HEATHENS, COWBOYS AND THE SANTA ANA WINDS

Sequins and suede were bathed in pink light, naked hips and bare shoulders, belly dancers veiled in gauze. Gold-ringed toes teased legs beneath tables, while keys were tossed from camel-colored coupes. No cameras, no press once you crossed those doors—only amorous gestures and Freudian slips from loose lips sipping warm amber whiskey.

Diamond bracelets slipped from delicate wrists, abandoned in cardamom soufflé. Sandalwood smoldered as fortunes were read from drifting green tea leaves in the Santa Ana winds. Palm trees swayed in wild, sweet breezes in this haven for heathens, cowboys, and nymphos.

In the City of Angels, it was the place with no angels—yet always sunny, always seventy degrees.