by Lucy Ellis
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.’
On the contrary—he would be doing pretty much what they expected. Offloading it to the next buyer, charity or scrapheap. Because he wasn’t invested in this heritage crap and this much aggravation wasn’t worth the trouble.
‘Besides, if people like you would buy a ticket to the show once in a while we wouldn’t be in so much trouble in the first place!’ Gigi put her hands on her hips, staring them all down.
She should have been funny to watch, and she was, but he also wanted to give her a shake. Why was she bothering? Why was she paying any attention to them? These people’s opinions meant nothing. They could and would change with tomorrow’s new headlines. Given what he’d said to her, he wasn’t even worth her spirited defence.
‘Who do you think you are?’ demanded the woman accusingly.
It was the moment Gigi didn’t know she had been waiting for. She drew herself up to her full five feet eleven inches and opened her mouth...
Khaled said something roughly in Russian.
‘That’s it,’ he said in English. He grabbed her hand. ‘Show’s over.’
To Gigi’s astonishment he began to drag her away.
‘Gigi Valente,’ she called a little desperately over her shoulder. ‘I’m a showgirl at L’Oiseau Bleu. Best cabaret revue in town!’
He jerked her roughly to his side.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’ she snapped at him.
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘I’m trying to promote the cabaret.’
Khaled said a rude word. In English.
He scanned over his shoulder and his features tightened.
Gigi followed his example. People were taking more photographs of them with their phones.
‘Do not turn around,’ he instructed, ‘and do not respond.’
‘Fair enough,’ Gigi replied, suddenly uncertain as to what was going on, and very aware that they were holding hands.
He glared down at her. ‘I cannot believe you gave them your name.’
Gigi blinked, her thoughts still on their linked hands. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Then the other shoe dropped. ‘Oh, crap.’
He eyed her and Gigi frowned. ‘What? You think I did it on purpose?’
‘Nyet,’ he shot back. ‘I think you did it the same way you appear to do everything, Gigi—without a firm grasp on the reality of the situation.’
She firmed her mouth. He was referring to her accusations earlier. Accusations she still hadn’t apologised for.
Someone else called out, ‘Barbare!’
Gigi shuddered at the viciousness of it. ‘What is wrong with people?’
‘Your cabaret has become a catalyst for public opinion, as you well know, and I’m newsworthy.’
Gigi hadn’t been aware that public opinion could be this scary. She yelped as flashes went off in her face and instinctively turned away. Khaled tugged her into the shelter of his body.
‘Paparazzi’ was the only word she understood in the short volley of Russian invective he released. Although her ability to concentrate was somewhat impaired by being pressed up against him. He was incredibly hard and big and honed, and she was inhaling him like an addict. His scent was the faint spice of aftershave, the musk of his skin and fresh male sweat. It was a heady combination and, given his hand had settled solidly at the base of her spine, she guessed he wanted her to stay where she was.
As suddenly as they’d arrived the photographers were gone, but neither of them shifted.
He was making her very much aware that she was a woman.
‘We need to move,’ he informed her, his breath brushing her cheek, but he didn’t.
Was he feeling it too? Gigi became excessively conscious of the hard muscles of his thighs against hers and how well their bodies fitted together. Warmth began to pool in her loins, her nipples tightened, and all of a sudden she became aware that she wasn’t the only one with a problem.
As much as she tried to remind herself that he was a man, and their bodies were smushed together, and it might very well be an involuntary biological function, there was still a part of her that had been hammered by his comment about her being a pest, and her self-confidence staggered to its feet and bloomed a little at this rather impressive confirmation that he wasn’t as immune to her as he pretended. Not so much a nuisance now, she wanted to say to him.
Which probably shouldn’t be a woman’s first reaction when she was cosied up in his arms.
She looked up. He was already looking down.
Gigi’s breathing quickened. They were so close she could see the golden striations in his dark eyes and something of who he actually was as opposed to who she’d imagined him to be. A highly intelligent man who was perhaps insightful enough to see some worth in their cabaret. And perhaps if he recognised that he’d have second thoughts about throwing them to the wolves.
Only the longer they stood there the more uncomfortably aware she was that he could possibly be seeing a little more in her than she would be happy for him—or anyone—to know.
