Genie.

By Kitty French.

Chapter One.

Abel Kingdom wasn't a man accustomed to paying women to take their clothes off.

Even the ready supply of ice cold, free champagne did little to temper his mood as he sat alone in the VIP box at Theatre Divine somewhere in the rainy, Sat.u.r.day night backstreets of East London. Below him, the hustle of excited patrons sent up a low buzz from the stalls, and the occasional glance that flicked up towards him revealed eyes laced with the expectation of a salacious thrill. Sharply dressed men with territorial arms around the shoulders of their corset-clad wives and girlfriends, there to be t.i.tillated, a prelude to their own private shows when they left for their homes and bedrooms later that evening.

Abel didn't share their expectation, nor their heady excitement. The prospect of watching the show did nothing for him and the faded beauty of the old theatre did little more. The peac.o.c.k-blue velvet seats and ta.s.selled curtains were running towards threadbare and the dulled l.u.s.tre of the gilt cherubs haloed around the balconies and ceiling embellishments had seen better days. Glossy photographs out in the foyer told stories of star turns and celebrity visitors over the years, but none in recent times. It was a tired, jaded place, yet Abel knew enough to see that beneath its shabby overcoat the bones of the building were still strong and begging for better vestments. And he'd give it better, just as soon as he got through this G.o.d-awful evening and sat down to talk numbers with Davey Divine, Theatre Divine's current owner-inc.u.mbent.

For the sake of this building, he'd accept the older man's unwanted hospitality. He'd drink his economy champagne, and he'd watch his low-rent show, and then he'd hussle the theatre right out of Davey Divine's hands.

Genie Divine wasn't stupid. Headstrong maybe, and often rash, but she wasn't stupid. Something was up with her Uncle Davey.

He was avoiding her questions, and it hadn't escaped her notice that he'd started to swoop on the mail to prevent her from getting to it first. And if she'd needed any further confirmation of her suspicions, he'd done something that afternoon that he'd never done in all of their years together. He'd locked the office door, a clear 'keep out' message even though he hadn't actually said the words out loud. Scenarios scuttled like beetles through Genie's mind, each more worrying than the last. Was he in trouble? Or, oh G.o.d, was he ill?

She placed the liquid eyeliner down on the dressing table, her hand suddenly too shaky to apply a clean line. She'd ask him after they closed up tonight. Taking several deep, calming breaths, Genie unscrewed the lid of an enormous pot of body glitter, lost in thought. Whatever was going on, she was determined to get to the bottom of it before her head hit the pillow tonight. For now though, she needed to put it to the back of her mind. She was due out on stage in under an hour, and as always, the show must go on.

Abel watched Davey Divine run through his outrageous drag act, noting with grudging appreciation that the guy had had the eager crowd eating out of his hand from the moment he'd strutted out into the spotlight. He could practically feel the heat-haze rising from the audience as Divine expertly warmed them up for the main attraction of the night.

The main attraction. Abel ran an irritated finger inside his shirt collar and popped the top b.u.t.ton open. Glancing down, his eyes scanned over the flyer on the table beside him, trumpeting tonight's star turn in jaunty, red circus script.

Genie.

One of the capital's best kept secrets!

The s.e.xiest burlesque star in London!

Yeah, right. Weren't they all? Burlesque. Strippers. They were all the same to him. Women who took their clothes off for money. Women who used their bodies to manipulate men. Women who set off alarms in his head for all the wrong reasons. He hadn't set foot inside a strip joint since he'd turned sixteen years old and been old enough to make his own decisions. He glanced at his watch then scrubbed his hand over his chin; bored, aggravated, and mentally calculating how long it would be before this charade was over with and he could get some sense out of Davey Divine.

He was yanked back into the moment by the sultry slide of a trumpet solo from the orchestra pit to herald the shift of mood from bawdy to burlesque. The crowd erupted into spontaneous applause as the house lights dimmed, a lone spotlight drawing every eye to the centre of the stage as the floorboards opened to allow a dazzling golden genie's lamp to rise slowly out from beneath. Encrusted with theatrical jewels, it bounced trippy, rainbow kaleidoscope patterns of light around the auditorium walls. The s.e.xy, evocative musical score conjured Turkish bazaars and snake charmers, and what was that scent? Incense? Musk? Spice? Abel leaned forward a little in his seat. He wasn't fooled for a moment by the multiple a.s.saults on his senses, but once more he found himself reluctantly impressed by the level of expertise. These people sure knew how to entertain.

The orchestra swelled the antic.i.p.ation to a crescendo with a dramatic flourish and the audience reacted accordingly, their applause thunderous when, at last, the hinged lid of the huge lamp opened.

A gasp. A collective intake of breath. And then several seconds of awe-struck silence as, inch by glorious, creamy inch, the star of the show rose slowly from inside the lamp.

