successfully untied and slid off the cravat.
“Beau Brummell declared the starched cravat fashionable, and it is reported that washerwomen fainted upon the declaration. Not only do they have yet another thirty items to add to the washing and ironing, but each cravat has to be semistarched. Not full-starched with the rest of the wash, mind you, but semistarched.”
With the cravat handed to Paul, Julian began unbuttoning his shirt.
“I’m undoing the small Dorset buttons at the neck of my shirt. Note that the buttons do not run the full length of the shirt.”
He undid his cuff buttons, and, in a dramatic swoosh, he yanked his shirt from his breeches, lifted it over his head, and handed it over to Paul, and the audience clapped and smiled at Julian, his bare torso rippling with muscles, in only his breeches and boots.
Sherry cocked her head at Vanessa. “Are you all right? You look flushed. Sure you’re okay?”
Vanessa wasn’t sure. “Of course. I’m fine.” The room sort of spun around her. It was Julian—that’s what it was. She was attracted to him, and the thought hit her like a ton of starched cravats. Why a client? And why
this
client?
“I’m worried about you.” Sherry turned and pointed to the stage. “Whoa! Check him out! He is ripped!”
Vanessa made sure the camera followed Julian as he strutted across the stage, his broad shoulders and muscular biceps evident.
“You can see I’ve been spending time fencing, riding, and boxing. Which is why I don’t require a stomacher, or girdle, as some men are wont to rely on. Nor do I need padding for my calves.” He motioned toward his boots. “We gentlemen of the Regency pride ourselves on our well-turned calves.”
Sherry kept whispering, “Wow. Check out his abs. Those abs!”
Vanessa, still feeling dizzy, felt her phone vibrate with a call. It was the doctor. She had to take it, or she’d miss talking to him for another grueling twenty-four hours.
“Sherry, I have to go. Can you stay with my equipment? I’ll be back. My assistant is right over there.” She pointed to Kai.
She signaled to Kai that she was stepping out.
“Sure. But he’s about to take off his breeches,” Sherry whispered. “You’re not leaving
now
, are you?”
Vanessa nodded and, as discreetly as possible, phone and briefcase in hand, she bolted.
* * *
T he test results are in,” the nurse said as Vanessa leaned up against the wall in the hotel hallway. “The doctor would like you and your aunt to arrange an appointment as soon as possible to discuss everything.”
Behind the closed doors in back of her, the room resounded with applause. She looked out the hall window onto a cloudless blue urban sky. For once she was speechless.
“I’m going to transfer you to reception, okay?”
Vanessa booked the appointment for the following day, knowing Aunt Ella would not be pleased at having to miss some of the conference. But, with Vanessa’s upcoming trip to Louisville with Julian, when else could she do it?
Her eyes landed on a tray with several Jane Austen silhouette cookies left on it. She picked one up and took a bite, inadvertently decapitating Jane, leaving only her silhouetted neck.
She headed toward the window, seeking the sunshine, running another Internet search of “dementia” on her phone when—smack.
She bumped right into—a leather-vested pirate?
“Sorry,” she said and continued her search.
“I’m not,” said the pirate.
His aftershave hinted of cocoa butter. Or was he wearing tanning oil?
She finally looked up. He resembled Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow from those—what—
Pirates of the Caribbean
movies?
“Wait a minute. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked and squinted at her, his brown eyes lined with kohl.
She was in no mood for a stale pickup line from a pirate.
He continued talking. “But
where
do I know you from? Are you an auctioneer?”
Why did he think she was an auctioneer like Paul?
He leaned
“Beau Brummell declared the starched cravat fashionable, and it is reported that washerwomen fainted upon the declaration. Not only do they have yet another thirty items to add to the washing and ironing, but each cravat has to be semistarched. Not full-starched with the rest of the wash, mind you, but semistarched.”
With the cravat handed to Paul, Julian began unbuttoning his shirt.
“I’m undoing the small Dorset buttons at the neck of my shirt. Note that the buttons do not run the full length of the shirt.”
He undid his cuff buttons, and, in a dramatic swoosh, he yanked his shirt from his breeches, lifted it over his head, and handed it over to Paul, and the audience clapped and smiled at Julian, his bare torso rippling with muscles, in only his breeches and boots.
Sherry cocked her head at Vanessa. “Are you all right? You look flushed. Sure you’re okay?”
Vanessa wasn’t sure. “Of course. I’m fine.” The room sort of spun around her. It was Julian—that’s what it was. She was attracted to him, and the thought hit her like a ton of starched cravats. Why a client? And why
this
client?
“I’m worried about you.” Sherry turned and pointed to the stage. “Whoa! Check him out! He is ripped!”
Vanessa made sure the camera followed Julian as he strutted across the stage, his broad shoulders and muscular biceps evident.
“You can see I’ve been spending time fencing, riding, and boxing. Which is why I don’t require a stomacher, or girdle, as some men are wont to rely on. Nor do I need padding for my calves.” He motioned toward his boots. “We gentlemen of the Regency pride ourselves on our well-turned calves.”
Sherry kept whispering, “Wow. Check out his abs. Those abs!”
Vanessa, still feeling dizzy, felt her phone vibrate with a call. It was the doctor. She had to take it, or she’d miss talking to him for another grueling twenty-four hours.
“Sherry, I have to go. Can you stay with my equipment? I’ll be back. My assistant is right over there.” She pointed to Kai.
She signaled to Kai that she was stepping out.
“Sure. But he’s about to take off his breeches,” Sherry whispered. “You’re not leaving
now
, are you?”
Vanessa nodded and, as discreetly as possible, phone and briefcase in hand, she bolted.
* * *
T he test results are in,” the nurse said as Vanessa leaned up against the wall in the hotel hallway. “The doctor would like you and your aunt to arrange an appointment as soon as possible to discuss everything.”
Behind the closed doors in back of her, the room resounded with applause. She looked out the hall window onto a cloudless blue urban sky. For once she was speechless.
“I’m going to transfer you to reception, okay?”
Vanessa booked the appointment for the following day, knowing Aunt Ella would not be pleased at having to miss some of the conference. But, with Vanessa’s upcoming trip to Louisville with Julian, when else could she do it?
Her eyes landed on a tray with several Jane Austen silhouette cookies left on it. She picked one up and took a bite, inadvertently decapitating Jane, leaving only her silhouetted neck.
She headed toward the window, seeking the sunshine, running another Internet search of “dementia” on her phone when—smack.
She bumped right into—a leather-vested pirate?
“Sorry,” she said and continued her search.
“I’m not,” said the pirate.
His aftershave hinted of cocoa butter. Or was he wearing tanning oil?
She finally looked up. He resembled Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow from those—what—
Pirates of the Caribbean
movies?
“Wait a minute. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked and squinted at her, his brown eyes lined with kohl.
She was in no mood for a stale pickup line from a pirate.
He continued talking. “But
where
do I know you from? Are you an auctioneer?”
Why did he think she was an auctioneer like Paul?
He leaned
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