Turner did a double take to be sure he wasn’t seeing things

And when he realized he was seeing what he thought he saw, he could only sit staring openmouthed at the vision.

Becca had emerged from his bedroom wearing nothing but his old college football jersey and a pair of kneesocks.

Never mind that the jersey fell to midthigh on her and covered everything that needed to be covered. That was beside the point. The point was that the outfit his best friend had on was the one she always wore in his second-favorite sexual fantasy about her, the one where she got stranded at his apartment in a snowstorm, and all she had to wear was the very thing she had on now.

“I hope you don’t mind me borrowing some clothes,” Becca said. “This is the only thing you have that’s big enough to cover my, um…my assets,” she added with a sheepish grin.

The minute she said it, Turner was helpless to do anything but look at her…assets. And as his gaze roved over her from the top of the silky hair he longed to run his fingers through to the tips of the kneesock-clad toes he wanted to suck, he was nearly overcome with a sexual urge unlike any he had ever experienced before.

Dear Reader,

I once overheard two women talking (oh, all right, I was eavesdropping on them) and one said to the other, “I was making love with him, and all of a sudden I wanted to burst out laughing. I was horrified!” To which I responded by thinking, You’re not supposed to laugh while you’re having sex? Uh-oh… I just don’t see why sex and laughter have to be mutually exclusive.

So with Indecent Suggestion, I tried to show how much fun sexual attractions can be. Yeah, there’s steam and heat and all that stuff when that certain someone revs your motor, but there should be laughter, too.

I hope Turner and Becca bring you a chuckle as you read about them (and a little steam and heat, too).

Have fun!

Elizabeth Bevarly

Indecent Suggestion
Elizabeth Bevarly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For David,

who set the blaze

and keeps it going.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

“WE HAVE TO STOP THIS, Turner.”

Becca Mercer whispered the warning inside the dark storage closet where she and her co-worker had escaped from the drudgery of their jobs to enjoy their dirty little secret in private. But even as they basked in the afterglow of their illicit act, she knew what she was saying was pointless. It wouldn’t be long before their sordid desires roared to life again. Those desires—nay, those needs—seemed to have lives of their own. For now, though, she lay back and relaxed, closing her eyes to better enjoy the pure satisfaction that curled through her.

She wouldn’t trade anything for these stolen moments with Turner. And she was so lucky to have someone like him, someone whose appetite for such forbidden behavior were as relentless as her own. With his blue, blue eyes and unruly black hair, he was wanted by many women. Leisurely, sensuously, she ran a hand through her own shoulder-length, tawny tresses, loving how the scent of their recent act still lingered there.

They often met in the tiny, cramped closet at the end of the hall, whenever the pull of their shared passion was too much to resist. Out of nowhere, the two of them would glance up from their cubicles opposite each other in the offices of Englund Advertising, and their gazes would meet, and they’d know they had to get in a quickie now. Sometimes, especially if they were working under the strains of a deadline, they’d have to escape to this closet three, four, even five times a day. That was how desperate they became.

“We have to stop sneaking around this way,” she added softly, knowing it was true, even if she dreaded putting a halt to their workday trysts. “What if someone catches us? What if someone finds out what we’ve been doing?”

“What if someone does?” Turner whispered in reply. “I’m tired of hiding it, anyway. We’re consenting adults, Becca. We’re responding to a natural impulse, that’s all.”

“It’s not natural,” she countered. “Not when it’s as strong as this. And we’re not responding to it, we’re…we’re succumbing to it. What happens to us is way too powerful to be a simple response.”

He murmured a satisfied sound and nudged her knowingly. “Yeah, and that’s just the way I like it, baby.”

“But we have to stop,” she insisted again. “It could cost us our jobs. And it could hurt us both in our personal lives. It’s getting dangerous.”

“It may be getting dangerous,” he agreed, “but you can’t stop any more than I can. We’ve tried, Becca. You know we have. But we always end up doing it again. It’s consumed us ever since that first time when we were teenagers. There’s no way we can stop. We’re both insatiable.”

True enough, she thought. Because she knew Turner McCloud as well as she knew herself. They’d become friends in first grade, when their shared last initial had landed them close together in classroom seating arrangements. And they’d discovered an immediate connection when both brought peanut butter and banana samwidges in their identical Star Wars lunch boxes. Year after year, thanks to the popularity and convenience of alphabetization, they’d ended up together, and over the years, their friendship grew.

