Welcome to the Hush hotel! Check out Room 1217…

A gentle knock sounded. Beck fought down the rush of excitement and opened the door calmly. “Hello, May.”

She looked beautiful—when did she not?—and walked past him into the room. She wore a sexy black off-shoulder top that left her firm midriff bare, and a fire-engine-red clingy short skirt that hugged her hips adoringly.

He’d invited her in for research. Right.

“Thanks for coming.”

“I haven’t yet, but you’re welcome.” Smiling, May faced him, and whatever uncertainty had been plaguing her before was gone. She was on fire, eyes bright and sure.

“Uh, would you like a drink first—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Let’s just do it, Beck.”

Her soft words had the opposite effect on his arousal. He needed to focus on the scene playing out before him, focus on his book. He grabbed his laptop. “Mind if I take notes?”

“Knock yourself out.”

She stood still for a second. Putting her hands on the hem of the shirt, she lifted it slowly, exposing full round breasts captured—barely, it seemed—in a few inches of sheer black lace, nipples clearly visible under the sheer fabric.

Beck’s hands froze on the keyboard. Oh, my.

Dear Reader,

Who wouldn’t want to be treated to a week in a luxury boutique hotel in Manhattan? Especially a “discreet” hotel like Hush, where anything goes and the staff is trained to lift no eyebrows and refuse no request.

My heroine, small-town girl May Ellison, rebounding from the only relationship she’s ever had, thinks this is not a bad idea either, especially once she meets sexy celebrity author Beck Desmond. During her week at Hush, May gets to indulge herself at the spa, pool, library, restaurant and a certain unusually titillating bar….

Welcome to the fabulous miniseries, DO NOT DISTURB, brought to you by yours truly and some of my favorite Harlequin Blaze authors. We worked closely together to create this fabulous fantasy place. Want a virtual visit? Go to www.hushhotel.com and check yourself in. Can’t get enough? Spend time at www.eHarlequin.com as the series’ books come out, and look for each author’s bonus short story, set in one of Hush’s rooms. You can also chat with the authors on the site and ask us questions!

Finally, don’t miss the excerpt from the next DO NOT DISTURB story, Kiss & Makeup by Alison Kent, at the end of this book.

Hope you enjoy May and Beck’s adventure and the miniseries! Let me know. You can e-mail me through my Web site, www.IsabelSharpe.com.

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe

Thrill Me
Isabel Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Tracy Miller,

who has brought so much happiness to those I love best

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

MEMORANDUM

To: Staff

From: Janice Foster, General Manager, HUSH Hotel

Date: Sunday, July 6

Re: Trevor Little

Mr. Trevor Little will be bringing another guest this week. We will be following the usual pattern of gifts: flowers Monday, spa visit Tuesday, bracelet Wednesday, negligee Thursday and the molded chocolate sculpture Friday. Reminder: please treat his guest with absolute courtesy and do not act as if you’ve seen him here before. As usual, calls to his room should be forwarded to his voice mail and anyone asking for him should be told he is not registered here.

Note on housekeeping board:

Someone else gets to clean Trevor Little’s room. I got it last time. Yick!

IF SHE THOUGHT of the Midwest Airlines airplane as a womb, and the jetway into Newark airport as a birth canal, then May Hope Ellison figured she was about to be reborn. Her first symbolic breaths of new life were only yards away in the hallowed area outside gate B40.

Okay, so maybe that was pushing it.

She’d been planning to fly into LaGuardia since Manhattan was her destination, but Trevor had insisted she fly into Newark. To save her the traffic and hassle of LaGuardia, he’d said. And with luck, he’d get out of his meeting in New Jersey early and be able to meet her on the eleven-thirty-five train to Penn Station.

May’s mother, born and bred in Wisconsin, but lived in the Big Apple for a couple of years before she married, had shrugged and said she’d never had any trouble at LaGuardia.

Of course May hadn’t told her mother about Trevor. Mom thought May was exploring New York with her high school friend Ginny. Mothers didn’t generally get very excited about daughters flying halfway across the country to spend a week of wild passion in a luxury boutique hotel with a man they barely knew.

Well, maybe they did get excited. But not in a good way.

One more step, around the corner, and there was her first sight of her new temporary life and— Wow. Lots of gates. Lots of noise. Lots and lots of people. This was not Milwaukee. And it certainly wasn’t Oshkosh.

She wasn’t aware she’d stopped dead until someone bumped into her and muttered something not terribly flattering or polite.

Forward, then, going with the flow, heading out of the gate-studded cul-de-sac, up a long corridor, then around another corner into the main terminal. Even more people. Security lines many many yards long, three of them, two and three people deep. She clutched the directions Trevor had e-mailed her and followed signs for the shuttle to the N.J. Transit train that would take her into the city.

After much confusion, buying the wrong ticket to the wrong destination—why would they name both the New York and New Jersey stations Penn Station?—she finally made it onto the right train, counting the cars carefully so she’d be in the one she and Trevor agreed upon. Third behind the engine.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t there. Or fortunately, depending on whose nerves you asked. Not that she wasn’t thrilled to be doing this, of course she was. It’s just that…well how did you behave during a long commute with someone you barely knew that you were planning to screw for an entire week?

Hey, how are you? Hot for this time of year, isn’t it? Looking forward to penetrating me?

Maybe it was better they’d meet at the hotel.

Half an hour later, May emerged from the train onto a hot, dark, underground platform, dragging her rolling suitcase behind her. She inched along, in closer proximity to more strangers than she cared to be, and struggled up the stairs. Penn Station made Newark Airport look like a ghost town.

Not that she’d never seen crowds before. Not that she hadn’t expected everything to be Milwaukee times four, Oshkosh times ten. And Pine River, Wisconsin, the town she grew up in, times…did they make numbers that big?

Onward to her adventure. She’d met Trevor a month ago when he’d come through for the University of Wisconsin “spirit day” celebration and stopped by to catch up with an old professor at the business school, where she worked as assistant to the Dean.

They’d hit it off immediately. Gone from polite chat, to his invitation for coffee, to his invitation to drinks, to his invitation to dinner, to his invitation to his hotel room, which she’d declined, though she’d been tempted. When had any man paid this much attention to her? Then after he left town, he’d e-mailed her. Called her. And, incredibly, called her again. Until chatting with him became a regular part of her day. A bright spot in the last few dismal months since Dan had pronounced their six-year relationship over, because he wasn’t feeling the excitement anymore. Because he’d had a vision of them together for the rest of their lives, doing the same things, having the same arguments they’d had since college, and it wasn’t pretty.

Pretty? Who could keep pretty going forever? Life wasn’t an adventure day in and day out. You worked, you came home, you had kids, you raised them, you retired, you died. Along the way you found things to enjoy so you stayed out of ruts.

