dark eyes had hardened over the course of his cursory glance, and when he raised them there was a warning there.

Gigi told herself they weren’t her words that she’d handed him. But she wanted him to know that this was the position they were operating from. A little information—even if it was misinformation. The sensible thing to do now would be to ask rationally and politely if he foresaw any major changes to the theatre that were going to affect their jobs.

Only then she noticed the subtle movement of his hard gaze over her body. He wasn’t being obvious but she felt it all the same—and, dammit, her nipples stiffened.

So instead of being reasonable she lost her temper and went for broke. ‘We want to know if you’ve any plans to turn our cabaret into a full-on high-octane version of Le Crazy Horse?’

CHAPTER THREE

MARTIN DANTON MADE a groaning sound.

His brother looked poised to take the little redhead out.

Red stood her ground.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ responded Khaled, not taking his eyes off her, ‘never having been inside the Crazy Horse.’

He caught the slight eye-roll and the tightening of her lips. His hand tightened around the crumpled ball of spurious invective this young woman had clearly swallowed whole.

‘Gigi, ça suffit,’ interrupted Jacques Danton. That’s enough.

But she didn’t back down. ‘I think we have a right to know,’ she protested. ‘It’s our jobs.’

He would have been more impressed if he hadn’t suspected her boss had put her up to it.

‘Your jobs are safe for the moment.’ He threw it in because it was accurate—today. Tomorrow, possibly not.

‘Splendide!’ Jacques Danton beamed.

‘That’s not what I asked,’ Red interrupted, and she lifted those lively blue eyes to his.

Not in appeal, he registered, but setting herself against him. Clearly not fooled one bit—unlike her boss.

For a moment he considered the alternative: that this wasn’t some set-up and that the girl—a lot sharper than the Dantons and, unlike them, willing to take him on—was acting alone.

‘We’re not a strip club, Mr Kitaev, and it would ruin—’

She took a breath and something like anguish crumpled up her striking features. In the time it took her to compose herself Khaled became interested in what exactly she thought he was ruining for her.

But she shook her head and changed direction. ‘Ruin the character of the theatre!’

‘I wasn’t told the theatre had a character.’

More laughter.

She looked around, as if thrown by the lack of support, and unexpectedly his conscience stirred.

‘Nobody is going to be asked to take off their clothes,’ he said, exasperated. Hell, he didn’t know what would happen here. Go on as before, bleeding funds, because after the dose he’d had of French spleen over the place only a fool would touch it? He’d be lucky to give it away.

Red, however, seemed to be under the mistaken belief that there was something here worth saving.

‘Voulez-vous, filles?’

Jacques Danton began clapping his hands at the other dancers and their audience began to break up.

‘Maintenant, Gigi,’ he snapped.

She was clearly torn between doing as she was told and continuing to question him about their jobs, but Khaled could already see she wouldn’t stand up to her boss.

Just him.

Which was a first, given that men with a lot more wherewithal than this girl—industrialists, Duma members, Moscow gangsters—stepped carefully around him. Then again, those men didn’t have her lavender eyes or, frankly, her sexual pull.

She was by no means the most beautiful girl backstage, but she was the only one he couldn’t take his eyes off.

Something to do with her bold features and lively eyes, and an innate sensuality she appeared to be entirely unaware of.

Pity she danced here...

Shame he was flying out tomorrow...

Another dancer—the frowning little brunette—had edged up to her. She took Red’s hand with a furtive look of disapproval in his direction and tugged her away. Smart girl.

Red...Gigi...kept glancing over her shoulder at him before the rest of the dancers swallowed her up.

It was a slender shoulder, as finely designed as the rest of her, and it put him in mind of the Spanish painter Luis Ricardo Falero’s amusing, graceful mythological girls. He knew he was done here, and yet he found his eyes following the red pigtails, bouncing amidst the crowd of other girls as the famous Bluebirds vanished into the rabbit warren of corridors.

* * *

That evening the dressing room was noisier and more lively than usual before the first performance.

Khaled Kitaev was the sole subject of discussion.

‘The rumour is that the Russian supermodel Alexandra Dashkova had herself wrapped in a rug, Cleopatra-style, taken up to his hotel suite in Dubai last month and unrolled before him like war booty.’

