Thrill Me. Isabel Sharpe

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      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.