Statuesque and majestic with her back turned towards the audience, she stood with one gloved hand planted on her hip, the other flourishing a huge, ivory ostrich feather fan high above her head.

Despite his best intentions, Abel wasn't bored any more. He reached for his gla.s.s without taking his eyes from the stage. He hadn't even seen Genie's face, and already he'd stopped thinking about his business meeting. His eyes followed the nude pink silk corset laced down the length of her delicate back, and the tip of his tongue snaked over his lips as his fingers itched to pull those ribbons open.

The champagne suddenly tasted honey-sweet as it cooled his parched throat. Jesus. He hadn't seen curves like that in his life, and he'd seen a lot of curves.

His gaze strayed lower, over the frilled silk knickers that encased the rounded perfection of her a.s.s. He was glad of the solitude of the private box, because he was hard for her already.

Down there on the stage, Genie swept the fan behind her with a wiggle, then dropped the feathers gracefully down back inside the lamp.

Turn around.

She was peeling off those long gloves now and flicking them away from herself carelessly. Her arms as she revealed them were fine boned and feminine. Who knew a bare wrist could be such a turn-on? Abel felt as if he'd been caught watching Victorian p.o.r.nography. Even though the rational part of his brain warned him that he was falling into her age-old honey trap, the turned-on side of his brain slammed the door on common sense.

Turn around.

Genie ran her hands playfully down the sides of her corset, almost turning to glance out over her shoulder before seeming to change her mind. Frustration spiked through Abel's body as he leaned both elbows on the edge of the box.

Turn around.

Her fingers ran down the length of her legs, all the way to remove her silver spike-heeled stilettos, which followed the fan into the depths of the lamp. She was left bouncing on her stockinged tiptoes to the sliding trumpet fanfare, swaying that delicious a.s.s in a way that had Abel shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Turn around.

When she flicked open the catches on her stockings and rolled them down her legs like a wartime sweetheart, he emptied the rest of the champagne into his gla.s.s, took a hefty slug, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips.

What was this place? A theatre, or a f.u.c.king opium den? He was losing his head, and he couldn't seem to rein himself back in. He didn't do this. He didn't lose control. Ever.

'Turn around. For f.u.c.k's sake, turn around.' Abel didn't even realise that this time he'd whispered it out loud.

And, as if heeding his words, at long last Genie turned around.

From famine to feast, and he didn't know where to look first. His body burned to see hers, yet it was her face that he found himself most desperate to lay eyes on. Half of him hoped it would break the spell. He knew she'd be attractive. No woman could exude this kind of confidence without the innate knowledge that she was beautiful. But whose kind of beautiful was she? Every woman had her own something special. What was hers? And then he let himself study her, and he knew.

Genie wasn't a pretty girl. She wasn't the kind of girl who'd be chosen for the cheerleading squad. There was nothing cute or girl-next-doorish about her. This girl was pure Hollywood gold, with the kind of face that demanded her angled cheekbones be studio-lit, her Bardot lashes batted flirtatiously, and her lips permanently painted red to match the glossy, pin curled waves of her hair. She looked like a girl who smoked cigarettes and bathed in champagne, who knew every dirty word in the dictionary and a few more besides. He couldn't quite make out the colour of her eyes from his vantage point, but when she turned them momentarily up towards him it seemed that she stripped away a layer of his skin.

And then she glanced carelessly away again, palming her hands over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s down to the central clips of her corset. Flick, flick, flick - it was open in her hands, and she was tipping her head to one side as if to ask the audience whether she ought to remove it. Clearly the response was an overwhelming yes, and a small smile played over her cupid's bow lips as she shrugged one pretty shoulder and then flung the corset wide.

This wasn't Victorian s.m.u.t any longer, and boy, she was well past the point of a wartime sweetheart. Genie was a harlot, and her body - clad now only in silk knickers and rhinestone encrusted nipple covers - was a sight that had Abel all but ready to vault from the balcony and screw her hard against the side of that f.u.c.k-off lamp. Christ. She almost laughed with delight as she twirled the corset high in the air and then dropped it into the lamp, taking a moment to flip the lid shut with her toe.

Her ethereally pale skin glittered as if someone had dipped her in stardust, and the high, round fullness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s made him physically ache. Yet another reason she could never be considered a girl next door. If girls next door looked like this, the world would grind to a halt because no one would ever leave home.

He wanted to touch her, to f.u.c.k her, to possess her every which way. To lay her on velvet and take her slowly until she moaned his name. To rut her naked up against a rough alley wall until the skin on her shoulder blades bled. In fact, what he really wanted at that moment was to march on stage and throw his jacket around her shoulders to stop every other man in the room from wanting the same thing. But then... no, he didn't want to stop her, because she'd just hitched her thumbs suggestively down the sides of those frilly silk knickers.

