Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  She looked unconvinced, but put her phone away.

  ‘Thank you for not blowing a fuse.’ I kissed her on the cheek. ‘Come on, you heard him. We’ve got less than half an hour to do make-up and hair. Which is hardly enough but it doesn’t have to be perfect. Then we’ll decide what I’m wearing to this club. Okay?’

  Missie shook her head, looking uncertain, but did not argue with me. Minutes later, I was sitting at my dressing table, peering at my reflection in the mirror while she first rubbed moisturiser into my face, then dabbed a silky cream foundation onto my too-pale skin.

  I could see she was still worried for me, but was perhaps a little assuaged by my calm demeanour.

  Inwardly though, I was far from calm.

  You’re accusing me of being crazy? Take a look in the mirror, Sasha.

  I took a good, long look at myself, meeting my own eyes, and didn’t like what I saw. I was stressed out and it showed in my face. But what I really wanted to know was, what did Damian see when he looked at me?

  The old you would have been up for it. Party, party, party.

  The problem was, at some basic level, I knew he was probably right. The old Sasha had loved to party. But I’ve pushed all that aside. Losing my sister did that to me. You can’t suffer that depth of loss and agony, and not make the decision to change.

  Had I changed too much, though? Was I trying to live Lisette’s life now, because she no longer could?

  Damian came back to the door a little over thirty minutes later, with Paul in tow, and a couple of other heavies he’d hired to watch my back while we were out and about in the city. I should have told him to go to hell. But I was ready by then, Missie having worked her usual magic on my face and hair, and retouched my nails.

  He looked me up and down in my slinky little black dress with gold, ankle-strap heels, and nodded wryly.

  ‘I knew you’d see sense.’ He met Missie’s angry gaze and shrugged. ‘What? Sometimes I need to push, that’s all. To get the best out of her.’ He stood aside as the petite Russian stalked out of the suite, her face averted. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ I snapped.

  He turned to study me, perhaps surprised by my sharp tone. ‘What’s up with you? She’s not offended. Are you, Missie?’

  But Missie had already vanished back into her own hotel room, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.

  Damian laughed. ‘Come on, Sasha,’ he said, and held out a hand to me. ‘Let’s make Paris sit up and take notice of you.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘The drinks are on the house, apparently,’ Damian yelled in my ear, turning away from the club owner, who had been eyeing me with undisguised lust ever since we walked in. ‘So what do you want? Champagne? Vodka? Pink gin?’ He grinned at me. ‘Or one of my special cocktail mixes?’

  ‘Something non-alcoholic.’

  Damian rolled his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, woman, let your hair down for once …’

  ‘I’m performing tomorrow,’ I reminded him curtly, then leant forward, smiling at the young woman in black who was waiting to take our order. ‘Something long and cool, with plenty of orange juice and ice. No alcohol, please.’

  The young woman nodded, her gaze a little awe-struck, and then took everyone else’s order before slipping away into the crowd.

  ‘This is Benoit,’ Damian said, introducing me to the club owner.

  Benoit was tall and black, with a smooth-shaven head and eyes sharp as knives. His designer suit looked like it had cost thousands of dollars, yet he had a gold stud in one ear and a crooked once-broken nose that made him look like a pirate. Everything about him shouted vice.

  ‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ I said politely, looking up at the man from the soft curved seating in the night club’s VIP lounge. I crossed my legs and saw his hungry male gaze follow the movement with interest. My skin crawled under that look. But there was little point coming here tonight and then making an enemy of one of the big movers and shakers on the Paris night life scene. ‘You have a lovely club here. I love the music too, it’s a vibrant mix. Thank you for making us so welcome.’

  I had met plenty like Benoit over the years. Men who thought I was a sexual commodity, to be bought and sold by Damian exactly how and whenever he chose. A man whose only question in such a situation was, how much does she cost?

