About That Night.... Jeanie London

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