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‘One of the dancers was attacked?’ Khaled was frowning.
‘Not “one of the dancers”,’ she said, with a little frown to match his. ‘Lulu. She went out with this guy a couple of times, and then she said thanks but no thanks, and he followed her home and wouldn’t take no for an answer. If I hadn’t been here I don’t know what would have happened.’
Her natural animation had drained away and she folded her arms across her chest self-protectively. ‘Plus we work at night, so personal security is pretty important. You can’t be in this business without learning how to look out for yourself.’
‘You carry a small alarm,’ he said, struggling with primitive feelings that had no place here, with a girl who was certainly of a time and a place where she could look after herself, ‘and you think this is security enough?’
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ she replied simply.
He made a note to himself to beef up security at L’Oiseau Bleu. The cabaret he wouldn’t be holding on to.
At the gate she keyed in the alarm code and pushed.
The courtyard was small and immaculate.
A black mop came hurtling across the stones to fling itself at Gigi’s knees. She swept the ball up in her arms amidst much unhygienic kissing and cooing.
‘This is Coco—he’s Lulu’s baby. Say hello, Coco.’
Khaled watched this interaction with a degree of mild male apprehension.
Normally women who treated defenceless animals as substitute children really didn’t do it for him, and surely it was a warning sign that at some point this roving maternal instinct was going to be turned in a more natural direction.
But that was some other guy’s problem. He could relax about the dog. It wasn’t even her dog.
Forget about the dog.
‘Here. You hold Coco while I let us in.’ She shoved the fluff ball at his chest.
Khaled tensed. It’s a dog, not a baby, he reiterated, and held the creature up, observing its shiny eyes, wet nose and glossy coat. Coco was clearly in good health and well looked after. He lifted the squirming ball a little higher and confirmed that Coco was indeed a he.
Gigi opened the front door and he put the dog down. It rushed forward and up the stairs.
‘We’re on the top floor,’ she said, crossing the well-lit atrium and preceding him up the steps.
We? How the hell did she afford this on her wages? She barely made enough at that cabaret to live in a cardboard box in central Paris. He knew—he’d seen the books.
But his eyes were caught by Gigi’s small round derrière, several steps in front of him and right on his eye level, and all the questions got pushed aside in favour of just appreciating the view. Her bottom should be illegal. In those jeans it was packaged for maximum impact. The soft denim wrapped around her as if it loved her body. He couldn’t blame it.
He followed her into a brightly lit open-plan room with windows looking out over the rooftops. It was a nice view. The floorboards shone. There was a loft bedroom above and circular metal stairs.
Gigi shrugged off her jacket and tossed it onto a chair.
His mouth dried up.
He hadn’t got much of a look when she’d been under him on the bed, but now he could see the full effect of a tight pink T-shirt advertising the slogan ‘Dancing Queen’ in glittery dark pink letters across the high round curves of her breasts.
He’d had those breasts resting against his hands, felt the curve of her nipples rise to points under his thumbs.
She looked lovely and playful—and so sexy it hurt.
The blood zoomed so fast from his brain to his groin he could only be thankful he’d put his jacket on.
‘Dancing Queen?’ he said, a little stupidly.
Gigi glanced down at her chest, looked up, and beamed like a torch.
‘I love Abba. Want a cup of tea?’
‘Chay...tea?’ he echoed. He never drank tea. ‘Spasiba.’
He knew he should be pounding down those stairs and driving away. Didn’t he have meetings this afternoon? Instead he found himself moving around the room while she busied herself in the kitchenette, taking in the simple furnishings and girly throw cushions, the pile of books beside a small bookcase that had overflowed, a couple of framed prints that under closer inspection proved to be old numbers of Le Petit Journal, with illustrations of dancing girls—one from the Moulin Rouge, the other from a circus. No sign of male cohabitation.
She was saying something about the cabaret...about wanting to show him some memorabilia.