Instinctively she shied away and pulled back.
He unexpectedly took hold of her hand again, curling his fingers around hers. She tried to tug herself free, because it all felt far too intimate, but he had started walking, pulling her along with him.
‘What are we doing? What’s going on now?’
‘We’re moving,’ he supplied gruffly.
She got that part. Where were they moving to?
He produced a mobile phone from his back pocket, thumbed a few buttons and released some Russian to whoever was on the other end.
‘Thanks to your big mouth we’re both going to be all over the internet,’ he shared calmly as he re-pocketed the phone.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
But she knew. It sank through her like a stone. She’d stuffed up.
From out of nowhere a group of men swarmed.
Kitaev’s arm came around her again. ‘It’s all right—its Security,’ he shared with that same masculine certainty that made her hold on to him as she was hustled in a phalanx towards a smoke-windowed limo that had also come out of nowhere and pulled to the kerb.
Without a word he pushed her forward into the car. She scrambled across the luxury seating, not really being given much choice in the matter.
‘I’ve had some security issues since I arrived in Paris,’ he informed her as the car shot forward.
‘Issues?’ she parroted weakly.
‘The usual. Breaches of my privacy, photographers—as you’ve just seen—approaches from people with axes to grind.’
Gigi pursed her lips and remained silent on that one.
His attention returned to the traffic. ‘The truth, if you’re interested in it, is that I own some property in the South of France and several companies with holdings in and around Paris. There is no grand plan. L’Oiseau Bleu was an unexpected windfall that has turned into something of a catalyst for all the xenophobic feeling in this city.’
He was watching her broodingly.
‘And, for your personal information, Gigi, Solange Delon was publicity. I have a PR team who thought a photograph of me with a French showgirl in full rig and the Danton brothers would put a cap on all the negative publicity doing the rounds.’
And just like that Gigi felt about an inch tall.
‘Oh...’ she said in a small voice.
He gave her an impatient look. ‘Think about it—would I be prowling after showgirls with public opinion being what it is?’
‘I guess not.’
The silence between them simmered with the unspoken question—given ‘public opinion’—as to why he’d taken her with him on that run and courted the risk of exposure.
‘Where are we going?’ she voiced, not sure of her footing around him any more.
‘My hotel,’ he said.
CHAPTER SIX
‘I’M SORRY ABOUT all the trouble,’ Gigi said awkwardly, struggling out of her seat belt. ‘I misjudged everything.’
Yes, she had, Khaled thought, but so had he. The chemistry between them was very strong. It was going to complicate things.
Thankfully the rear entrance to the Plaza Athénée was the scene not of a paparazzi scrum but just a couple of vans making deliveries.
If they were discreet there shouldn’t be a problem getting inside and upstairs.
He noticed she was out of the car at lightning speed but slow in approaching the service entrance. She clearly didn’t want to go inside.
It raised his ire.
‘Keep moving.’ He put his hand in the centre of her back and gave her a gentle push forward, because hanging around out here was just inviting trouble.
They were in the middle of the busy lobby when she unexpectedly decided to drop down onto one knee.
He almost tripped over her.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
She pushed back her unruly fringe and looked up a bit furtively. ‘Don’t worry about me—you go on, I’ll find my own way home.’
Frustration warred with something else. He ignored the something else and very nearly hauled her to her feet—only they were once more in public, and he’d had enough scenes with this woman to sell tickets.
Mademoiselle Valente was going to sit down in the reception room of his suite while he dealt with this via telephone to his lawyer and Jacques Danton. He frowned down at her—only to encounter her behind as she crouched over, delineated in skin-tight denim like a perfect peach. His thoughts simmered... Da, either a phone call or he’d peel down those jeans and have her up against that wall over there. Whichever came first.
His attention slid from her peachy bottom to what it was holding them up—only to discover she had one heel wedged out of her trainer and appeared to be... Was she bleeding?
To Gigi’s complete astonishment her new boss hunkered down beside her and had her laces loosened before she could react.
‘Um...what are you doing?’
Although it was pretty clear what he was doing. He was lifting her left foot in his big capable hands and attempting to slide her shoe off.
She hissed at the dragging contact, and then realised he’d have her sock off in a moment.
He’d have her sock off!
