Kitabı oku: «Thrill Me», sayfa 2

“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 Alex had picked him up when he was still unpublished, working as an editor, still learning the craft in his own writing and from that of his authors.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.