Thrill Me

“My first to New York, actually.”

“Where are you from?”

May picked up a black box of HUSH emblazoned matches. How much did she want to tell? “Wisconsin originally.”

“I’m from Oklahoma. Came to seek my fortune in the Big Apple as a makeup artist.” She set the deep pink drink down in front of May. “You try that and tell me what you think.”

May took a sip and smiled. Icy cold, fruity and sweet, but not too, very nice. “Really good.”

“Thought you might like it.”

“You want to be a makeup artist? Like in salons?”

“No, no.” The bartender laughed. “Movies, video, TV, stage, fashion. Anywhere I can get.”

May gritted her teeth under a closed-lips smile. Like in salons? She better just keep her mouth shut. Every time she opened it, fresh farm manure came spilling out. “What got you into that?”

The bartender shrugged her black-uniform clad shoulders. “I guess I love the idea of transforming a person into something or someone he or she isn’t.”

“I can imagine.” May fingered the black and pink coaster under her drink. Yeah, she and Veronica could imagine all too well the appeal of that concept.

“Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening, sir. How are you this evening?” The bartender’s voice greeting the new arrival changed to a quieter, more respectful tone. Even her accent lessened. But May could swear that under the quiet respect, she could detect amusement. Amusement which also danced in the bartender’s dark blue eyes.

May glanced over, overcome by curiosity, and registered a man, she’d guess midthirties, tall, nicely built, clean-cut, jacket no tie, about to sit two chairs to her left. She turned back to her Cosmopolitan, wanting to gawk and see if he was really as good-looking as he appeared at first glance, but fearful of broadcasting her wide-eyed interest. Who would a man like that be meeting? Probably Catherine Zeta-Jones’s twin. Funny he hadn’t chosen one of the quiet, cozy tables.

Or was he on his own, too? And wouldn’t Ginny love that?

“I’m quite pissed off, Shandi. And you?”

She laughed. “Doing great as always, Beck, what’ll you have?”

“Martini, you know how I like them.”

“I do.” She grinned and reached for a beautiful blue bottle of gin. “Bombay blue sapphire, into which vermouth is barely introduced, shake well and drop in a twist.”

“Perfect.”

May watched her—Shandi—make his drink with fluid movements, precise and practiced, and wondered what had pissed the man off and whether Shandi would ask him. Maybe his date had stood him up, too. And wouldn’t that be…interesting.

She felt his eyes on her and kept her gaze determinedly ahead, the chance of relaxation quickly melting into a fresh attack of nerves. Maybe she should finish her drink and get back downstairs, to—

What? Sit miserably in her room contemplating her return trip tomorrow and her navel?

Too depressing. But she wished he’d either speak to her or stop staring. Maybe she needed to goad him into doing one or the other.

She turned to him with back-off coldness in her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. His were an unusual blue color, hard to pinpoint in the relatively dim light of the bar. But their effect on May was not remotely hard to determine. From his perspective, her cold wintry stare was probably experiencing a nice spring thaw. She yanked her eyes back to her drink and took a big sip, wishing for a Miller Lite she could chug and be done with.

“How’s that drink?”

She took the time for a slow breath, then couldn’t help herself; she threw him another glance. Yes, ten seconds later he was still incredibly attractive. “Very good.”

Okay, she got three syllables out, that was fabulous. Now it was up to her, the freeze-off or the invitation for more chatter? A vision made the decision for her: of the big, empty, made-for-sex room with her in it, alone, watching the same TV shows she could watch in Oshkosh. “How’s your martini?”

When he didn’t answer right away, she turned to look at him again. He was half smiling, only one side of his mouth turned up, as if she amused him, but not entirely. His gaze had turned speculative. Was he wondering why she was alone?

“Excellent.” He lifted his glass toward her. “I’m Beck.”

“I’m…” She considered giving a fake name, then couldn’t think of one besides Veronica, and what if he turned out to be someone she really liked? Then she’d have to explain a fake name and it would all be way too complicated to extract herself from a lie like that, because—

“May.” She said her name slowly, at the same time telling her whirling brain to calm the hell down.

“Are you meeting someone, May?”

Oh, now there was a question. “I was.”

“But now you’re not?”

She shook her head, congratulating herself for not saying too much.

“Hmm.” He lifted his glass to his mouth, but didn’t drink right away. “I suppose I should say I’m sorry to hear that.”

“But you’re not?”

He smiled with both sides of his mouth this time and took the delayed sip. “No.”

