Thrill Me

She nodded cool thanks, not wanting to have to shout back, and nodded again to the other attractive black-uniformed man who whisked her bag out of the cab behind her. Should she tip all these people? How much? God she was out of her depth.

The jackhammer clattered again. Another young hunky hotel employee blew his whistle for another cab. Someone shouted behind her. An ambulance siren grew louder; horns honked frantically as cars tried to get out of its way. May did manage to resist the urge to launch herself into the hotel through the ornate leaded-glass doors, but probably walked a bit quicker toward them than was perfectly haute-whatever of her.

A massive-shouldered doorman whooshed open the door just as she reached it and was about to put out her hand. She stepped inside and immediately wished she was somebody Terribly Important, and that she had a Terribly Chic faux-fur wrap to slip from her shoulders into the waiting arms of an attendant. Then she’d burst into a sultry song and the uniformed men around her would be her dancing chorus.

What a place.

Cool air wafted through the midsized lobby, deliciously scented with something vaguely herbal she couldn’t identify. A few people milled about, a few checking in or out, a few in consultation with the pink-haired concierge. A few sitting in deep comfortable-looking black-and-grey or seafoam green chairs. Few being the operative word.

Best of all? Quiet. Who put the hush in HUSH Hotel? Whoever did, May’s head was extremely grateful. And her nerves even more so. The tension started ebbing out of her. She half expected to leave a visible stress trail as she walked over the lush carpet—black, gray, pink and touches of that lovely green—following the bellhop up to the registration desk, a chest-high shiny black lacquer rectangle. Behind it on the wall in pink neon, the word HUSH, in art deco lettering.

Oh, this was soooo cool.

May gave her name, affecting bored disinterest, while willing her cheeks not to flush as she did so. Hi, I’m May Hope Ellison, I’m here to have sex for an entire week with someone I barely know.

Of course she needn’t have worried. The registration was speedy and pleasant. The lovely woman behind the counter couldn’t have been more professionally cordial. Did anyone ugly work in this hotel?

With a nod of her perfectly coiffed head toward the elevator and a genuine smile along with the key card, the-lovely-woman-behind-the-counter sent May off to her den of iniquity, hunky bellhop in tow, past more chairs, a mirror and a black cat with a pink collar, which no one but her seemed surprised to see sauntering about the lobby.

Waiting for the elevator, May kept her face impassive, legs practically quivering from suppressed anxiety. As the doors closed in front of her face, and the bellhop lit the fourteenth-floor button pink, her panic rose. She needed a time-out. A moment for a deep breath. Or twenty. But how could she tell this lovely, patient, suitcase-bearing Adonis that she was completely freaking out?

She couldn’t.

Ten…eleven…twelve…fourteen, and here they were. She stepped out of the elevator and stared blindly at the room number directions painted on the wall. Her room was number 1457. Which direction did that mean? Her brain was gone. Liquefied. Soon it would seep out of her ears and that would be that.

Adonis cleared his throat, gestured to the left. May smiled and thanked him, grateful when her tight voice didn’t crack. She really didn’t want him there if she opened the door to Trevor. Didn’t want anyone to bear witness to her nervous meltdown. But what choice did she have? She didn’t have Dan and his calm, protective, take-charge strength to go back to. She was on her own.

Sally forth. She reached 1457, thrust the key card into the lock. Green light went on. Door opened. May went in.

Empty.

She took a few more steps in; the bathroom door was open.

Empty, too.

Oh, thank God.

A rush of delighted relief made her bestow a giant smile of gratitude on Adonis and give him five dollars, which in her estimation was a ridiculously enormous tip but for him probably branded her as Cowpoke Cathy.

He accepted the cash, gave a slight bow and exited the room.

So.

Panic over, she turned to survey her home for the next week. In a word: exquisite. A king-size bed with an arched headboard of two-toned wood, cherry and maple, dominated the room. She sank onto the thick down comforter in geometric patterns of black, white and burgundy. Bliss. She lay flat, her no-longer-aching head relishing the soft pillows, then stretched her right arm over the empty side, imagining Trevor lying there.