She wasn't going to take them off, was she? Abel had his answer in seconds as she shimmied them down her thighs to reveal a tiny, jewelled g-string that did more to frustrate than to satisfy. The girl was practically naked, and still it wasn't enough. He watched her, hypnotised, as she lay down and writhed with pure abandon across the top of the lamp, tracking the rise and fall of her body with his eyes, the feline arch of her spine as she threw her head back and let the endless red waves of her hair tumble behind her.

Every breath in the house sucked in when she lifted an amused, knowing eyebrow towards the audience and reached for those sequinned nipple caps. Would she bare her b.r.e.a.s.t.s? Just as it seemed to Abel that yes, actually she would, she smiled wickedly and the spotlight blinked out. The show was over.

He dropped his head into his hands in the darkness. She'd looked for all the world like a woman being made love to on top of that lamp, like a woman in the throes of the best o.r.g.a.s.m of her life.

No way.

If there was one clear and certain thought in Abel Kingdom's head, it was that he was going to be the one responsible for giving that girl the best o.r.g.a.s.m of her life.

But as the house lights came up and common sense seeped back in to his mind, Abel realised with a sudden wash of loathing that he'd been well and truly played. Genie was the consummate showgirl; she knew just how to make the most of what Mother Nature had given her. Self-disgust twisted his gut at the way she'd forced such a visceral, animal reaction out of him. He knew her sort of woman of old, knew that she would be all smoke and mirrors. Yet still he'd found himself unable to take his d.a.m.n eyes off her, and he hated himself for it almost as much as he hated her now that she was no longer weaving her black magic on the stage.

Was this why Divine had insisted he watch the show before their meeting? Did he think him such a malleable fool that he'd be weakened by the tawdry curves of a temptress and a few gla.s.ses of cheap champagne? The worst of it was that he hadn't been far from the mark, for a few moments at least. Abel shoved himself roughly out of the chair and headed for the exit stairs. Divine could wait until morning. Right now he needed to get out of this G.o.dd.a.m.n place, to let the cool rain wash the sour stench of unwelcome memories from his skin.

Chapter Two.

Genie glanced towards her dressing room door in the mirror as someone rapped on it and then pushed it open without waiting for her to shout 'come in.' Deanna's slender frame sidled around the door, her camera slung over her kitsch Barbie and Ken T-shirt and a mug of tea in her hand.

'Tea for the superstar.' She grinned and placed the mug down on Genie's dressing table then parked her skinny backside on the radiator alongside it.

'Cheers, doll.' Genie winced as she peeled off her welded on false eyelashes. 'So, how did it look?'

Her best friend clapped with delight. 'Holy f.u.c.k, it looked amazing, G! Better than we even thought it would.' A worried frown crossed Deanna's face. 'Did it feel secure?'

Genie nodded. 'Safe as houses. You're officially a genius.'

Deanna had spent the best part of the last three months painstakingly designing and building the elaborate lamp set, and tonight had been its maiden outing. 'Our best yet, deffo. I took a load of footage for you to see it for yourself.' Her heavy black fringe, patterned this week with electric blue stripes, fell into her eyes as she leaned forward and slid an SD card out of the camera onto the table.

'So, who was the stud-m.u.f.fin up in the VIP box tonight?' she asked. 'Davey had the staff falling over themselves to ply him with free champagne before the show.'

Genie caught her friend's eye in the mirror, non-plussed. She hadn't noticed any of tonight's audience individually, but then she seldom did when she was out there on the stage. The more unsettling question was why her uncle was giving away free champagne, given his recent tightening of the purse strings. She mentally filed the question away alongside the others she was saving for when she cornered him later.

'I've no clue. I didn't see him.'

'Well, he certainly saw you. I'd like to think it was the lamp that had him enthralled, but from the way he looked at you there was only one thing on his mind.' Deanna whistled. 'And he was hot. Like, super-hot. Like I-want-to-lick-your-face-but-I'm-scared-I'd-burn-my-tongue hot.' She licked her index finger and made a sizzling sound.

Genie laughed. 'Well, I'm sorry I missed him now.' And she was. Attractive men were in woefully thin supply in her life lately, especially ones hot enough to singe body parts, fingers or otherwise.

'C'est la vie, girlfriend.' Deanna slid off the radiator and dropped a quick kiss on Genie's cheek. 'I'm outta here. I'm starving.'

She rubbed a hand over her ironing board stomach and skipped towards the door, turning back as she opened it. 'You really did look great out there tonight, G,' she said softly, every bit the supportive sister that she was as good as. 'Proud of you.'

Genie nodded. 'Proud of you too. We make a good team.'