This was greeted with various oohs and aahs and had Gigi hesitating in the act of applying three-ounce lashes to her eyelids.

‘No one’s got a chance with him, then,’ groaned Adele at Susie’s announcement, and the cramped dressing room was filled with sighs and grumbles and more speculation.

‘C’est vrai.’ Solange regarded her breasts with satisfaction, adjusting her diamante-studded costume. ‘He’s asked for me by name. I’m having a drink with him after the show tomorrow.’

Gigi’s hand slipped and the fake lashes ended up part-way down her cheek.

‘Great,’ grumbled Lulu under her breath, leaning forward to pluck the feathered blob from Gigi’s cheek and pass it to her. ‘Ten to one she’ll sleep with him and make the rest of us look easy.’ Only being Lulu she didn’t actually say easy—she mouthed it.

There was a neat little division down the centre of the Bluebirds. The dancers who accepted invitations from the visiting Hollywood A-listers and rock stars who came to the shows, and those who lined up each night after the last show for the courtesy bus.

It was something Gigi had organised when a couple of the girls had complained about not feeling safe leaving the venue at night, given that the theatre was bumped up against the red light district, and now the bus was a regular thing.

Gigi and Lulu never missed the bus. Solange took every invitation that came her way. Apparently she’d taken this one too.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, Gigi told herself. She only cared because it confirmed her worst suspicions about Kitaev’s plans for them.

She slapped down the lid on her make-up case.

‘Sorry G,’ said Leah, obviously alerted by the bang of Gigi’s case and not sounding sorry at all. ‘You went to all that trouble for nothing.’

‘Not for nothing,’ Lulu rallied back loyally in her defence. ‘We all got a good look.’

Too good, thought Gigi fiercely. Any hope that Khaled Kitaev was going to take ownership of the cabaret seriously was out of the window. As of now the Bluebird was in serious jeopardy.

And what was it with everyone thinking she’d done it on purpose? Sheesh.

No, she knew all about this man. She had scrolled through lists of his public holdings on the internet, chased them to various websites, and was still struggling to make sense of how he’d made his money.

Initially, it appeared, as an oil trader—but he seemed to have a finger in a lot of pies. Shady, she decided. She had learned from watching her dad at work that big money was probably amassed in the same way as her father’s smaller cheats: through the exploitation of someone else.

‘So what do you think he’s going to do to us?’ asked Trixie, one of the youngest dancers.

Given he’d already honed in on Solange, Gigi had a pretty good idea.

‘Do you think he’ll try to change things? Maybe fix things up?’ Trixie sounded optimistic. ‘It might not all be bad, Gigi.’

No, it was probably worse. Gigi hated to disillusion her, but facts had to be faced.

She stood up to face the room.

‘Could I have everyone’s attention?’

A couple of the girls glanced her way, but the noise level didn’t drop.

She raised her voice. ‘Can we just try to look at the big picture here—instead of getting into a lather about his sex life?’

The word ‘sex’ had a few more heads turning and the volume dropping.

‘Kitaev owns a string of gambling venues around the world.’ Gigi paused to let that sink in. ‘Have you thought about what that might mean for us?’

‘Oui,’ said Ingrid, ‘a pay-rise.’

There was a ripple of laughter.

‘Loosen up, G,’ advised another girl, giving her a friendly push.

‘She can’t—she hasn’t been laid in so long I’m surprised she didn’t squeak when she fell off that aquarium,’ cackled Susie.

‘Gigi’s just smarting because her little stunt didn’t make him single her out,’ sang out Mia from across the room.

‘Give it up, G,’ said Adele. ‘Oh, that’s right—you never do!’

There was a howl of good-natured laughter.

Gigi knew she needed to get the discussion back on track, because now Susie was wanting to know what the point was of being a showgirl if you didn’t take advantage of the perks: rich men.

‘The point is no one should date Kitaev,’ Gigi interrupted. ‘He shouldn’t be encouraged!’

The laughter only became more raucous. Even Lulu gave her a rueful look.

He’s going to win, thought Gigi a little desperately.

The dressing room door banged open.

