About That Night...

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.