Читать книгу About That Night... - Jeanie London - Страница 10

That night

NICK FAIRFAX tugged up the knees of his tuxedo slacks and knelt to inspect the cornerstone of the Risqué Theatre. The sidewalk below him was cracked and uneven, the result of too many years of eroding soil and landscaping that had overgrown the boundaries of its original design.

This property needed work, both inside and out, and as the project architect for the theater’s renovation, he would see it restored to its former glory during his stay in Savannah.

Splaying his palm over the Roman numerals indicating the first stone had been laid in 1865, he closed his eyes and quietly pledged the promise he made before beginning every new project. “I’ll do my best.”

By nature Nick wasn’t a superstitious man, yet he felt obliged to declare his intentions before contributing his vision to that of architects from other generations, a passing-the-torch ritual he’d begun when his newly founded company, the Architectural Design Firm or ADF as it had become known, had accepted its first project.

Now, ten years later, ADF had grown into one of the largest historic preservation architectural firms on the West Coast. He enjoyed a success that was as much a result of hard work as good fortune and Nick preferred not to overlook the basics of that success. Or lose sight of the responsibility he undertook when starting work on any historical building.

“I haven’t seen you go wrong yet,” Dale Emerson, ADF’s senior project manager, said. “And we’ve been rebuilding these babies together for a long time.”

Nick appreciated the sentiment, knew Dale took their work just as seriously, which had earned him his place as Nick’s right-hand man. Getting to his feet, he raised an eyebrow. “The Risqué Theatre is a bit richer than our usual fare.”

“Don’t tell me all those naked bodies in the pargeting are giving you cold feet, buddy?”

Nick laughed. Renovating the ornamental plasterwork on the Risqué Theatre’s ceiling hadn’t bothered him while reading Dale’s property analysis—though he’d suspected the original designer had worked with a relentless hard-on all through construction. After seeing the Risqué Theatre in all its glory, Nick realized he’d probably be empathizing with the guy before long.

“Come on, let’s go inside.” He wouldn’t dwell on the unique obstacles this project presented, not with the monumental task that lay ahead. “The Arts Council is paying big bucks for ADF’s services. Schmoozing will go a long way to keep them smiling while they cut the checks.”

They walked past the box office. Though well after Labor Day, the Georgia night enveloped them with a sultry breeze, temperate though still cool enough not to break a sweat. The theater loomed above, a neoclassical structure constructed after the Civil War as part of a massive reconstruction effort to incorporate the crushed Confederacy into a newly united America.

Savannah had escaped Atlanta’s fiery fate during Sherman’s March to the Sea, and as such had seemed the logical place to focus efforts to begin the nation’s healing process. The Risqué Theatre had been one such effort, a place to celebrate culture and art at a time when the city’s morale had been low and people’s faith shaken. Culture and art hadn’t seemed especially important while coping with husbands and sons lost in the bitter struggle to preserve the Southern way of life. Not when many faced the difficult task of rebuilding homes, careers and lives from the ashes of defeat.

A dark period in the nation’s history, the goal had been to rebuild America into a nation stronger and more united than ever before. Savannah’s insightful politicians of the time had caught their city’s attention by targeting men’s—and women’s—fundamental interest in sex.

Nick had researched the history of the theater back to its conception, a task he both enjoyed and found integral to starting a project of this magnitude. The Risqué Theatre was a part of history and he was obligated and honor bound to maintain not only the structure, but to preserve the essence of the time period that made this and every historical project unique.

He’d worked on a variety of buildings through the years—churches, museums, private mansions—but the Risqué Theatre presented a new challenge of retaining the distinctive flavor of a building that had provided a home to an eclectic variety of theatrical venues through the years. From vaudeville, burlesques and gangster films, to modern film noir, performance art and improvisation, the Risqué Theatre had been home to them all.

“Whoa, buddy.” Dale peered up at the ceiling moldings once inside the theater, at naked cherubs who grinned maniacally while pointing golden love arrows at them from every direction. “The thought of spending the next few months fixing every erection in this place is killing me. Damn good thing the media has stopped sniffing around your love life.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you were a real pain in the ass when you gave up dating to avoid the press. I can’t imagine tackling this place if you were living the celibate life. I’d quit right now.”

Nick frowned. A close friend and valued employee, Dale Emerson might clean up well in his expensive tux, but his background was firmly rooted in construction, where men worked with men and spoke their minds freely.

“What choice did I have? You know how the media zeroed in on me after I accepted the presidential appointment. That sort of notoriety isn’t fair to any woman. If I didn’t give them news to report, I knew they’d replace me as playboy of the month.”

