“Kiss me, Julienne, or let me kiss you.”

Nick ground out the words in a voice that held nothing back. He hungered with an intensity he’d never known before. Her combination of bold temptress with hints of shy innocence captivated him.

The first taste of her wet velvet mouth shot his blood south in a painful rush. Her kiss was inquisitive, a cautious exploration. He let her take the lead, though he ached to deepen their kiss, to drive his tongue into her mouth and test the limits of her passion.

She rewarded his restraint, darting her tongue across his bottom lip. A light touch, a taste really, but there was an intimacy that opened the floodgates. Suddenly her grip tightened and her mouth made demands of him that stole his breath.

Julienne tested his control, lit fires inside him that he knew wouldn’t be doused until he experienced this woman naked with her hair tumbling all around them.

He eased back, staring intently into her eyes so there would be no question about his meaning.

“Can you imagine my hands on you, Julienne? Let me touch you. Let me pleasure you.”

Dear Reader,

More often than not, my family and friends jet around the globe while I stay home to check the mailbox for postcards. But I do occasionally venture into the world. One trip I’m very familiar with is the one that leads north along the eastern seaboard. My sister Kimberly and I never thought twice about hopping in the car and heading to our childhood home in New York, and whenever we did, we’d always find some reason to detour through Savannah, Georgia, just to experience the charm and beauty of this grand Southern city.

Julienne Blake wants to experience something in Savannah, too—passion. With the help of self-hypnosis, she lets her hair down and takes a walk on the wild side, a walk that leads her straight into Nick Fairfax’s arms. Nick signed on only to renovate Savannah’s erotic theater, but one night on the empty stage with this naughty girl convinces him he’ll never be content until he knows all her secrets.

Blaze is the place to explore red-hot romance, and I’m excited to write for a series that excels in steamy happily-ever-afters. I hope About That Night… brings you to happily-ever-after, too. Let me know. Drop me a line in care of Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada, or visit my Web site at www.jeanielondon.com.

Very truly yours,

Jeanie London

P.S.—Don’t forget to check out www.tryblaze.com!

About That Night…
Jeanie London

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Ann Josephson, for your skill,

your friendship and all those spicy brainstorming sessions that never fail to make our husbands blush.

And special thanks to Cheryl Mansfield, for sharing your architectural expertise and writer’s sight.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Prologue

Twenty-one days ago.

NAUGHTY GIRLS feel good about feeling naughty.

Julienne Blake silently read the phrase from the open book, then again, before rallying the courage to say it aloud.

“Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty.” The words rolled off her tongue, unfamiliar and shockingly bold in her quiet living room. On the walls hung photographs of her youth spent traveling with her bachelor great uncle to renovate historically significant buildings all over the world.

Thankfully, Uncle Thad wasn’t in the room to hear her read the words again. Despite being seriously out of his element, he’d tried his level best to rear his orphaned great-niece as a good girl after awakening one morning to find her on his doorstep.

“Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty.”

There, she had it. Her voice sounded natural, relaxed. A feat that had required a significant amount of practice, given that Julienne had spent her entire adult life studiously avoiding concepts like feeling good and feeling naughty. These weren’t concepts any good girl should dwell on, not when there were other, more productive uses for her time, like focusing on an education and a career.

Julienne had been the ultimate good girl, a fact she’d been proud of—until six months ago when a broken engagement had made her question whether there was more to life than living up to other people’s expectations and always doing the right thing. Especially after her ex-fiancé had placed the blame for their breakup on her, complaining she lacked fire and passion.

Snapping the book shut, she set The Naughty Handbook of Naughty Girl Sex on the end table and leaned back in her favorite chair, a leather recliner where she normally spent nights pouring over her students’ papers. Closing her eyes, she let the message filter through her.

Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty.

Julienne planned to feel naughty and feel good about it. She’d just turned thirty, a turning point for finally realizing she should enjoy life. After spending five years with Ethan…she still couldn’t believe she’d spent five years with Ethan simply because it had seemed like the right thing to do.

Come on, girl. Whoever said a woman had to finish college, establish herself in a career and then settle down to get married? When do you get to have fun?

The voice in her head asked valid questions. Although she’d spent a lot of time soul-searching since the breakup, Julienne didn’t have any answers. Not even an answer for why life without Ethan seemed as tepid as life with him had been.

“Why are you sitting here in the dark, Julienne?” Uncle Thad asked. “Are you feeling all right?”

Julienne opened her eyes to find her uncle silhouetted beneath the archway that led to the hall. Snatching The Naughty Handbook from the end table, she flipped the cover down on her lap and gazed at him, an always-welcomed sight. His red apple cheeks and neat white beard lent him a rather Santa Clausish air that always made her think of Christmas. Perhaps because he’d come into her life just like Santa Claus down a chimney, generously devoting his golden years to rearing her.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she assured him. “Just a little tired.”

“You should get to bed then.” He strode into the room and sat in the recliner opposite hers, apparently not noticing her book. “Unless you’re up for a documentary on the History Channel. The show will feature that Philadelphia courthouse Dr. Fairfax renovated a few years back. Since he’s coming to town soon to start work on the Risqué Theatre, I thought I’d watch the program. Starts in a few minutes.”

Julienne usually enjoyed watching programs that featured the work of this well-known preservation architect. With citations from more than three dozen historic organizations and an appointment to the President’s Advisory Council for Historic Preservation, Dr. Nicholas Fairfax was the noted authority in her area of expertise.

But tonight the very idea of TV seemed so symbolic of her staid lifestyle that not even watching the much-admired Nicholas Fairfax could silence Ethan’s unkind comments about fire and passion echoing in her head.

It’s always the same thing, Julienne. If I didn’t suggest get-togethers with our university colleagues, you’d have us at home every night watching urban renewal shows with your uncle.

Though she hadn’t been that gung ho about Ethan’s recreation of choice—especially since get-togethers with their colleagues usually degenerated into long-winded debates on the merits of hypnotherapy in today’s societal climate—she couldn’t argue his point.

Here it was Saturday night and instead of visiting with friends or enjoying one of the many entertainments Savannah offered, she sat at home, contemplating a night watching a very handsome preservation architect prop up rotting joists on TV.

Sheesh. It had taken her weeks to come up with a radical solution to her good-girl problem, a solution she couldn’t implement with her uncle sitting a mere foot away.