  On asking that question, they soon discovered their mistake. Because I was nobody’s puppet. Not now, not ever. Though I knew Lisette had sometimes tumbled into that trap, hoping it might raise our careers to be accommodating to the right people …

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ Benoit replied, with a look that stripped off my slinky black dress with expert contempt. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your sister.’ His French accent was very strong, but his words were unmistakeable. ‘I met Lisette a few times. She was … charmante.’

  ‘Merci.’

  I forced a smile and sat up to shake hands with the owner, because I had spotted some paparazzi watching us from across the club and it would be expected. But I felt more comfortable once he had excused himself and gone about his business.

  Charmante.

  What had Benoit meant by that, I wondered, apart from the obvious? Had the club owner slept with Lisette on that fatal last trip to Paris? Or tried to persuade her sister into bed, perhaps? Lisette had always displayed somewhat suspect taste in men. Or rather, she’d been more open to the idea of dangerous liaisons with men like that. Men who used women like an accessory.

  The VIP lounge was small but luxurious, closed in with glass walls on three sides and open to the front with a protective rail. The balcony, its long narrow space picked out with constantly revolving coloured spotlights, overlooked the main dance floor, which was swirling with dry ice and packed with dancers.

  I looked from the bouncers on the door to the alluring balcony space, and sighed. I was enjoying the strong beat of the African-influenced French pop music, and wished that I dared walk down to the main floor for a dance.

  But who would I dance with?

  I was beginning to regret not having asked Missie to join us. Though she had been so tired, poor soul. She would inevitably have said yes, and then looked like death tomorrow, all pasty-faced and with dark circles under her eyes. Missie was never at her best without at least six hours’ sleep, and we needed her on top form for the concert preparation tomorrow.

  ‘You like this place, huh?’ Damian put his arm around my shoulders, his breath warm on my cheek. ‘It’s a good find. And look, people have noticed you. Paul went out front after we arrived. He says everyone in the door queue was saying, Sasha’s here!’ He smiled at me. ‘There’s quite a buzz about it.’

  I glanced down at his arm, and he shifted slightly, sitting back in his own space. But I knew he would not be easy to handle tonight. Not once he’d been drinking. Damian had me in his sights and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he tried to talk me into bed. Not because he fancied me, particularly. But sleeping with me would be an easy way to twist me round his finger. That approach had often worked with Lisette. Now was to be my turn, it seemed.

  Our drinks arrived, and soon after their arrival came a short blonde teenager with a husky French accent, seeking my autograph.

  ‘Salut, Sasha,’ she said with a shy smile, perching on the side of my seat and holding out an iPhone. Her dress was even tinier than mine, a silver-blue that picked out the blue of her eyes. She was really very pretty, I thought, smiling back at her. ‘You sign your name with your finger, oui?’

  Paul came over to move her away, but I stopped him, taking the iPhone from her.

  ‘You speak English?’

  The girl nodded. ‘We learn it in school.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘My name is Cherie,’ she said, growing bolder. ‘I love your music. Your sound. And I … I wish I could have seen you on stage with Lisette.’ Her voice became sad. ‘You two look so good together on YouTube.’

  She’d b
ribed a bouncer on the door to let her into the VIP lounge, she admitted to me, casting desirous looks at both Damian and Paul from under long lashes.

  ‘Thank you, Cherie.’ I signed the iPhone writing app with a flourish, and handed it back to her. ‘How old are you?’

  The girl hesitated. ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’ But I smiled, reaching for my drink. ‘I’m guessing you shouldn’t really be here, should you?’

  She looked young under the heavy make-up. Sixteen, at most, I suspected. If she was my younger sister, I would have been concerned. But she wasn’t my responsibility, and was there any real harm to it?

  I’d snuck into a few night clubs myself before I was quite legal, with Lisette at my side, the two of us made-up like twenty-year-olds and eager to be treated like adults several years before we actually were. And being teenage performers, we’d spent a few many evenings singing in bars and working men’s clubs in and around Birmingham, and had somehow came through that experience unscathed.

  ‘Honestly, I’m eighteen,’ she assured me earnestly.

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  God, this drink was strong.

