LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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