Nights in Black Lace

by Noelle Mack

  The Arelquins were doing their best to make conversation with him. Marie Arelquin seemed to be explaining something. Bryan nodded as if he understood and looked up suddenly at the curtain.

  At Odette.

  She had fancied herself invisible. Apparently not. Odette took a step back. He had to have seen her, so penetrating was his look. Standing there staring, now that the house lights had gone down, she must be visible behind the curtain.

  Not that it mattered. Would he even know who she was?

  Most likely not. Of course, Lucie saw to it that the creative head of the firm got plenty of publicity, and Odette was photographed often. Still, Bryan Bachman didn’t look like someone who read Vogue or Details or W.

  The models were lining up not far away behind the curtain, nervous and clumsy in their high heels. They had very little in the way of material to conceal any stumbles or awkward turns on the catwalk, adorned only in the scantiest bras and panties ever seen, and fanciful feather trains and headdresses, which Marc and his team had provided, that harked back to the show-girls of the Folies Bergère.

  Ready or not, they had to step out. Two or three girls glanced her way, and Odette gave them an encouraging smile.

  She let the gap in the curtain fall closed, and went to confer with her makeup people, attending to last-second details, feeling rather distracted.

  As soon as the parade down the catwalk was underway, she could escape and watch most of the show from a distance, as she usually did. It was difficult to get a real feeling of the honest reaction to the new looks otherwise.

  Then she would run backstage and emerge at the very end to take a bow.

  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 dou
bt 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 lame, he thought.

  It would have to do. He didn’t have enough money to take her and Madame Arelquin out, and he wasn’t going to let them take him out.

  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.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Bryan asked sheepishly.

  Odette had to laugh. “I have heard only good things about it, but I have never been there. I do know that tourists haven’t discovered it yet—it just opened.”

  “Okay, that’s a good thing. I won’t run into anyone I know from back home.”

  Odette gave him a look of mock offense. “Why? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

  “Hell, no,” he said, flashing a startled smile. “You must be the hottest woman in Paris. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Not at all.” She gave him a smile that melted him.

  “Anyway, I’d much rather look at you than
a bunch of fanny-packers.”

  “Ah. I see. Merci, m’sieu.”

  He looked around at the filled-to-capacity hall as if he had no idea where he was and gave one last absent-minded glance at the catwalk. The music was louder and the models were dancing now, working the crowd.

  The model hound in the row he’d left reached up and tried to grab an ankle. Bryan noticed the beefiest bouncer heading that way.

  “Cochon,” Odette said indignantly. “There is one at every show.”

  “He is a pig. Do you want me to—”

  She shook her head. “The situation is under control.”

  The tycoon was being lifted off his feet and hauled away faster than he could call a lawyer.

  “All right. Well…shall we go?” He’d gotten lucky, she’d said yes, and he wanted to leave before anything else distracted her.

  “Yes.”

  Bryan looked around, somewhat disoriented by the place and the ever-louder music. They must be getting around to the grand finale.

  “Lead the way,” he said to her.

  She shook her head. “That’s not how I like to do things.” She stepped forward and slid her arm around his. “You are the man, no?”

  “Uh…yeah. I like the way you say that.”

  It took several minutes to get near the exit. He seemed even taller that close. His body so near hers, his thighs brushing hers, made her think of what she wanted: sex. Uncomplicated by emotion. But as passionate as two people who didn’t really know each other could make it.

  Not just yet. She needed to find out more about him, look him up online, confirm Lucie’s offhand remarks. Odette whispered a few words to one of the bouncers on her way out so Marc would not worry.

  Looking into the mirror of the bathroom in Le Diner, Odette asked herself a few interesting questions as she reapplied her eye pencil.

  The first was What do you think you are doing? And the second, which was trickier, was When are you going to tell him who you are? He didn’t seem to realize that she was Odette Gaillard of Oh! Oh! Odette Lingerie, hadn’t asked her name. Just talked to her, half in schoolboy French that made her giggle, half in English, in between bites of his BLT. Even better, he’d listened when she talked.