Isabel Sharpe – Thrill Me (страница 8)

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.