Thrill Me

by Isabel Sharpe

  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 ot
her 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.

  He strode out into the hall, and took the elevator to the hotel library, where the first murder in his story took place, and where Mack met Tamara, the woman of his fantasies, who now might have to become Susie, the woman of his dreams.

  Just not his wettest ones.

  The location could spark ideas about this Susie character—or whatever he named her—to make her fascinating and complex enough to interest him and his readers and Mack. And maybe he could bump into one of the more chatty members of the staff who would spill whether May was still in the hotel. If such a miracle occurred, this time he could ease into the request for help a little more suavely than nice-to-meet-you-how-do-you-masturbate?