‘Guess who’s just arrived, ladies?’ announced Daniela, sparkling in full costume.

There was a twitter of excitement.

‘Not Kitaev.’

The twittering died down.

‘Girls, its wall-to-wall security and every rich Russian in the city is here—and everyone from Fashion Week seems to have followed them. The media are ten-thick outside. I think I’m going to faint!’

Amidst the shrieks, Lulu adjusted her headdress and said brightly, ‘There you go, Gigi. Maybe he’s not so bad for business after all.’

‘So he’s sent his friends?’ she grumbled. ‘One night does not a week make. We’re just a novelty act for a bored, spoilt-for-choice, testosterone-injected, arrogant—’

But now even her best friend had jumped ship and was on her way out, giggling with the other girls, trailing the six-foot feather tail they all had attached to their waists for the first number.

Troubled, Gigi finished attaching her own.

That many customers wasn’t to be sneezed at, given they regularly performed to a half-empty theatre, and this had been their worst year yet.

Maybe the other girls saw something she didn’t.

Yes, she thought cynically, they saw something, all right. They saw Solange draping her skinny arms around Khaled Kitaev’s broad neck and a line of ambitious showgirls asking when was it their turn.

Solange was apparently going to have hers, and it firmed Gigi’s chin.

The lowest common denominator was not going to save this theatre or their jobs.

Khaled Kitaev didn’t care about the cabaret. He had no stake in it. He’d won the thing in a card game. All he cared about was the bottom line. Specifically at the moment that bottom being Solange’s, but Gigi could well imagine him cutting a swathe through the other bottoms of the troupe. There were some very shapely bottoms.

Gigi swished her plumage-heavy tail like a haughty lyrebird and took off after the other girls.

She would see about that.

* * *

‘Mademoiselle...?’

‘Valente.’

‘Mademoiselle, I’m afraid I cannot give you the information you seek. At the Plaza Athénée we value our guests’ right to privacy.’

The concierge gave her that bland smile peculiar to people in his job all over the world. Only somehow the Frenchman managed to add that extra little soupçon of superiority.

Gigi knew her bad accent wasn’t helping. She should have brought Lulu along this morning. Lulu was half-French, and her big brown Audrey Hepburn eyes and air of delicate femininity made grown men trip over themselves to help her out. With her propensity to help herself and make a mess of it, Gigi found she was mostly sidelined and all too frequently laughed at.

Still, you could only work with what you’d got, and given she’d left her flat in such a hurry this morning she’d left off her make-up, and with her hair still damp and messy from being dunked in the sink, it wasn’t exaggerating to say she currently had the sex appeal of an otter.

‘But how am I supposed to reach him?’ she tried again.

‘Mademoiselle could try the telephone.’

‘You’ll give me his number?’

‘Non, I would assume that as you are the friend you say you are, you will have it.’

‘I’m not his friend, exactly,’ Gigi prevaricated, and because she had a detestation of lies and subterfuge, having seen the chaos her father left in his wake, she opted for the truth. ‘I’m his employee. I’m a showgirl at L’Oiseau Bleu.’

For the first time the concierge looked directly at her instead of addressing that distant spot beyond her shoulder.

‘Vous êtes une showgirl?’

She relaxed. Everyone loved a showgirl. It was like carrying a great big shiny key to the city.

‘Oui, m’sieur.’

The concierge leaned closer. ‘Is it true, then? The barbarian is at the gate?’

What gate? It took Gigi a moment to catch on. She’d forgotten in the other girls’ excitement that most of Paris shared her misgivings about the ‘foreign usurper’. Giving it her best, I’m as distressed as you are look, she manufactured a theatrical sigh. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Dieu sauver la France!’ He crossed himself.

Gigi tried not to let her surprise show. Given she was the one with her job at risk, it was odd how personally the Parisian in the street was taking the new ownership of L’Oiseau Bleu.

Perhaps if those same people transformed their outrage into actually coming to a show and pushing up box office receipts they’d have a chance of survival. Blaming the newcomer on the scene—even if he was a Russian oligarch with questionable intentions—didn’t seem quite fair.

But she didn’t hesitate to press her advantage—it was one of the few things she had learned from her father that she could use.