Flipping down the recliner footrest, Julienne tucked her book under her arm. “I’ll pass on the documentary tonight, and take your suggestion about getting a good night’s sleep.” She stood, circled his chair and kissed her uncle’s cheek. “See you in the morning.”

“Sleep well, my dear.” Smiling absently, he reached for the remote control on the end table.

Julienne headed upstairs, hoping she could find a balance between the “good” girl Uncle Thad had raised, and the woman who needed to know she possessed at least a spark of fire. She didn’t always have to do things the right way. Ethan had been right and look where he’d gotten her.

A professor of hypnotherapy at the University of Savannah, Dr. Ethan Whiteside had been stable. He’d also been upwardly mobile, financially secure and attractive. But he hadn’t been very aware or supportive of her needs.

After graduating with her doctorate in historical preservation at the unusually ripe young age of twenty-five, Julienne had wanted to go into the field and work on a rehabilitation project to flex her hard-earned skills. She’d been reared in the field with Uncle Thad, right up until he’d retired to an academic position at the university in time for her to start college. She loved to travel and going into the field again before marriage had sounded like a good…okay, a fun thing to do.

But Ethan had wanted a wife on staff at the university to fulfill his dream of being part of an academic power couple. He’d insisted she be groomed to take Uncle Thad’s place at retirement. Julienne had acquiesced. She told herself she should spend as much time as possible with her aging uncle—which she had, and that she couldn’t expect to have things go her way all the time—which they hadn’t.

Although she loved her job and found satisfaction teaching her students, she couldn’t overlook that her relationship with Ethan had always been focused on his desires and his goals. For some reason she still couldn’t quite put her finger on, she’d accepted that. After all, no relationship could be perfect.

It doesn’t have to be perfect, girl, but it should be fulfilling, that voice in her head said. You haven’t been living, you’ve been existing. Time to shake things up.

Julienne headed into her bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her. She planned to start having fun. She was through with existing, done with living up to other people’s expectations. No more tepid emotions. And absolutely no more tepid sex ever again.

Time to shake off apathy and enjoy life.

Glancing in the mirror above her dresser, she noticed pale cheeks where her blush had faded away, the once-neat French braid so at odds with the naughty girl image in her head.

“You can do this,” she told her reflection. “You can put aside your good-girl notions. You can take charge of your life and explore your sensuality.”

Curiously enough, the ex-fiancé and hypnotherapist, had unwittingly provided the key to shedding her inhibitions with a nifty form of conditioning called self-hypnosis.

Hypnotherapy can be a powerful tool, Julienne. It uses autosuggestion, imagery and imagination to improve different aspects of your personality. I can show you a few techniques.

She didn’t want Ethan to show her any techniques, nor did she desire his help in deciding which aspects of her personality needed improving. And if she hadn’t gotten the general idea about hypnotherapy after listening to him talk about his work for the past five years, she had access to the university library and all his treatises on the subject.

“Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty,” she chanted her key phrase, smiling when the words slipped from her lips without making her blush.

She breathed deeply and tried again. “Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty.”

Twenty-one days of mastering suggestibility techniques, of chanting key phrases, of visualizing herself as a naughty girl, would create a lasting subconscious impression that she could be the type of woman who could catch a hot-blooded man’s attention.

And when she’d convinced herself she did have a spark of passion inside…Julienne knew the perfect hot-blooded man to test her skills on.

1

Today

AFTER TAKING a deep breath to steel her nerves for what was possibly the most outrageous—and potentially disastrous—decision she’d ever made, Julienne pushed through the etched-glass front door of Casa de Ramón, plunging herself into a frenetic world of bright lights, whirring blow dryers and pungent chemical smells.

Chic Art Deco furnishings incorporated the hydraulic chairs, rows of shampoo bowls and otherworldly hood dryers in an upscale salon that brought to mind images of grooming beautiful people who didn’t mind looking at themselves in walls and walls of mirrors.

Julienne hoped she could cultivate that particular skill, because when she caught sight of herself walking into the reception area, French-braided hair and dove-gray business suit unassuming amid the surrounding grandeur, she could only pray Ramón was up for a challenge.

Come on, girl. Think beautiful. Naughty girls come in all shapes and sizes.

“Jules, sweetheart.” Owner and stylist extraordinaire, Ramón, hurried down the aisle between the stylists’ booths, long black overcoat whipping out behind him like Batman’s cape. “I saw you on my book and I’m marked off for hours. Tell me, tell me. What are we doing today?”

Clients peered up from beneath wet bangs and foil strips that made their heads resemble shiny antennae. Now that she had everyone’s undivided attention…

Naughty girls enjoy being noticed.

“We’re doing something different today,” she said, not quite as enthusiastically as someone who enjoyed being noticed might say it, but reasonably self-possessed all the same.

“Not the usual ‘just put a new line in the bottom but don’t take off much length’?” Ramón didn’t give her a chance to reply as he waved at the receptionist, a beautiful young girl who sat behind a desk, completely unflustered by her boss’s theatrics. “Don’t put any calls through. And for God’s sake don’t let anyone back to bother us. I don’t care if Elvis himself shows up crooning. Jules and I have business.”

With that he latched a long-fingered hand around her upper arm and practically frog-marched her back to his semiprivate station past the rows of booths where his stylists waved, smiled and eyed her with interest.

“What is it, Jules? You finally want some shape in this mop? Or curl?”

Julienne allowed herself to be guided into the hydraulic chair and spun to face another unforgiving mirror with such speed her already fluttering stomach gave a decided lurch.

“No curl.”

“Color?” A tall, lean man, Ramón bent over her and peered myopically at her reflection in the mirror. “Don’t tell me you found a gray.”

“No. You don’t see any, do you?”

He surveyed the top of her head. “No grays. So why are you finally letting me do something to bring out the beauty of this exquisite color God gave you?”

Naughty girls look the part.

“I just want something different.”

“Be more specific, please.”

“I’m not exactly sure what,” she admitted. “That’s why I’m placing myself in your capable hands. I want a new look.”

Julienne expected exultation, or enthusiasm at the very least. After all, Ramón had been after her for the entire five years of their acquaintance to do something…anything with her hair.

But he only eyed her skeptically above the slices of black eyeglass frames resting low on his nose.

“How new?”

“New-new. Just not anything too short or too crazy.”

He circled her slowly, assessing, reminding her of Uncle Thad whenever he stepped inside an old building to assess the construction of walls and decorative moldings for restoration.

“What prompted this sudden need for a new you?”