Of course she couldn’t stop him going where he needed to go. But feeling left behind sucked, not to mention feeling as if your guts had been ripped out. Though she knew Dan top to bottom, and couldn’t help the sneaking suspicion that after he sowed whatever oats he felt he had to sow, he’d be back and their lives would progress smoothly toward the future as they’d always planned. Life was beautiful and miraculous all on its own. You didn’t need to keep creating adrenaline rushes to enjoy it.

Okay, so she was after one now. Probably in reaction to what Dan had said about her, about their lives together. Dull and predictable? Not this week, honey. The e-mails and phone calls with Trevor had gotten increasingly intimate. Increasingly…sexual in tone. Why not? Dan was the only man she’d ever been with, and admittedly she was curious. Trevor was extremely attractive, and he must be a gazillionaire because he’d unexpectedly and thrillingly invited her to stay with him for a week at HUSH Hotel in Manhattan.

Her jaw had nearly hit her desk when she researched it on Google and got an eyeful of the luxurious accommodations, the “discreet” nature of the place. Said jaw nearly hit the floor when she got a load of the price tag. A family of four could eat for a month on what it cost to stay there one night.

So here she was, on her way to having a wild, wonderful sexual fling. And then going back to her so-called boring life. Which didn’t really seem that boring apart from a little restlessness, a niggling suspicion now and then that there must be more. She figured that was normal. Her mom had chased a dream to Radio City Music Hall and discovered being a Rockette was hard work, fun, sometimes tedious, occasionally exciting, occasionally disappointing, same as anything. Maybe that’s what Dan needed to learn. Maybe once he learned it, he’d come back to her.

Or maybe this week would change everything.

Now. To find her way up to street level and get a taxi to the hotel. She moved purposefully forward and bumped into someone, then someone else on the rebound. “Excuse me, I’m sor—”

“Watch where you’re going, honey.”

Honey? She made a face at the suited back of the retreating jerk, and then realized poking her tongue out in Penn Station was definitely not a New Yorker thing to do. Giving him the finger probably was, but she didn’t have that in her.

Okay. She was going to have to become Veronica Lake to deal with this. All her life she’d combated shyness and introvert tendencies that separated her from the social mainstream. As a tactic to give herself courage she’d imitated leading ladies from her mother’s stack of old movies. When Mom said she looked like Veronica Lake, her movie star persona had achieved focus.

So. Onward, Veronica.

She straightened and walked briskly, trying not to gawk at everything, trying to keep a furtive eye out for signs to where she was going. Seventh Avenue, Eighth Avenue, which exit did she want?

She picked Seventh and was rewarded with a street view and the marquis of Madison Square Garden. Taxi stand here, Trevor had said. Yes, there. With a thirty-foot lineup.

Veronica’s who-cares expression crumpled a little. Was everyone in New York waiting here? It would take hours to get a cab.

Straightening her shoulders, she marched to the end of the line. No problem. Veronica did this all the time. This was her city. She was coming home after a wild weekend with fraternity boys at Princeton. Nobody better mess with her.

In line, she started realizing how warm it was for early July, at least compared to Oshkosh. The noon sun managed to find its way through the buildings and beat right down on her. Horns honked. The whistle of the uniformed man guiding people to cabs shrieked repeatedly. Cigarette smoke traveled unerringly into May’s face with every puff and exhale of the woman in front of her. Sweat formed on her forehead and prickled under her arms. Lovely. She hoped she had the chance to shower at the hotel before Trevor showed up.

A thrill of adrenaline shot through her as she moved up in the line. She was really doing this. Really going to see him again. Really going to spend the week in his jovial sexy presence. Really going to have the kind of attention and luxury lavished on her that most people only dreamed about.

Hot damn.

Except as she moved closer—and no, she wasn’t going to have to wait for hours, duh farm girl—the adrenaline kept coming, but the thrill turned more to fear. The woman in front of her lit another cigarette. The sun kept shining on May’s too-heavy jacket. A cab farther back in line tried to take on a fare before his turn and the man with the whistle blew shrilly and kept blowing, then held up the line for five eternal sweaty smoky minutes by having a…well, animated shall we say, conversation with the driver.

People around her muttered. A drunk passed, yelling randomly about Jesus and video games and roast pork sandwiches.

Then it was May’s turn. The cab pulled up. She lugged her suitcase in and sat, registering disappointment at the non-air-conditioned interior.

The driver glanced in his rearview mirror with dark tired eyes. “Where to?”

She gave him her haughtiest movie star stare while her entire body begged her to tell him to drive her back to Wisconsin, damn the cost.

“Hush Hotel.”

His brows shot up, he turned fully around and—oh joy—leered at her, then winked and pulled out into heavy-but-moving traffic. And for the next fifteen minutes, while the meter ticked higher at a speed faster than his, he proceeded to try as hard as he could to get them into a fatal accident.

My God, the city was immense, impossibly crowded, a hodgepodge of neat and slovenly storefronts and neat and slovenly people. How could anyone stand having to navigate all this every day? No wonder New Yorkers were considered tough. You needed a thick protective coating just to cross the street.

Finally, the driver executed another of his who-needs-lanes moves, pulled under the overhang in front of the hotel and came to a stop that made the whole car bounce. “Here you go.”

May fumbled shakily in her wallet. How much was too much to tip? How much wasn’t enough? She erred on the side of too much. After all, he’d done his best to teach her how precious her life was.

He accepted the bills with a nod. May took a deep breath. Three, two, one—

The door to the cab opened, and an attractive man in a black uniform with silver buttons and HUSH stitched in pink letters on the left breast of his jacket extended a white-gloved hand to help her out.

She took it reluctantly and emerged into the exhaust-smelling air to a hot breeze that threatened her careful French twist. Her head started to throb.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Welcome to Hush Hotel.”

A sudden burst of jackhammering in the street made him have to shout.

She nodded cool thanks, not wanting to have to shout back, and nodded again to the other attractive black-uniformed man who whisked her bag out of the cab behind her. Should she tip all these people? How much? God she was out of her depth.

The jackhammer clattered again. Another young hunky hotel employee blew his whistle for another cab. Someone shouted behind her. An ambulance siren grew louder; horns honked frantically as cars tried to get out of its way. May did manage to resist the urge to launch herself into the hotel through the ornate leaded-glass doors, but probably walked a bit quicker toward them than was perfectly haute-whatever of her.

A massive-shouldered doorman whooshed open the door just as she reached it and was about to put out her hand. She stepped inside and immediately wished she was somebody Terribly Important, and that she had a Terribly Chic faux-fur wrap to slip from her shoulders into the waiting arms of an attendant. Then she’d burst into a sultry song and the uniformed men around her would be her dancing chorus.

What a place.

Cool air wafted through the midsized lobby, deliciously scented with something vaguely herbal she couldn’t identify. A few people milled about, a few checking in or out, a few in consultation with the pink-haired concierge. A few sitting in deep comfortable-looking black-and-grey or seafoam green chairs. Few being the operative word.

