St Honoré.
Saeed raised his glass. ‘To Dionne, the next supermodel!’
‘Yes, to Dionne,’ CeCe chimed in, grinning at her friend.
Dionne giggled as she toasted herself, loving being the centre of attention. This was definitely something she could get used to.
‘What catalogue did you say it was again?’ Katerina asked pointedly. A stunning Latvian model/actress, her biggest claim to fame was that she’d had a walk-on role in the last James Bond movie.
‘Bonprix,’ Dionne smiled, determined not to let Katerina rile her. They’d met a few times on the circuit. Dionne thought she was a bitch, but Saeed was paying, so he got to decide who came along for the ride.
Katerina sniffed. ‘It’s hardly a Vogue editorial, is it?’
‘Six thousand euros, baby,’ Dionne grinned.
‘I think it’s vulgar to talk about money,’ Katerina drawled disapprovingly, in her thick, Eastern European accent.
Saeed watched the two girls with interest. ‘I love to talk about money,’ he declared, ‘as long as it’s big numbers. Anything less than a million doesn’t interest me.’ He laughed loudly, a booming, self-satisfied sound.
‘I’ll be making that soon,’ Dionne declared, as Katerina rolled her eyes.
‘So, where are you ladies taking me tonight? Where’s hot?’ Saeed changed the subject, placing a friendly hand on Dionne’s knee. She was wearing the tiniest denim mini, which showed off her endless legs as she relaxed back onto the sofa.
‘VIP Room?’ suggested Katerina, referring to the exclusive club.
Dionne wrinkled her nose. ‘No. No one fun goes there any more,’ she told her dismissively, gently placing a hand over Saeed’s to stop it from wandering any further up her thigh.
‘How about Bijou?’ CeCe suggested. She was dressed in a typically eccentric outfit; black Balmain harem pants that she’d picked up in a thrift shop, and an oversized, sequinned crop top, accessorized with chunky gold heels, enormous hoop earrings and a pair of deliberately geekish spectacles. ‘I haven’t been, but Dionne said it’s incredible.’
Dionne stiffened, an unexpected surge of excitement pulsing through her. ‘Totally!’ she exclaimed, trying to suppress how badly she wanted to go there. Bijou meant Philippe Rochefort – the hottest guy in the city, as far as Dionne was concerned, and the man she’d set her sights on. With David out of town, this would be the perfect opportunity to get to know Bijou’s owner a little better. ‘I love it there – it’s where it’s at right now. Saeed, honey, you’ll just adore it,’ Dionne purred persuasively.
Saeed nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where is it?’
‘The Marais.’
‘Fine, then let’s go there,’ he agreed easily, finishing his drink and pausing only to take a brief glimpse up Dionne’s skirt as she stood up in front of him.
‘I know the owner,’ she commented casually, oblivious to what had just happened and unable to resist bragging. The statement was an exaggeration – she’d been introduced to Philippe once, on her first night in Bijou, but Dionne had learned that you didn’t get anywhere in life without a little embellishment of the facts.
‘Philippe? I met him in St Trop,’ said Katerina airily. ‘I was a guest at his club there. He is very handsome and he liked me very much.’
Dionne felt the implicit challenge in Katerina’s statement, and relished the competition. Back off, bitch. He’s mine.
‘Yeah, he’s a great guy,’ Dionne agreed nonchalantly. ‘Takes the time to be friendly to everyone. Even the little people.’
She shot Katerina a dazzling smile, then climbed into the blacked-out SUV, pulling CeCe in beside her. When they got to the club she would ditch Saeed and see who else was around – Katerina was welcome to his over-friendly advances. The rumour was she was little better than a prostitute and would sleep with anyone for the right price.
Dionne wasn’t into that scene, but a lot of the girls she knew maintained their lifestyle that way – when they realized they were never going to make it big in modelling, they soon turned their hand to a much more lucrative trade. Even the world-famous Fashion Week could be little more than a flesh fest, with a whole seedy underbelly operating on the sidelines of the main event. Girls who hadn’t been selected for the shows instead competed to make it into the beds of rich and powerful men – all for the right price, of course.
But while Dionne was happy to party, she wouldn’t sleep with just anyone. It was a fine line, but she knew damn well which side she was on. Dionne was going to make it, and when she did it would be on her own terms.
Right now, she was going to have a little fun, and Philippe Rochefort was the perfect guy to be by her side – handsome, rich, well connected. Power like that was sexy, a real turn-on, and together they would make a spectacular couple. It wouldn’t be easy, but Dionne loved a challenge. She was confident she could get any guy she wanted.
Smiling to herself in the darkness, she settled back into the luxurious seats of the SUV, watching in anticipation as the bright lights of Paris flashed by.
‘Thanks, have a great night. Enjoy the rest of your holiday …’
Aidan closed the door and locked it, the bolts making a satisfying clunk as they slid into place. He’d already turned the music off, and the late-night silence was striking.
Alyson had begun clearing up, rinsing the drip trays and wiping down the tables ready for tomorrow.
‘Take five minutes, if you want,’ Aidan suggested. ‘Get yourself a drink.’
‘Thanks,’ Alyson said gratefully. She poured herself an orange juice, then sat down at one of the tables, where she slipped off her shoes and began to massage her feet. The long shifts were always a killer.
Aidan fixed himself a neat Jameson’s for Dutch courage and came over to join her. He watched her as she leaned forwards, her long, slim fingers making sweeping movements along the soles of her feet. Even after a gruelling shift she still looked incredible, the dark circles under her eyes highlighting her fragility.
Aidan took a slug of the whiskey, feeling the warming sensation as it hit the back of his throat. Shit, he had to get a handle on the situation. This girl was really starting to get to him.
As the manager of Chez Paddy, there’d been countless young women passing through, all far from home and looking for a friendly face. Aidan wasn’t stupid – he was a good-looking guy, and could have taken advantage on dozens of occasions. But he’d always made it a rule not to get involved with the staff. It caused too many problems.
But Alyson was different. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was different to all the rest, with a real sense of class, a vulnerability that brought out his protective side and a smoking body that brought out another side entirely.
He was ashamed to admit that he’d done something completely out of character the other day. It had been Alyson’s day off and that French guy had come in looking for her – the older, smarmy creep. Aidan couldn’t stand him.
