closed down for the night.
Jacques
was sipping a mint julep. Overhead, the opulent crystal chandeliers beamed
brightly; around him on the Persian medallion rug, prominent gentlemen were
waltzing with sleazily dressed, heavily painted prostitutes to the sexy, slowly
syncopated music sounding out from the piano. In the corners of the large room,
on brocade settees and velvet Grecian couches, couples were brazenly kissing
and caressing.
Crystal loomed above him, extending her hand. With her blouse partially unbuttoned, her
eyes brightly glazed, her blond hair spilling around her flushed face, she was
the picture of the loose woman eager to be debauched.
Yet
Jacques found himself curiously unaffected by her charms. Instead of appearing
young, sensuous, and tempting, she seemed tawdry, tipsy, and all too eager.
He
patted her hand. “Not now, pet,” he murmured. “Surely there are other gentlemen
eager to waltz with you.” He nodded toward the far corner of the room. “Your
cousin Cosette has had no difficulty finding partners.”
Crystal turned to eye her cousin, who was waltzing with a dashing young Creole. Her sulky
gaze shifted back to Jacques. “But I came here with you. I thought we might go
home together.” She simpered a smile. “You know I can please you.”
Again
Jacques felt unaffected by her shameless enticement. He treated her to an
apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, love, but it's late. Tonight's performance was
exhausting, and I have much on my mind.”
Crystal's pretty features twisted into a snarl. “You mean you're preoccupied with that
little tart who threw herself at you when she trespassed onstage.”
Jacques's
eyes gleamed with mischief. “You mean Bella? She didn't throw herself at me.
And I'd hardly call her a tart, love.”
“Oh,
you wouldn't? Well, I would!”
Becoming
annoyed and determined to give her insult its just deserts, Jacques raised his
glass in a mock salute. “You speak from experience, I take it?” he drawled.
“Oh!”
A picture of outraged femininity, Crystal whirled and flounced off.
Watching
her, Jacques chuckled. He was acting the cad, but Crystal was being a slut, and
he was weary of women throwing themselves at him. He was in a mood to do some
pursuing himself. Indeed, if the lovely young woman who had intruded on his
performance was here now, he might dance with Crystal just to rouse her
jealousy—otherwise, he had little use for his inebriated companion. His
hesitation did somewhat surprise him, for it was unlike the libidinous Jacques
LeFevre to forgo easy conquests and easier pleasures.
He
actually sighed in relief as a gentlemen he recognized from his club approached
Crystal and asked her to dance. He smiled wistfully as the poignant Lassen
tune, “Thine Eyes So Blue,” spilled out on the piano, the familiar lyrics
playing through his mind, reminding him of the tantalizing belle he had met
only tonight:
Thine eyes so blue and tender,
When their soft glance I seek,
Awake me to visions of splendor,
Thoughts
that I may not speak.
He
could not believe he had met her only tonight—his lovely Bella with the blue
eyes and black hair—and already he was consumed with thoughts of having her.
Where had she come from, materializing during his solo like a ghost?
A
ghost . . . For some reason, the very thought sent an shiver down Jacques's
spine. But Bella had come to him just that unexpectedly. One moment he had been
staring out at the audience, entrancing them with his singing. The next instant
she had just been there, wearing that ridiculous costume, but looking
ravishingly beautiful as she stared at him with those huge, lost sapphire blue
eyes. He grinned at the memory. Never before had any woman's presence
unhinged him so that he had actually stopped singing. Then she had dashed off
into the wings like a frightened doe, intriguing him all the more. Later, when
he had spoken to her, instead of being apologetic for ruining his solo, instead
of being
Jacques
was sipping a mint julep. Overhead, the opulent crystal chandeliers beamed
brightly; around him on the Persian medallion rug, prominent gentlemen were
waltzing with sleazily dressed, heavily painted prostitutes to the sexy, slowly
syncopated music sounding out from the piano. In the corners of the large room,
on brocade settees and velvet Grecian couches, couples were brazenly kissing
and caressing.
Crystal loomed above him, extending her hand. With her blouse partially unbuttoned, her
eyes brightly glazed, her blond hair spilling around her flushed face, she was
the picture of the loose woman eager to be debauched.
Yet
Jacques found himself curiously unaffected by her charms. Instead of appearing
young, sensuous, and tempting, she seemed tawdry, tipsy, and all too eager.
He
patted her hand. “Not now, pet,” he murmured. “Surely there are other gentlemen
eager to waltz with you.” He nodded toward the far corner of the room. “Your
cousin Cosette has had no difficulty finding partners.”
Crystal turned to eye her cousin, who was waltzing with a dashing young Creole. Her sulky
gaze shifted back to Jacques. “But I came here with you. I thought we might go
home together.” She simpered a smile. “You know I can please you.”
Again
Jacques felt unaffected by her shameless enticement. He treated her to an
apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, love, but it's late. Tonight's performance was
exhausting, and I have much on my mind.”
Crystal's pretty features twisted into a snarl. “You mean you're preoccupied with that
little tart who threw herself at you when she trespassed onstage.”
Jacques's
eyes gleamed with mischief. “You mean Bella? She didn't throw herself at me.
And I'd hardly call her a tart, love.”
“Oh,
you wouldn't? Well, I would!”
Becoming
annoyed and determined to give her insult its just deserts, Jacques raised his
glass in a mock salute. “You speak from experience, I take it?” he drawled.
“Oh!”
A picture of outraged femininity, Crystal whirled and flounced off.
Watching
her, Jacques chuckled. He was acting the cad, but Crystal was being a slut, and
he was weary of women throwing themselves at him. He was in a mood to do some
pursuing himself. Indeed, if the lovely young woman who had intruded on his
performance was here now, he might dance with Crystal just to rouse her
jealousy—otherwise, he had little use for his inebriated companion. His
hesitation did somewhat surprise him, for it was unlike the libidinous Jacques
LeFevre to forgo easy conquests and easier pleasures.
He
actually sighed in relief as a gentlemen he recognized from his club approached
Crystal and asked her to dance. He smiled wistfully as the poignant Lassen
tune, “Thine Eyes So Blue,” spilled out on the piano, the familiar lyrics
playing through his mind, reminding him of the tantalizing belle he had met
only tonight:
Thine eyes so blue and tender,
When their soft glance I seek,
Awake me to visions of splendor,
Thoughts
that I may not speak.
He
could not believe he had met her only tonight—his lovely Bella with the blue
eyes and black hair—and already he was consumed with thoughts of having her.
Where had she come from, materializing during his solo like a ghost?
A
ghost . . . For some reason, the very thought sent an shiver down Jacques's
spine. But Bella had come to him just that unexpectedly. One moment he had been
staring out at the audience, entrancing them with his singing. The next instant
she had just been there, wearing that ridiculous costume, but looking
ravishingly beautiful as she stared at him with those huge, lost sapphire blue
eyes. He grinned at the memory. Never before had any woman's presence
unhinged him so that he had actually stopped singing. Then she had dashed off
into the wings like a frightened doe, intriguing him all the more. Later, when
he had spoken to her, instead of being apologetic for ruining his solo, instead
of being
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