The Magnate's Manifesto(52)
“So,” she offered valiantly, “you must all love living in Paris. It’s so gorgeous.”
Davide nodded. “Although I intend on retiring to the house in the Cap. To me it’s le paradis sur terre. Heaven on earth.”
“Agreed,” Bailey nodded. “I love the climate. Perfectly temperate.”
“But you must like the extreme heat,” Alexander interjected. “Given that you lived in Las Vegas.”
The edge to his tone made Bailey set her wineglass down with a jerky movement. “I do,” she agreed evenly. “But I much prefer the more moderate Northern California climate.”
“Speaking of Vegas,” Alexander waved an elegant long-fingered hand at her, “I remembered last night where I met you. I usually have such an impeccable memory…it was driving me crazy.”
Bailey froze. Jared’s gaze flickered to Alexander, a warning glint in it. “Gagnon—
“It was the Red Room,” Alexander continued. “How I could have forgotten when you were so memorable I don’t know.”
John Gehrig’s mouth dropped open. The room began to spin.
“Do you know the Red Room?” Alexander turned to one of his marketing executives. The perfectly put together Frenchman shook his head. His boss sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “You must go the next time you’re there. They have the most drop-dead beautiful women on stage; my clients used to salivate. But there was one dancer,” he commented, looking over at Bailey, a dark glitter in his silver eyes, “who called herself Kate Delaney who held us all spellbound. We couldn’t take our eyes off her.”
A buzzing sound filled Bailey’s head. Davide gave his son a confused look. “What does this have to do with Bailey?”
“Kate Delaney was Bailey’s stage name.”
“Oh.” Davide ran a hand over his jaw and looked at Bailey. “So you were one of those…what do they call them? Burlesque dancers?”
“No,” Bailey corrected quietly, bile climbing her throat at an alarming rate. “The Red Room is a high-end strip club.”
Davide’s eyes widened. “A strip club?”
The couple of execs who’d had their heads buried in their smartphones the entire meal looked up, eyes fastening on her. Bailey swallowed hard, heat flooding every inch of her skin. “Yes. It was how I paid my way through school.”
A frown creased the elder Frenchman’s brow. “That must have been…”
“Lucrative.” Bailey dropped her gaze to the candle flickering in the center of the table and absorbed the total and complete silence. Wished she could disappear into the red-hot flame.
John Gehrig cleared his throat. “Well, I for one love the Red Room. The ladies are all just beautiful and I’m sure,” he said, shooting a red-faced look at Bailey, “you looked just…lovely.”
“There wasn’t an unaffected man in the room,” Alexander agreed. “Isn’t it great to see the American dream alive and well? From stripper to CMO…how inspiring.”
The bile in her throat threatened to make an immediate appearance. She pressed a hand to her mouth and swallowed hard. Jared made a sound and pressed his palms into the table. Bailey covered his hand with hers. “Don’t.”
He stared at her hand for a long, hard moment, then lowered himself back into his seat. Davide flicked his son a reprimanding look.
“If you were a gentleman you would pick another line of conversation, Alexander, but since your manners often escape you, I will.”
Davide started a discussion about foreign exchange rates. John Gehrig hurriedly joined in. Bailey drew in a breath, then another. Told herself walking away from the table right now wasn’t an option. But it was painful, physically uncomfortable to sit there with the young executives shooting speculative glances across the table at her. One of them was tapping away on his phone, then slid it discreetly toward his coworker. Photos of her as Kate Delaney no doubt. She’d tried to get the club to sell the promotional photos to her, to take them off the website, and they’d agreed, but nothing ever really disappeared from the internet. It just pretended to.
Jared laid his palm on her thigh. “Breathe.”
She pushed his hand away and stared sightlessly out the window at the glittering Eiffel Tower. Felt everything go gray around her as she retreated. She knew the routine. Knew this humiliation like a second skin. It was a familiar, hateful feeling she’d never wanted to feel again.
She drained her wineglass. Smiled tightly at the waiter as he appeared to refill it. Growing up in her house, it had been taboo to say the word alcoholic, even though her father had clearly been one and his booze-induced rages had been a monthly fixture. As if none of them said it, it didn’t exist.