Best of all? Quiet. Who put the hush in HUSH Hotel? Whoever did, May’s head was extremely grateful. And her nerves even more so. The tension started ebbing out of her. She half expected to leave a visible stress trail as she walked over the lush carpet—black, gray, pink and touches of that lovely green—following the bellhop up to the registration desk, a chest-high shiny black lacquer rectangle. Behind it on the wall in pink neon, the word HUSH, in art deco lettering.

Oh, this was soooo cool.

May gave her name, affecting bored disinterest, while willing her cheeks not to flush as she did so. Hi, I’m May Hope Ellison, I’m here to have sex for an entire week with someone I barely know.

Of course she needn’t have worried. The registration was speedy and pleasant. The lovely woman behind the counter couldn’t have been more professionally cordial. Did anyone ugly work in this hotel?

With a nod of her perfectly coiffed head toward the elevator and a genuine smile along with the key card, the-lovely-woman-behind-the-counter sent May off to her den of iniquity, hunky bellhop in tow, past more chairs, a mirror and a black cat with a pink collar, which no one but her seemed surprised to see sauntering about the lobby.

Waiting for the elevator, May kept her face impassive, legs practically quivering from suppressed anxiety. As the doors closed in front of her face, and the bellhop lit the fourteenth-floor button pink, her panic rose. She needed a time-out. A moment for a deep breath. Or twenty. But how could she tell this lovely, patient, suitcase-bearing Adonis that she was completely freaking out?

She couldn’t.

Ten…eleven…twelve…fourteen, and here they were. She stepped out of the elevator and stared blindly at the room number directions painted on the wall. Her room was number 1457. Which direction did that mean? Her brain was gone. Liquefied. Soon it would seep out of her ears and that would be that.

Adonis cleared his throat, gestured to the left. May smiled and thanked him, grateful when her tight voice didn’t crack. She really didn’t want him there if she opened the door to Trevor. Didn’t want anyone to bear witness to her nervous meltdown. But what choice did she have? She didn’t have Dan and his calm, protective, take-charge strength to go back to. She was on her own.

Sally forth. She reached 1457, thrust the key card into the lock. Green light went on. Door opened. May went in.

Empty.

She took a few more steps in; the bathroom door was open.

Empty, too.

Oh, thank God.

A rush of delighted relief made her bestow a giant smile of gratitude on Adonis and give him five dollars, which in her estimation was a ridiculously enormous tip but for him probably branded her as Cowpoke Cathy.

He accepted the cash, gave a slight bow and exited the room.

So.

Panic over, she turned to survey her home for the next week. In a word: exquisite. A king-size bed with an arched headboard of two-toned wood, cherry and maple, dominated the room. She sank onto the thick down comforter in geometric patterns of black, white and burgundy. Bliss. She lay flat, her no-longer-aching head relishing the soft pillows, then stretched her right arm over the empty side, imagining Trevor lying there.

Along with the thrill of anticipation came an unexpected stab of nervous pain and longing for Dan. She put her hand to her chest where his grandmother’s locket had rested for so many years. It still felt empty.

Enough. She sat up abruptly, padded over the thick cream carpet with a burgundy border, past the elegant spare desk that echoed the two-toned wood of the bed. On it, a bouquet of white and burgundy alstroemeria reflected the colors in the room; the feathery greens added a fresh, living contrast. On a slender-legged table near the window stood a giant bouquet of at least two dozen red roses. With a card. “I can’t wait to see you. Trevor.”

She smiled and rubbed the edge of the card back and forth across her chin. Dan was in the past—and possibly again in her future someday. But he didn’t exist to her here. This would be a really, really nice week.

She drew back the gauze curtains and gazed out at the cityscape, at the people hurrying along the sidewalk. It was so peaceful away from all that rush and chaos. She let the curtain fall.

What else? Drawing back the doors on the entertainment center exposed a TV twice the size of hers at home, a VCR, a DVD player and in a narrow cabinet, video-recording equipment.

Gulp.

To the left, a black lacquer tray displaying fancy bottled water, glasses and ice. A bowl of apples, clementines, kiwis and grapes, and a basket of rolls and crackers. In the minibar along with the usual assortment of booze and snacks, lay foil-wrapped French cheese, pâté and tins of smoked oysters.

Oh, this was so not what she was used to. Ginny would freak. May would have to take careful note of everything to report back to her glamour and celebrity-hungry friend. What heaven. At least for a while. Eventually it, too, would get dull and predictable, like everything familiar.

In the bathroom she discovered a huge whirlpool tub, a portable showerhead, a bathrobe, a beautifully arranged basket of high-end cosmetics, lotions, shampoo and specialty soaps—all a hell of a lot fancier than the stuff she bought from the Pick ’n Save in Oshkosh.

Total fantasy. Impulsively, she turned on the tub and left it filling. That’s what she needed. A nice soak to get rid of the travel smells, the city smells and the cigarette smoke smell that still clung to her from the woman in line at the cabstand. To refresh herself.

And if Trevor showed up in the middle of it, so much the better.

She smiled wickedly, went back into the room to undress and noticed the message light blinking on the black-and-gold old-fashioned style phone. She punched the button and unpinned her French twist. Receiver pressed against her cheek, she shook her head to let her long hair flow past her shoulders, wicked smile turned dreamy.

The machine picked up; the message played. Trevor’s voice.

She listened. Hit Replay when the computerized voice gave her the option, and listened again. Just in case she hadn’t heard right the first time. Just in case the second time through would be different.

It wasn’t.

Trevor wasn’t coming.

MEMORANDUM

To: Staff

From: Janice Foster, General Manager, HUSH Hotel

Date: Monday, July 7

Re: Beck Desmond

Most of you already know that we are hosting author Beck Desmond in 1217. I’m posting another reminder that he is not to be approached for autographs or chitchat. While strolling the various parts of the hotel, he is often deep in concentration and we don’t want to be responsible for interfering with his work. It’s an honor that he’s chosen HUSH as inspiration for the setting of his next thriller. Anyone who bothers him will be transferred immediately to the pet area for waste removal duty.

Note for Shandi Fossey, bartender, Erotique:

See if you can get me Beck Desmond’s autograph. Janice

BECK DESMOND took the phone away from his ear and stared at it with immense irritation. From the black receiver emerged the shrill heavily New York–accented voice of his agent, Alex Barkhauser, chattering away. He felt like affecting a high thin voice and saying, “Yes, dear” at regular intervals.

Except that was undoubtedly what she wanted him to do.

After a deep breath, he put the receiver back to his ear. Might be a good idea to hear at least some of what she was saying.