“I just turned thirty.”

“Okay, a milestone birthday. What else?”

“What do you mean ‘what else’?”

He frowned.

“I’m just ready for a change.” She wasn’t about to tell him the truth.

“Does this sudden inspiration have anything to do with Dr. Whiteside?”

“Ramón, what kind of question is that?”

“A personal one I need an answer to, before I’ll touch my scissors to this mop you’ve been growing forever.” He sniffed haughtily. “Once I cut into the length, it’ll take decades to grow back out if you don’t like it. I don’t have the patience to listen to you sob the whole time.”

“Oh.”

She could understand caution. She’d lived a whole life filled with it. And she really had no reason to be uncomfortable about fessing up to Ramón. He’d been styling her hair ever since Ethan had insisted she make an appointment with his stylist. Besides…

Naughty girls feel good about feeling naughty.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Ethan does factor in a little. We called off our engagement six months ago and I’m ready to move on with my life. I’m ready to head in a new direction.”

Curiosity finally sparked in Ramón’s expression, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the back of the chair, his face so close she could smell the spicy scent of his aftershave mingling with powerful traces of permanent wave solution from an earlier client. “A new direction, hmm? How new?”

“New-new. I plan to enjoy myself.”

There, you said it and you didn’t even blush. See, girl, twenty-one days of self-hypnosis are paying off.

“You’re booked in for the whole day,” Ramón said. “You want more than just a new hairstyle, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Facial, makeup and image consultation? The works?”

She nodded again.

Ramón bolted upright as if he’d been shot from a gun, making Julienne jump in the chair.

“Celeste, round up the troops,” he bellowed toward the front of the salon. “Jules’ll be leaving here a new woman.”

A new woman! That’s exactly what you want to be. Now sit back and enjoy the transformation.

Julienne didn’t have a chance to sit back and enjoy anything before being herded into a dressing room, instructed to strip out of her suit and don a black salon overcoat.

The troops arrived. Kathy the skincare specialist and makeup artist. Stephanie with the body spa. Judith, the salon’s colorist, though Ramón assured her he’d be doing her color himself. She already knew Katriona, the six-foot-two manicurist, who dripped gold spandex and flaunted her cake makeup and razor-stubbled cheeks proudly.

“Well, hey, sister,” she said. “What’s this Ramón said about real nails? Tell me you’re finally giving up that modish farmhand look you’ve been sporting since the dawn of time.”

To Katriona real nails meant acrylic and lots of it, along with sparkly gems, traffic-stopping colors and gold jewelry that resembled Barbie-doll sized nose rings.

“Just something feminine for tonight. I can’t wear them too long or I won’t be able to work. I’ve got my interns taking samples at a one hundred and thirty-six-year-old church this week.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Katriona said in a decidedly bored drawl. “But what’s happening tonight? Something more lively than scraping paint chips off rotting floorboards, I hope.”

“The closing performance at the Risqué Theatre.”

“The Risqué?” Ramón asked, his fingers coming to a sudden halt in her braid. “You’re joking.”

“No,” she said, unsure why he was so surprised. “The Risqué Theatre is a building of architectural and historical significance. I’ve been there lots of times.”

“With your uncle?”

The subject matter performed at the Risqué was on the racy side for her sweet, but whole-other-generation uncle. “Ah, no.”

“I know you didn’t go with Dr. Whiteside.” Ramón frowned. “I can’t imagine him stepping foot inside the place no matter how architecturally or historically significant it is. The Risquéisan erotic theater, Jules. I’ve seen performances there that made my hair curl.”

A feat in itself, given that as far as she could tell his perfectly coiffed hair looked as smooth as a pin. While Julienne had never attended any hair-curling performances herself, she’d seen some very provocative ones. “Well, um, I usually go by myself.”

Ramón relinquished his grip on her braid and motioned to his crew with a smug smile. “Jules, sweetheart, that man was the root of all your troubles. I am so happy you’ve finally broken free. Once we get you a new look, we’re going to have to work on getting you a new guy.”

Julienne had a new guy in mind, but she didn’t intend to share that with Ramón and company. Which was just as well since Ramón began conferring with his crew again in a rush of instructions that made her head spin.

They circled her. They freed her almost waist-length hair from its braid. They held swatches to her cheeks and discussed color choices. They generally consulted on her new look.

Ramón reassured her with a smile but Julienne mentally chanted her key phrases and breathed like she’d sprinted a quick mile by the time they’d arrived back at his station. He issued orders like a drill sergeant to an assistant, who opened tubes of haircolor and mixed various thick pastes in bowls.

“I’m going to do a little highlighting and lowlighting to frame your face.”

She wasn’t sure what lowlighting was, but she knew highlighting well enough to ask, “You’re not making me blond, are you?”

“Perish the thought.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re a natural auburn, Jules. Way too red to ever lift you through all the brass. And I don’t do brassy blondes, thank you. Think subtle strands of deeper and lighter red woven around your face. Think naturally enhancing this incredible color. Think everyone who sees you will ask what genius did your hair and you’ll give her one of my cards.” He winked and reached for a thin sheet of foil. “I’ll make sure Celeste sends you home with a stack.”

Julienne laughed, all nervousness about her hair fading away, but in its wake came an unsettling thought. “Ramón, does Ethan still get his hair cut here?”

“Mmm, hmm,” he replied around the long-tailed comb he currently clamped between pursed lips.

Julienne took that to mean yes. “You’d never… I mean, you wouldn’t repeat anything we discussed—”

He flipped the comb out of his mouth and speared it into her hair with a ruthlessness that made her wince. “I’m quieter than your confessor. Trust me. Just because I take the man’s money doesn’t mean I like him. It’s business, and he’s a good tipper, especially at Christmas. Did you know he books his next appointment before he even walks out the door?”

“Organization was always one of his strengths.”

“I’m all for a little chaos myself, but I’m glad he referred you to me. I’m tremendously fond of you, and Uncle Thad. I knew one day you’d come to your senses….”

Julienne wasn’t exactly sure dabbling in self-hypnosis and letting Ramón renovate her from the ground up could be classified as sensible, but she’d spent the past twenty-one days preparing to put her plan into action. Tonight was the big night, her debut as a woman daring, beautiful and confident enough to catch a hot-blooded man’s attention.

The Naughty Handbook called it starting off with a bang, jumping feetfirst into her future as a woman who enjoyed her sensuality and made no apologies for it. A healthy sexual appetite was a natural, healthy thing.