  I examined my glass, then took another long swallow. What the hell was in it? It certainly wasn’t non-alcoholic. Orange, passion fruit, yes, but also what tasted like two or three strong hits of gin in the mix. Crushed ice, with tiny red flower stars floating on the top, the whole drink glittering. It was almost too sweet when downed quickly, yet somehow tart and delicious at the same time, quenching my thirst perfectly.

  And it was making my head spin.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ Damian appeared at my side, eyebrows raised as he studied the girl, taking in her look of fresh-faced innocence. ‘Did you say your name was Cherie?’ When she nodded, he winked. ‘I love it. Very Seventies. And that dress is the business.’ His smile flattered her. ‘You here on your own?’

  ‘With my older sister, Jacqueline,’ Cherie told us both, her eyes wide at all this attention. ‘She’s gone to get us drinks from the bar.’

  ‘Well, let’s take a walk around the club,’ he said easily, offering her his arm with a gallant gesture. ‘See if we can’t find her. You like dancing?’

  Her face lit up. ‘I love dancing!’

  Putting down my drink, I tugged on his sleeve. ‘Hey.’

  Damian stopped and glanced down at me, looking a little annoyed. ‘What is it?’

  I beckoned him to bend closer, so she wouldn’t hear what I was saying. ‘Hand Cherie off to her sister and come straight back, yeah?’ The warning in my voice was clear enough. I’d seen him with my fans before, and knew he was not averse to trying it on with the more impressionable ones. ‘This one’s not for you. She may claim to be eighteen but I don’t believe a word of it. The girl’s little more than a kid.’

  ‘Christ, what do you take me for?’ With an impatient shake of his head, Damian straightened, and I could see he was pretending to be offended by the suggestion. ‘I told you before, don’t push my patience. Or you’ll be sorry.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. But my heartbeat accelerated.

  Nodding to Paul to keep an eye on me, he strolled away with a bouncy, excitable Cherie on his arm, her adoring gaze on his face.

  With a mounting sense of trepidation, I watched the pair leave the VIP lounge. Should I follow? Keep an eye on that kid?

  I remember what you said, that you never wanted to talk about it again.

  What the hell was it I didn’t want to talk about?

  The accident?

  Not knowing was driving me crazy.

  But a light tap on my shoulder made me forget everything else as soon as I turned, my attention abruptly and fully on the man who’d just sat down in the seat vacated by Damian.

  It was Jean-Luc Ressier.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Good evening, mademoiselle,’ Jean-Luc said smoothly.

  I stared at him, suddenly breathless. The sight of him was entrancing. Tough jaw, springing dark hair, the merest hint of designer stubble on that tanned skin. But even while my head was spinning at his proximity, I was lost in bemusement. What the hell was the billionaire doing here?

  ‘Are you following me?’ I asked, before the ridiculousness of those words hit home. A few seconds later, they did, and I felt myself blush as I imagined what Ressier must be thinking. The sad little celeb who thought men were pursuing her everywhere.

  Damn it.

  ‘That is,’ I stammered, ‘I meant … ’

  No, there was no way to follow that question without looking even more desperate and conceited.

  I shut my mouth, seeing him smile.

  Luckily, in the dim lighting, it was unlikely he could see the heat in my cheeks.

  ‘I have a business interest in this club,’ he said casually. ‘One of my investments. Though I don’t tend to frequent the place, it’s true.’ He glanced about, eyeing Paul’s disapproving face and the two hired French heavies Damian had brought along to keep me safe, his gaze moving to the heaving dance floor below the balcony. ‘Not really my scene.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  His restless gaze returned to my face. ‘Tonight, I was informed that a certain British pop star was planning to drop by.’

  I raised my eyebrows at that, my heart thumping almost as loudly now as the beat from the ceiling speakers.

  ‘So you are following me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’ There was that smile again. God, he was dazzling. ‘I’m curious, that’s all. You left rather abruptly the other night. I never got the chance to ask why.’

  ‘I told you, I was tired.’

  Jean-Luc nodded, studying me closely. ‘And now?’

