raising a faint swirl of dust.
âThe girls are beautiful,â Madame Arelquin said with approval.
â Oui, â Bryan said. It seemed like the only thing he could say. And he wasnât totally lying. They were amazing in their gangly, gorgeous way, just not his type.
He couldnât imagine actually dating one. He would feel guilty sinking his teeth into a juicy BLT while they, what, sucked on toothpicks and sipped ice water?
Besides, you probably couldnât even get a BLT in Paris. Or a chili dog. Two things he really craved.
He was hungry, and truth be told, he didnât know if he could make it to the end of this fashion extravagoonzah, especially because he didnât know how long it was going to last.
Model after model appeared, in teeny thongs and fancy bras. The effect was oddly unerotic. Plus the noise of the throbbing techno music, and the crush of heavily made-up, perfumed, overdressed womenâokay, there were a few men in the mix but so whatâit was giving him an headache.
He rose, made some excuse in half-assed French that the very nice Arelquins accepted, and got as far as the back wall.
And there she was. The woman whose eyes he had seen behind the curtain. Killer curves, long legs. The shadow template stuck in his head.
âHello,â he said. He wasnât going to ask why sheâd been peeking out. She must have something to do with the show, probably was a production coordinator or something like that. He tried to think of the French for headache, so he could ask her if she had one too, and couldnât remember it to save his life.
Hell, he could do better than that for small talk. He didnât want to sound like a hypochondriac. Bryan hoped she spoke English. A lot of the Parisians around his age seemed to, and she was obviously only a few years older than he was, if that. Worth a shot.
âGreat show,â he said. That seemed like a safe opening line.
âThank you.â She looked toward the stage, observing the models stalking down it, executing their turns with thousand-yard stares over the audience, and heading back behind the curtain.
Bryan looked at her. Whoever she was, she had style. French women knew how to dress. The outfit was one of a kind, almost like sheâd put together bits and pieces from a thrift shop.
She had on a fitted black jacket with a big lapel pin of a pelican that made him smile. Underneath that was a camisoleâwas that what those tight tops were called? Maybe it was a corset. Anyway, it was low-cut and made of black lace that stretched over beautiful full breasts.
Get a grip , he told himself, wishing in another second that that particular verb hadnât come to mind. Of course, he did want to get his hands on that sweet flesh. No, you jerk. Keep your eyes moving.
Bryan drew in a breath. No matter where he looked, she made him hot. He glanced down at a short skirt in hot pink showing off strong, slender legs that got that way because she undoubtedly walked a lot and bicycled and danced. And jumped for joy.
Something about her said that uninhibited joy was part of the deal.
Yeah.
What would it feel like to have legs like that clasped around his lower back while heâ you donât even know her name .
She was talking to him. âI heard you won a ticket to a front row seat.â
âHuh?â He lifted his gaze from her shoes, which were strapped at the ankle, high-heeled but cut low, with toe cleavage. She had been tapping one foot idly, which had gotten his attention. He was pretty sure her stockings were seamed. Heâd love to bend her over and find out if garters were involved. âOhâright. Quite a view. Iâve never been to anything like this.â
âI can tell.â There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
Now he was close enough to see their colorâgreen with dashes of gold. But it was the expression in them that mesmerized him. Soulful. Intelligent.