Isabel Sharpe - Thrill Me

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

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

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

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

“You think falling in love ruins people.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s sexual, do you mind?”

Oh, my God, oh, my God. “Not at all.”

“It won’t shock you?”

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

God, please don’t let her look shocked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe your agent and editor have a point.”

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

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

“So may I ask you something fairly personal?”

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

“Um…yes.” He looked embarrassed. Ha!

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

“Actually, I call it research.”

“I barely know you.”

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

“How do you pleasure yourself?”

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

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

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

“Do you have to go home tomorrow?”

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

“I think you can guess.”

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

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

She laughed. “Now there’s a line.”

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

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

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

“About sex.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just in case she forgot.

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