Naughty girls have the courage to explore their desires.

But no matter how often she chanted key phrases and practiced suggestibility techniques, Julienne knew she could never start off with a bang by flirting with a total stranger. Uncle Thad was a very noble gentleman from another era and Julienne had lived with him since she’d been barely six years old. He’d raised her to be a moral, upstanding, good girl, and while she appreciated his efforts in shaping the woman she’d become, she had some work to do putting good into perspective.

She’d flirt tonight, but within comfortable parameters. Nicholas Fairfax wasn’t a stranger. Not exactly. Though she’d never met the man, she’d read every article and treatise he’d ever written. She’d studied his work so much that she could identify his subtle, yet aggressive technique on any building at a glance. She knew his credentials as a nationally recognized expert in the historic preservation field, every board he’d ever served on—and he’d served on many—and every lecture he’d ever given.

But she hadn’t known a thing about his personal life until his appointment last year to the President’s Advisory Council, a federal agency that oversaw and advised on all national historic preservation matters.

His presidential appointment had placed him under the media’s scrutiny and she’d learned that the founder of the renowned Architectural Design Firm, one of the largest preservation organizations on the West Coast, was not only a brilliant and ambitious architect, but an incredibly virile man.

If she could believe one-tenth of what the papers reported, the man she’d revered for his architectural brilliance was a naughty boy personified. And lucky for her, this naughty boy had accepted the commission to renovate the Risqué Theatre and would arrive for the closing performance tonight.

To her knowledge—and Julienne believed herself very knowledgeable about Nicholas Fairfax’s work—he’d never renovated any buildings in Savannah, which meant his black book might not be all filled up when he got off the plane.

She wanted her phone number to be his first entry.

Julienne knew she’d never catch a naughty boy’s attention looking the way she did now. Not that there was anything wrong with her looks. She’d always been very grateful for her natural, easily maintained appearance. But she’d never exactly been a fashion plate. Once she and Uncle Thad had settled in Savannah, she’d led the life of a busy student and an academic. She’d always leaned toward the conservative and hadn’t had the impetus to change.

Until now.

She clung to that thought through the color and shampoo process, a facial, a manicure and pedicure.

But when the first strands of hair to hit the floor were well over a foot long, Julienne’s anticipation veered sharply toward worry. “You won’t make it too short, will you?”

“Of course not.” Ramón exhaled sharply with impatience, spinning her chair so she faced away from the mirrors. “Don’t wig on me now, Jules, because you’ll look ridiculous if I stop. I’m only layering your hair to put some shape around your face. You won’t miss what I take off, trust me.”

Relax, girl. He’s brilliant and you know it, otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting in his chair.

Julienne tried not to cringe as the next chunk of hair hit the floor with a wet plop. She closed her eyes to shut out the stimuli of the busy salon. After all, her one-length hair had never been as much a styling preference as it had been a necessity.

Working in the field with Uncle Thad had taken them to some pretty remote parts of the globe, where regularly scheduled haircuts hadn’t been available. More often than not, schools hadn’t been available and as a result, her uncle and his crew had tutored her until she’d entered college. She’d only worn her hair one length because the style had been easy to pull back into a presentable ponytail. A comfortable style and since Julienne was officially done with comfortable…

“What kind of product do you have at home?” Ramón asked.

“I buy whatever you tell me to buy.” Eager-to-please Julienne. But no more. Opening her eyes, she resisted the urge to turn her head and peek in the mirrors.

“Shampoo, finishing rinse and an ends’ conditioner. That’s not enough. You need gel, mousse and spray now that you have shape, sweetheart. Celeste,” he called out and the tolerant receptionist hurried through the salon to join them. “Put a care package together for Jules. Basic styling products. Oh, and throw in some of the hair glitter, too. Pearlescent.”

“Pearlescent hair glitter?” Julienne asked.

“New-new, remember?” Shooing Celeste off, he poured a glob of what she presumed to be styling gel into his palm. “If you’re inhabiting places like the Risqué, you’ll need hair glitter, trust me. Now tell me what you’re wearing tonight.”

“I figured I’d decide after I saw the new me.”

“Tell me about the choices.”

As Ramón styled, Julienne told him about her formal-length black sheath and green velvet taffeta.

“I don’t like those,” he yelled over the roar of the blow dryer, motioning her to lean forward and put her head between her legs while he flipped the—gratefully—still considerable mass of hair over her head. “What else do you have?”

“A caviar-beaded skirt set.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

He snorted. “I thought you said you’d attended performances at the Risqué before. Sounds like all you do is go to funerals.”

Julienne might have scowled if she’d stood a chance of being seen, but as she was buried beneath damp hair with the blood rushing to her head, she could only correct him. “Black is a classic color for formal functions, not the only color I own. I have a pale-pink sequined ball gown I wore to a New Year’s party, but I think it would be too much for tonight.”

The blow dryer abruptly cut off and suddenly the curtain of hair parted to reveal Ramón peering at her upside down.

“Can you make time to visit Leona’s Boutique next door? She’ll have something that won’t make you look like Cinderella on her way to the ball.”

Julienne nodded. Cinderella in a ball gown was not a look to start her off with a bang. The time had apparently come to expand her wardrobe.

Naughty girls dress the part.

She’d read that in The Naughty Handbook, too, and tried to imagine what types of styles would be suitable for the new her, but as she hadn’t actually seen the new her yet…

“I’m a bloody genius.”

Ramón spun her chair around to face the mirrors with a triumphant laugh, and for a split second, Julienne didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

A cloud of hair, incredible hair, floated around her face, tumbled down her shoulders and reached halfway down her back in a mane of tousled waves. The subtle color change gave her hair a sunlight glint, which cast her skin with a creamy glow that couldn’t possibly be natural. And her face. Suddenly her cheekbones seemed less austere, her features not quite so sharp. She looked somehow softer…and a whole lot sexier with all that hair waving around her face.

“You are a bloody genius,” was all she could say.

He actually bowed with a grand sweep of his arm. “Remember that when Celeste gives you my bill. But the best is…” he lifted some of the fringy pieces around her face to reveal her scalp. “The foil technique I used means your regrowth will be so natural you’ll barely notice.”

Julienne supposed she’d be suitably grateful a month or two from now, but at the moment she couldn’t think that far ahead. Not when her hair, her hair, looked so…wild.

“Did you curl it?”

