Diva

She was clearly under pressure as she dashed from one table to the next, her cheeks flushed with colour. But she still took time to be polite and courteous to everyone, even the two awkward German customers who insisted on sampling a little of each beer before they finally ordered. Philippe was impressed – no, ‘captivated’ would have been a better word. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was obviously very young – far younger than him, he realized with a pang – but that only added to the wholesome, naïve quality she exuded. For someone like Philippe, who had seen some of the most sordid parts of human nature, that innocence was enchanting. He would have put money on the fact that she was still a virgin.

And then he, the great Philippe Rochefort, the notorious lady-killer and epitome of Gallic charm, had been too nervous to speak to her. He hadn’t known what to say; he’d been afraid to shatter the illusion he had already built up in his head. What if she turned out to be rude and unpleasant, cold and uninterested in him? Or if she already had a boyfriend? Philippe wanted to break his neck, whoever he was. Perhaps it was the guy she worked with, the one behind the bar. He certainly paid her enough attention, making little jokes and glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

The guy disappeared into the back and the girl was left alone, looking vulnerable and beautiful and, before he could stop himself, Philippe had spoken to her, some crap about how busy it was. Hell, he was really losing his touch. But she had been wonderfully gracious and given him the most radiant smile. He was aware that he’d been selective about what he told her, saying that he was a businessman but leaving out the specifics. He watched her carefully for any flicker of recognition, any suggestion that she might have realized who he was, that she’d seen him in the pages of one of the glossy lifestyle magazines he often featured in, a glamorous woman on each arm. But he saw nothing. She clearly wasn’t one of these girls obsessed with gossip magazines, scouring the pages for rich men they could target.

Then that idiot of a manager had come back and ruined the moment. Philippe had left hastily, before his temper overwhelmed him, and returned to his office more confused than ever. The walk that had been meant to clear his head had done nothing of the sort. He couldn’t stop thinking about Alyson. She was in his head, under his skin, impossible to get rid of.

Earlier today he’d gone back to Chez Paddy. He’d told himself that he needed to see her just once, to set his mind at rest. She was probably nothing special – he’d exaggerated it in his mind, placed too much significance on a trivial meeting. But, even as he had the thought, Philippe knew that he was lying to himself. He remembered Alyson’s smile, the way she moved, the way she had looked up coyly from underneath her wispy fringe, and he knew he had to see her again. He was helpless, drawn like a moth to a candle.

But she hadn’t been there, and her jumped-up little boss had taken great delight in telling him she wasn’t working that day.

‘Tell her I passed by,’ Philippe said.

Aidan had merely raised his eyebrows, with no intention of doing anything of the sort.

And tomorrow Philippe was leaving. He would be in the States for over a week and it was an important trip. He needed to concentrate, to ensure he was focused. He needed to forget about Alyson. He was Philippe Rochefort, internationally respected business magnate and legendary womanizer, not some love-struck adolescent.

‘Philippe!’

Now, some woman was screeching at him from across the club. He vaguely recognized her, but she could have been any one of that identikit breed. Her surgically enhanced cleavage was poured into a clinging animal-print minidress, her bleached blonde hair dry and brittle. She came at him with unnaturally large Botoxed lips as she kissed the air at the side of his ears, once, twice and then an overfriendly third time.

He hated her for not being Alyson. He hated everything she stood for, all the superficiality, the falseness. He could almost see the euro signs in her eyes as she smiled at him, mentally calculating his bank balance.

The truth was that Philippe was tiring of this lifestyle. He had a yearning for something different – something more real, more fulfilling than the way he’d been living until now.

Resignedly, he pasted a smile on his face. ‘Chérie! Ah, how good to see you!’ he lied, as he kissed her hand and the woman simpered like a little girl.

This was the only life he knew, and he had to get on with it.

8

Across the city, Dionne was finishing her third glass of Veuve Clicquot, generously provided by Saeed Al-Assad, one of her rich Arab friends. David, her regular date at the moment, was away working in Singapore, but Dionne had lots of male contacts in her phone.

Saeed had just flown back into Paris after three weeks away on business in Saudi Arabia. Young and good-looking, he was the stereotypical international jet-setter. Dionne saw him whenever he was in town, and now she and CeCe were out with him and his entourage in Kasbah, a Moroccan themed bar just off the rue St Honoré.

Saeed raised his glass. ‘To Dionne, the next supermodel!’

‘Yes, to Dionne,’ CeCe chimed in, grinning at her friend.

Dionne giggled as she toasted herself, loving being the centre of attention. This was definitely something she could get used to.

‘What catalogue did you say it was again?’ Katerina asked pointedly. A stunning Latvian model/actress, her biggest claim to fame was that she’d had a walk-on role in the last James Bond movie.