Along with the thrill of anticipation came an unexpected stab of nervous pain and longing for Dan. She put her hand to her chest where his grandmother’s locket had rested for so many years. It still felt empty.

Enough. She sat up abruptly, padded over the thick cream carpet with a burgundy border, past the elegant spare desk that echoed the two-toned wood of the bed. On it, a bouquet of white and burgundy alstroemeria reflected the colors in the room; the feathery greens added a fresh, living contrast. On a slender-legged table near the window stood a giant bouquet of at least two dozen red roses. With a card. “I can’t wait to see you. Trevor.”

She smiled and rubbed the edge of the card back and forth across her chin. Dan was in the past—and possibly again in her future someday. But he didn’t exist to her here. This would be a really, really nice week.

She drew back the gauze curtains and gazed out at the cityscape, at the people hurrying along the sidewalk. It was so peaceful away from all that rush and chaos. She let the curtain fall.

What else? Drawing back the doors on the entertainment center exposed a TV twice the size of hers at home, a VCR, a DVD player and in a narrow cabinet, video-recording equipment.

Gulp.

To the left, a black lacquer tray displaying fancy bottled water, glasses and ice. A bowl of apples, clementines, kiwis and grapes, and a basket of rolls and crackers. In the minibar along with the usual assortment of booze and snacks, lay foil-wrapped French cheese, pâté and tins of smoked oysters.

Oh, this was so not what she was used to. Ginny would freak. May would have to take careful note of everything to report back to her glamour and celebrity-hungry friend. What heaven. At least for a while. Eventually it, too, would get dull and predictable, like everything familiar.

In the bathroom she discovered a huge whirlpool tub, a portable showerhead, a bathrobe, a beautifully arranged basket of high-end cosmetics, lotions, shampoo and specialty soaps—all a hell of a lot fancier than the stuff she bought from the Pick ’n Save in Oshkosh.

Total fantasy. Impulsively, she turned on the tub and left it filling. That’s what she needed. A nice soak to get rid of the travel smells, the city smells and the cigarette smoke smell that still clung to her from the woman in line at the cabstand. To refresh herself.

And if Trevor showed up in the middle of it, so much the better.

She smiled wickedly, went back into the room to undress and noticed the message light blinking on the black-and-gold old-fashioned style phone. She punched the button and unpinned her French twist. Receiver pressed against her cheek, she shook her head to let her long hair flow past her shoulders, wicked smile turned dreamy.

The machine picked up; the message played. Trevor’s voice.

She listened. Hit Replay when the computerized voice gave her the option, and listened again. Just in case she hadn’t heard right the first time. Just in case the second time through would be different.

It wasn’t.

Trevor wasn’t coming.

MEMORANDUM

To: Staff

From: Janice Foster, General Manager, HUSH Hotel

Date: Monday, July 7

Re: Beck Desmond

Most of you already know that we are hosting author Beck Desmond in 1217. I’m posting another reminder that he is not to be approached for autographs or chitchat. While strolling the various parts of the hotel, he is often deep in concentration and we don’t want to be responsible for interfering with his work. It’s an honor that he’s chosen HUSH as inspiration for the setting of his next thriller. Anyone who bothers him will be transferred immediately to the pet area for waste removal duty.

Note for Shandi Fossey, bartender, Erotique:

See if you can get me Beck Desmond’s autograph. Janice

BECK DESMOND took the phone away from his ear and stared at it with immense irritation. From the black receiver emerged the shrill heavily New York–accented voice of his agent, Alex Barkhauser, chattering away. He felt like affecting a high thin voice and saying, “Yes, dear” at regular intervals.

Except that was undoubtedly what she wanted him to do.

After a deep breath, he put the receiver back to his ear. Might be a good idea to hear at least some of what she was saying.