“…me wrong here, Beck, your books are great, you know they’re great and you know I love them. But I just feel…”

He pictured her squinting off to one side, gesturing in swooping circles the way she always did, as if she were beckoning the words out of her mouth. “Yes?”

“I just feel like we’re sitting on something that could get bigger, you know?”

“Bigger.” He let the word drop, then waited. Old sales technique his father taught him; let the silence sit and your opponent will fill it with what you need to know.

“Sharon and I think you should try more emotion in your stories, more warmth, add a girlfriend for Mack, soften him up a little. Believe me, you’ll double your readership. Women will buy you in droves. Right now you’re selling to men. Women are a huge market in book sales. Huge. This is the next big step in your career.”

Beck leaned back in the chair he’d brought with him from his condo on East 97th Street, spanned his temples with his thumb and middle finger and squeezed to try and relieve the ache. “Let me get this straight. You want me to take my hero, Mack, who has seen more of the baseness of human nature than anyone alive, and—”

“Soften him up. Give him more heart. Give him more sensitivity. Give him…”

“A puppy?”

He heard a sharp thwack, and knew Alex had slammed her palm on the desk, a sure sign his complete joke of an idea excited her. “Yes! Perfect! A puppy. Small one, the kind women love to stop and pat in the street. He could meet his—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Alex.” Next she’d want Beck’s ruthless detective spending afternoons shopping for shoes. “Mack is a man. No, he’s more than that, he’s the man.”

“So make him the man with the woman.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a loner, he’s a tough guy. It’s not him.”

“Give him a woman strong enough to change him.”

“Strong enough to—” Beck reached for his bottle of Evian water and found his fingers trying to strangle it. Change him? Change the man Beck had lived with in his imagination for seven years, through more harrowing adventures, more near-fatal experiences, more death-defying risks than any mere mortal could stand? The man who’d taken down serial killers, drug lords, crime bosses, international art thieves, muggers, murderers and everything between? Change him? With a woman? “I thought women knew never to get involved with a man hoping to change him.”

“She can change him without trying. Simply by being who she is and affecting him that way. Having him become a better person because of loving her.”

“The only effect I want any woman to have on Mack is a raging hard-on. I don’t write romance novels.”

Alex made the sound of exasperation New Yorkers excelled at, a cross between a cough and a raspberry. “I’m not asking you to write a romance novel. Just make him more human.”

Beck exhaled his annoyance. The very quality that made Alex Barkhauser an incredibly effective agent on his behalf, also made her a formidable opponent. Namely, she was a pit bull. “I’m sorry, I can’t see Mack—”

“Here’s an example.” Pages rustled over the line. “The sex scene you have here with whatsername.”

“Tamara.”

“Tamara.” Alex’s voice turned scornful. “Total stripper name. Call her Susie or something.”

“Susie? Susie wears pigtails and scuffed sandals, not black lingerie. And women named Susie don’t masturbate.”

“Well no woman masturbates like this.”

“Like what?” The defensive edge in his voice disgusted him.

“Like a male fantasy from a porn movie.”

Beck’s mouth opened to protest. Then closed. Because it had nothing to say. That’s exactly what had inspired the scene. A movie he’d snuck in to see as a teenager and had never forgotten.

“You can’t tell me your girlfriends do it like that when they’re alone. Wearing this entire black lace getup, do you have any idea how itchy and uncomfortable that stuff is? Plus, you have to be five-eleven, one hundred and ten pounds but oh, yes, somehow with enormous boobs, to look good in it. And the ten-inch dildo? Please.”

“Alex. Can we move on to—”

“Make it more real, Beck. That’s what I’m saying. The book rocks otherwise. But make Mack’s relationship with women, his attention to women, his sex with women, more real. Less like a teenage boy’s wet dream. Let’s start there and see where it takes us, okay?”

“Where it takes us? To five percent sell-through, that’s where it takes us. For every female reader we gain, we’ll lose two men. I guarantee it.”

“No. Your stories are great, Beck, this story is great, that won’t change. You’re not going to lose men over a love interest for Mack. Most men have actually been in love, you know.”

“But this is fantasy. They read my books to escape all that.”

“To escape being in love?”

Beck closed his eyes. “That came out wrong.”

Or maybe not. Weren’t most men wanting to escape now and then from the female-directed rules of “relationship” into something nice and tidy like good guys blowing up bad guys?

Relationships had to be examined and worked on in exhaustive detail. Men had to be told they weren’t doing this, that or the other to female satisfaction. And always the question, what happened to the wonderful romantic men they used to be?

The wonderful romantic men they used to be disappeared about the same time the adoring sweet women they were dating became critical, judgmental shrews.

“Just try it, Beck. Try it. Soften up the sex scenes. Especially make Tamara’s self-pleasuring scene more real. Try that one first. And when Mack joins her, make him feel it in his heart as well as his dick.”

“Alex—” Beck sighed. It was hopeless. When your editor and agent were against you, things were tough. Add in the members of the marketing department and the ever-dreaded focus groups, and you might as well bend over and take it.

If he had a dime for every person envious of a writer’s so-called complete freedom in his work…

Well, if he did, he’d be rich enough to keep Mack’s mind on his dick during a sex scene, where it belonged.

“Okay.” He ran his hand over his aching head and jaw. “Just on the one scene with Tamara. See how it feels. How it reads.”

“Wonderful. You’re fabulous. It’s going to be so much better, you’ll be amazed, I promise.”

“Right.” He shook his head and hung up the phone harder than he needed to. Got to his feet and strode over to the window, pulling back the sheer curtains to gaze out at Madison Avenue.

Damn it to hell. He might have known this would hit eventually. This or something like it. He didn’t know a single writer who hadn’t come up against a brick wall at some point in his or her career. And Beck’s journey so far had been relatively easy. Alex had picked him up when he was still unpublished, working as an editor, still learning the craft in his own writing and from that of his authors. She’d seen enough raw talent to judge him a good commercial risk.

After extensive revisions, his first book had sold, then his second and his third. Mackenzie “Mack” Adams had starred in six books in the past six years, and for a while it seemed Beck’s star would never stop rising. Three years ago he’d quit his job to write full-time. Then the flattening sales, the apparent loss of reader interest.

And now back to extensive revisions. And the girlification of a true man’s man.

Worse, to rewrite the scene the way Alex et al wanted him to, Beck was going to have to find a woman who would be willing to describe her masturbation practices for him.

Of all the research he’d done, this was potentially both the most enjoyable and the most agonizing. Not to sound arrogant, but the women he’d dated hadn’t needed to touch themselves when he was around. And asking old girlfriends their current autostimulation techniques wasn’t the most tactful way to get back in touch.

No way would he ever admit to male friends he needed a woman to ask. He didn’t have any female friends close enough to broach a topic like this. His brothers would tease him unmercifully or slug him if he suggested asking their significant others.

