“Whatever,” Elise scoffed, taking a sip from her drink. “I don’t want to compete against Franz and your stolen designs inthe end. It would be pointless.” She returned to Celine. “What do you plan to do about him?”
“Franz will get what he deserves, but not from my hand,” Celine said, picking the new thread of conversation easily. She didn’t want to dwell on the fact that everyone had linked Bastien to Adalene Reneau, even if he had entered the competition as a model and not a designer. She was beyond thankful, but her victory wouldn’t amount to much in the end if word got out that nepotism had won it for her.
She drew in a deep breath. “As I said before, I don’t cheat.”
“Then you’ll never win. It’s your choice, Mademoiselle LeBeau, but if it were me, I would want to teach him a lesson.”
Perhaps it was genuine advice, but Celine didn’t want to give anyone else more grounds to say she was cheating her way through.
She pushed her seat back. “We’ll be on our way now, thank you for the help.”
Elise appeared unsettled by the frank gratitude in Celine’s voice. She parted her lips in protest. “I told you—”
“Yes, I know, to thank your sister. But I have that taken care of already,” she said, pointing at Bastien, who was wholly absorbed in twirling Elana’s hair around his fingers and whispering a jumble of nonsense to her every once in a while, making her giggle. Elise and Celine cringed at them.
“I wanted to thank you, too.”
“Don’t take this for a white flag, Mademoiselle LeBeau. It doesn’t change the fact that we are still opponents,” she asserted. “As for Franz”—finally, Elise relented a small smile—“there are ways that don’t require cheating. I’ve found that public humiliation usually does the trick with people like him.”
Celine returned the grin. “I will keep that in mind.”
For now, she worried that if they spent a second longer inside the cabaret Bastien would turn it into a burlesque show.Pulling at the back of his collar, she hoisted him to his feet. “Drool on her another time, Don Juan. Time to go.”
• • •
Bastien arrived at Le Rat Mort to meet with Juliana right after he was done being Celine’s play-doll for the day. Though he’d tried to sneak away early more than once, Celine had dragged him back by the collar of his shirt and made him stay until she was done sewing. She didn’t have a male mannequin at their dusty, lightless studio up in the attic. SheneededBastien.
He also suspected she revelled a little too much in poking him with needles and pretending her hand had slipped, when he knew damn well that it hadn’t.
Rubbing his arm at the phantom feeling, Bastien walked up to the notorious café. Juliana was sitting outside, bundled in a fur coat, a cigarette between her lips, the tip glaring red. An empty coffee cup stood in front of her with a few lipstick marks around the rim.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said in English, grinning sheepishly. “I got roped into being a pin cushion for five hours.” He glanced at her outfit. The sheer tights she was wearing shimmered against her long legs, and a few sequins from her stage costume issued from underneath her coat. Amusement pulled at his lips. “Nice look.”
Juliana let the smoke trail out of her lips in slow, rippling streams that stirred the fur around her neck. A soft, blue glow from the lights inside the café fell on her face, making her green eyes shine alluringly. Bastien had grown used to her charm by now, he’d had no choice. But other men hadn’t. He saw as a couple passed by, the man nearly tripping over himself while gaping at Juliana.
Chuckling, Bastien dragged the chair back and sat opposite her. “You know, Jules, there are people who like both women and men.”
“And I’m not one of them,” she said evenly.
“A shame.” He rubbed his hands together. “Why are you sitting out here? It’s freezing.”
“Some painter’s models were putting on a better show than the girls on stage.” She parted her coat and pointed at her own costume. “I’ve seen enough bare legs for one day. I needed a break.”
“I haven’t,” Bastien protested.
“Have your fill,mon cher.” She swung her legs to his side jokingly, then leaned forward, pinching a strip of purple ribbon that had clung to the sleeve of his shirt and letting it curl on the pavement—“Looks like your modelling career is going well.”
The response was a flat, humourless huff.
“On the bright side,” Juliana continued, “once you win, you won’t have to sleep on my chaise anymore.”
A bright side, indeed. Though he didn’t miss the hint of chagrin in her voice. “I’m sorry, Jules,” he said, “I appreciate your hospitality, but it wouldn’t kill you to put me in something that spans at least half of my height.”
“That’s why you’ve been spending your nights elsewhere?”
“Well…” Bastien toyed with his incisors, trying to bite back a smirk. There had been a third reason why he’d been making heart eyes at Elana in the studio. Other than the fact that she was competitionandunbelievably gorgeous, her bed was marvellously soft.
Juliana stretched out her leg and playfully kicked his shin. “Ungrateful brat.”