‘Bonprix,’ Dionne smiled, determined not to let Katerina rile her. They’d met a few times on the circuit. Dionne thought she was a bitch, but Saeed was paying, so he got to decide who came along for the ride.

Katerina sniffed. ‘It’s hardly a Vogue editorial, is it?’

‘Six thousand euros, baby,’ Dionne grinned.

‘I think it’s vulgar to talk about money,’ Katerina drawled disapprovingly, in her thick, Eastern European accent.

Saeed watched the two girls with interest. ‘I love to talk about money,’ he declared, ‘as long as it’s big numbers. Anything less than a million doesn’t interest me.’ He laughed loudly, a booming, self-satisfied sound.

‘I’ll be making that soon,’ Dionne declared, as Katerina rolled her eyes.

‘So, where are you ladies taking me tonight? Where’s hot?’ Saeed changed the subject, placing a friendly hand on Dionne’s knee. She was wearing the tiniest denim mini, which showed off her endless legs as she relaxed back onto the sofa.

‘VIP Room?’ suggested Katerina, referring to the exclusive club.

Dionne wrinkled her nose. ‘No. No one fun goes there any more,’ she told her dismissively, gently placing a hand over Saeed’s to stop it from wandering any further up her thigh.

‘How about Bijou?’ CeCe suggested. She was dressed in a typically eccentric outfit; black Balmain harem pants that she’d picked up in a thrift shop, and an oversized, sequinned crop top, accessorized with chunky gold heels, enormous hoop earrings and a pair of deliberately geekish spectacles. ‘I haven’t been, but Dionne said it’s incredible.’

Dionne stiffened, an unexpected surge of excitement pulsing through her. ‘Totally!’ she exclaimed, trying to suppress how badly she wanted to go there. Bijou meant Philippe Rochefort – the hottest guy in the city, as far as Dionne was concerned, and the man she’d set her sights on. With David out of town, this would be the perfect opportunity to get to know Bijou’s owner a little better. ‘I love it there – it’s where it’s at right now. Saeed, honey, you’ll just adore it,’ Dionne purred persuasively.

Saeed nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where is it?’

‘The Marais.’

‘Fine, then let’s go there,’ he agreed easily, finishing his drink and pausing only to take a brief glimpse up Dionne’s skirt as she stood up in front of him.

‘I know the owner,’ she commented casually, oblivious to what had just happened and unable to resist bragging. The statement was an exaggeration – she’d been introduced to Philippe once, on her first night in Bijou, but Dionne had learned that you didn’t get anywhere in life without a little embellishment of the facts.

‘Philippe? I met him in St Trop,’ said Katerina airily. ‘I was a guest at his club there. He is very handsome and he liked me very much.’

Dionne felt the implicit challenge in Katerina’s statement, and relished the competition. Back off, bitch. He’s mine.

‘Yeah, he’s a great guy,’ Dionne agreed nonchalantly. ‘Takes the time to be friendly to everyone. Even the little people.’

She shot Katerina a dazzling smile, then climbed into the blacked-out SUV, pulling CeCe in beside her. When they got to the club she would ditch Saeed and see who else was around – Katerina was welcome to his over-friendly advances. The rumour was she was little better than a prostitute and would sleep with anyone for the right price.

Dionne wasn’t into that scene, but a lot of the girls she knew maintained their lifestyle that way – when they realized they were never going to make it big in modelling, they soon turned their hand to a much more lucrative trade. Even the world-famous Fashion Week could be little more than a flesh fest, with a whole seedy underbelly operating on the sidelines of the main event. Girls who hadn’t been selected for the shows instead competed to make it into the beds of rich and powerful men – all for the right price, of course.

But while Dionne was happy to party, she wouldn’t sleep with just anyone. It was a fine line, but she knew damn well which side she was on. Dionne was going to make it, and when she did it would be on her own terms.

Right now, she was going to have a little fun, and Philippe Rochefort was the perfect guy to be by her side – handsome, rich, well connected. Power like that was sexy, a real turn-on, and together they would make a spectacular couple. It wouldn’t be easy, but Dionne loved a challenge. She was confident she could get any guy she wanted.

Smiling to herself in the darkness, she settled back into the luxurious seats of the SUV, watching in anticipation as the bright lights of Paris flashed by.

‘Thanks, have a great night. Enjoy the rest of your holiday …’

Aidan closed the door and locked it, the bolts making a satisfying clunk as they slid into place. He’d already turned the music off, and the late-night silence was striking.

Alyson had begun clearing up, rinsing the drip trays and wiping down the tables ready for tomorrow.

‘Take five minutes, if you want,’ Aidan suggested. ‘Get yourself a drink.’

‘Thanks,’ Alyson said gratefully. She poured herself an orange juice, then sat down at one of the tables, where she slipped off her shoes and began to massage her feet. The long shifts were always a killer.