The ideal would be a sexually open complete stranger he could talk to and never see again. Like that was going to happen. Though if it were possible, HUSH was as likely a spot as any to find one.

This was all too depressing. Next he’d start contemplating hiring a hooker.

His cell rang again and he rolled his eyes and reached for it to check the display. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment.

Oh.

Mom.

“Hi, Mom.” He rubbed his forehead, waiting for his headache to get worse. He loved his mother, loved his whole family, but his idea of how much time was appropriate for a man his age to spend with them differed vastly from theirs.

“Hello, Beck, how’s the writing going?”

“Fine. Just fine.” She asked every call, to be polite, and every call he answered fine. His entire family was in the restaurant business, an Italian place on West 55th Street—he was the black sheep. They wouldn’t care or understand about his line of work, so he generally didn’t bother sharing.

And he was pretty sure asking his mother about masturbation would not be a good way to start.

“Thursday night is the thirtieth birthday party for your brother Jeffrey.”

“I know.” He screwed his eyes shut, the predicted worsening of his headache making its first throbbing appearance. Of course he knew, Dad had called him two days ago to remind him and Mom a week before that. “I’d really like to come. But I have revisions due on Friday, and it’s going to be close.”

“Sure, close, you can’t get away for an hour?”

No use. He could try to explain that it wasn’t just the minutes he’d spend away from his keyboard he’d miss. It was the mental buildup, the interruption, the wind-down time it would take to get back into his work. And how was he to know if Thursday night was going to be a particularly creative time, when everything would come together in a huge burst of output?

“I’ll come if I can, Mom. I promise.”

“Good enough. Everything okay there? You want me to send you some food to the hotel? Something decent? Some of your dad’s osso bucco?”

“Thanks, Mom, they’re feeding me fine.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll go. But everyone wants to see you, the whole family misses you. You sit in that room all day long working, it’s not healthy.”

He chuckled. “I should be out in the fresh air?”

“I get it.” She laughed. “You’re not a little boy anymore. Moms are all the same. But if you need anything, you call me.”

“I will.”

“Even if you don’t. Just to say hi. Okay?”

“Deal. Thanks for checking on me.”

“You’re a good man, Beck. I worry about you.”

“I’m really fine. Bye, Mom.” Beck clicked the phone off before she could start listing single women she knew, then stood there imagining her bustling to the front of the restaurant, making sure everything was perfect, flowers and candles on the tables, menus clean and carefully piled, staff in place, complimentary antipasto dishes lined up in a neat row.

That world could have been his.

Sometimes he thought he’d been switched at birth, and somewhere some serious scholarly couple were wondering how they had ended up with a boisterous half-Italian chef for a son.

He needed a drink.

More than that, he needed one out among people. Usually he was content to be in his room, or prowling the hotel; he was a loner at heart like most writers, something his jovial family of extroverts couldn’t understand. Tonight, for some reason—probably that the soul was about to be ripped out of his life’s work—he’d rather indulge his demons with strangers around than tackle them on his own.

And who knew? Maybe his sexually open female stranger was at the bar right now, waiting for him.

2

Note on Exhibit A waitstaff board:

Don’t bend over near guy with mustache and cowboy hat who’s at Exhibit A every night. He’s an octopus; hands everywhere.

Jessie

IT TOOK ten strides to go from the window to the door of room 1457. May only took a few minutes to clue into that fact. And eight to go from the wall with the desk, to the wall next to the bed.

May had also clued into the fact that men who flew her halfway across the country and then backed out at the last minute with a lame-sounding excuse and then didn’t call again really pissed her off.

May had tried ringing Trevor, but his voice mail had picked up. She’d left a message in a broken, pathetic, scared voice, asking him to call her. Which he hadn’t. And that was over three hours ago.

Then she’d hated herself so much for sounding broken, pathetic and scared, she’d gotten pissed instead. Royally. Because what the hell was she supposed to do now?

Oh, sure, he’d been a total doll in the voice-mail message. He felt soooo bad about this unexpected and unavoidable—and she noticed, unspecified—schedule change. May was welcome to stay the full week on his dime. Enjoy the luxuries and amenities of the hotel to their fullest.

Yeah? Well considering she’d been planning to have sex all week, a spa, indoor pool and rooftop garden were not quite adequate substitutes. Neither were the plastic penises she’d discovered in a drawer, which might be anatomically correct, but had the distinct disadvantage of not being attached to sexy and fun-to-talk-to men.

Creeping home with her tail between her legs, instead of delicious and slightly sore memories, didn’t sound remotely appealing. But then neither did staying here completely on her own in this overwhelming city, at a hotel populated by other people having all the naughty fun she was supposed to be having.

Not that sex had been the entire point, of course. Part of her had probably secretly hoped she and Trevor would hit it off emotionally, too. And maybe that was where part of her anger was coming from now—from the disappointment that it couldn’t happen, and she was back to mourning Dan. But even if she and Trevor hadn’t fallen for each other in any serious way, they would have had fun, and a week’s adventure she’d always remember fondly.

Damn, but her toast was good and burned.

She whirled and headed for the phone, called Midwest Airlines and winced at the cost of changing her ticket. Jotted down the flight times on the hotel notepad under the childish caricature she’d done of Trevor as Satan. Couldn’t be helped. She could go home standby on a flight tomorrow; the agent seemed to think the planes wouldn’t be full.

Maybe that was best. She didn’t belong here. With Trevor around, she could have managed it. On her own, it would just be too depressing.

Her cell phone rang and she hauled it out of her purse. Trevor?

Nope.

“Hi, Ginny.”

“Hey, girlfriend. I can’t believe you answered the phone! Why aren’t you puffing and panting? I was just going to leave you a dirty voice mail.”

May sank onto the bed, mortified to feel tears coming up. “Trevor’s not coming.”

“Hmm. Did you go down on him? I read in Cosmo that men who have—”

“No, not that kind of coming. I’m serious.” The tears went back down and she smiled. “He’s not coming to the hotel. At all. This entire week.”

Ginny’s gasp made her feel better. Her friend would understand. She’d tell May to rush back to Wisconsin and come over to her apartment, and they’d make sundaes together and rent a romantic movie and have a total girl—

“How are we going to find you someone else?”

May’s jaw dropped. “Someone who?”

“Another guy for the week.”

“Oh, right. You want me to advertise?”

“No, no. Walk into a fancy bar and smile at someone, that’s probably all it takes. It’s New York! You could probably go out and get Jerry Seinfeld or one of those guys from Friends.”

“Ginny, this isn’t a joke.”

“I’m pretty sure Alec Baldwin still lives there. You might—”

“I was thinking of coming home.”

“What?”

“I. Was. Thinking. Of—”

“Is it the money? I know the hotel is megabucks, but maybe you could spring for a couple of nights at least? Or move to another hotel?”

