Chapter 1 #2
Below her booth, Bastien Ménard was leaning back on his chair, ensconced between two girls.
His brown hair had been freed from the gel and rumpled beyond fixing, no doubt by countless loving fingers running through it.
A smile of content spread on his face as the girls doted on him like he was a stray puppy.
“Is that what you think we’ll be doing later?
” he asked one of them, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth in a way that only suggested mischief.
His brown skin glowed with a pink flush and so did the girl’s cheeks when Bastien caught her chin between his fingers, tilting it towards his face.
And, as if he could feel Celine’s eyes on him, he made a show of kissing the girl right then and there.
Then he looked up.
Celine’s chin slipped from the crook of her palm. The sudden collision with his gaze rocked through her bones like a tank.
“Oh no,” she breathed, ducking out of view.
She cursed herself for not asking Ana?s to stay.
Bastien might pretend he hadn’t seen them here as a favour to his sister, but Celine knew he wouldn’t offer her the same courtesy.
He had gained a particular appetite for driving her insane ever since he had discovered how fake Celine and Jacques’s relationship was and how desperate they were to make it seem real in public.
And because Bastien and Jacques had a little vendetta going on between them, now that he knew where to poke, Bastien spent every chance he got trying to test his brother’s patience, and Celine’s by proxy.
And finding her at a dance hall alone, without Jacques knowing or anywhere in sight, would give him plenty of ammunition.
Celine strained her neck to look at his table again, nearly toppling over the railing in her panic. The girls were still crowding the space, chatting with one another, but Bastien’s chair stood empty.
That was when the partition behind her swooshed open and Celine's spine went stiff with apprehension.
“Hello, baby vamp.”
The words cut right through her. Taut like a bow, Celine turned around slowly.
“Monsieur Ménard,” she replied, voice wavering. “Wha—” she cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”
Still draped in the shadows of the threshold, Bastien finally stepped in, letting the light of the booth illuminate his person.
He was wearing the look of shameless debauchery as if it was a pressed suit.
The night had yet to begin properly and his shirt was already rumpled.
Lipstick stains decorated his collar—like he’d been ravished the second he had stepped inside the club, even before that group of girls had found him.
“Come now, Celine. Are formalities truly necessary?” he drawled lazily, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I mean...unless you and Jacques have broken up—where is my brother by the way?”
He was only asking to amuse himself with the lies Celine would stammer to fabricate. He knew Jacques didn’t care for cabarets.
When Celine remained silent, Bastien crossed the distance to her and plopped down on the chair Ana?s had occupied just minutes ago, kicking his feet up on the table.
The motion rocked the tiny white candle sitting by her sketchbook.
Celine hurried to stop it before it rolled over to the side and spilled wax all over her designs.
She cut him a glare. “Careful.”
Bastien held her stare unwaveringly. “Jacques doesn’t know you are here, does he?”
“Jacques and I don’t spend every single minute together,” Celine shot back.
His lips curved into a smirk. “Right, because people who are sickeningly in love with each other, like you two claim to be, never do.”
Bastien raked his gaze over her tantalisingly slow, taking in every detail of her dress.
It had been the bane of her mother’s existence ever since Celine had taken it home from the shop.
The pink embroidered chiffon had the quality of gossamer and the skirt scarcely made it past her knees.
It was far from appropriate considering how conservatively other girls still dressed, but for Celine, being able to express herself through her style meant everything.
Besides, Bastien’s assessment made no impression. She was used to people’s scrutinising.
“Is The Vampire missing her weekly appearances on the magazines, so she’s slumming it in revues?” he asked.
Celine’s easy expression faltered. Ana?s had done her best to ensure no rumours circulated about her. But if she was seen here with Bastien there would be no escape.
Suddenly, he leaned over the table and cupped one corner of his mouth to whisper, “I can help you make it on those scandal columns again, baby vamp. All it takes is a little kiss and tell—”
Celine pressed a finger to his lips, pushing him away. She was well aware that Bastien didn’t suffer from the burden of carrying around a conscience, but usually people refrained from admitting their personal…affairs so openly. Usually people tried to deny them.
Not Bastien Ménard.
Heartbreak Boy, as the articles called him, was a known womaniser who had been slapped by half the girls in Paris for leading them on and breaking their hearts a week later. The other half, Celine suspected, were either too young, nuns, or smart enough to slap him before he could get a word out.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Bas,” Celine said. “I don’t care for scandals.”
“Then what are you doing here? And sketching no less?” He craned his neck to sneak a peek at her sketchbook. When Celine scrambled to close it shut, Bastien’s grey eyes glinted with amusement. “Ah, curiouser and curiouser.”
In a snap, he snatched the sketchbook from her fingers. “Let’s see,” he hummed.
“There is nothing of interest for you in there,” Celine said, trying to keep her voice level.
Undeterred, Bastien began flipping through it.
“If you would just give it back—”
He held up a finger to shush her. “In a minute. I am awfully engrossed at the moment.” His eyes flicked up. “Did you make all of these yourself?”
To lie would be a waste of breath.
“Clearly, they have my signature on them.”
“Hmm”—he flipped a page, grinning—“and did you come here to prove the theory that a good muse is one who’s naked?”
“Pardon?”
Bastien gestured to the stage. The curtains had pulled back and a row of dancers in feathers and diamond-studded tights sashayed onto the stage.
The backdrop tonight was a clever model in the shape of a colossal fountain, with lights shifting up and down the iron scale to mimic the trickle of water.
Music blared louder as the dancers’ moves became more tantalising.
Eventually, Celine understood his meaning.
A flush warmed her cheeks. “I was going to look at their costumes, you lech.”
“They’re not wearing that much fabric to study though.”