Ramón shook his head. “Didn’t need to. Once I cut into the bulk your natural wave sprang up. Who knew?”

Julienne didn’t and wasn’t about to complain. Not when each glance in the mirror caused her to do a double take.

Looking good, girl.

She held that thought through Kathy’s makeup application and the short walk to Leona’s Boutique.

“None of Leona’s things are off the rack,” Katriona whispered when Ramón rushed through the boutique calling for the owner. “She only deals with New York designers. We’ll find something for you to wear tonight.”

Julienne refused to think about what the minimum payment on her credit card would be next month.

What are you working for anyway? Life’s short. Live.

And live she would. Even if it meant shrugging off a lifetime of reasonable budgeting. Her smile came easily as a svelte older woman appeared and Ramón performed the introductions.

Leona was a sharp-eyed woman who pegged her correct size with one glance. Leona’s Boutique was the type of upscale up-to-the-minute fashion establishment Julienne had simply never considered shopping in before.

With everything from elaborate formal wear to accompanying undergarments in colors like innocently white, perfectly nude and temptress black, Leona’s Boutique catered to women in the mood to indulge themselves.

Julienne allowed herself to be herded into yet another dressing room, and gave in to the excitement of silk shantung skirt sets with plunging scoop necks, sequined sheaths with bare-tie backs and tube dresses that reached the floor in a sweep of clingy satin.

And leather, lots and lots of leather in a rainbow of shades, which seemed to be what everyone thought she should wear to the Risqué tonight.

Julienne pirouetted in the full-length tri-mirror yet again, the red leather slip dress clinging to her body in a way that would have made her blush twenty-one days ago. Right now she only trembled with excitement and blessed Uncle Thad for sharing his low-cost solution to exercising in the field—running. An exercise that kept her toned.

“Yow. Do that again.” Ramón circled his hand in the air, motioning her around once more. “Look at that hair move, sweetheart. God, I’m good.”

“Yes, Ramón, you are. Thank you so much for renovating me with such brilliance and enthusiasm today.” Meeting his gaze reflected in the mirror, she smiled.

“The enthusiasm’s on the house, but I’m charging you for every drop of brilliance,” he said dryly, but when he stepped onto the raised platform to kiss her cheek, Julienne knew he’d been pleased by her praise.

“No problem. I still can’t believe this is me.” She pirouetted again, hair flying around her and earning his smile. “Look at all this skin. I’ll freeze tonight.”

“Leona, shawl, jacket, duster, something. Goose bumps aren’t sexy.”

Katriona reappeared. “All that hair should keep you warm.”

She was right. Julienne’s hair looked almost hedonistic in sheer volume, in the heavy, untamed way it fringed around her face then tumbled over her bare shoulders. And the dress. The leather hugged her from bodice to thigh—accentuating curves she hadn’t realized she’d had—before the leather fanned out to the floor, leaving her knee and calf bared through a sexy slit.

Katriona surveyed her critically. “Needs more cleavage.”

“Cleavage?” Julienne glanced into the mirror again, very pleased with the effect of the leather molding and shaping her breasts into noticeable fullness.

The Naughty Handbook had certainly been right about one thing—sexy clothes definitely affected attitude. This body-hugging red leather transformed her into a stranger.

“Leona,” Katriona said to the owner, who had just stepped through the dressing room door. “Jules needs a Miracle Bra to turn her 34-B into something memorable.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” Handing Ramón a short bolero jacket designed from matching red leather, Leona disappeared from the dressing room only to reappear again a few minutes later with an armful of undergarments Julienne had only seen before on the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. “That’s more than a Miracle Bra.”

The older woman smiled. “Corset bra with garters, a thong and silk stockings to match that exquisite dress.”

“Oh.” Seemed a bit extravagant when she had no intention of letting anyone see beneath her new sexy leather dress—not tonight at any rate. Tonight was for flirting and catching the attention of a very hot-blooded man.

Then again, The Naughty Handbook said that naughty girls dressed the part, both in public and private, and she couldn’t wear those sexy undies without feeling sexy. To prove the point, she held the erotic corset in front of her.

“That’ll do the trick. Trust me, sister.” Katriona spun sideways and struck a pose that emphasized the amazing shape of her own silicone bustline, molded in gold spandex. “It’ll lift and separate those puppies. You’ll kill tonight.”

“Go try them on.” Ramón motioned her toward the booth. “Let’s get the whole effect.”

Julienne lifted her hair to allow Leona to unzip the red leather creation, then hurried inside the small, plush interior of the dressing booth. Peeling the dress away, she stepped into the lace corset, shimmied it up her body. The lace hugged her snugly, made her aware of the way the under-wires forced her breasts high, the way the wispy lace caressed her skin.

The matching thong was no more than a scrap of bright fabric around her hips, decadent beneath the garter straps dangling toward her thighs, awaiting the stockings she’d tossed carelessly onto the upholstered bench.

Catching a glimpse of her bare bottom and the strip of red silk disappearing between her cheeks, Julienne trembled in an unfamiliar wave of feminine satisfaction.

Well, well, look at you, girl. You’re downright sexy in your new finery.

Twirling in a slow circle, she absorbed the sight of lace molding her curves, familiar, yet provocatively unfamiliar.

Naughty girls feel sexy.

Julienne looked the part. She felt the part.

Taking a deep excited breath, she smiled into the mirror. “Nicholas Fairfax, here I come.”

2

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.”

3

NICK WAITED for Jules’s reaction. Then there it was, a slight melting of those clear gray eyes, a sudden softening of her mouth. When she slipped cool fingers into his, he breathed again.

“I’d be delighted,” she said in a sultry voice that made his nerve endings rise to attention, along with other parts of his anatomy that had no business behaving as though they’d been ignored of late.

Tucking her hand securely in the crook of his arm, Nick led her through the lobby down to the basement and dressing rooms where the Arts Council currently hosted a closing night party for the actors, musicians, theater patrons and other attendees from the arts, cultural and historical societies.

What was it about this woman that made him feel as if every nerve in his body was live with max voltage? Was he simply reacting to a very beautiful woman?

From her shimmery hair, the color of claret from the vineyards around his home in Northern California, to her intriguing combination of bold words and shy blushes, he noticed everything about her, wanted to know even more. He planned to spend his night discovering exactly who this beauty was.

He couldn’t believe his good fortune earlier when he’d recognized her heading onto the stage. His good fortune hadn’t been hers, though, because from his seat he could see her face and recognized that she hadn’t been thrilled to be onstage.