‘Quite. Now, can I have that room number?’

The concierge looked most sympathetic. ‘Non,’ he said.

Gigi didn’t push it. She turned around, her shoulders sinking, and as she wondered if she should leave a message for him, which would probably go unread, everything changed.

Khaled Kitaev had just entered the lobby.

He was looking at his phone, which gave her the moment she needed to pull herself together, although the aggression in his body language should have had her second-guessing her decision even to try this.

Be brave, Gigi, she lectured herself. You’ve had more auditions than hot meals. It’s just another audition... Only this was possibly her last chance, and it could all go so horribly wrong.

As he strode towards her she took in the unruly dark hair, the beard that framed his beautiful face and enhanced that whole macho thing he was into.

It was working. Women’s heads were turning as if they were EMF devices, picking up on his frequency, and not a few men were looking him up and down as they reconsidered the suits they’d so carefully dressed in this morning.

It took a lot of machismo and confidence to render a pair of trainers, sweat pants and a long grey T-shirt with some indecipherable Cyrillic lettering on it stylish against the luxury of the hotel’s interior and its swish inhabitants, but Khaled Kitaev pulled it off. Everyone else just looked wrong.

He was coming right for her.

There was no hiding now.

Think about what you’re going to say. Be polite. Be professional.

She took some deep calming breaths.

Have some of your material ready. But don’t shove it at him. Be friendly, but formal.

She wasn’t sure how she’d manage friendly but formal.

He looked up from his phone and at the concierge. All the nearby hotel staff had leapt to attention. He lowered the phone long enough to ask for two brand-new laptops to be sent up to his suite.

‘Landslide?’ he growled into the phone. ‘There’s one a day in that part of the world. Get a bulldozer in there and clear the damn thing.’

Gigi observed this exchange with pulse-raised interest, flinching a little as she watched his hand flatten to its full wingspan dimensions on the desk, so close to her she could have reached out and touched it. But she was glad she didn’t when he fired some aggressive Russian into the ear of whoever was on the other end of his call. Maybe now wasn’t a good time...

* * *

Khaled slammed his hand against the nearest solid surface. He couldn’t believe it. Another meeting pushed back by the village council. Another surveyor’s report held up because of a landslide.

He wouldn’t put it past the clan elders to plant a stick of dynamite into the escarpment and bring down half the mountain onto the highway below just to damn well spite him. Two years and he was no closer to putting that road in.

No road—no resort.

How many people had he sent into the gorge to explain the benefits a new infrastructure would bring? Any infrastructure in a corner of the world where the men still herded sheep on horseback. Always there was the same response: initial agreement, new contracts drawn up and then at the last minute something would interfere.

When he had spoken with the clan council they had taken him to task about his Russian investors and the lack of consultation. Khaled had stood, arms folded, at the back of the low dark room that served as a community hall in the town and refused to react or engage.

All he had seen was the memory of his stepfather’s eyes, narrow like slits, as he beat him with a piece of horse tack as if that would make him less another man’s son.

Unable to withstand the brutality of the memory, without a word Khaled had walked out into the bright daylight, jumped into his truck and driven out of the valley. His last communication with the council was when he was much further north, flying over the Pechora Sea, inspecting a Kitaev oil platform, and a message had been sent to him via his lawyers.

Where is your home? Where is your wife? Where are your children? When you have these things come to us in the proper way and we will talk.

In other words, Respect our customs and we’ll see it your way.

Customs... He was a modern man, and he had made his fortune in a modern world—he wasn’t entering into that kind of old-world game-playing...

He turned away from the desk, snapping his phone closed, catching his elbow on someone’s round, firm...

‘Ow!’

He looked down and golden-lashed blue eyes turned up to his like searchlights, complete with a little scowl that brought her fine coppery brows together and formed a knot.

‘You...’ he said, clearing his throat.

‘Yes, me!’ Her low-pitched, softly accented voice was like Irish whisky—unexpected in a girl so slight and young. She had one hand clamped over her breast and was tenderly massaging the area, her expression pained.

‘Forgive me.’ His gaze dipped to what little he could see, given her hand was stashed under her jacket.