Frustrated as teenagers by the restraints and conventions of small-town Indiana life, they’d experienced the usual adolescent flirtations with wild behavior. But one behavior in particular captured and enraptured them, and they’d enjoyed it as often as they could. Knowing they shouldn’t, they’d nevertheless been unable to resist. But they’d told no one about it, fearful others would try to make them stop. After high school, they’d attended Indiana University together and, away from parental supervision, discovered their compulsion only grew. As adults, they’d found work in Indianapolis just so they could stay together, and in an urban environment more tolerant of such things, they’d found innumerable ways and places to indulge their desires.

Unfortunately, their workplace wasn’t one of them.

However, that didn’t keep them from indulging here.

“Remember the first time?” Turner asked now, his voice slicing through the darkness the way it had that first night they’d been so overcome as teenagers. His voice became more rushed, more agitated as he added, “It was so forbidden, and we knew we shouldn’t. Everybody warned us about the dangers, told us we were too young, and we wouldn’t be able to handle it. But we more than handled it, didn’t we, Becca?” he murmured enthusiastically. “And it was so good that first time, we had to do it again right away. Hell, you were even more anxious to do it than I was. Remember?”

Her eyes still closed, she let the memories of that first time wash over her. They’d been juniors in high school, and had wanted to escape the goody-two-shoes punch and cookies and pop music at the homecoming dance. After driving around for an hour, they’d parked on the banks of the Ohio River and climbed into the back seat of Turner’s red Camaro. A full moon had glistened on the water, a cool breeze had rushed through the open windows and they’d both been edgy and eager. One thing had led to another, and then, suddenly… Well, suddenly, they’d been caught in the throes of the most pleasurable sensations either had ever experienced.

“You bet I remember,” she whispered. “It was good, wasn’t it? Most people say that first time isn’t enjoyable. A lot of people have trouble with it. But you and me…”

She didn’t have to finish. She knew Turner would remember as well as she did. Everything had worked like a well-oiled machine that night. They’d been naturals.

“I remember when you took it out that first time and how I ran my fingers over it,” she continued reverently. “I was afraid to touch it at first, but when I took it in my hand, it felt so good to just hold it and look at it. I’d never seen one up close like that before. It was so long and smooth. So…forbidden. And then, when you told me to put it in my mouth, it was so exciting. So arousing. I wanted it in my mouth. I couldn’t wait to close my lips over it. And I loved it when I started sucking it. I kept sucking it harder and harder, and it tasted so good, felt so good, and I just filled my mouth with—”

“I remember,” he said thickly, cutting her off. “It was incredible that night.” He inhaled deeply, releasing the breath in a long, lusty sigh. “Again, Becca,” he said roughly. “Just one more time, before we go back to work. That’ll get me through the rest of the day. I need it.”

“Okay,” she immediately conceded…yielded…succumbed…whatever. “I need it, too, Turner. I need it so bad.”

“C’mon, baby,” he crooned, “light my fire.”

Becca’s heartbeat quickened as she reached toward him, a thrill of exhilaration racing through her. But just as she closed her fingers over his long, smooth rod and drew it into her mouth, just as she was indeed about to light his fire, the door to the closet was thrown open wide, and the harsh light of day—or, rather, the nasty glare of fluorescent lighting, which never did anybody’s complexion any good—poured into their cloistered little grotto.

“What the devil is going on in here?” a booming voice exclaimed.

And not just any booming voice, either. Robert Englund’s booming voice. And not just any Robert Englund, either. The Robert Englund who’d lent his name to the company Becca and Turner worked for. And she knew that if there were three words to describe her boss, they would be puritanical, puritanical and puritanical. No way would he approve of what he’d caught them doing.

She squinted in the bright light, able to make out only her employer’s rounded silhouette. The booming voice, though—not to mention that puritanical business—went a long way toward letting her know just how angry he was.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he thundered. “Are you two doing it again? You’re going to burn down the building the way you go at it. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no smoking on the premises! Now put out that cigarette.”

With that, he stalked off, leaving Becca and Turner crouched in the closet with a still unlit cigarette and a completely unquenched desire. It was just like the song said. They couldn’t get no satisfaction.