But she’d handled her exit very well, gifting him with an incredible show of swaying curves and wild hair as she danced her way off the stage again, inspiring all sorts of fantasies about her dancing across that stage just for him.

Nick hadn’t been the only one affected. Dale had hung out of their box, vowing to give up beer and joyrides for good. Nick had told him not to bother. He’d had his chance for a shot at this red devil. He wouldn’t get another.

The closing night party hosted an eclectic mix of actors in outrageous costumes—or barely any costumes at all—and the more conservative members of the city’s various boards. He and Dale were the only ADF staff currently in Savannah as his design team wrapped up various tasks from their last project and would arrive throughout the next week.

Seizing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, he cornered Jules across the room from Dale, who schmoozed with several matrons from the Arts Council near the buffet, earning his high-figure salary by representing ADF when its principal was otherwise engaged.

“So tell me, beautiful.” He let his fingers linger on hers when he handed her the glass. “What brings such a lovely lady to an erotic theater alone?”

She shrugged, just a slight lifting of her shoulders that seemed at once both feminine and noncommittal. “There aren’t too many men who appreciate the historic significance of this theater and I wanted to see it one last time so I can marvel at your skill when the renovation’s done.”

Nick couldn’t decide what turned him on more, her interest in his architectural abilities or her confidence in them. “So the history of the place appeals to you. What about the architecture and the performance?”

“If I were to put them in order of importance, I’d actually have to say the renovation would be first on my list, then the history and finally the theater. What’s onstage doesn’t seem to matter much. The real magic is being here.”

Nick eyed her over the rim of his glass, could detect nothing but genuine interest in her rapt expression. Was she just flirting with him? He’d known more than his share of women who’d professed an interest in architecture, only to be bored stupid whenever he’d mixed business with pleasure and combined a weekend away with a site analysis.

He was a man of limited interests and architecture topped his list and encompassed his life, which probably explained why dating best suited his life in the field.

“So the architecture brought you here tonight. That’s my good fortune.” Clinking the rim of his glass to hers, he ignored the imploring look Dale shot him from across the room. “But the performance didn’t excite you at all?”

“Excite.” The word formed on her lips in a breathy whisper. “What an interesting choice of words, Nick. Yes, the architecture brought me here, but I’d have to be dead not to have been…excited by that performance. I’m alive.”

“I noticed.”

“And what about you? Did the performance excite you?”

There it was again, that breathy puff of sound that glided over those champagne-moistened lips and turned his thoughts to kissing. Stolen teasing kisses. Deep-throated hungry kisses. Wet demanding kisses.

“No reflection on the actors or the play, but the show didn’t do half of what you’re doing for me right now.”

He expected some reaction to his admission, surprise or pleasure, but quickly realized Jules intended to play this game her way. Arching an auburn brow, she touched the rim of her glass to her mouth, sipped, then darted her pink tongue out to wipe away the remnants from her lower lip.

He followed the movement with his gaze, imagining how that sweet liquid would taste warmed by those luscious lips. This woman was playing with fire and she knew it. Nick knew it, too. He enjoyed the chase as much as the next man…okay, probably more than most. But he prided himself on his control. So why was Jules having this damned intense effect on him? He’d blown off his schmoozing duties, which constituted work in his mind, to keep her all to himself.

Unfortunately, remaining isolated wasn’t possible and before long the Arts Council president corralled them.

“There you are, Dr. Fairfax. I’m interested in hearing what you think of the Risqué Theatre now that you’ve seen it firsthand. I can’t tell you how thrilled the board members are that you’re supervising the project personally.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Turner, I’d supervise all my senior teams if I could, but unfortunately I can only be in one place at a time. Your theater presented a challenge I couldn’t resist.”

He glanced down at the beautiful woman by his side, surprised at the frisson of excitement that coursed through his blood when she lifted her smoky gaze to his. “Mrs. Turner, this is my friend Jules,” he said, never turning back to the matron as he completed the introduction, because Jules’s beautiful face transformed into a polite social mask before his very eyes.

She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure. I greatly admire the work the council does. Your grant program has an impressive track record of benefiting artists and cultural renovation sites in the area.”

“How delightful of you to notice.” The president positively beamed and Nick drank his champagne, content to listen for whatever clues Jules’s conversation might reveal.

She hadn’t offered her full name or mentioned why the cultural affairs of Savannah interested her. Nick found himself strangely disappointed. And challenged to find out all he could about her.

“Tonight’s performance was actually part of the grant program,” Mrs. Turner said. “Local writers submitted proposals for closing night scripts. The variety show tribute to the theater’s long and illustrious history overwhelmingly won the council’s approval and the grant.”

Jules looked thoughtful. “I thought the format was particularly appropriate, given that the sets for each vignette mirrored a historical transition in the theater’s architectural evolution. Didn’t you think so, Nick?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, but the truth was he’d been so busy admiring Jules from the balcony that he hadn’t noticed that the vignettes had reflected anything about the theater’s architecture, except as a tribute to the different eras.

This was his first clue that Jules’s interest in architecture was an honest one and since he wanted to know just how honest, he steered the conversation around to the detailed work needed to replace broken nosing and the crumbling cusps around the room.

Sure enough, Jules’s gaze traveled straight to the molding on the stairs, then up to the nearby doorway, with a certainty only a familiarity with architecture would bring. Nick decided right then to get her away from this party to find out more about this exotically beautiful woman who shared a common interest.

But he’d no sooner shaken off the Arts Council president when Dale arrived. He planted himself squarely between them for an introduction, and Nick knew at once Dale intended to bust his chops by making a play for Jules.

This wouldn’t be the first time Dale had challenged him. What Nick couldn’t figure out is why he even bothered, since he usually came off worse for the effort.

“Jules, this is my senior project manager Dale Emerson.”

“Well, hello, gorgeous.” Dale sandwiched her hand between his big paws and held on for dear life.

“Nice to meet you,” Jules replied and something about the surprise in her eyes made Nick suspect she wasn’t as used to flirting as she pretended to be. A niggling suspicion, but one he made a mental note to look at more closely. His gut feelings usually served him well with the opposite sex, because he made a point of paying attention.

Retrieving more champagne from a passing waiter, he offered the flute to Dale, forcing him to relinquish his death grip on Jules’s hand. Dale shot him a grimace that revealed he knew exactly what Nick was doing. But he forged ahead anyway.