“Actually…” May gestured around the room and let her hand slap down on her thigh. “Trevor said he’d pay for me to stay at Hush even though he’s not going to be here.”

“What? And you’re thinking about coming home? To Oshkosh!”

May sighed. She’d thought Ginny would understand. “What am I going to do here alone for a week?”

A thud came over the line. May winced. Her overly dramatic friend had dropped the phone and probably crumpled to the floor to make her point.

And okay, Ginny did have one. May sounded disgustingly whiny. And mousy. And naive. This was an amazing opportunity.

It just felt all wrong.

Ginny came back on the line and May placated her with promises to think it over, then dejectedly ended the call.

Fine. This totally sucked. She needed a drink. Granted, it was barely four o’clock, but who cared.

She flipped open the elegant leather-bound service menu, then paused.

Ginny had scored one point. Did May really want to come all the way to New York and only see the inside of an airport, a cab and a hotel room?

She wasn’t brave enough to go hang out in a local bar, but the hotel bar would probably be okay. The very thing that made HUSH perfect for her and Trevor would make her feel safer, albeit conspicuous. The clientele at a hotel like this had to be all couples. Why else pay these prices? There were other hotels in New York just as luxurious for the single traveler. What made HUSH special was the emphasis on the erotic, and the assurance of tasteful discretion. Which meant couples. Unless someone was into some seriously expensive self-stimulation.

So yes, a few eyebrows might rise at the sight of a woman alone. But most likely not. The staff was undoubtedly trained not to raise eyebrows at anything. And the couples—honeymooners, marrieds trying to spice up their lives, about-to-pop-the-question daters—would be so into each other they’d barely give May a glance. Besides, she’d be channeling Veronica Lake big-time and give off movie star, off-limits vibes.

Done.

A wry smile curved her lips. So it wasn’t quite the adventure she wanted. But it was still better than being home alone in her apartment with another frozen dinner, missing Dan.

Good.

She took off the city- and travel-smelling suit, refilled the tub, grown chilly in the hours she’d spent angsting, took a long, luxurious, fabulously scented whirlpool bath, helped herself to the lotions and felt much better. She unzipped her suitcase and, sighing, pulled out what was supposed to be the first outfit Trevor would take off her.

A black spaghetti-strap tank with built-in bra to show off her NFBs, aka “no fair boobs”—a nickname Ginny made up in high school, furious nature bestowed on May a slender body and full breasts.

Over that, a sheer gauzy top with red flowers. Next, she dragged on sheer black stockings, then a midthigh black skirt, and slipped her feet into spiky black heels that made her nearly six feet tall.

Never, ever, ever would she be caught dead in anything like this in Oshkosh. Not because people would be shocked by the outfit. Because they’d be shocked by her in the outfit.

She strode defiantly to the mirror, got her first look since she’d worn the clothes in the dressing room and bit her lip.

Actually, she was shocked by her in the outfit.

But New Yorkers wouldn’t be. And people at HUSH wouldn’t be. And she had nothing much more conservative to wear except the suit she’d brought for the plane, and she was not going to wear that tonight.

She’d wring some tiny drop of adventure out of this trip or die trying.

So.

Lipstick, subtle eyeshadow, darker blush than the apple-cheek pink she usually wore. She’d paid for a makeup lesson at her salon and had been pleased with the results, though frankly she didn’t think she looked very much like herself. More like Veronica.

Onward, upward, clothes and makeup done, now for the attitude.

She smacked her lipsticky lips together, then pouted them out slightly and made her expression blank, cool, haughty.

Oh, that was good. Very good. This girl didn’t come from Oshkosh. No way. This was a sophisticated woman of mystery, no doubt hiding depths of passion men would long to dive into. This was a woman who knew which men she wanted to dive and how to get them to do so. This woman could hold her own at the Erotique bar at HUSH Hotel in Manhattan, New York, U.S.A.

And that’s exactly what this woman was going to do.

At the lobby entrance to the Erotique Bar at HUSH Hotel in Manhattan, New York, U.S.A., May/Veronica wavered. It was one thing to imagine herself striding confidently into a strange bar, another actually to do it.

She stood just inside the leaded glass doors and pretended to survey the room coolly, trying to control the panic launching her heart into triple time. A circular bar to the left, with pink lighting overhead, around it funky high black chairs with inverted triangle backs. To the right, tables on black carpet, with low round-backed leather armchairs in the same seafoam-green color as the lobby. Several empty seats at the bar, quite a few tables free. Where would she be least conspicuous?

Possibly at a table, but then if an unattached male did happen to be prowling around, she’d be stuck. Better to sit at the bar, tended by an attractive young woman who looked even taller than May, with ash-blond hair in a perfect French braid, the kind May would love to have instead of her long schoolgirl mop. Either that or the bravery to cut it all off.

She pulled out one of the fabulous chairs, which she coveted for her kitchen in a more neutral color, and sat. There. She’d done it. Maybe a curious glance or two from the couple on her right, but nothing more than that.

“Hello there.” The bartender approached with an easy grin and a Southern accent. “How are you this evening?”

“Fine. Thanks.” May couldn’t help returning the woman’s grin, even if it wasn’t very Veronica-like of her, and instantly felt herself starting to relax.

“What can I get for you?”

Ulp. She supposed Miller Lite would not cut it here. Or a blender drink with a cute umbrella. Okay. On to new adventures. “A…martini. Please.”

The bartender gave a slight nod and waited expectantly. May tried not to panic. What else was she supposed to say? Shaken not stirred? A martini was a martini, no? Her father had always ordered them that way. Or not?

The bartender reached under the bar and slipped a one-page menu in front of her, heavy white paper, black bordered with an embossed pink HUSH logo at the top. “Just FYI, if you want something other than a straight gin or vodka martini, we have a specialty menu here. The sour apple and Cosmopolitans are our biggest sellers.”

May nodded, grateful for the quick and gracious rescue and scanned the menu, trying not to bug her eyes out at the prices. She could have dinner at Ted’s Diner in Oshkosh for the price of one drink here. But if Trevor was paying? “I’ll have a Cosmopolitan.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender grinned again and moved off to start making the drink, holding the bottles up high when she poured, measuring off the doses with graceful flourishes. “Is this your first visit to Hush Hotel?”

“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.

3

Note on Luxe spa board:

Trevor’s latest babe-ola here today for the full spa treatment. Don’t forget Brazilian wax instead of bikini. And low-sodium lunch so she doesn’t “puff.”

Marta

(Rolling eyes)

AT TWO O’CLOCK the next afternoon, May emerged—not from the airport in Milwaukee—from the HUSH spa, Luxe. Okay, so she hadn’t quite gotten on the eleven-thirty plane. But the way she was feeling right now, Veronica Lake et al should be looking to emulate her. What an experience. Hot stone massage, luxury warm glove manicure, pedicure, caviar extract and seaweed protein facial, waxing, gourmet lunch, haircut and makeover….