‘Hey—no, stop that!’ She toppled back onto her backside and scuttled across the marble floor, one shoe on, one shoe off, aware that she was attracting attention, which was something neither of them wanted at this point, but he couldn’t hang that one on her. He was the guy with the foot fetish!
He eyed her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. ‘I’m not attacking you, zhenshchina.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’ She eyed him warily.
He stood up, all shoulders and amused appraisal as he looked her over.
‘Just you stay there, and I’ll stay here, and we’ll keep our hands and feet to ourselves,’ she said hastily.
There was no way she was showing this beautiful god of a man her feet!
No one saw her feet. Not even Lulu.
Other hotel patrons were stopping to stare at the one-shoed girl on the floor.
Gigi could feel heat creeping into her cheeks.
She tried to shove her foot back into her shoe, but it had swelled up and it was like trying to shoehorn a balloon in there.
Giving up, she clambered to her feet, trainer in hand.
People were looking. Well, let them look.
She turned in the other direction and had limped a few paces to the doors when a big hand closed around her elbow and his breath brushed her ear.
‘The lifts are this way, kotyonok.’
Confused, Gigi shivered at the unfamiliar word and the intimate contact.
He turned her in the direction of the lifts.
‘The exit is over there,’ she protested, not sure why he was prolonging the agony or why she didn’t dig her heels in. Other than the fact that they hurt and two hundred plus pounds of arrogance and muscle was steering her into the lift. She gave it one last try. ‘Mr Kitaev, I don’t think this is such a hot idea.’
‘Probably not—and we’ve established its Khaled.’
His hand slipped from her elbow to the small of her back and rested there, and she stopped struggling.
‘Are those photos really going to end up on the internet?’ she asked in a strangled voice as the lift doors closed.
‘Undoubtedly.’
Gigi noticed he hadn’t removed his hand from her back. She moistened her lower lip and tried to conjure up the will to tell him to take his hands off her. Her will was weak.
‘Those pictures...will people put derogatory captions to them?’
‘Possibly.’
She tried not to sag visibly.
‘Could you ring me or something and let me know when they are up? I can give you my number.’ Subtle, Gisele. She moistened her lips. ‘Or I guess you could contact me at the cabaret,’ she added awkwardly, wondering if he thought offering up her number smacked of a bit too much intimacy.
His hand shifted lightly on her back to curl around her waist.
Okay, maybe not. Intimacy apparently wasn’t a problem...
‘What time is tonight’s performance?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’ Gigi wrenched her mind away from his hand on her waist. ‘Eight o’clock.’ Was he going to turn up? Her spirits lifted. She looked up at his ridiculously masculine profile. Had she actually got through to him?
‘By the time you go on
stage, Gigi, everyone in Paris will have seen them.’
Her hopes plummeted. ‘Oh...’
‘Precisely.’
The doors slid open and she waited, not sure what they were doing here. Khaled slid the rest of his arm around her waist and the other beneath her, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
She was forced to grapple with his big, incredibly solid shoulders and hang on.
‘What are you doing?’ she thought she should ask.
‘Looking after you.’
Gigi’s mouth opened and shut. She was, after all, twenty-five years old and had been looking after herself for the past several years with some success. Still, she’d never actually been carried in a man’s arms before, and like most women she’d harboured a bit of a fantasy about it...
He was moving, forcing her to hook her arms a bit more securely around his neck, effectively plastering her breasts to his chest. Gigi told herself it was purely a matter of necessity.
‘You really don’t have to do this,’ she felt obliged to say.
‘I am aware of that.’
He opened glass doors into the entrance room to his suite and luxury wrapped around them.
‘Nice,’ she said inadequately.
This earned her a brief, ‘Not my taste.’
‘Why are you staying here, then?’
‘I needed an entire floor over the weekend for security reasons and this hotel provided that.’
He carried her through a very luxurious living area, down a hall and into a bedroom. It contained a very big bed.
Gigi wondered for the first time if she oughtn’t to tell him he shouldn’t confuse her with Solange?
Not that there had ever been anything with Solange...according to him. She was reserving judgement on that.
But still, she didn’t bounce on beds with men she’d only just met.
‘You could fit ten people on that mattress,’ she pointed out in a high, airless voice not quite her own.
He didn’t respond.