“What did you think of the performance tonight, gorgeous?”

“I was just telling Nick I found it rather exciting.”

Ah, that breathy little sound again. It set his blood on fire, and when she cast her sparkling gaze his way, reserving the sound just for him, he experienced a surge of pure male satisfaction.

“Jules was also telling me how clever she thought the different sets were tonight, because each mirrored the architectural evolution of the theater’s renovations.”

If Nick hadn’t noticed the sets’ unique designs, he knew Dale hadn’t. Not that he’d have admitted the oversight. Dale didn’t, either. Instead, he segued neatly right back to the only topic that seemed to interest him at the moment—the beautiful woman standing between them.

“Really? You’re stunningly gorgeous and interested in architecture. What a perfect combination.”

Jules only shrugged, another slight lifting of her shoulders that did amazing things to those creamy breasts swelling above red leather. “I’ve got an uncle in the business. He has shared his work with me most of my life.”

Well, that explained her interest. An honest interest. An intelligent one, too.

“What’s your uncle’s specialty?” Nick asked.

“Materials conservation. He retired last year.”

Dale shook his head. “Whew, wish we’d have known him before he retired. Right about the time we were doing the flood restoration on the Mark Twain Museum.”

“What happened at the museum?” Jules asked.

“The project was such a beast that our material conservationist had a heart attack.” Dale shook his head at the memory. “We had to finish up with a staff member we stole from a junior team.”

“Fortunately he’s okay and back to work now,” Nick said.

“Only after we talked him out of retiring early and relocating to a beach in Florida.”

Nick set his empty glass down on a nearby table. “Our good luck. Finding someone who knows his, or her, way around the chemical and physical complexities of building materials is always a challenge.”

“Finding anyone to hire onto Nick’s team is a challenge.” Dale gave a low whistle. “This man’s such a tyrant in the field no one wants to work for him.”

Amusement sparkled in Jules’s eyes. Though Nick knew Dale only ribbed him, he wasn’t above defending himself in front of this lovely lady. “I’m not a tyrant, evidenced by the fact Frank came back to work.”

“Trust me, I’ll keep your uncle in mind,” Dale said. “We stand a better chance of luring him out of retirement than of keeping Frank from the beach for long.”

Jules laughed brightly. “Does Dale have hiring privileges? Shall I give my uncle a call? I’m not sure how he’d feel about working for a tyrant.”

Nick scowled, a scowl that faded quickly beneath her high-beam smile. He liked the way she reserved her smiles for him, dodging Dale’s flirting without being cold, yet expressing she’d already decided who had her attention tonight.

Jules was a class act and he’d just hit his limit of listening to his integrity impugned while his friend tried to steal his girl. Plucking the flute from Jules’s hand, he passed it to Dale.

“We’re touring the theater. Jules would like to see the place before we work our magic. You schmooze.”

“Tyrant.” Dale spun on his heel and plunged back into the crowd leaving Nick staring after him and Jules giggling.

“I take it Dale’s more than your employee,” she said.

“A friend. A good one most of the time.”

Taking her hand, he led her toward a waiter, where they picked up fresh champagne before heading through the doorway with the crumbling cusps. Resting his hand lightly on her hip, he directed her to precede him up the stairs.

As he watched the gentle sway of her leather-clad behind, Nick knew exactly where he would take her. The memory of her dancing across the stage still played vivid in his memory, and being alone there together would go a long way toward fueling his fantasies.

Jules followed willingly where he led and during their roundabout tour toward the dark stage, they discussed where he’d be staying during his visit in Savannah—ADF had rented his design crew townhouses in a fashionable community. He quizzed her for the details of the citywide debate about whether to gut-rehab the Risqué or renovate it. She regaled him with questions about how he planned to handle accessibility for the disabled, what historic materials he intended to retain and if he would attempt to qualify for tax-credit benefits.

While they talked one thing became very evident to Nick, Jules knew her stuff. She also knew how to keep him talking about everything but her. A phenomenon he intended to end now.

Leading her onto the dark stage, he drew her down beside him on the rolling spiral staircase where an actress portraying Gypsy Rose Lee had descended during her striptease. She sat on the step above him, her incredible body contracting in a fluid fold of leather-clad curves, clearly not bothered about the effects of the stairs on her dress. He liked that she wasn’t uptight or prissy.

“You’ve picked my brain about this theater for the past two hours and I’ve answered all your questions. Now I want you to tell me about you. What you do for a living. Where you live. Tell me all about the woman who asks such intelligent questions and comes to an erotic theater by herself.”

Jules swirled warm champagne in her glass, considering. Then she lifted her gaze and gifted him with a smile. “Okay, my life in a nutshell. I’m in education and I’ve lived in Savannah since I started college. I already told you why I came to the Risqué tonight, but I came alone because I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Are you dating?”

She shook her head, sending shiny auburn waves dancing along her shoulders. “I haven’t been. I was engaged, but my fiancé and I ended our engagement about six months ago.”

He wondered why but wouldn’t ask such a personal question. He asked how long she’d been engaged instead.

“Five years.”

“Well, beautiful, are you over him?” When she nodded, he saluted her with his glass. “Your ex’s loss is my gain. So where did you live before college?”

“All over. We traveled a lot.”

Probably military, he decided, which could account for her nonchalance at attending the theater alone and her ease in impromptu social situations. He’d known his fair share of women who wouldn’t have been comfortable attending any formal event without at least bringing a friend. Speaking of… “What about your friends, Ramón and his…girlfriend?”

Jules laughed, a throaty sound that arrowed through his senses at close range. Her thigh was mere inches away, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d react if he ran his hand along its sleek length, though he hadn’t been invited yet.

“Katriona’s not his girlfriend,” Jules said. “She’s his head manicurist at the salon. Technically, she’s not even a she.”

He winced. That much had been obvious. Nick hadn’t missed the gigantic bustline, either, and the mechanics of her appearance were more than he wanted to know.

Jules laughed again, another burst of sultry sound that—gratefully—shattered the image of the manicurist and kicked in his pulse like a jackhammer.

“She does a lovely manicure, though.” She held up a hand to emphasize her point and that was exactly the in he needed.

Taking her hand under the pretense of examining her manicure, Nick brushed a kiss across her knuckles. He heard her quick intake of breath and the moment became charged with the promise of sex.

“So what else do I need to know about you before we can explore this intense physical attraction between us?”

