Baldwin still lives there. You might—”
“I was thinking of coming home.”
“What?”
“I. Was. Thinking. Of—”
“Is it the money? I know the hotel is megabucks, but maybe you could spring for a couple of nights at least? Or move to another hotel?”
“Actually…” May gestured around the room and let her hand slap down on her thigh. “Trevor said he’d pay for me to stay at Hush even though he’s not going to be here.”
“What? And you’re thinking about coming home? To Oshkosh!”
May sighed. She’d thought Ginny would understand. “What am I going to do here alone for a week?”
A thud came over the line. May winced. Her overly dramatic friend had dropped the phone and probably crumpled to the floor to make her point.
And okay, Ginny did have one. May sounded disgustingly whiny. And mousy. And naive. This was an amazing opportunity.
It just felt all wrong.
Ginny came back on the line and May placated her with promises to think it over, then dejectedly ended the call.
Fine. This totally sucked. She needed a drink. Granted, it was barely four o’clock, but who cared.
She flipped open the elegant leather-bound service menu, then paused.
Ginny had scored one point. Did May really want to come all the way to New York and only see the inside of an airport, a cab and a hotel room?
She wasn’t brave enough to go hang out in a local bar, but the hotel bar would probably be okay. The very thing that made HUSH perfect for her and Trevor would make her feel safer, albeit conspicuous. The clientele at a hotel like this had to be all couples. Why else pay these prices? There were other hotels in New York just as luxurious for the single traveler. What made HUSH special was the emphasis on the erotic, and the assurance of tasteful discretion. Which meant couples. Unless someone was into some seriously expensive self-stimulation.
So yes, a few eyebrows might rise at the sight of a woman alone. But most likely not. The staff was undoubtedly trained not to raise eyebrows at anything. And the couples—honeymooners, marrieds trying to spice up their lives, about-to-pop-the-question daters—would be so into each other they’d barely give May a glance. Besides, she’d be channeling Veronica Lake big-time and give off movie star, off-limits vibes.
Done.
A wry smile curved her lips. So it wasn’t quite the adventure she wanted. But it was still better than being home alone in her apartment with another frozen dinner, missing Dan.
Good.
She took off the city- and travel-smelling suit, refilled the tub, grown chilly in the hours she’d spent angsting, took a long, luxurious, fabulously scented whirlpool bath, helped herself to the lotions and felt much better. She unzipped her suitcase and, sighing, pulled out what was supposed to be the first outfit Trevor would take off her.
A black spaghetti-strap tank with built-in bra to show off her NFBs, aka “no fair boobs”—a nickname Ginny made up in high school, furious nature bestowed on May a slender body and full breasts.
Over that, a sheer gauzy top with red flowers. Next, she dragged on sheer black stockings, then a midthigh black skirt, and slipped her feet into spiky black heels that made her nearly six feet tall.
Never, ever, ever would she be caught dead in anything like this in Oshkosh. Not because people would be shocked by the outfit. Because they’d be shocked by her in the outfit.
She strode defiantly to the mirror, got her first look since she’d worn the clothes in the dressing room and bit her lip.
Actually, she was shocked by her in the outfit.
But New Yorkers wouldn’t be. And people at HUSH wouldn’t be. And she had nothing much more conservative to wear except the suit she’d brought for the plane, and she was not going to wear that tonight.
She’d wring some tiny drop of adventure out of this trip or die trying.
So.
Lipstick, subtle eyeshadow, darker blush than the apple-cheek pink she usually wore. She’d paid for a makeup lesson at her salon and had been pleased with the results, though frankly she didn’t think she looked very much like herself. More like Veronica.
Onward, upward, clothes and makeup done, now for the attitude.
She smacked her lipsticky lips together, then pouted them out slightly and made her expression blank, cool, haughty.
Oh, that was good. Very good. This girl didn’t come from Oshkosh. No way. This was a sophisticated woman of mystery, no doubt hiding depths of passion men would long to dive into. This was a woman who knew which men she wanted to dive and how to get them to do so. This woman could hold her own at the Erotique bar at HUSH Hotel in Manhattan, New York, U.S.A.
And that’s exactly what this woman was going to do.
At the lobby entrance to the Erotique Bar at HUSH Hotel in Manhattan, New York, U.S.A., May/Veronica wavered. It was one thing to imagine herself striding confidently into a strange bar, another actually to do it.
She stood just inside the leaded glass doors and pretended to survey the room coolly, trying to control the panic launching her heart into triple time. A circular bar to the left, with pink lighting overhead, around it funky high black chairs with inverted triangle backs. To the right, tables on black carpet, with low round-backed leather armchairs in the same seafoam-green color as the lobby. Several empty seats at the bar, quite a few tables free. Where would she be least conspicuous?
Possibly at a table, but then if an unattached male did happen to be prowling around, she’d be stuck. Better to sit at the bar, tended by an attractive young woman who looked even taller than May, with ash-blond hair in a perfect French braid, the kind May would love to have instead of her long schoolgirl mop. Either that or the bravery to cut it all off.
She pulled out one of the fabulous chairs, which she coveted for her kitchen in a more neutral color, and sat. There. She’d done it. Maybe a curious glance or two from the couple on her right, but nothing more than that.
“Hello there.” The bartender approached with an easy grin and a Southern accent. “How are you this evening?”
“Fine. Thanks.” May couldn’t help returning the woman’s grin, even if it wasn’t very Veronica-like of her, and instantly felt herself starting to relax.
“What can I get for you?”
Ulp. She supposed Miller Lite would not cut it here. Or a blender drink with a cute umbrella. Okay. On to new adventures. “A…martini. Please.”
The bartender gave a slight nod and waited expectantly. May tried not to panic. What else was she supposed to say? Shaken not stirred? A martini was a martini, no? Her father had always ordered them that way. Or not?
The bartender reached under the bar and slipped a one-page menu in front of her, heavy white paper, black bordered with an
