Читать книгу Caught In His Gilded World - Lucy Ellis, Lucy Ellis - Страница 10
ОглавлениеA 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.
