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‘What the hell are you doing?’
She pushed back her unruly fringe and looked up a bit furtively. ‘Don’t worry about me—you go on, I’ll find my own way home.’
Frustration warred with something else. He ignored the something else and very nearly hauled her to her feet—only they were once more in public, and he’d had enough scenes with this woman to sell tickets.
Mademoiselle Valente was going to sit down in the reception room of his suite while he dealt with this via telephone to his lawyer and Jacques Danton. He frowned down at her—only to encounter her behind as she crouched over, delineated in skin-tight denim like a perfect peach. His thoughts simmered... Da, either a phone call or he’d peel down those jeans and have her up against that wall over there. Whichever came first.
His attention slid from her peachy bottom to what it was holding them up—only to discover she had one heel wedged out of her trainer and appeared to be... Was she bleeding?
To Gigi’s complete astonishment her new boss hunkered down beside her and had her laces loosened before she could react.
‘Um...what are you doing?’
Although it was pretty clear what he was doing. He was lifting her left foot in his big capable hands and attempting to slide her shoe off.
She hissed at the dragging contact, and then realised he’d have her sock off in a moment.
He’d have her sock off!
‘Hey—no, stop that!’ She toppled back onto her backside and scuttled across the marble floor, one shoe on, one shoe off, aware that she was attracting attention, which was something neither of them wanted at this point, but he couldn’t hang that one on her. He was the guy with the foot fetish!
He eyed her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. ‘I’m not attacking you, zhenshchina.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’ She eyed him warily.
He stood up, all shoulders and amused appraisal as he looked her over.
‘Just you stay there, and I’ll stay here, and we’ll keep our hands and feet to ourselves,’ she said hastily.
There was no way she was showing this beautiful god of a man her feet!
No one saw her feet. Not even Lulu.
Other hotel patrons were stopping to stare at the one-shoed girl on the floor.
Gigi could feel heat creeping into her cheeks.
She tried to shove her foot back into her shoe, but it had swelled up and it was like trying to shoehorn a balloon in there.
Giving up, she clambered to her feet, trainer in hand.
People were looking. Well, let them look.
She turned in the other direction and had limped a few paces to the doors when a big hand closed around her elbow and his breath brushed her ear.
‘The lifts are this way, kotyonok.’
Confused, Gigi shivered at the unfamiliar word and the intimate contact.
He turned her in the direction of the lifts.
‘The exit is over there,’ she protested, not sure why he was prolonging the agony or why she didn’t dig her heels in. Other than the fact that they hurt and two hundred plus pounds of arrogance and muscle was steering her into the lift. She gave it one last try. ‘Mr Kitaev, I don’t think this is such a hot idea.’
‘Probably not—and we’ve established its Khaled.’
His hand slipped from her elbow to the small of her back and rested there, and she stopped struggling.
‘Are those photos really going to end up on the internet?’ she asked in a strangled voice as the lift doors closed.
‘Undoubtedly.’
Gigi noticed he hadn’t removed his hand from her back. She moistened her lower lip and tried to conjure up the will to tell him to take his hands off her. Her will was weak.
‘Those pictures...will people put derogatory captions to them?’
‘Possibly.’
She tried not to sag visibly.
‘Could you ring me or something and let me know when they are up? I can give you my number.’ Subtle, Gisele. She moistened her lips. ‘Or I guess you could contact me at the cabaret,’ she added awkwardly, wondering if he thought offering up her number smacked of a bit too much intimacy.
His hand shifted lightly on her back to curl around her waist.
Okay, maybe not. Intimacy apparently wasn’t a problem...
‘What time is tonight’s performance?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’ Gigi wrenched her mind away from his hand on her waist. ‘Eight o’clock.’ Was he going to turn up? Her spirits lifted. She looked up at his ridiculously masculine profile. Had she actually got through to him?
