“Clumsy twat!”
“Overgrown twig.”
Nigel’s waxed mustache twitched. Then he threw back his head and guffawed. The sound was so filled with delight that Celine began to smile.
“¿Qué está pasando, Odette?” a rich voice cut through the mêlée, the sound resonating from behind where they stood.
“¡Hostia!” Odette startled. Her small fist darted out, thudding against a solid form. “Stop trying to scare me, you horse’s ass. Te dije lo que sucedería la próxima vez . . .” She launched into a tirade Celine could not follow, the Spanish words flying from her lips with ease.
Arjun and Nigel exchanged a glance. Then promptly made their way toward the roulette table in the back of the room.
Odette continued ranting to the newcomer at Celine’s back. But Celine refused to turn around. She had no need to confirm the obvious. Her pulse ratcheted in her throat when the heat of him drew closer. The feeling of being both drawn in and pushed back—a magnet made of opposing poles—gripped her stomach. Just like the night she’d first arrived in New Orleans, when he’d cleared the streets without uttering a word, Bastien’s presence was a tangible thing. It made something in the air shift, like a sigh of wind.
The creature inside Celine writhed beneath her skin, stirring to life.
No. Celine Rousseau was not a weathervane. She would not be moved by the Ghost’s presence as everyone else was. He was not special, just like all the privileged boys she’d encountered in her past. Another spoiled and entitled approximation of a man. She took a deep breath, determined to remain unaffected.
Celine felt Bastien’s eyes settle on the back of her neck. The fine hairs there stood on end, sending a warm buzz down her spine. He was close enough that she could smell the bergamot in his cologne. The hints of citrus and spice.
This boy was dangerous. Far too dangerous. Like fuel to her fire.
She stood straight. Bade the stirring creature silent.
Odette continued chastising Bastien in a mixture of Spanish and French. Unruffled by her tirade, Bastien shifted past Celine and Pippa, his strides unhurried, his movements liquid. Since their encounter an hour ago, he’d discarded his frock coat and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing a tailored waistcoat of charcoal silk and a set of curious black markings on his inner left forearm. Disdaining the fashion of the day, he wore his dark hair shorn close to his head, resembling a bust Celine had once seen of Julius Caesar. Strapped around his shoulders was a burnished leather holster, a revolver glinting beneath his right arm. When he met Celine’s gaze, he pressed his lips together, a hint of irritation pushing them forward, squaring his jaw. Annoyance riddled his handsome face. Not a trace of surprise nor a drop of pleasure at finding her here.
It emboldened Celine. Urged her to dismiss him as summarily as he’d dismissed her.
“Are you finished?” he said quietly to Odette, though his eyes were trained on Celine.
“For now,” Odette sniffed. “Just don’t do it again. You know how much I despise being taken off guard. No doubt that’s the reason you enjoy doing it, you malquisto.”
Though her tone had lightened to one of jest, Bastien did not smile. “Responde mi pregunta. ¿Por qué está ella aquí?”
“No.” Odette crossed her arms. “I’m not answering your question. C’est impoli. These ladies are my guests, and I do not owe you an explanation for why they are here.”
The edges of Bastien’s eyes tightened, his expression darkening. Under normal circumstances, Celine suspected this icy glower engendered fear in others. Moved them to obey, without question.
She met him eye for eye, glare for glare, her heart thudding behind her ribs. Celine waited for him to ask them to leave. After all, this building belonged to his family. And no matter what anyone might say otherwise, it was clear Bastien ruled La Cour des Lions, from its coffered ceiling to the snake slithering across its plush carpets.
Lucifer in his den of lions.
Instead, Bastien remained silent. The bronze skin around his eyes and forehead softened, the set of his shoulders unwinding. Before Celine could take a breath, charm oozed from him with the kind of natural grace reserved for nobility.
It was an unnerving sight to behold.
Bastien bowed to Pippa. “Welcome to Jacques’, mademoiselle. I am Sébastien Saint Germain. C’est un plaisir de faire votre connaissance.” The consummate chameleon, he reached for her hand, bending to place a kiss on it.
Though Pippa’s cheeks pinked at his touch, she cleared her throat. Extricated her fingers. “We’ve met already, sir.”
Celine smothered a grin.
“Quel charlatan!” Odette snorted as she sipped her wine. “They know who you are.”
Bastien did not appear the least bit perturbed by her mockery. “But I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
“Then permettez-moi.” A devious light glimmered in Odette’s eyes. “The stunning young lady to your right, with the raven hair and the eyes like Egyptian emeralds, is Celine—” She stopped short. Laughed. “I just realized I don’t know your proper name, mon amie.”
Celine put out her hand, channeling indifference. “My name is Celine Rousseau.”
Bastien took it. She sensed a hint of hesitation the moment his long fingers wrapped around hers. The slightest twinge, like he’d made an error in judgment and realized it far too late. A current of fire spread into her arm, moving slowly, as though the creature in her blood wished to savor the experience. Before Bastien could bend to kiss her hand, Celine tugged her palm from his grasp.
Something unreadable passed across his features, there and gone before Celine could take in a breath. Then his smile turned savage in its amusement. An unspoken challenge.
It emboldened Celine further. If he was going to play a game, she would simply play it better. She looked at Pippa and tilted her head, allowing a knowing twinkle to shine in her eye. Just the sort of look she’d seen countless young women of Parisian society share among themselves, as if they alone were privy to a delicious secret. “This is my dear friend, Miss Philippa Montrose.”
Bastien bowed again to Pippa. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Montrose.”
Pippa nodded, her unease obvious. Though Odette tried to appear indifferent to the unfolding scene, her attention flitted between Celine and Bastien as if she were witnessing a thread start to unravel. When she caught Celine staring at her, she diverted her gaze, focusing on Pippa’s wine-stained skirt.
“Merde!” Odette swore. “I’m an absolute wretch. I completely forgot about your gown. Come with me.” She began walking with purpose toward the staircase.