“I can’t think of a thing.” She sounded excited, exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. “Nothing interesting about my life, I’m afraid. I work a lot.”

She was kidding, right? Jules knew the difference between a cornice and a corbel-table and she didn’t think she was interesting? He’d lay odds he could disabuse her of that notion before they parted ways tonight. “I work a lot, too. Plays hell with my social life. Have to make time when I can.”

“A good thing you seem to make new friends easily.”

New friends? Given the way she’d just fielded his questions, he didn’t know enough to call her a friend, but she obviously didn’t want to share her personal life. Keeping it simple. He understood and respected that.

“I’d like to become better acquainted tonight.”

Her clear gaze never left his as she set her glass on a step above her. The shadows played across her features, a striking study of dark and dusk that bleached all color into soft shades of muted grays.

She seemed almost tentative as she stretched her hand toward his face, and he had the impression again that Jules wasn’t nearly so experienced at seducing strangers as she’d have him believe. Her fingers trembled as they brushed his skin, just a light caress of warm fingertips against his temple, a touch that was less sexy than…reverent.

Nick wasn’t exactly sure what to make of the tender expression softening her beautiful face, but any thought he might have given the subject vanished beneath a savage backlash of reaction to her combination of tentative and tender.

“Kiss me, Jules, or let me kiss you,” he ground out in a voice that held nothing back, though common sense urged him to take it slow.

But to his profound pleasure, her long hair suddenly swung forward, surrounding his face and shoulders in a thick curtain of cool silk that blocked all the shadows from the stage, cocooned them together, parted lips, hot breaths and an incredible attraction for two people who’d just met.

Keeping his hands where they were, one holding hers, thumb stroking the smooth skin of her palm, the other clutching the stem of the flute, he resisted dragging her mouth against his.

He hungered with an intensity he’d never known before, that combination of bold temptress with hints of shy innocent captivated him. Nick usually relied on his control, but it failed him big-time tonight. His breath came raw in his chest, the first taste of her wet velvet mouth shooting his blood south in a painful rush. Her hands held his face lightly, not really to hold him—she must know he wasn’t going anywhere—but more to reassure herself that he was here, waiting, eager to be touched.

Her kiss was inquisitive at first, a cautious exploration of a man she didn’t know. He let her take the lead, though he ached to deepen their kiss, to drive his tongue into her mouth and test the limits of her passion.

She rewarded his restraint as though she knew he held back and darted her tongue across his bottom lip. A light touch, a taste really, but an intimacy that opened the floodgates.

Suddenly her grip tightened and her tongue plunged into his mouth with a demand that stole his breath. Sliding one hand around her neck, he anchored her mouth against his and obliged her. Using his tongue to make her acquaintance, he discovered what made her issue those soft sighs that made him ache to drag her into his lap and grind his erection against her bottom.

Man, could she kiss and Nick was a man who appreciated kissing. He enjoyed making out, building the anticipation, tantalizing and torturing himself with each forward step, with each triumph that wore down a woman’s defenses and made her ache for his touch as he ached for hers.

Jules tested his control, lit fires inside him that Nick knew wouldn’t be doused until he experienced this woman naked with her hair tumbling all around them.

And still he held back, instinctively knowing she needed the control right now, their acquaintance was too new, too intense and he wouldn’t risk frightening her off. With one hand hanging onto hers and the other absurdly clutching his champagne glass, he tangled tongues with this beauty, caught her sighs on his lips and marveled at the effect she had on him.

When she finally drew away and inhaled deeply, Nick’s instinct kicked in, warning that this was his chance to move them to the next step.

“Dance with me.” Setting his glass aside, he got to his feet, not giving her a chance to think, let alone refuse him. “Watching you dance tonight turned me on. I want to feel you in my arms.”

“The orchestra is downstairs partying,” she said breathlessly. “Or maybe not. It’s gotten late.”

The instant her foot touched the stage, he swung her into his arms. “I’ll provide the music. I can’t really sing, but I’m a helluva hummer.”

Jules giggled, and his last glimpse as he bent his head low to her ear was of her eyes alight with laughter. Then he began humming some show tune that had stuck in his head from tonight’s performance and she melted against him.

The dark auditorium faded away and Nick knew only the sound of his voice and Jules—her scent, her graceful movements and the way her body molded his. She fitted against all his pressure points as if her incredible body had been designed for his pleasure. He could rest his chin right on the top of her head. Her shoulder fit snugly beneath his arm. Her breasts pressed against his chest, full and perfect in their red leather prison, taunting him to offer escape. And by flexing his arm around her waist, he held her close, imprisoning his erection against her warm stomach.

He sighed. She sighed.

Two bodies in perfect accord, the fact they’d just met of little concern. This woman was meant to be in his arms at this moment. Nick knew on a primitive level, knew with every inhalation of her subtly spicy scent and the way that scent filtered through his senses, priming his libido, making him forget everything but how much he wanted her.

Eventually his humming gave way to the sounds of their breathing and the soft shuffle of their feet across the wood-beam stage floor. Any sense of time vanished beneath an insistent need to stroke his arousal against her, take advantage of the way she parted her thighs and gently rode his thigh as they danced.

Nick even forgot they were in a theater, a public theater where a hundred people partied in the basement directly below. Apparently Jules was also so caught up that she forgot, too, because when Dale’s voice echoed through the empty auditorium, “Hey, buddy, are you in here?” she appeared as surprised as he.

Fortunately they were close enough to the wings to disappear offstage before Dale caught them. Drawing her behind the main curtain, he held her close, his pulse quickening with adrenaline matched by the sudden hammering of Jules’s heartbeat—hard, even beats he felt right through his tux jacket.

“I think you lost track of time because the party’s over.” Dale’s voice rang out, louder as he approached the stage. “Time to go home. The caterers are done cleaning and they’re locking up. Madam President thinks you took off without saying goodbye, and she’s miffed. Better have Betty send her some flowers tomorrow.”

Silence. Nick wasn’t leaving, not when he had Jules in his arms and this theater to himself.

“If you’re still in here, I hope you can get back out again,” Dale tried again. “If you don’t show your face for coffee in the morning, I’ll send out the posse.”

The footsteps receded, then finally faded into silence.

“Can we get back out again?” Jules whispered.

Nick seized the opportunity to reassure her with a kiss. “I’ve got a key, beautiful. But I won’t use it until I’m done making you sigh with pleasure.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.