Nights In Black Lace. Noelle MackЧитать онлайн книгу.
Baywatch,” her friend replied.
“They think you are an actor,” Marie whispered.
He looked back at the girls to see if they’d heard her say that, but they were busy gawking at some other guy, who actually was famous.
Bryan couldn’t blame them for the mistake, since he was dressed like a lifeguard on the lam. Couldn’t be helped. He’d dug out the wetsuit jacket because the weather was cold, and it offered lightweight warmth. The tank top had been underneath it in his duffel bag. He hadn’t put on his sweater, underestimating how damp it was.
Everything else he owned was dirty, including his underwear, but he wasn’t staying in the kind of hotel that had laundry service. So, he’d shown up in take-me-as-I-am mode.
Milling around before the show started was interesting and the people-watching was a hoot. So this was what fashionistas were like. He’d memorized every detail he could to share with his mother in his next e-mail, and then made friends with Marie Arelquin, a sophisticate who didn’t seem to mind his funky clothes or his shaggy hair, and who didn’t try to hit on him, either.
Talking to Marie was fun and her English was a lot better than his French. And what could he do but give up his seat to her grandmother when she’d edged through the crowd?
Madame Arelquin was or had been a big deal in this weird world, judging by the deferential nods she got, but these days she apparently wasn’t quite as big a deal as Mademoiselle Arelquin, right up front. He was getting an idea of the hierarchy involved, and feeling a little like he’d gone back in time to the court of the Sun King. Bow and scrape. Check out each other’s clothes and shoes.
As far as that went, the old lady had eyed him haughtily from head to toe, and Bryan got the message. His own mother would have been proud of how fast he’d been to offer the coveted front-row chair to her.
The music thundered and the show began.
Bryan stood behind the Arelquins, who were talking in rapid-fire French that he half-understood as one leggy babe after another strode by at the level of his nose. The first two or three made his cock twitch—high heels and underwear were an effective combination—but after a while, the models and what they were wearing began to blur in his mind.
Something about the way they walked was off-putting. Their bodies were unnatural, for one thing. Their legs were extremely thin, and so were their arms. And their butts were just too flat. Boobs, non-existent. Were there guys who got off on women this skinny and underfed?
Bryan liked the kind of female you could get a grip on. These girls looked breakable.
Never mind, he told himself. Just get the details. He knew his mother wouldn’t believe he’d gotten a front-row seat at a designer show. But that reporter from Bonjour Paris had had him pose for pictures before they entered the showroom hall, and made the photographer guy promised to e-mail Bryan the jpegs that same night.
The photographer, who was the essence of arty cool in a shaved head, Harley tattoo, T-shirt, and a black leather vest, never looked at Bryan except through the image finder. But he’d said yes. Bryan figured he’d stop at an internet café and forward whatever popped up in his e-mail as soon as he could.
Come to think of it, he’d post them on Facebook. His UC Santa Cruz postgrad pals would be sure to get on his case about the political incorrectness of a fashion show.
He’d get a more honest reaction from his minimum-wage-earning, wave-riding, jock friends. They’d either laugh their skanky heads off or die of envy. And then there was the head of the marine biology department, a lonesome weirdo they all called the Giant Squid. The Squid would want to get his tentacles on a model, no doubt about it.
“Bryan,” Marie was saying. “Do you want to go out after the show to eat with me and my grandmother?”
He loved the way she said that. Grrranmuzzaire. It sounded better than just plain grandmother and her lips looked so pretty as she parted them, waiting for his reply. But even so. Hitting on a woman with her formidable grandmother right by her side? Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.
“Ah—no. Sorry. I have a, uh, previous engagement.” That sounded 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