“Try playboy of the year.” Dale rolled his eyes. “I told you to think hard about accepting that appointment.”

Nick handed the tickets to a uniformed usher and said dryly, “I didn’t see a choice about that, either. Besides, the presidential appointment gives ADF prestige and credibility, which has been good for business. And it gives me a chance to get out of the office and into the field more often.”

“Yeah, yeah, gotcha. The only thing more important than your sex life is ADF. But I still say we weren’t without prestige and credibility, whether you’re on-site or not.” Dale glanced around the foyer, where the crowd already gathered, though they’d arrived early. He let out a low whistle. “Looks even more risqué than when I conducted the site analysis. Would you look at that.”

Nick glanced at a column supporting the semicircular arch above a sloping spiral staircase. At first glance the sculpture appeared to be no more than an intricately worked column, but upon closer inspection the plasterwork depicted a life-size bodycast of a nude couple joined at the genitals.

Sex was everywhere at the Risqué Theatre, in the architecture, on the stage, in the walls that displayed playbills of naked bodies and edgy artwork from decades of erotic performances. If Nick had anything to say about it, sex would be in his immediate future, too.

Dale shot him an amused glance. “Buddy, we’re in for a treat if all Southern belles look like her.”

Nick followed Dale’s gaze to an opening in the crowd where a woman stood amazingly alone, a woman who made every drop of blood in his veins plummet south.

“You’re not kidding.” This Southern belle was a vision straight out of a wet dream with her long slim curves swathed in a red leather dress designed to make men crave sex. Supple leather clung to every sleek curve of a body equally designed to inspire thoughts of tangled limbs and sweaty skin.

She wasn’t exactly tall, rather lanky and very feminine with long dancer’s legs and creamy skin that swelled over her bodice and made his breath catch hard.

And her hair. Nick had never seen hair like hers, deep-auburn hair that made him yearn to do a lot more than run his fingers through it. Rather he wanted to run his naked body through it. Falling far below the sassy short jacket she wore, her hair shimmered beneath the lights and inspired images of that mass of wanton waves playing peek-a-boo with lots of bare skin.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself?” Nick managed to grind out, wishing like hell he’d caught sight of this red devil first. If she and his senior project manager became an item, he’d be hard pressed to curtail all the fantasies he’d be having about her.

“Life just isn’t fair, is it?” Dale stared like that red leather had been magnetized. “But she’s more your speed, buddy. Expensive champagne, fancy restaurants and suites in five-star hotels. Too high ticket for grabbing a six-pack and taking a spin in my classic Mustang.”

Nick thought Dale sold himself short, but couldn’t bring himself to disagree. Not when it meant his senior project manager would take himself out of the running. This red devil exuded class if ever he’d seen it, and he had. Loads of times. She exuded class, and expensive seduction, and provocative, mind-blowing sex.

Watching her sweep that magnificent hair back from her shoulder and move along with the crowd, Nick decided Dale was wrong. Life was fair. Very fair. Otherwise he might be somewhere else in the world, instead of in this theater with a growing hard-on before the show had even started.

PROFESSIONALLY DIMMED lighting and a ceiling that replicated a black velvet night filled with twinkling stars made even Julienne’s not-so-great orchestra seat seem like a gateway to a magical world. The American variety stage show that would close the Risqué for the first time in its illustrious history celebrated the evolution of the theater’s unusual performances.

A turn-of-the-century strip show brought to life the exotic dance entertainment of Gypsy Rose Lee before segueing into more family-oriented vaudeville—though there wasn’t much family-oriented about this sketch, with off-color jokes and women tap dancing in fringed costumes that shimmied over lean muscles and lots of bared skin.

The theatrical years passed. A short gangster film yielded to a segment that was an adaptation of the theater-in-the-round so popular in the fifties and sixties. The actors actually filed off the stage, milling around the musicians in the orchestra pit, all of whom good-naturedly continued playing despite actors miming various sex acts all around them and their instruments.

Beautifully choreographed and skillfully executed, the sight had Julienne stripping off her jacket and wondering why she’d ever worried about getting cold. Then again, her rising body temperature may have more to do with the man sitting in the loge than the performance.

He sat in the very front row of the balcony to the left of the stage with a dark-haired gentleman and several people she recognized from the newspapers as board members of the city arts council that currently operated the theater.

Julienne had seen pictures of Nicholas Fairfax before, but no picture came close to the man himself, even at this distance. Though she really only had a view of him from the shoulders up, his blond hair, tanned skin and chiseled features spanned the distance with an intensity that kicked up her body temperature another few degrees.