She was buffed, polished, soothed, relaxed, well-fed—the entire series of appointments had been glorious, beginning to end, with the merest exception of the waxing. Apparently Brazilian wax was not a special kind of wax, ahem. Obviously not a single hip New York woman ever committed the horrible faux pas of having more than a tiny strip of pubic hair at the base of her pelvis.

None. Anywhere else. Nada. Niente. Not even…back there.

Ouch.

Other than that, it had been ecstasy. She’d even gotten up her nerve to cut her hair chin-length for the first time, after Nico, the stylist, practically threatened her life if she refused. And he was right—she loved it. Loved it. A blunt bob with bangs that fell just above her newly made-up eyes, which made her look mysterious and peekaboo sexy. She felt as beautiful and cool and sophisticated as she’d pretended to be last night. She wished Trevor could see her like this. For that matter, she wanted to go knock on Beck Desmond’s door to show him the new look. Hell, fax Dan a photo and make it a four-way.

She’d woken up this morning in the bed she should have been sharing with Trevor, with her brain full of Beck Desmond and regret that her adventure at HUSH had been so limited. She’d intended to pack and leave for the airport, but discovered the fabulous invitation with the schedule for her own private spa day slipped under her door. Didn’t take long for her to decide she’d be nuts to pass up the opportunity.

The invitation must have originated with Trevor. What a sweetheart. He must have worried, thinking how lonely and lost she’d be feeling and called the hotel to arrange the pampering for her morning. And here she’d been so upset that he made no effort to get in touch with her after he cancelled. He probably hadn’t wanted to spoil the surprise.

So she’d take the five-thirty plane home. At least she could say she’d really had an adventure now. At least she had something to show for her trip. No, she hadn’t had a week of wild sex with a charming handsome man, but Dan I’m-bored-of-you Thompson couldn’t say she was dull and predictable now. At least not to look at.

She sailed into her room, changed into her sensible traveling suit with only a brief burst of longing for all the new clothes she wouldn’t get a chance to wear this week, and packed up her things, stopping every now and then to glance in the mirror. Great hair, perfect nails, soft lovely feet, newly cleaned-up brows… Who was this fabulous woman? A tiny wistful thought flew into her head that this fabulous woman would be sort of wasted back home in now-dateless Oshkosh.

Packing done, she glanced at the clock. About an hour before she had to leave. Why spend it sitting here?

She wandered out into the hall, carrying her sketch pad, not sure where her feet would take her, thinking that if she had control of the universe, fate would intervene and put Beck Desmond in her path, and at least give her a reason to take the seven-thirty flight….

But of course fate never did what she thought it was supposed to do.

Her feet took her down the hall into the elevator, where she saw Roof Garden on the label next to the top button. Perfect. She rode all the way up, smiling languidly at a man—not Beck, sigh—who glanced away from his date more than once to check her out. If this kept up, by the time she tried to leave, she’d be so full of herself she probably wouldn’t fit through the door.

Alone in the elevator for the climb to the rooftop, she emerged and wandered out into an extraordinarily beautiful and elaborate garden. The space had been cleverly segmented with columns and railings and pergolas, giving the illusion of a series of rooms. Nasturtiums and morning glories cascaded from metal railings, clematis and grapevines climbed white trellises. An espaliered fruit tree here, juniper and white pine there, pots and pots of hanging greenery and flowers everywhere else. A bower with a swing. A rose garden with a statue fountain, a partly enclosed space with a rock garden sprinkled with exquisite bonsai—May could happily spend her whole week here with a good book or two.

Except it seemed bizarre to have a slice of nature on a roof in the middle of one of the world’s biggest cities. A glance up, and the unrelenting geometric aggression of the surrounding buildings made her feel uncomfortable, isolated and alone. She took out a charcoal pencil tucked in a pocket of her sketch pad, and drew angular jagged lines and weary hopeless greenery, a satire of a garden choked off from the grassy meadows and trees that should cradle it.

Sketch done, she closed the pad, a little relieved, as if some of the poison had been allowed out of her system, and wandered over to where an elderly woman in blue slacks knelt on a black cushion tending an herb garden, humming and occasionally singing snippets of some song in a high lovely voice.

“Good morning.” The woman broke off her hum and greeted May as if they were friends—her eyes warm, intelligent and bright blue in her lined face—then went on snipping sprigs of rosemary, placing them into an open wicker basket at her side. “Lovely day.”

“Oh. Yes.” May glanced around in surprise, wondering why she hadn’t registered that it was. Maybe because beautiful days to her meant peaceful woodlands and fields and sunshine-smelling breezes, not skyscrapers and smog and distant traffic noise. The temperature was cooler than the previous day; a light wind pushed puffy clouds past overhead. There were still buildings everywhere, hemming her in, but the roof of HUSH was high enough that she could at least see over some of the others and not feel victim to their oppression. “The garden is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” The woman removed a flowered cotton glove and held out her perfectly manicured hand, making May pleased that her own nails were up to snuff. “I’m Clarissa Armstrong.”

“May Ellison.” She shook Clarissa’s strong soft hand and found herself smiling genuinely. The older woman was beautiful—she must have been absolutely stunning in her day. Her linen blouse, sprigged with tiny blue and purple irises, green leaves and dots of yellow, was freshly pressed and immaculate. May would bet that even though Clarissa worked in and around dirt all day, none of it was allowed to stick to her.

“The garden isn’t only beautiful. We grow herbs and vegetables for the restaurant here. And the plants keep the temperature of the roof down, which saves the hotel money on cooling.”

“I didn’t know that.” May sank down and inhaled sage and thyme. “Oh, these remind me of Mom’s garden at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Wisconsin.” She grinned wryly. No point pretending anymore that she was anyone but herself. “Oshkosh.”

“Ah, a lovely state.” Clarissa glanced at May, then clipped a few stems of basil. “Have you visited New York before?”

“No.”

“What do you think?” The question came out quickly, as if she had some reason other than politeness for wanting to know.

“It’s…very different. A little…overwhelming. But the hotel is wonderful.”

“Indeed.”

A flash of black and pink leaped out of the garden and materialized from behind Clarissa—the cat May had seen in the lobby. It stood, head tipped slightly, studying May as if considering her future worth.

Clarissa chuckled. “There you are, Eartha.”

“Eartha?”

“Eartha Kitty.” Clarissa smiled mischievously. “The official hotel cat. She has the run of the place. Showed up one day and never left. I have a catnip patch for her up here and she loves to chase insects.”

May crouched and extended a hand to the beautiful animal, speaking soothingly. The cat sat, curled her tail around herself and gave May a stare that would shame an empress. Next time May needed lessons in cool, she’d have to remember that look.

“So, have you visited the bar, Erotique?”

May shot Clarissa a sharp glance, but to all appearances, she was still concentrating on basil. “I was there last night.”

