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Caught In His Gilded World
Lucy Ellis
The show must go on…For burlesque dancer Gigi Valente, L’Oiseau Bleu is not just a cabaret club and a job…it’s the only home she’s ever known. She won’t let new owner Khaled Kitaev destroy it – even if her body does tremble in his magnificent presence…Though he admires her passion, Khaled believes Gigi is just another gold-digger. But when her attempts to get his attention are caught on camera, the powerful Russian must usher Gigi into his world. With Gigi at his side, Khaled finds his womanising reputation is down and his stock is up! But how long can he keep this free-spirited bird in his gilded cage?
‘Can you hear me,mademoiselle?’
‘Her name is Gigi.’ The curly-haired brunette crouched down opposite him and supplied the name helpfully.
He was in Montmartre, in a shabby, past-its-use-by-date cabaret, with a cast of showgirls whose home cities ranged from Sydney to Helsinki to London—hardly any of them were actually French. Of course her name was Gigi.
He didn’t believe it for a second.
As if sensing his scepticism, she swept up her thick golden lashes with astonishing effect. A pair of blue eyes full of lively intelligence above angular cheekbones met his. Grew round, startled, and bluer than blue.
The colour of the water in the Pechora Sea.
He should know—he’d just flown in from it.
She sat up on her elbows and fixed him with those blue eyes.
‘Qui êtes-vous? Who are you?’
His question exactly.
He straightened up to assert a little dominance over her and settled his hands lightly on his lean muscled hips.
‘Khaled Kitaev,’ he said simply.
There was a ripple of reaction. But he didn’t take his eyes off Gigi as he calmly offered her his hand, and when she hesitated he leaned in and took what he wanted.
LUCY ELLIS creates over-the-top couples who spar and canoodle in glamorous places. If it doesn’t read like a cross between a dozen old fairytales you half know and a 1930s romantic comedy, it’s not a Lucy Ellis story. Come and read a rambling exposition on her books at lucy-ellis.com and drop her a line.
Caught in His
Gilded World
Lucy Ellis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Gigi is for you, Mum.
Contents
Cover (#u17300173-58c1-542e-a559-9f029e54ca70)
Introduction (#u5e70817b-5d4f-57ed-a4ec-f7e4fc795567)
About the Author (#u1d202da8-6595-59b2-8dfb-bc2287f55286)
Title Page (#ub7a12253-6e11-5690-a746-1be56f16d450)
Dedication (#u12455473-1c25-5bcc-9142-c2ed5308584a)
CHAPTER ONE (#u6bf8eb1a-84bc-5b1f-979a-99615ad57a37)
CHAPTER TWO (#uafbe81ca-aaa6-54ef-8b33-b6fa8c35dec1)
CHAPTER THREE (#u16bc53ad-011f-584b-9759-a0053d95ebd8)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u29eca566-a240-50cc-a0e4-ed83b1913680)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u173cab1d-4494-58e2-a90b-b3694c5c86bf)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e3ff789b-2aeb-543e-b467-d5d08f4b094a)
‘GIGI, GET DOWN from there. You’re going to break your neck!’
Suspended two metres in the air, gripping the stage curtain between the tensed toes of her feet and using her slender muscled arms to propel herself upwards, Gigi ignored the commentary and made quick work of scaling the curtains alongside the four-metre-high fish tank. It was the same tank in which she would be swimming tonight, in nothing more than a G-string and a smile, with two soporific pythons: Jack and Edna. That was if she didn’t get fired first.
The ladder, which would have made this easier, had been folded away, but she was used to shimmying up ropes. She’d been doing it from the age of nine in her father’s circus. The velvet stage curtains were a doddle in comparison.
Now for the hard part. She grabbed hold of the side of the tank with one hand and swung a leg over, straddling the ledge and locking herself in place.
There was an audible sigh from below.
When Susie had yelled, ‘Kitaev’s in the building—front of house, stage left,’ pandemonium had broken loose. While the other girls had reached for their lipstick and yanked up their bra straps, Gigi had eyed the tank and, remembering its superb view once you were up there, hadn’t hesitated.
Susie had been right on the money, too. Down below, among the empty tables and chairs, deep in conversation with theatre management, was the man who held their future in his powerful hands, surrounded by an entourage of thugs.
Gigi’s eyes narrowed on those thugs. She guessed when you were the most hated man in Paris it helped to have minders.
Not that he appeared to need them. His back was to the stage but she could tell his arms were folded because his dark blue shirt was plastered across a pair of wide, powerful shoulders and a long, equally sculpted torso.
The man looked as if he broke bricks with a mallet for a living, not cabarets.
‘Gigi, Gigi, tell us what you can see? What does he look like?’
Big, lean and built to break furniture.
And that was when he turned around.
