Kitabı oku: «Thrill Me», sayfa 3

“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.”

May nodded and fled the garden, down the elevator, into her room where she flung herself on the bed. Oh, this was so special. She wanted to call Trevor and scream at him, call his wife and let her know what a jerk her husband was.

Except it wasn’t up to May to bust up a marriage, however twisted. Maybe his wife was just as bad. Maybe they got adjoining rooms at HUSH that had peepholes bored between them for their mutual viewing pleasure.

What the hell was she going to do now? Part of her would love to stay the week as Clarissa had suggested, making sure Trevor paid, literally, for his sin against her. But wouldn’t that make May just as sleazy? Bring her down to his slug-trail level?

Call her Pollyanna, but she needed a better reason to stay.

She sat up in disgust and caught a glimpse of her transformed self in the mirror opposite the bed—her sexy haircut, her wide anxious eyes, the flattering blush of anger. What would Veronica do? Veronica would be on the phone to Beck Desmond saying she was entirely available for whatever he had in mind. And then some.

Her head dropped onto her fists and she groaned in frustration. But she wasn’t Veronica, not really. She was Pollyanna Ellison, lacking the confidence to stay, not quite willing to leave….

She got off the bed and paced the room until she realized what her body really needed was a good workout. She’d go to the hotel pool and swim off her frustration. Maybe an answer would come to her. Maybe some sign would smack her between the eyes and make the entire situation clear.

With any luck, fate would step in on cue for once, and the sign would look a whole lot like Beck Desmond.

Note pinned to the staff board:

Beck Desmond and Trevor’s castaway spotted cocktailing at Erotique last night.

Pass it on.

Anonymous

BECK GLANCED at the clock on his laptop and rolled his eyes. Just shoot him now. A whole morning blown and now half the afternoon. May hadn’t called; she’d probably gone back to wherever home was, and he’d wasted time hoping she’d lend him the magic he needed to get his career back on track. While he waited, he’d tried to be productive by thinking about what kind of woman his hero Mack would fall in love with. One who could sustain Mack and Beck’s interest over what Beck desperately hoped would be the springboard to several more books.

First he’d tried imagining a petite sweet blonde who could smooth over Mack’s rough edges, soften him with her own softness. But who the hell could write about sweetness for four hundred pages without turning diabetic? He’d done a character sketch for Ms. Sugar-Pie, character interview, backstory, background, and nearly fallen asleep.

No way.

Then he’d tried the other tack. A tall, brunette, tough-talking, kick-ass woman who could equal Mack in the lethal department. Her character and backstory were fascinating—at least to him. But he wasn’t sure female readers, who were the whole damn reason he had to do this, would like her.

So where did that leave him? Back where he started after he hung up with his agent yesterday afternoon—hanging off a precipice by his fingernails. Alex wanted the revisions completed by the end of the damn week. If his take on this new direction they wanted, featuring a kinder, gentler Mack, wasn’t approved, or if readers didn’t buy it, then this contract could be his last. And his parents and brothers, who regarded his success like a too-fancy car he couldn’t afford and shouldn’t be driving, would be able to mouth told-you-sos behind his back.

He shoved away from the desk and pitched the latest empty water bottle into the black and chrome wastebasket, stood and grabbed his key card. He had to get out of here. A turn around the hotel would probably do him some good. Maybe he’d see a woman who would fit the bill, make that magical something click in his brain. Maybe he’d get lucky and find out that May was still here, though last night she’d seemed pretty determined to leave.

Why he’d pinned so much hope on May, he wasn’t exactly sure. It had seemed so provident last night when he was in need of a single, sexually liberated woman that he found her the minute he walked into Erotique. She seemed to take everything in stride, seemed to be the perfect sophisticated done-it-all type he was after. And it didn’t hurt that she was beautiful and damned appealing—he’d be the first to admit his determination to follow up with her was heightened by attraction. But he was asking a lot, maybe too much too soon. Maybe he’d misjudged her, and she wasn’t as worldly as she appeared—or as he was so anxious she be. All a moot point if she was gone.