May’s heart started a race she was pretty sure it couldn’t win without killing her. She instructed her face and body to remain expressionless and motionless. As if she were posing for the cover of People magazine, and movement would make her look blurry.

Beck stood with his drink, and instead of moving into the chair next to her as she expected, came up right behind her. “Would you like to move to a table where we can talk?”

She turned and looked into his eyes again, bracing herself for the shock of attraction so she wouldn’t react visibly this time. He was gorgeous, even this close with every possible flaw exposed—except she couldn’t find any. Square jaw, faint grooves down the sides of his cheeks, ridged nose with great personality, killer blue-gray eyes with black lashes, full masculine mouth, cool wheat-colored slightly spiky hair…all her Serious Hunk requirements were met and then some.

But beyond that, an air of easy confidence that made Dan and Trevor and the other men she knew look apologetic in comparison. And an intensity under his relaxed in-control aura, as if an incredible brain was hard at work noticing and assessing everything and everyone around him.

She wanted to put her tongue out and pant like a puppy.

At the same time—if things had worked out as planned, she’d be rolling in the very expensive hay with Trevor right now. Yes, he’d dumped her, yes, he hadn’t called back to see if she was okay, but it felt a little uncomfortable to be chatting up a total stranger. To be this excited by a total stranger.

Or was that just too spinelessly overloyal of her?

Trevor wasn’t here. Nor would he be. And some instinct told her work had nothing to do with why. Plus, if he’d encouraged her to stay the week on his dime without him—well he had to know in a place like this something might happen. It wasn’t as if she’d be doing anything but talking to Beck tonight. She wasn’t even sure how much loyalty she did owe Trevor, since nothing had ever been quantified vis-à-vis their relationsh—

“Yes? No?”

“I’m sorry.” She resisted the urge to thwack herself on the head. Beck wanted a simple answer to a simple question, while she sat here analyzing every possible pro and con as if she were contemplating a major life change. “That would be nice.”

There. Decision. How about that?

They moved to a table for four near the window, facing what she thought was East 41st Street, but she wasn’t swell on directions, so it could be Madison Avenue, taking their drinks with them. May sat in one of the round-backed low leather chairs and was taken aback when instead of taking a seat across from her, Beck sank into the chair next to her, with quite a bit of athletic grace, she might add, extended his long legs under the table and leaned back, hands folded across his abdomen, looking as if he was settling in for a long evening.

May tucked her own legs back under her chair and took a healthy swallow of her Cosmopolitan, hoping she looked like an experienced drinker and not someone desperate to chase off nerves. Never mind the few sips she had were already affecting her.

“So, May. What happened to Prince Charming?”

“Prince who?”

“Whoever you were supposed to meet.” He adjusted his chair so his assessing stare hit her directly and made her have to work harder not to appear flustered. “Don’t tell me he got invited to another…ball?”

His emphasis on the word “ball” made May swallow her next sip quickly so she didn’t spit it out. Okay, that seemed rude as hell to her, but maybe in New York and at HUSH hotel, it was acceptable to talk to strangers about their sex lives. She’d keep her ice-coating thick and play along. “Some matter in the running of the kingdom unavoidably detained him.”

Beck’s brief grin delighted her. “Will His Majesty show up at a later time?”

She helped herself to cashews from the green pedestal bowl that looked like a giant martini glass. If she said no, she’d effectively be admitting her availability.

“No.” Another casual sip of her drink, and she was starting to feel quite happy and brave and warm all over, thankyouverymuch.

“Was this a serious boyfriend? A fiancé? A husband?”

May’s jaw clenched, then released. She couldn’t lie. She was a terrible liar. And the truth fit her Veronica image so much better. “A man I met recently.”

She felt like cheering. Oh, that came out soooo well, just tossed off casually as if she did this all the time. Fun! This was so fun!

“I see.”

She was sure he did; he brightened like a lightbulb in fact. And now must be making all kinds of sordid assumptions about her. Which May was amused to find delighted her. She’d be gone tomorrow, what did she care what he thought? “I was supposed to stay the week. Now I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Fleeing before the clock strikes midnight and leaves you in rags surrounded by rodents, lizards and a pumpkin.”

She barely contained a smile. “Something like that.”

“Where’s home?”

“Where’s yours?”

“Right here in Manhattan.” He gave no sign her refusal to answer his question bothered or surprised him. “Fifty-six blocks north and one west.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing in a hotel this expensive if he lived close by, but then it hit her she had no idea if he was staying here, or if he regularly patrolled the bar looking for women with rooms whose dates hadn’t showed up. “I see.”

