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.
PASSERS-BY ALMOST got whiplash, reacting to her announcement, but Gigi told herself it wasn’t that bad. What stank was the fact that this awful, sexist, conceited man thought she had so little respect for herself she’d offer up her body...for what? A pay-rise?
He’d ground to a dangerously ominous halt and now came loping back towards her, his expression enough to send all her ‘flee and survive’ instincts into overdrive.
‘What is this?’ he growled.
‘I could ask you the same question.’ Her voice only shook a little bit. ‘Is this how you got your—your grubby hands on L’Oiseau Bleu? By goading Ahmed el Hammoud until he buckled and...and put us in the pot?’
‘Interesting turn of phrase.’ His gaze narrowed, assessing. ‘Know him well, do you, Red?’
Do not rise to the bait, she told herself. He’s doing this to work you up into a frenzy so you’ll go away.
‘Even more interesting,’ he continued conversationally—as if he wasn’t crowding her and leaving only a hand span of space between them, as if the hot, hard reality of him wasn’t pushing her on the back foot. ‘Now that I’ve seen the place I know why it was “in the pot”, as you put it. I should have folded.’
‘Really?’ Her voice came out all high and airless. ‘I don’t think you’d fold for anyone or anything. I think you like to win, Mr Kitaev, and that means someone has to lose. I don’t intend for that to be our fate.’
He was looking at her as if she truly interested him for the first time.
‘And what exactly are you going to do, Miss Valente?’
‘Fight you.’
Khaled almost smiled.
‘Go ahead.’ He thought of the people lining up to do just that, half a world away. ‘Take your best shot.’
‘I will,’ she volleyed back. ‘Solange Delon!’
She said this as if they were magic words. Clearly it was meant to mean something to him.
‘Solange Delon...’ she said again, but this time with less confidence, given the lack of a response. ‘You asked her to come for drinks. With you. Tonight.’
Nothing.
Gigi could feel the ground shifting under her feet. Somehow she’d got something wrong...
A faint smile began to tug at the firm, sensual line of his mouth.
Gigi’s temper quivered. He had no right to smile like that. Not when he didn’t even have the decency to own up to it. If there was anything to own up to...
‘I just don’t think it’s right,’ she proffered into his continuing silence. ‘Picking up a showgirl like one of those plastic Eiffel Towers you buy at a kiosk outside the metro—a souvenir of your trip.’
‘Is that what you think, Gigi?’ His tone was deceptively soft. ‘Or is that what you’ve read?’
Taken aback, Gigi hesitated.
Well, everyone had read it. The marauding Russian, grabbing whatever he could get—cultural artefacts, real estate, women.
She had an odd little visual of him as a cartoonish King Kong, pushing a fistful of showgirls into his open mouth, legs everywhere.
Despite everything, a little part of her wanted to smile.
‘I suppose you’re going to say it’s not true?’ she prompted into the tense silence.
He didn’t respond.
‘To be fair, I guess some of it is exaggeration,’ she allowed tightly, knowing she was losing ground fast.
He gave her an unamused half-smile. ‘Possibly.’
She reddened.
This wasn’t where she’d intended to take things today—she was supposed to be professional.
‘Like I said, women throw themselves at me all the time.’
‘I guess you can’t help being beautiful,’ she said grudgingly, then closed her eyes briefly. Don’t tell him he’s beautiful, eejit.
‘I was going to say that money has an odd effect on people.’ He was watching her as if she fascinated him. ‘But if you’re going to throw compliments at me, Gigi, you could try aiming at something I might respond to.’ His dark Russian accent had a lazy inflection, as if he was enjoying this. ‘Most men aren’t interested in being told they’re beautiful.’
‘I’m speaking objectively,’ she said stiffly. ‘Obviously you’re good-looking...’
‘Downgraded from beautiful? Keep going.’
She flushed. ‘Look, I’m not going to stand here and discuss your looks.’
‘You’re attracted to me.’
Gigi went rigid. ‘I am not! You’re nothing like my type.’
‘What