  I shrugged, a little uneasy now, glancing round for Paul. He and Damian were always so protective of me in public, policing who I could speak to and who I couldn’t. But Paul had vanished somewhere, I realised vaguely. Perhaps he had gone to tell Damian that Jean-Luc had arrived at the club. That left only the two hired minders, who were looking on from a few feet away from the seating, their expressions disapproving. They were there merely to protect me from physical attack, however, and seemed unlikely to interfere without express instructions.

  Jean-Luc leant closer, our shoulders touching. He was wearing tight-fitting club wear, smooth dark trousers coupled with an expensive-looking, long-sleeved white shirt. His bare upper arms bulged with muscle under the silky material, capturing my attention. I had to resist the urge to lean into his body space, maybe find out first-hand how hard those biceps were.

  ‘You like dancing?’ he asked, his voice husky.

  My mouth was dry. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And now?’

  He slipped an arm around the back of the seating, not quite touching my shoulders, exactly the same pose Damian had held moments earlier. Only with Damian it had felt uncomfortable, an intrusion. Almost an affront. With Jean-Luc, everything was different. My skin was prickling where he was so nearly touching me, eager for contact.

  ‘Maybe.’

  This was crazy, I told myself. I barely knew this man. All the same, I kept imagining how it would feel to grab hold of his neck and kiss him.

  And I knew he felt the same. It was in the constant swift flick of his gaze, across my face, down my chest, my legs, and back again.

  Jean-Luc Ressier was checking me out, just as I was checking him out in return.

  I wanted to ask him to dance. Why not, after all? This was a night club and it was only a dance. What harm could it do?

  Oh, who was I trying to kid?

  I picked up my drink and knocked it back, loving the cool tart taste of it on my tongue, but disconcerted by the way my head spun as I put the glass down.

  I tended not to drink on tour, because it simply took so much toll on my voice. So I wasn’t accustomed to large amounts of alcohol, and this particular glass had been strongly laced with gin, I guessed. Probably Damian’s idea. Trying to get me relaxed enough
to accept his kisses, perhaps. Only it was backfiring. Because the only person I was focused on right now was Jean-Luc Ressier.

  I couldn’t pretend anymore. My body was dying for his, for us to stand so close we could hear each other’s heartbeat, for our bodies to brush up against each other, to move and touch intimately as we danced.

  In La Retraite, I had felt a little intimidated by him, it was true. His enormous wealth, his seductive poise, the solitude of his ranch-house out there in the French countryside, all that had conspired to make me flee his company.

  But now those barriers were no longer between us. Or they were hidden, at least. Tonight, he was a different Jean-Luc. His mouth was more relaxed, his body language more open to mine, though his eyes blazed with a deep intensity that made me wonder what it would feel like to go to bed with a man like him …

  ‘Shall we?’ Jean-Luc stood, a sudden, restless movement that made me think of big cats in the jungle, and held out his hand. ‘Dance, that is.’

  He must have read my mind.

  I took his hand and stood too, looking up into his eyes. My fingers tingled in his. The man had cast some kind of spell on me, I thought.

  ‘Dance … where?’ I asked, feeling dazed by his unwavering stare, left almost stupid by the close heat of his body.

  ‘Down there on the dance floor, of course.’ His smile was lazy, self-assured. Did he know the effect he was having on me? But of course he did. I could imagine him melting every female within sight just with the click of his fingers. A thought which had me wild with sudden, insane jealousy.

  ‘Your minders can come too,’ he added, throwing an amused glance at my two shadows as they trailed us to the door of the VIP lounge. ‘Though I hope they don’t expect to dance as well. That could be … awkward.’

  I said nothing as he guided me down the staircase to the lower level of the club, one hand just brushing the small of my back. Not only because I didn’t feel capable of coherent speech, but the music was so loud outside the VIP lounge there was little chance of communication that didn’t involve us bellowing at each other. And we were being stared at, people falling back on every side at our approach, a path magically appearing before us that led directly to the main dance floor, it seemed.