Nights In Black Lace. Noelle Mack

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      Who was she?

      Bryan had noticed someone behind the curtain from the moment he’d sat down, peeking through. When the house lights went down, he’d seen her in outline.

      Fantastic shape, definitely female.

      Just before the models stepped out, she’d moved away from there. But he remembered her eyes, intent and watchful as a cat’s, outlined with dark pencil. That was about all he could see, but he had a feeling those eyes belonged to someone beautiful.

      Then again, everyone at a fashion show this exclusive was beautiful or acted like they were. But the two women on either side of him didn’t seem to notice that they were being watched.

      The scene was a freakin’ zoo otherwise.

      And he no longer had a place in the front row, not that he cared. He hadn’t expected to win the seat when he’d bought the raffle ticket, just wanted to use up the last of his euros before he flew back home.

      He’d come to Paris purely for the hell of it, on his way back from hiking in the Alsace-Lorraine region, on the recommendation of a former roommate. Spectacular scenery, but too damn cold and slippery this time of year.

      He somehow imagined that Paris would be warmer. Not in April. He’d stashed his stuff in an inexpensive hotel near the airport, taken the Métro into the heart of the city and wandered around. Brrr.

      Bryan understood enough French to know that the French knew he was American, and left him alone. Tant pis, as they said. Tough luck.

      The city was interesting, but he didn’t have enough money to enjoy much of it, outside of watching the Eiffel Tower light up at night, which was free and very cool.

      Even romantic, if he’d had anyone to share it with.

      And he’d thought the pretty girl selling raffle tickets was interested in him. Hah.

      He’d handed over a couple of bills and jotted down his cell phone number when she’d said something about a charity and a fashion show in the same breath. Whatever.

      The text message that he was a winner had surprised him, but he’d had nothing else to do that night. So here he was, making out okay in French, mostly because a lot of them spoke decent English.

      Marie Arelquin looked at his tank top and smiled.

      “Is that where you are from?” she asked.

      He looked down, not remembering what he had on right away. “Uh—yeah. Newport Beach. I grew up there but I’ve lived all over California.”

      Two really young women in the next row leaned over to take a look too. See and be seen, he thought. He was hardly God’s gift to fashion, but they eyed him appreciatively.

      The first nodded wisely. “Le O.C.,” she said to her friend as if he wasn’t able to figure out what that meant.

      “Non. Baywatch,” her friend replied.

      “They think you are an actor,” Marie whispered.

      He looked back at the girls to see if they’d heard her say that, but they were busy gawking at some other guy, who actually was famous.

      Bryan couldn’t blame them for the mistake, since he was dressed like a lifeguard on the lam. Couldn’t be helped. He’d dug out the wetsuit jacket because the weather was cold, and it offered lightweight warmth. The tank top had been underneath it in his duffel bag. He hadn’t put on his sweater, underestimating how damp it was.

      Everything else he owned was dirty, including his underwear, but he wasn’t staying in the kind of hotel that had laundry service. So, he’d shown up in take-me-as-I-am mode.

      Milling around before the show started was interesting and the people-watching was a hoot. So this was what fashionistas were like. He’d memorized every detail he could to share with his mother in his next e-mail, and then made friends with Marie Arelquin, a sophisticate who didn’t seem to mind his funky clothes or his shaggy hair, and who didn’t try to hit on him, either.

      Talking to Marie was fun and her English was a lot better than his French. And what could he do but give up his seat to her grandmother when she’d edged through the crowd?

      Madame Arelquin was or had been a big deal in this weird world, judging by the deferential nods she got, but these days she apparently wasn’t quite as big a deal as Mademoiselle Arelquin, right up front. He was getting an idea of the hierarchy involved, and feeling a little like he’d gone back in time to the court of the Sun King. Bow and scrape. Check out each other’s clothes and shoes.

      As far as that went, the old lady had eyed him haughtily from head to toe, and Bryan got the message. His own mother would have been proud of how fast he’d been to offer the coveted front-row chair to her.

      The music thundered and the show began.

      Bryan stood behind the Arelquins, who were talking in rapid-fire French that he half-understood as one leggy babe after another strode by at the level of his nose. The first two or three made his cock twitch—high heels and underwear were an effective combination—but after a while, the models and what they were wearing began to blur in his mind.

      Something about the way they walked was off-putting. Their bodies were unnatural, for one thing. Their legs were extremely thin, and so were their arms. And their butts were just too flat. Boobs, non-existent. Were there guys who got off on women this skinny and underfed?

      Bryan liked the kind of female you could get a grip on. These girls looked breakable.

      Never mind, he told himself. Just get the details. He knew his mother wouldn’t believe he’d gotten a front-row seat at a designer show. But that reporter from Bonjour Paris had had him pose for pictures before they entered the showroom hall, and made the photographer guy promised to e-mail Bryan the jpegs that same night.

      The photographer, who was the essence of arty cool in a shaved head, Harley tattoo, T-shirt, and a black leather vest, never looked at Bryan except through the image finder. But he’d said yes. Bryan figured he’d stop at an internet café and forward whatever popped up in his e-mail as soon as he could.

      Come to think of it, he’d post them on Facebook. His UC Santa Cruz postgrad pals would be sure to get on his case about the political incorrectness of a fashion show.

      He’d get a more honest reaction from his minimum-wage-earning, wave-riding, jock friends. They’d either laugh their skanky heads off or die of envy. And then there was the head of the marine biology department, a lonesome weirdo they all called the Giant Squid. The Squid would want to get his tentacles on a model, no doubt about it.

      “Bryan,” Marie was saying. “Do you want to go out after the show to eat with me and my grandmother?”

      He loved the way she said that. Grrranmuzzaire. It sounded better than just plain grandmother and her lips looked so pretty as she parted them, waiting for his reply. But even so. Hitting on a woman with her formidable grandmother right by her side? Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.

      “Ah—no. Sorry. I have a, uh, previous engagement.” That sounded СКАЧАТЬ