As gorgeous as his work was brilliant, the man’s inky black brows contrasted sharply with his blond hair, a look that she’d forever associate with California in her mind. With features chiseled and masculine in a polished, beachy sort of way, he wore an intent expression, which made her wonder what he thought about the actors milling through the orchestra pit, naked for all intents and purposes in their flesh-toned liquid latex. Was he as turned on as she by the thrusting hips, gyrating bodies and jiggling parts?

She was definitely turned on. The now-moist thong had wedged itself between her legs, making her squirm to relieve the pressure, or maybe to create more friction. Julienne wasn’t sure which. She only knew she was more aware of her body than ever before, a combination of her new clothes, the erotic performances and the fantasy man sitting out of reach above her.

Scanning the program for some clue to when the performance would end, she found her answer in a jolting rock beat from the seventies. The “Living Theater” performance, which meant she only had to survive the eighties and nineties before heading to the bar for a cooling sip of champagne to relieve her overheated body.

Naughty girls feel naughty.

She’d have to say one thing for The Naughty Handbook and self-hypnosis—they were a powerful combination. Thinking about sex left her hovering on the edge of a sexual excitement that had skyrocketed through the performance. She couldn’t ever remember being so affected by any show she’d ever seen at the Risqué. Was this what Ramón had meant by a “hair-curling” performance?

If anything would curl her hair, the actors beckoning their audience onstage to join them in a liberating striptease might just do it. Even under the influence of self-hypnosis, she couldn’t even consider accepting such a provocative invitation.

Then again, Julienne didn’t have to, because a pair of strong hands physically ejected her from her seat. She was on her feet and heading down the aisle before realizing what was happening.

“Ramón? Katriona.” Digging in her heels, she made a stand. “What are you doing here? What are you doing?” She tried to shrug off the hand Ramón had fastened around her arm.

He wouldn’t let go. “Half these actors are my clients, sweetheart, and you’re my latest creation. I want to show you off.” He tried to tug her toward the stage as they were blocking the aisle, causing a traffic jam of spectators who were intent upon getting on that stage to liberate or be liberated.

She resisted. “I can’t, Ramón. Let me go.”

Katriona may have dressed in an exquisite white chiffon that accentuated both her height and regal bustline, but that didn’t negate the fact that she’d entered this world as the opposite sex, growing to be somewhere around six foot two with shoulders as wide as a linebacker’s. Her hands on Julienne’s back propelled her into motion again, no questions asked.

All the sexual heat that had just been rushing through Julienne dissolved into a mingled mess of adrenaline and embarrassment as she was herded onto the stage.

Naughty girls go for it.

And Julienne planned to, all right. She was going right for her seat before this crowd of stripping, bare-assed maniacs started liberating her. She spun around…she may have been going for her seat, but she accidentally got a handful of some actor’s crotch, a tidy handful if she were to judge.

The actor gave her a grateful kiss on the cheek before leaving Julienne standing stock-still, blushing so furiously she must be as red as her dress.

Time to add a new key phrase to her self-hypnosis sessions—naughty girls don’t lose their cool.

Deep breath. Don’t look out at the audience. Another deep breath. Move. Then she started gyrating to the music, blending in with the crazed crowd, all the while making her way back to the stairs that circled the orchestra pit and led off the stage. And thanking all the angels in heaven that even if anyone she knew sat in the audience, they’d never recognize the new her.

How Julienne survived the eighties and the nineties was a mystery, because she couldn’t remember a thing about the final acts or the finale. In fact, her cheeks still burned when she left her seat for the lobby. And of course, she was trying so hard to avoid Ramón and Katriona, before they dragged her backstage to meet the man whose parts she’d grabbed, that she barreled right into someone.

Whipcord lean arms reached out to steady her, anchored her against a very tall, very physically fit man. One quick intake of breath later, a breath tinged with a deliciously spicy male scent, and Julienne lifted her gaze to the blackest, most potent eyes she’d ever seen.

It took only a moment, a fluttering heartbeat, for her to realize those black-velvet eyes were framed by very tanned skin, blond hair and a chiseled jaw she’d have known anywhere, even if she hadn’t spent the past two hours covertly staring at him.

Nicholas Fairfax.

She must have looked shell-shocked because those potent eyes crinkled with amusement and he grinned, a charming grin that lit up his face and cast the lobby and the crowd around them into obscurity.

“I should apologize,” he said in a rich, cultured voice that sent a shiver right to her toes. “But as I’m holding you in my arms, I can’t say I’m sorry I ran into you.”

Unless he’d intentionally stepped in front of her, she’d technically run into him, but he was very gallant to accept responsibility for their collision.

