Extraits

Prologue

London – Lottie’s last night

Standing in the wings, she drew in a deep breath, savouring the moment. It was always like this – the final nervous minutes before the spotlight came on, when she left the real world behind and became a fantasy.

Adjusting her corset, she checked that her pasties were in place over her nipples and plumped her pale breasts a little higher. Her trademark red sequined costume was a perfect foil for her pale skin and glossy raven wig. Her dresser had laced her tightly tonight, emphasizing her tiny waist and long dancer’s legs.

‘Your whip, chérie.’ A bare-chested dancer handed it to her.

‘Thanks, Gabriel.’ She flashed him a smile before clapping her hands. ‘Places, everyone. We’re on in three.’

Six glorious specimens of oiled male perfection moved quickly to do her bidding, taking their places beside the gilded chaise longue on which they would carry her onto the stage. Male dancers only, her contract stipulated. Years of back-stage bitchiness had taught her a valuable lesson. She never shared a stage with another woman if she could help it, but it didn’t stop the gossip. One rumour hinted that she had been offered a million dollars by an Omani prince in exchange for a single night in her bed.

She had laughed out loud when she heard that one.

‘One minute,’ the stage manager barked.

She took her place on the chaise, lounging with contrived indolence. Like a woman waking up after an afternoon of passion with a lover, or perhaps two lovers.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, on the final evening of her farewell UK tour, for one night only …’

His voice faded as she blanked it out. She closed her eyes. The heady sense of anticipation made her tingle as it always did – music, the swish of curtains, followed by the hot brightness of a single spotlight.

The scent of the predominantly male audience wafted to her nostrils; expensive cologne, mingled with an undercurrent of lust. Her nipples peaked behind the confines of her corset. A woman’s high-pitched laugh was silenced by the spectacle of her entrance onto the stage.

Sinead O’Sullivan opened her eyes and became Lottie LeBlanc.

Like a jaded cat, she yawned and stretched and came to a sitting position in a single fluid movement. Her impossibly high heels dangled over the side of the raised chaise and she stared pointedly at her lead dancer. Following a single crack of her whip, he knelt, pressing a tender kiss against her ankle before bending his head to form a human footstool.

A bald man in the front row shuddered as she walked the length of her dancer’s naked back before stepping onto the stage.

Behind her elaborate red mask, her eyes swept the thronged venue. It was standing room only – except for the owner’s box, which was empty – a fitting tribute to one of the top burlesque performers in the business.

According to gossip, she was a woman with a string of lovers, a fortune in diamonds and a reputation for unsurpassed notoriety.

If only they knew the truth.

She loved the sense of power that performing gave her. As she slowly removed one diaphanous layer after another, she played with the audience, making each man believe that she would be his. A quick change of costume transformed her from twenties vamp to Chinese courtesan. The silk-draped bed was a perfect foil for a lustful concubine, awaiting her master’s pleasure.

Every glance, every step of her routine was choreographed and rehearsed to sensual perfection. When she tossed a sheer black stocking into the crowd, the audience went into a frenzy of delight. As she unlaced her shimmering corset, the bald man wiped his forehead with a linen handkerchief. She cast the sequined bundle to the side of the stage, standing before her admirers, wearing nothing but a tiny jewelled thong, embroidered with a dragon.

A flash of movement caught her eye as a man entered the empty box. Her carmine-tinted smile froze on her face. She knew him – Niall Moore. CEO of Moore Enterprises, a company specializing in black ops and rescuing damsels in distress.