“Really?” Her voice was a little too casual. “Lovely isn’t it. And Shandi makes a fabulous Cosmopolitan.”

“How did you know I—” Her cell phone rang and she stood, pulling it out of her purse. “Excuse me. Hello?”

“Hey gorgeous, how was your appointment this morning?”

“Trevor!” May let out the cry of pleasure, then for some reason thought of her newly nude privates which Trevor wouldn’t get to see, and blushed. Then immediately had to banish an enticing image of Beck watching her touch herself the way she looked now. “Why aren’t you here?”

“I would be if I could, baby. Work is nuts, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’d rather be there with you.”

“Me, too.” She smiled into the phone and tried not to think how much she hated being called “baby.” Her fault for not saying something at the beginning of their friendship.

“So what’s your plan for this afternoon?”

She sighed. “I’m going home.”

“What?”

“I can’t let you spend this kind of money, Trevor. Not if you’re not here to enjoy it with me.”

She noticed the woman glancing curiously at her and turned away, tossing her head to move strands of hair the wind blew into her mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She frowned. She didn’t sound that sure. A man’s tall athletic form caught her eye through a trellis and her heartbeat sped before she registered it wasn’t Beck and turned back toward Clarissa.

“Whatever you want. But I owe you the week, so if you decide to stay it’s fine. We can still reschedule another time soon. Just think about it.”

“Thanks, Trevor.”

“Hey, you’re entirely welcome. I just wish—” A woman’s voice sounded in the background. “I gotta go, babe, my appointment’s here. I’ll call you later.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll—” The phone clicked off in her ear and left May standing with her mouth forming more words that didn’t get to come out.

Obviously an important appointment.

Clarissa gave her another glance. May lifted her head to the breeze, thinking of the vast green tree-lined farmlands of her childhood and wondering philosophically how any child could thrive in this claustrophobic concrete wasteland, where gardens existed on roofs and in boxes as some kind of antidote to their surroundings, instead of an extension of them.

Because if she stood here wondering these things—philosophically of course—she wouldn’t have to wonder why something didn’t seem quite right about Trevor Little and this whole situation.

“How did you happen to come to New York?”

May looked sharply down at Clarissa, who’d moved closer to dig peacefully around some thyme, as if she hadn’t just been obviously eavesdropping and as if she thought it was her perfect right to ask personal questions. Eartha had disappeared, or she probably would have demanded a few details, too. May wanted to say “none of your business” but she wasn’t raised to be able to say that to people.

“To meet a friend here.”

“Trevor Little?”

May’s mouth dropped open. She was sure she hadn’t mentioned more than Trevor’s first name. “How do you know him?”

Clarissa serenely brushed a fly off her cheek and went back to the thyme. “Most of the staff at the hotel know Mr. Little.”

May froze with the phone halfway back into her purse. A cloud swept over the sun, in an absurdly melodramatic accompaniment to Clarissa’s statement.

“He…has some business dealings with the hotel?” Maybe? Please? With the cherry on top?

The pitying look Clarissa sent her was expected. “Trevor Little is often a guest here at Hush.”

The tiny bite of acid in her otherwise gentle tone told May everything she needed to know. Charming Trevor was a regular here with women, probably a different one every time, maybe sometimes two at once, perhaps an occasional animal, as well. That shouldn’t surprise her. Or shock her. Or disappoint her.

But of course it was doing all three. Damn.

So, okay, regroup. Just because this was a once-in-a-lifetime event for her didn’t mean it had to be for him. He brought women here all the time? Big deal. Not like he promised May romance forever. Not like she’d forgotten to bring a box of condoms to avoid catching anything icky.

“Did you enjoy your spa visit this morning?” Snips of thyme went into the basket and Clarissa moved gracefully on to the sage.

“How did you know about that?”

“Tuesday morning is always the spa appointment.”

May took a step toward her, her brain struggling against more unpleasant thoughts. Tuesday…always the spa appointment? For every woman he brought here? Trevor hadn’t called this morning and booked it especially for her?

God she was gullible. “The flowers yesterday?”

“I always arrange them myself.”

May nodded miserably. “Two dozen red roses on Mondays.”

“Lovely, aren’t they. Jewelry tomorrow and I think lingerie Thursday, then chocolate on Friday.”

May’s elegant spa luncheon threatened to turn inelegant on her. She wanted to run to the airport, fly home and dive into a half gallon of Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond, then get miracle-grow cream for her pubic hair to come back as fast as possible, so she could put this entire fiasco behind her. Maybe Dan was right, but dull and predictable had to be better than this.

Clarissa rocked back on her heels, then slowly up to standing, knees still bent as if they wouldn’t straighten quickly. “Oof. I’m getting too old for this job.”

“Let me get that.” May darted forward to lift the basket so Clarissa wouldn’t have to bend again.

“Thank you, dear.” Clarissa put a warm hand on May’s arm, and May caught a whiff of a light floral perfume amid the strong herbal scents from the basket. “I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip. I told you because you shouldn’t hesitate to spend as much of his money as possible. He has plenty and then some. Stay the week and have yourself a ball. It’s a lovely hotel, the city is peerless.”

May stooped to get the shears still on the edge of the herbal bed and held them out. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Of course you can.” Clarissa tucked the shears into her basket and slung it over her arm. “I met a man in Paris, in 1958, when I was studying at the Sorbonne. Jean-Jacques. We arranged to meet for a week in a hotel on Corsica and he never showed. I met another man at the hotel, a Mr. Wisely, a new widower, a wonderful and very special lover. We had a splendid week together, and I sent all the bills to Jean-Jacques.”

“He paid?”

“Of course. He owed me.” She winked and May could well imagine how men had flocked around her—and probably still did. “Turned out Jean-Jacques had a wife who had other plans for him that week. That happens, you know. Quite frequently.”

She gave May a significant look, and the lightbulb finally went on in May’s naive too-trusting brain. Of course. The last little bit of fantasy excitement for the planned week crumbled like the dirt of the garden. “Trevor is married.”

Clarissa put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Most of Trevor’s…friends knew and didn’t mind. But I had a feeling you didn’t and would.”

“Yes.” A classic understatement. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve been very indiscreet, the hotel management would be furious with me. But we women must stick together.”

May smiled and took a step back, wondering how to say politely that she needed to get the heck out of here because she had to hit something.

“Go. Go ahead, I understand.” Clarissa made a shooing motion with her free hand. “You’ll feel better when you’ve had a good cry or whatever you need to do. Then pick yourself up and have the time of your life. It’s waiting for you here this week, don’t waste it.”

“Thank you.”

“And come see me anytime, dear.” Her eyes warmed and crinkled into a smile. “I take care of all the plants in the hotel, so if you need a friendly face or someone to talk to, just ask anyone and they’ll find me.”

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