Wicked Burn(10)

“Tuscany,” Anne snorted. “We’d be much better off staying in Chicago in regard to the supply of men. Which—” She suddenly stopped and blinked twice as she stared past Niall’s right shoulder. “Oh, my, get a handle on the hormones . . . speaking of men . . .”

Niall laughed. “I hadn’t realized we were.”

Anne ignored her. She took a quick drink of her ice water, as though her mouth had just gone dry.

“I’ll be damned if Vic Savian himself isn’t staring at the back of your head right now like he thought he just discovered the secret of the universe in your hair.”

“Vic . . . Savian?” Niall asked slowly.

Anne set down her water glass and averted her eyes for a second before she glanced back surreptitiously to the bar.

“Sure, Vic Savian. The playwright?” she muttered under her breath. “The Hesse Theater—not to mention Chicago—scored a real coup by signing him on as the director and resident playwright. He’s won the Pulitzer several times, not to mention dozens of other awards. But the man hates New York. Genuine article of the West, you know. It’s a miracle he agreed to live this far east.” Her expression shifted subtly, as if she’d just put two and two together. “Oh, and the first play they’re doing is one of his. It opens next week. It’s been in all the papers. One of the professors in the Theater Department has been working with an assistant of Savian’s to get a program going where a few students can help out on the set, get some good experience in the trenches. Of course, he had to especially encourage the boys to apply, since the girls immediately filled up the roster. Vic Savian is one hell of a sexy beast.”

That was it. The last remnant of Niall’s self-control slipped away.

She twisted around in the booth and stared. Her eyes met his immediately.

He stood out at the crowded bar, or at least he did to her. He was sitting and leaning forward, but even so, his head topped everyone around him. His shoulders were broader than anyone else’s, too, especially emphasized as they were by a well-cut brown blazer. The shirt that he wore underneath looked starkly white against his dark skin. Even though his posture might look relaxed to a casual observer, Niall sensed his alertness, his focused attention.

For a few seconds they just looked at each other, both of them motionless.

Then a dark-haired woman at the bar spoke to him. Vic’s chin shifted to the side to catch what she said, his steady gaze on Niall fracturing slightly.

Niall turned around quickly, as if she’d been given an unexpected reprieve from the snare of his eyes.

Anne hadn’t missed the charged, nonverbal exchange. “Do you know Vic Savian, Niall?”

Her hand shook slightly when she took a drink of water. “No. Yes. Sort of.” Niall cleared her throat, realizing how stupid she sounded. Her heart pounded in her ears so loudly she wondered if a blood vessel would break.

“He actually lives across the hall from me at Riverview Towers. At least for part of the week he does,” she added lamely.

Anne grinned hugely. “He does? Holy shit, you are one lucky woman! Ever see anything worthwhile, like him coming out in the morning to get his newspaper just wearing his boxers? And why the hell didn’t you ever tell me that Vic Savian lived twenty feet away from you?”

Niall grimaced. She’d seen plenty worthwhile in regard to Vic. She also knew firsthand that he didn’t wear boxers. In her experience, Vic didn’t wear anything beneath his jeans but smooth, warm skin. She shivered slightly in nervous excitement at the same time that a wave of nausea swept through her. The man from her wild night of raw, sublime sex suddenly possessed a name and the outlines of an identity.

And she could feel his stare on her again.

“I didn’t know who he was,” Niall said when she realized that Anne was waiting tensely for an answer. “You said he’s a playwright? That’s so strange.”

“Why would you say that?” Anne asked in puzzlement.

“Because he hardly talks at all,” Niall muttered.

Anne looked like she was about to pursue that vague reference before she raised her eyebrows and flipped her napkin onto the table in an affected casual gesture.

“Well, he just got up from the bar, and he looks like he has every intention of coming over here. Savian obviously has something he wants to say to you, Niall.”

THREE

Niall wondered about Anne’s statement, however, when Vic approached their booth but didn’t utter a word. Just when he seemed about to say something, his gaze flicked over to Anne. Niall experienced a moment of panic in the tense silence. She stared up at him, taking in his all-too-well-remembered image—the long, jean-clad thighs, the rugged, stoic facial features, those singular light gray eyes. He looked good in the casual sports jacket—he looked very good—but his clothing couldn’t quite disguise the animal-like, sinewy grace of the man beneath them.

It felt surreal to be staring up at him in the midst of a crowded restaurant.

Niall grasped for something to say, but nothing came.

Nothing.

She blinked when he abruptly queried her in his typical laconic fashion.

“Where’d you go?”

Niall forced a smile despite a rising sense of panic. “I just got back from a business trip to Tokyo.”

She thought she saw irritation flicker across his handsome face at her unintentionally stiff reply, but it was gone in an instant. A small smile shaped his lips, deepening the lines that parenthesized his mouth.