She looked at the door for a few seconds after Deanna had closed it, unexpected tears welling in her eyes as she cradled her mug in her hands. Life hadn't blessed her with a big, close family, but she'd certainly been blessed with Davey and Deanna, or the double Ds, as she'd affectionately dubbed them. Between them they were her mother, her father, her sister, her brother, and her best friends. She barely ever spared a thought for her birth mother any more, aside from thanking her lucky stars that the woman had at least had the foresight to abandon her baby girl on the steps of her brother's theatre rather than handing her over to some munic.i.p.al inst.i.tution.

Half an hour later, and Genie's search for her uncle proved fruitless. His office door was locked once again and his apartment silent and empty. He'd split the top floor of the theatre into two apartments some years back to give them both individual living s.p.a.ces. He'd said at the time that it was to give her her own bath to hang her smalls over, but Genie knew in her heart that Davey had gone to the trouble in order to keep her close.

Together they'd lived and breathed Theatre Divine for the last twenty-eight years Genie's whole life. It was their home, their shelter and their first love. Or it always had been, until Davey had fallen head over heels for the fabulously normal and very Californian Robin Delaney. These days Davey and Robin were inseparable and insufferably happy, aside from the fact that Robin missed his sunshine-drenched home on the West Coast and made no secret of the fact that he hoped they'd retire out there soon. Fond as she was of Robin, Genie couldn't contemplate the idea of losing her uncle to the other side of the world.

Having checked every possible place he might be without success, she resigned herself to talking to him first thing in the morning and made her way back upstairs.

Upstairs in the loft a few minutes later, Genie locked her door and flung herself down onto the overstuffed sofa, glad of both the solitude and the comfort. She was tired, but still way too wired after the performance to sleep. Reaching for her bag, she slipped Deanna's SD card into her laptop and slumped back against the welcoming cushions to review the footage of the lamp's first appearance. The auditorium swam into focus on the screen, obviously still early in the evening as the lights hadn't yet gone down and people were milling around in front of the lens to find their seats. Genie's impatient fingers hovered ready to fast-forward, then stilled as the camera panned up to the box, to the man sitting alone with his champagne gla.s.s balanced on the edge of the box.

Stud-m.u.f.fin. Wasn't that what Deanna had said? She'd got that much right at least.

Genie wasn't surprised to see the camera linger on him for longer than was necessary. The guy was making love to the camera lens without even knowing it was there.

Brooding? Oh yes.

Gorgeous? Big green tick.

Stud-m.u.f.fin? The phrase could have been invented especially for him.

But beautiful as he undoubtedly was, it was his expression that had Genie leaning forward in her seat to study him more closely.

Bleak. Bitter. And very, very complicated.

The guarded expression in his dark eyes hinted at a million things that made her heart lurch unexpectedly, made her want to physically reach out and soothe that scowl from his brow with her fingertips as he pushed his hands through his hair and sighed heavily.

A sharp pang of disappointment prodded Genie in the ribs as the camera tracked away from him to settle on the stage as the curtains went back.

Deanna had also been right on the money about the lamp, though. It looked fabulous centre stage, but Genie was too distracted to give it all the attention it deserved. Keen as she was to review the performance, what she really wanted was for the camera to go back and pick out the enigmatic stranger in the audience.

She didn't have to wait for long. Deanna obviously hadn't been able to resist the urge to pan around the audience part way through the show and rest once again on the VIP box. Genie couldn't really blame her. She may have been flouncing around in nipple ta.s.sels on the stage, but Mr Stud-m.u.f.fin was by far the most fascinating subject in the room.

Except when the camera found him second time around, his expression had shifted from complicated to easy as ABC to read.

He certainly wasn't bored any more.

Or bleak.

A soft gasp escaped Genie's lips as she watched him, watching her.

Raw hunger had replaced the bitterness in his eyes.

Hot, naked desire was written all over his face.

He reached out for his champagne without taking his eyes from the stage, then knocked it back in one fluid movement and wiped the back of his hand across the full, sensuous curve of his mouth. Jesus. Her blood quickened in her veins and her breath caught in her chest as Deanna tracked in closer on his face. Genie drew her bottom lip into her mouth and bit down slowly as he caught his knuckle between his teeth and held it there as he studied her. He was turned on, and belatedly and quite unknowingly - he was turning her on too.

'No!' The moan of frustration slipped from her lips as the camera moved back to the on-stage action.

Go back!

Genie could barely watch as she willed Deanna to skim the lens back to the box. As the performance ended and the curtains swept shut, Deanna finally did so. And there was the box again, this time quite empty. He was gone. f.u.c.k.

Genie shook her head, clearing her thoughts. Disappointment warred with confusion and frustration in her gut. What just happened there? How the h.e.l.l had she ended up feeling like the voyeur when he was the one watching her take her clothes off?

Chapter Three.