“I’ve written a book set here at Hush.” He winked, which did something stupidly fluttery to her insides. “Free publicity for them equals free room for me.”

“Nice deal.”

“It is.” His next glance made her feel she was supposed to react somehow. Beck…books…something was nagging at her brain. What was it?

“So…what is your book about?”

“A serial killer in a hotel.”

“Ah.” She toasted him. “Charming.”

“Thank you.” He grinned and clinked her glass with his.

Serial killer. Beck. Books… Her father was always reading some grisly shoot-’em-up book or other that drove May’s mother crazy. Wasn’t one of his favorite authors…

“Beck Desmond?”

He nodded, watching her carefully. “That’s me.”

She managed a cool nod while her insides experienced tornadic activity. Holy moly. She, Little Miss Nobody From Nowhere, was sitting at a swanky hotel in one of the world’s most important cities chatting with a mega-celebrity of the publishing world. Ginny would die. “My father reads your books.”

“Oh, nice.” He seemed genuinely pleased, which surprised her. “I take it you don’t.”

She shook her head. “I tried one, but we didn’t work out.”

He looked at her intently with those killer blue eyes, then back at his drink, as if he were considering whether to ask her something…maybe something personal? Or was she dreaming? Her heart started pounding. She had a dangerous feeling that “yes” would be an all-too easy reaction.

“Can I ask why you didn’t like my book? For professional reasons, not because you wounded my ego.”

May reached for her glass to buy time and hide her disappointment that he’d asked the wrong type of question. How the heck was she supposed to handle this one? “They’re not my thing.”

“How so?”

She threw him a look and he held up his hand. “I don’t mean to push, but it’s actually relevant right now. I’d really like to know.”

“Okay.” She tried not to fidget; Veronica would never fidget. And May had a degree in English; she knew perfectly well why she didn’t like his books. But how the hell did you say things like “flat characterization” to a multipublished successful author? “This is just personal. And totally subjective.”

“Keeping that in mind, I’m interested in your opinion.”

“Why mine?”

“Because, May, you’re a woman.”

Maybe he didn’t mean to make that sound like he wanted to see her naked, but for some reason that’s how it sounded. Most likely alcohol had affected her hearing, and her fantasies about him had affected her brain and HUSH hotel had affected her hormones and the combination had made her insane.

“Yes.” She gave the perfect Veronica pause. “I am a woman.”

“And I need a woman’s opinion.”

“Okay.” She’d hoped for a sexier answer. “Well, for one thing, your books are pretty grisly.”

“Granted. What’s the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“You said ‘for one thing.’ Which made me think there had to be others.”

She took a deep breath, wondering if he’d fling his drink in her face and stalk out of the bar if she told the truth. “I like books that are more character-driven. Yours are plot-driven. It’s just a question of taste.”

He frowned, then leaned forward so suddenly, she nearly jumped back. Except this close to him she could see the shadow of stubble darkening the grooves in his cheeks, see a stray hair escaping from his otherwise neat short sideburns, get a close-up view of his very sexy mouth, and the urge to jump back left very, very quickly. “What would you think if I had the hero fall in love?”

Her eyes shot from his mouth to his eyes. “Mack? Fall in love?”

He nodded. “This is what my agent and editor want me to do. They think more people—specifically more women—would read the books if Mack had a girlfriend or a…puppy.”

She couldn’t help smiling. He said puppy the way most people would say sexually transmitted disease. “I take it you don’t agree.”

“It would ruin him. But not as much of this is up to me as most people think, so I’m stuck trying it.”

“You think falling in love ruins people.”

He laughed and showed a dimple that surprised her. “Often. But in this case, I’m just concerned with Mack.”

“A kinder, gentler, butt-kicking assassin detective.”

“Exactly.” He gave her a significant glance and looked around, as if afraid of being overheard, though there was no one close enough. “And they want more emotion in the sex scenes.”

“Hmm.” She had no idea what to say to that. She wasn’t a writer, but sex with Dan had always been emotional, and she couldn’t imagine trying to portray it any other way. Maybe if she’d gotten the chance with Trevor she would have discovered what unemotional sex was like…but even there, she’d hoped something more would come of it.

“Plus…” Beck drained his drink and put it back exactly in the center of the napkin, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time since she’d met him. A man and woman seated themselves at the next table and Beck motioned May closer. She leaned in and caught a whiff of how a very sexy celebrity writer smelled: like expensive male sin.

“It’s sexual, do you mind?”

Oh, my God, oh, my God. “Not at all.”

“It won’t shock you?”

