The doorman—a tall, lanky figure dressed in a topcoat and tails who seemed to have stepped right out of the roaring twenties—accepted the card and scanned it with a small palm device. The technology wasn’t in keeping with the man’s old world atmosphere, but he returned the card with a pleasant smile.
“Welcome to the Sybarite Club, Mr. Westwood. Your dining companion arrived ten minutes ago.” He motioned toward gothic-style doors carved from dark cherry and decorated with woodcuts of a man and woman engaged in cunnilingus and fellatio. As the doors parted, each figure seemed to cry out. James wasn’t sure if their silent mouths were opened in pleasure or frustration.
The carpeted entryway descended four steps into a lounge with a dark, almost jazzy pseudo-gothic atmosphere. Flickering candles complemented the low lighting. Long shadows twisted across the textured booths, bar stools, and tables. Three couples swayed together on the dance floor to the smooth sounds of blues. Instruments on the empty stage suggested a potential for live music.
He’d heard a lot about the Sybarite Club but never had the occasion to visit the establishment. Surveying the room, he noted the servers in black outfits slipping in and out of the lounge, ghosts who didn’t disturb the guests except to take orders or deliver them. Three tables held couples or threesomes chatting over drinks. A fourth held only empty chairs.
Probably one of the dancing couples.
The booths were tucked into the wall making it harder to see who sat there.
“Mr. Westwood?” A slim waitress smiled up at him, a tray tucked between her arm and torso.
“Yes?”
“Your party is this way, sir.” She beckoned him down the red-carpeted steps into the lounge proper, and he followed her path through the club to a tall-backed booth in the back. Still acclimating to the low lighting, he couldn’t make out the occupant save for the slender feminine arm reaching for her wine glass on the table.
A curl of excitement twisted in his gut. He’d planned to keep the date low key, but the club, the music, and the atmosphere teased his anticipation. The waitress halted with a sweep of her arm to allow him to precede her.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Westwood?”
“Soda water with lime, please.” He preferred to keep his wits about him. “And bottle of whatever the lady is having.” If they were going to have a dinner, he could do at least provide her with her preferred wine.
“Of course.”
Free of the waitress’ distraction he turned back to the booth. A golden-haired goddess stared up at him. Sea-blue eyes seemed to catch every drop of light in the room and reflect it in shimmering azure. She rose to offer him her hand and his heart hesitated a beat.
“James?” Milk and honey flowed through her voice and his spine straightened, his cock already jerking into a salute. “I’m….”
“Lauren Kincaid.” He could only hope he wasn’t drooling like a lovesick fool. Lauren Kincaid, movie goddess, is my one-night stand?
Her candid laughter, low and throaty, tingled against his ears and he grinned. Shaking off his shock, he took her extended hand and shook it carefully. His larger hand totally engulfed her slender fingers, and he didn’t want to squeeze her with excitement.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her charming smile flashed with warmth that rolled over him from head to toe.
“Ma’am, you have no idea.” His date was Lauren Kincaid. The only chick flick star he would pay money to see. With or without a date.
Chapter Two
She rose with practiced grace. Years of performing in front of a camera with only a thirty-minute nap and a cup of decaf to stave off exhaustion had made her a master of poise and controlled expression. A talent she was immensely grateful for because she’d glanced out of the booth to see the tall, athletic man with his broad shoulders, tan skin, and sexy-as-sin smile a full sixty seconds before the waitress led him to her booth.
She barely managed to sit back and reach for her wine glass to steady her nerves and back-flipping stomach. If one could blend Hugh Jackman’s engaging smile and Dwayne Johnson’s broad shoulders with Chris Hemsworth’s physique, they would have created James. The description she’d received via text promised a six-foot four dining companion with sandy blond hair, a dimpled cheek and a passion for long conversations about “life, the universe and everything.” The Douglas Adams quote was enough to soothe her unease over a blind one-night stand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And it was. Ironic considering she’d turned around twice on her way to the date, both times having to consciously recite the three reasons she’d allowed her agent to sign her up for the mysterious Madame Eve’s 1Night Stand. She wanted a night with a real man, with no vested interest in how she could help his career. She wanted to explore genuine options, to descend from the glass walls of exposure where being seen was what it was all about. And, she wanted a night that was just about her and the delicious man standing in front of her.