Gigi stilled. She’d seen pictures of him on the internet, but he hadn’t looked like that. No, the photographs had left that part out... The I’ve just stepped off a boat from a nineteenth-century polar expedition, during which I hauled boats and broke ice floes apart with my bare hands part.
A beard as dark and wild as his hair partially obscured the lower portion of his face, but even at this distance the strong bone structure, high cheekbones, long straight nose and intense deep-set eyes made him classic-film-star gorgeous. His thick, glossy and wavy inky hair was so long he’d hooked some of it back behind his ears.
He looked lean and hungry and in need of civilising—and why that should translate into a shivery awareness of her own body wasn’t something Gigi wanted to investigate right now as she wobbled, gripping the side of the tank.
Not when she had to talk to him and make him listen.
He wasn’t going to listen. He looked as if he would devour her.
Self-preservation told Gigi that a smart girl would shimmy back down the curtain and mind her own business.
‘What’s happening?’ called up Lulu, who clearly wasn’t able to mind her own business either, because she had climbed onto an upturned speaker below and was tugging on Gigi’s ankle.
‘I don’t know,’ Gigi called back. ‘Give me a minute—and stop pulling at me, Lulu Lachaille, or I really will fall.’
Chastened, Lulu let go, but there was an answering hum of protest from below.
‘You’re not a monkey, G. Get down!’
‘She thinks she’s made of rubber. If you fall, Gigi, you won’t bounce!’
‘Gigi, tell us what you can actually see! Is it really him?’
‘Is he as gorgeous as he looks in all the photos?’
Gigi rolled her eyes. At least Lulu understood that this man was not going to take his winnings seriously. But the other girls—poor fools—didn’t see it that way. They were all operating under the belief that a rich guy in want of entertainment would scoop up a lucky showgirl and whisk her away to a life of unlimited shopping.
Probably alerted by all the noise, Kitaev looked up.
His attention shot to the aquarium so fast she barely had time to think. Certainly it was too late to draw herself back behind the curtain.
His gaze fastened on her.
It was like being slammed into a moving object at force. There was a buzzing in Gigi’s ears and suddenly her balance didn’t seem as reliable as it had been a moment ago.
She made a little sound of dismay as her belly slipped a few notches from her holding place atop the aquarium.
He was looking up at her now, as if she was what he had come to see.
Gigi slipped another inch and grappled for purchase.
Then two things happened at once.
He frowned, and Lulu gave an extra-hard tug on her ankle.
Gigi knew the moment she lost her balance because there was nothing she could do to save herself other than prepare for the fall. And with a little gasp she came tumbling down.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_85e0b04a-64ac-5e8a-9c98-89f271ad301d)
IT WAS POSSIBLE Khaled would never have known he owned this little piece of Montmartre if someone had not got hold of a list of Russian-owned properties in Paris and published them. Apparently it was fine to buy up significant real estate in the Marais and down south on the Riviera, but touch one of Paris’s cabarets and lo and behold you were the most hated man in the city.
Not that Khaled paid attention to what other people thought of him. He’d learned that lesson many years ago, as the son of a Russian soldier who had destroyed his mother’s life and brought shame on her family.
Growing up among people who shunned him had formed on him a tough hide, along with the ability to use his fists—although nowadays he was more likely to use his power and influence in a fight—and the wherewithal to take nothing personally.
‘Emotional detachment’ a woman he’d briefly dated had called it. All skill, but no heart.
Detachment had served him well. Wallowing in emotion probably would have got him killed before he was twenty in the part of the world he came from. He had grown up fast and hard and had survived because of it. Then he had flourished in the bear pit that was the Moscow business world. He knew how to get what he wanted and he didn’t let sentiment cloud his reasoning.
What made him a bad bet for a woman looking to nest sent the stock prices of his companies regularly soaring. Not that he was uninterested in women. He had a healthy interest in the species—although the turnover had recently stopped. It wasn’t down to emotional emptiness, or an absence of libido, but sheer boredom at the lack of challenge.
He was a hunter. It was intrinsic to his nature to take up a scent, to track, to chase, to make the kill.
Then he got bored.
He had been bored for a long time. Months now.
Then he looked up.
What in hell was that?
When a man stepped inside one of Paris’s famous cabarets he was primarily looking to see that most legendary of creatures: a Parisian showgirl.
Long-legged, alluring, topless...
That wasn’t what he was looking at.
Granted, he’d been living in tents, yurts and huts for the past six weeks, bathing in rivers, eating out of cans and off the carcasses of what they could kill. A hallucination involving a woman might well be the result—although he doubted this was what his mind would come up with. Because he’d swear he’d just got a glimpse of a knobby-kneed Tinker Bell in an animal print leotard, perched on top of the tank in which he’d been told a beautiful semi-naked showgirl would be swimming tonight—with pythons.
Almost before he could account for what he was seeing, the curious apparition vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared, followed by a thump and vague female shrieks.