When she’d pulled out that bit of libel yesterday she’d flashed a purple bra cup and the swell of a firm milk-pale breast marked on the gentle upper slope by a single dark brown freckle. It was a freckle he’d had on his mind ever since.

Only today she appeared to be wearing some kind of pink T-shirt, high-necked, completely unrevealing, along with jeans and a blue wool jacket.

She’d also ditched the pigtails, and her hair hung heavily over her shoulders—coppery red, long, thick and wavy...messy, if you got down to it. Sexy.

Sexy he didn’t need. For one thing, he was signing her pay cheques. Ostensibly. Although he’d seen how much those girls were paid. He’d laid down more on a tie than on her monthly wage.

All the more reason to keep moving...

Which he did.

* * *

Gigi watched him walk away from her without another word, as if their encounter had never happened. She tried not to be offended. She’d pretty much expected it would take some effort. After all, she wasn’t sexy Solange, offering who knew what? She was woman-on-a-mission Gigi, offering flyers and a presentation.

Not that he knew that. But she guessed he only needed a glance to work out the difference between them.

Nevertheless, she hurried after him, swinging her backpack forward over one shoulder and rummaging inside for the vintage-style flyers she’d brought to show him—evidence of how classy the Bluebird had once been and could be again.

He’d see that she was serious and had done her research, and he might sit down and talk to her.

She was right behind him when there was a whoosh of movement in the air beside her—and for the second time in as many days Gigi found herself on the floor, the stuffing knocked out of her.

CHAPTER FOUR

A MALE VOICE GRUNTED, ‘Do not move.’

Gigi didn’t think she’d be moving. No, not moving at all. She was too stunned to do anything other than lie there, even once the knee resting on the base of her spine was gone and her arms, which had been pinned to her sides, were once more her own.

She only began to react when she was being hauled—not ungently—to her feet. She swayed as blood rushed back into her head and an arm came around her waist to support her. She staggered, and her nose and forehead banged against a hard male chest. She inhaled faint spicy aftershave and heat.

Gigi edged up her chin and her gaze locked on eyes so lustrously dark it was like being dropped into a hot, dark night.

The world shrank down to his thick, steady heartbeat and her short, rapid breaths.

He was speaking to her, but it was like being underwater. All she could make out was that no one was attacking her and the big male arms clamped around her felt like protection.

Which was when she spotted a gorilla—the same one who had knocked her down—turning out her backpack.

It was a replay of her worst memory.

Her limbs exploded and she desperately tried to free herself.

‘‘That’s mine! Give me back my things! You have no right to touch my things!’

She made a hopeless grab for it, but Khaled Kitaev had hold of her elbow.

‘Calm down, dushka.’

She wasn’t going to calm down! The last time she’d had her belongings confiscated she’d had handcuffs slapped on her wrists and spent a night in the cells, thanks to her dad.

She struggled, but his strength was all over hers. Gigi lashed out with her elbow and struck him in the chest. Unlike her own chest there was nothing soft and tender about it—instead there was considerable muscle and definition and she only jarred her shoulder.

‘That’s enough!’

She stopped flailing long enough for him to release her. She pushed her hair out of her eyes with hands that were shaking uncontrollably. So much for being professional. Both of them.

‘Mr Kitaev, do we have a problem?’

The discreet enquiry was made by the concierge she had spoken to earlier. He materialised at her side, every inch the gatekeeper for the wealthy and influential. Gigi’s insides turned to liquid.

Khaled saw the effect on Red. She looked as if he was about to throw her to the lions.

‘Nichevo. No problem. A slight misunderstanding.’

‘Yes, sir, these things can happen. But the young lady—’

‘Mademoiselle Valente,’ said Khaled smoothly, and her name was right there, given he’d just happened to take a look at her file last night, ‘is my guest.’

‘I see, sir.’

‘My security team didn’t recognise her and were over-zealous. I apologise for the inconvenience to your other guests.’

‘Not at all, Mr Kitaev.’ But the concierge continued to regard Red with interest.

The look on her face had been comic in its alarm and indecision as she followed this exchange, but now as they both turned their attention her way she visibly pulled herself together.

‘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.

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