Nights In Black Lace. Noelle Mack

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      Marie only smiled and nodded, and returned her attention to the show, making notes on a pad of paper. Laptops weren’t allowed, she’d said. She’d explained that new designs were often copied within hours of their appearance on catwalks. So, no cellphones, no cameras.

      He edged his way into an opening between her chair and the next, and squatted down on his haunches. A passing model looked down with surprise and gave him a startled smile. The occupant of the chair to Marie’s right, a tycoon type in an impeccably tailored suit, glared at him.

      Bryan grinned back. The model, seventeen at most, hadn’t even noticed the tycoon, who was undoubtedly a model hound. The dude had to be in his fifties, though. But obviously rich. Happy hunting, Bryan thought with disgust.

      “I appreciate the invitation, Marie. You’ve been great about explaining all this.” He gestured toward the stage as he turned his attention again to Marie. “Thanks.”

      “Is crazy, no?”

      “Yes. But fun in a way.”

      “For me, it is work.”

      Her grandmother, on Marie’s left, leaned over and got his attention with a crooked finger. “So you are enjoying the show?”

      “Sure.” Bryan glanced up at an improbably high pair of cork-soled wedge sandals clomping by. The model dragged an equally improbable swath of peacock feathers after her, raising a faint swirl of dust.

      “The girls are beautiful,” Madame Arelquin said with approval.

      “Oui,” Bryan said. It seemed like the only thing he could say. And he wasn’t totally lying. They were amazing in their gangly, gorgeous way, just not his type.

      He couldn’t 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 couldn’t even get a BLT in Paris. Or a chili dog. Two things he really craved.

      He was hungry, and truth be told, he didn’t know if he could make it to the end of this fashion extravagoonzah, especially because he didn’t 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 women—okay, there were a few men in the mix but so what—it 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.

      “Hello,” he said. He wasn’t going to ask why she’d 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 couldn’t remember it to save his life.

      Hell, he could do better than that for small talk. He didn’t 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.

      “Great show,” he said. That seemed like a safe opening line.

      “Thank you.” 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 she’d 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 camisole—was 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 hadn’t 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 he—you don’t even know her name.

      She was talking to him. “I heard you won a ticket to a front row seat.”

      “Huh?” 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. He’d love to bend her over and find out if garters were involved. “Oh—right. Quite a view. I’ve never been to anything like this.”

      “I can tell.” There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

      Now he was close enough to see their color—green with dashes of gold. But it was the expression in them that mesmerized him. Soulful. Intelligent. Woman-of-the-world.

      Whereas he, Bryan Bachman, was still knocking around said world, waiting to hear from graduate schools while he tried to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. She looked like she had. She looked successful, despite her thrift store outfit, which was cute as hell.

      “Hey, would you like to get out of here and get something to eat?” he said all of a sudden. “How about a BLT? My treat.”

      Big spender. But he could probably afford that. She actually seemed pleased. He would have sworn that she blushed for a second, and was amazed when she did.

      “Ah, what is a BLT?” she asked politely.

      “That’s a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich,” he explained. “I’ve been craving one. It’s really simple and really good, when you get the ingredients right. The tomato has to be ripe and the mayonnaise is key—”

      “It sounds very American,” she said thoughtfully. “But then we French invented mayonnaise.”

      “Yeah.” Bryan stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, wondering if he’d made a mistake. He should have asked her out to a good bistro, not that he knew one from another. Of course, he could have asked her to recommend one. And risk sounding like a mooch? No way.

      He didn’t even know where to get a decent BLT in Paris, let alone whether she’d like his favorite sandwich.

      “So you want American food,” she was saying. “We can go to Le Diner, then.”

      “You know a place?”

      She nodded. “The chef is as French as I am, but the cuisine is definitely not.”

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