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