“Nothing shocks me.” May nearly bit her tongue. What a line! Nothing shocks her! She was cruising on such a—

God, please don’t let her look shocked.

“Good.” He grimaced and rubbed his hand back and forth over his chin.

Uh-oh. May took a sip of her drink to try and keep calm.

“I have to find a woman who will tell me how she pleasures herself.”

Alcohol hit the back of her throat at the same time she gasped, and there was no escaping the humiliation of choking in front of Beck Desmond, who probably talked about masturbation every day with all his New York friends, along with politics, the Yankee/Mets scores and what they planned to order for lunch. Luckily she could blame her blush on her near-death experience.

But damn, damn, damn. Served her right for acting as if she could handle anything.

A glass of water appeared on the table next to her and she smiled gratefully at Shandi, still unable to speak.

“Is he behaving himself?” Shandi sent a mock-stern look over to Beck; May managed a nod and gulped water which soothed her throat considerably.

Beck gave an exaggerated shrug of innocence. “Is making people choke to death considered misbehaving?”

“It comes close.” Shandi discreetly slid a book next to him, one of his. “Can you sign this for Janice Foster, our general manager?”

“Sure.” He took a pen out of his jacket pocket. “She reads my books?”

“Her brother does. Sign to Jack Foster, please.”

Beck sent May a look of exasperation that made her grin, signed the book and handed it back to Shandi, who returned to the bar to serve new customers.

“Maybe your agent and editor have a point.”

“Apparently I have to find out.” Beck leaned forward and touched her bare arm. “I’m sorry if I shocked you.”

She waved away his concern. “That wasn’t shock, that was swallowing wrong.”

“So may I ask you something fairly personal?”

“How I pleasure myself?” She could have cheered. The line came out smoothly and she wasn’t even blushing. Perhaps Cosmopolitans should become part of her and Veronica’s nightly routine.

“Um…yes.” He looked embarrassed. Ha!

She let her left eyebrow arch. “You’d call that a fairly personal question?”

“Actually, I call it research.”

“I barely know you.”

“Then I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“How do you pleasure yourself?”

He laughed, a loud long laugh that made the couple next to them glance over, and made May swell with a peculiar giddy joy. Ginny would be sooo proud of her. Hell, she was proud of her.

“Touché. But it was worth a shot. It seemed like fate that you were here alone when I needed a woman to ask. Otherwise I’d risk getting socked in the nose by an angry date.”

“I really didn’t mind.” But she really did hope he’d drop it. No way could she discuss something like that and hope to remain Veronica. She’d never even talked about that with Dan.

“Do you have to go home tomorrow?”

She finished the last of her drink and set it down, sensing she needed to wind the evening up before she got herself in any more trouble. “Why?”

“I think you can guess.”

“You want to soften me up so I’ll tell you my sexual secrets?”

He held out both hands in an innocently helpless gesture. “It’s my job.”

She laughed. “Now there’s a line.”

“Believe me, I suffer for my art.” His eyes narrowed in a sexy grin which faded and left her that blue-gray intense gaze that made her want to promise him her first-born child. “Even just writing something down and shoving it under my door before you leave would help. I’m in Room 1217.”

She stood and tilted her head, so Veronica could survey him coolly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks.” He held out his hand. “I hope if staying the week is a possibility you’ll consider it. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.”

“About sex.”

“About everything. But yes, that. You could be a valuable resource for this new direction they want me to take, May. My consultant on the female perspective, if you will.”

She shook his hand, then left hers lying in his, neither of them making a move to pull away. “I’ll think about that, too.”

“Good. Sleep well.” He winked and waggled his eyebrows. “And if you get lonely in the middle of the night and want to talk dirty, give me a call.”

She arched an I-don’t-think-so eyebrow and swept out of the bar, leaving his laughter behind, her head spinning with possibilities. Of course she couldn’t stay the week now, but oh, my God, she wanted more of how she’d been and what she’d felt with him tonight.

No way could her Veronica act last a week. Sooner or later she’d betray who she really was and he’d think she was a complete fool. Tonight had been perfect—a perfect fantasy. Pursue the farce any longer, and she’d ruin it, not only going forward, but also retroactively.

She crossed the lobby, where the cat she’d seen earlier followed her flight with condemning green eyes, as if May was a total disgrace to femininity. Down the hall, into the elevator, up to her floor, into her room, and the first thing she did was grab a black and pink HUSH pen, tear off the silly sketch of Trevor-Satan, and on the thick hotel notepaper, write “Beck Desmond, 1217.”

Just in case she forgot.

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