Naughty girls don’t lose their cool.

The key phrase echoed in her memory when she needed it most, and Julienne laughed, she actually laughed, a throaty, sexy sound she didn’t even recognize as coming from her mouth.

“I’m not sorry, either. Actually, I was aiming for you, just to see if you’d catch me.”

You go, girl.

His black eyes flashed. She might be breaking new ground by flirting, but clearly Nicholas Fairfax was in his element. His grip tightened, just enough to put her off-balance so she relied on him to hold her upright, just enough to feel the impressive reaction of his groin against her stomach.

More parts. Only these parts sent a blush into her cheeks, made her gaze up to the grinning cupids overhead in a vain attempt to hide her reaction.

He apparently noticed, because he asked, “Are you interested in architecture?”

She nodded.

“This place is about to undergo a major restoration.”

She met that potent black gaze again, couldn’t quite believe how his glance, a glance for heaven’s sake, sizzled through her like a power surge. “That’s why I’m here tonight. I wanted to see it one last time.”

“Afraid you won’t recognize the place?” Then he smiled, a blinding sort of smile that radiated so much testosterone she could barely catch her breath.

Stepping back, he broke the connection between them, allowed her to regain her balance. But he didn’t let go of her hand. He brought it to his lips instead, a gentlemanly gesture that drew all her attention to the place where his warm skin touched hers. “I promise that won’t be the case, beautiful, because I’m heading the design team. Nick Fairfax.”

Julienne blinked as he brushed his mouth across her skin. Had Nicholas Fairfax—Nick—brilliant restoration architect and naughty boy extraordinaire, just called her beautiful?

The glint in his sultry eyes answered that question positively but before she could absorb such an amazing thought or push an introduction past her lips, she heard a familiar, and very unwelcome, voice yell, “Jules.”

Turning toward the sound, she found Ramón and Katriona weaving through the crowd toward them. In barely the time it took her to inhale a steadying breath, Julienne saw Ramón’s gaze pivot to the hand Nick Fairfax still held against his lips. Katriona didn’t appear to notice; in fact, she eyed the man himself with such a hungry expression Julienne guessed she’d like nothing better than to gobble Nick up in one bite.

“Jules.” He brushed his lips across her skin again, before releasing her. “My pleasure.”

“Nick,” she managed to reply, before Ramón and Katriona were upon them and she made polite introductions.

“I’ve read all about you,” Ramón told Nick, but not before casting her a surreptitious wink that reminded her of their earlier conversation about finding a new guy. Apparently Ramón thought Nick Fairfax could be an acceptable contender. “Take my card. You’ll need a stylist while you’re in town. Send your employees in, too. My staff will take good care of everyone.”

Julienne rolled her eyes, still feeling a bit dazed by the chemistry between her and this utterly exquisite architect who towered above her, though she wasn’t exactly short in her heels.

But Nick took Ramón’s solicitations in stride. “If you’ve played a part in this beautiful lady’s appearance, I’ll book an appointment and recommend you to my team, no problem.” His gaze trailed from her hair to her toes, and she couldn’t miss the approval flashing in his dark eyes.

“I can’t take all the credit,” Ramón said magnanimously. “Jules is a joy to work on.”

Katriona inclined her regal head, clearly about to add her two cents, but Ramón clamped a hand on her arm and stopped her before she opened her mouth.

“Would you look at the time? Come on, Kat.” With a vice grip on her chiffon-clad arm, he launched Katriona into the crowd, no mean feat given her size. Then he glanced back and said, “Jules, don’t forget your appointment tomorrow.”

Julienne stared. Appointment? Since when was Casa de Ramón open on Sundays? When Ramón glared at her over his eyeglass rims, she realized he wanted her to call.

“I won’t forget,” she shot back, earning Ramón’s smile before he and Katriona disappeared into the crowd.

After tucking the business card into his pocket, Nick fixed her an examining look. “Did you come with them?”

“No.”

“I don’t see a date. I’ve been watching you since I arrived.”

“You have?” Okay, not the most confident of replies, but it seemed to amuse Nick, judging by the grin suddenly playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I have. And I particularly enjoyed your performance during the living theater. You made a very graceful exit.”

That earlier blush returned to haunt her and she hoped he didn’t notice in the dim lobby lighting. But the heat in her cheeks also served to knock some sense into her.

Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty.

“No date. I’m all by myself tonight.”

“Not anymore.” Nick extended his hand in a very gentlemanly gesture of invitation. “If you’ll allow me, there’s a party downstairs and I’d like you to be my guest.”