The words cut right through her. Taut like a bow, Celine turned around slowly.
“Monsieur Ménard,” she replied, voice wavering. “Wha—” she cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”
Still draped in the shadows of the threshold, Bastien finally stepped in, letting the light of the booth illuminate his person. He was wearing the look of shameless debauchery as if it was a pressed suit. The night had yet to begin properly and his shirt was already rumpled. Lipstick stains decorated his collar—like he’d been ravished the second he had stepped inside the club, even before that group of girls had found him.
“Come now, Celine. Are formalities truly necessary?” he drawled lazily, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I mean...unless you and Jacques have broken up—where is my brother by the way?”
He was only asking to amuse himself with the lies Celine would stammer to fabricate. He knew Jacques didn’t care for cabarets.
When Celine remained silent, Bastien crossed the distance to her and plopped down on the chair Anaïs had occupied just minutes ago, kicking his feet up on the table. The motion rocked the tiny white candle sitting by her sketchbook. Celine hurried to stop it before it rolled over to the side and spilled wax all over her designs.
She cut him a glare. “Careful.”
Bastien held her stare unwaveringly. “Jacques doesn’t know you are here, does he?”
“Jacques and I don’t spend every single minute together,” Celine shot back.
His lips curved into a smirk. “Right, because people who are sickeningly in love with each other, like you two claim to be, never do.”
Bastien raked his gaze over her tantalisingly slow, taking in every detail of her dress. It had been the bane of her mother’s existence ever since Celine had taken it home from the shop. The pink embroidered chiffon had the quality of gossamer and the skirt scarcely made it past her knees. It was far from appropriate considering how conservatively other girls still dressed, but for Celine, being able to express herself through her style meant everything.
Besides, Bastien’s assessment made no impression. She was used to people’s scrutinising.
“IsThe Vampiremissing her weekly appearances on the magazines, so she’s slumming it in revues?” he asked.
Celine’s easy expression faltered.Anaïs had done her best to ensure no rumours circulated about her. But if she was seen here with Bastien there would be no escape.
Suddenly, he leaned over the table and cupped one corner of his mouth to whisper, “I can help you make it on those scandal columns again, baby vamp. All it takes is a little kiss and tell—”
Celine pressed a finger to his lips, pushing him away. She was well aware that Bastien didn’t suffer from the burden of carrying around a conscience, but usually people refrained from admitting their personal…affairsso openly. Usually people tried to deny them.
Not Bastien Ménard.
Heartbreak Boy, as the articles called him, was a known womaniser who had been slapped by half the girls in Paris for leading them on and breaking their hearts a week later. Theother half, Celine suspected, were either too young, nuns, or smart enough to slap him before he could get a word out.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Bas,” Celine said. “I don’t care for scandals.”
“Then what are you doing here? Andsketchingno less?” He craned his neck to sneak a peek at her sketchbook. When Celine scrambled to close it shut, Bastien’s grey eyes glinted with amusement. “Ah, curiouser and curiouser.”
In a snap, he snatched the sketchbook from her fingers. “Let’s see,” he hummed.
“There is nothing of interest for you in there,” Celine said, trying to keep her voice level.
Undeterred, Bastien began flipping through it.
“If you would just give it back—”
He held up a finger to shush her. “In a minute. I am awfully engrossed at the moment.” His eyes flicked up. “Did you make all of these yourself?”
To lie would be a waste of breath.
“Clearly, they have my signature on them.”
“Hmm”—he flipped a page, grinning—“and did you come here to prove the theory that a good muse is one who’s naked?”
“Pardon?”
Bastien gestured to the stage. The curtains had pulled back and a row of dancers in feathers and diamond-studded tights sashayed onto the stage. The backdrop tonight was a clever model in the shape of a colossal fountain, with lights shifting up and down the iron scale to mimic the trickle of water. Music blared louder as the dancers’ moves became more tantalising. Eventually, Celine understood his meaning.