“OKAY, TURNER, NOW are you convinced we have to quit? Or would you rather we lose our jobs?”

Becca picked at a piece of nonexistent lint on her snug, black wool skirt, tugged down the sleeves of her claret lamb’s wool sweater and watched her friend and co-worker pace restlessly the length of the Englund Advertising boardroom. Although neither of them much cared for the dress code of their workplace, finding it a bit too conservative for their tastes, Turner was decidedly less businesslike in his business attire than she was.

His charcoal Dockers weren’t quite in keeping with the suits their employer demanded, especially since she’d seen his houndstooth jacket slung carelessly over the chair in his cubicle. And instead of the white dress shirts Englund dictated, Turner wore a creamy button-down oxford. He had, however, conceded to the necktie requirement. Of course, the necktie in question had a scantily clad hula dancer painted on it.

Then again, Becca’s suit jacket hung on a peg in her own cubicle, and her sweater wasn’t a dress shirt, either, so maybe she still had a bit of the rebel in her, too. Sorta. Kinda. In a way.

Outside the windows enclosed the boardroom on two sides; a light snow was sprinkling the Indianapolis skyline, even though November was barely half over and it was too early for any accumulation. Twenty minutes had passed since Englund had caught them smoking in the closet, long enough for him to summon them to this very boardroom, where he’d given them a good dressing-down.

He had said, among other things, that he intended to keep a close eye on both of them, and if he ever caught them smoking at work again, he would fire them. Period. And Becca would just as soon not have to look for another job. She liked this one in spite of its conservative dress code and shortsighted no-smoking policy. And its unwillingness to explore brave new advertising frontiers. And its archaic mission statement. And its choke hold on creativity. And its lousy health care plan. And its abrasive receptionist. And its appallingly bad coffee.

All right, all right, so maybe she wasn’t all that crazy about her job. But she didn’t relish looking for a new one, especially with the holidays looming on the horizon.

“Turner?” she echoed when he offered no response. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, I heard.” He reached the far side of the room and spun around to pace back again. “I just don’t like it,” he added irritably. “Becca, it’s not fair that he can make a rule like that.”

“Maybe not to you, but it’s his business,” she pointed out. “He can make all the rules he wants. And he’ll fire us if we don’t quit smoking.”

“We don’t have to quit completely,” Turner countered, halting in midpace. “We just have to quit doing it at work.”

“Oh, yeah, and that’s going to be so easy,” she said. “When was the last time we made it through an entire workday without lighting up two or three times at least?”

“Then we’ll just go outside to smoke,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest in the internationally recognized body language for “I’m right, so there.”

Becca dipped her head toward the window behind him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Turner, but we’re eighteen stories up. Englund takes up the entire floor, and the businesses beneath us are almost all smoke-free, too. We’d have to go down to the street to smoke, and half the time it takes us ten minutes just to get there, because the elevators run so slow. Unless you think we can slip out unnoticed for a half hour here and there, going outside to smoke isn’t doable.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she quickly cut him off.

“And it’s snowing today,” she added. “If memories of third-grade science serve—which they may not, because most of what I remember from third-grade science is you grossing me out with bug statistics—that means the season of winter is upon us. And I don’t want to stand outside in the bitter cold just to have a cigarette. I’ll end up spending even more on Chap Stick than I already do on cigarettes.”

Turner expelled an impatient breath of air but said nothing.

“And we’ve got that big account we’re trying to win,” she further reminded him.

“That big account we’re going to win,” he corrected her.

She nodded. They would win it, she knew. Because the pitch they were working on was nothing short of brilliant. She and Turner had been at Englund for five years now, long enough to have won some small seniority as account reps, but they still weren’t in line for any major promotions. At this rate, they’d be stuck in Cubicleville until retirement. Winning this account for Englund would speed them much more quickly up the corporate ladder. They’d be headed straight to Officetown.

“And once we win the account, we’ll be stressed to the max,” she pointed out. “Whenever we have to work that hard, we smoke like a pit barbecue for a Kennedy family reunion.”

This time, in reply, Turner only studied her in silence and thrust out his lower lip like a pouty child.

Becca had to hide the smile she felt threatening. Not that she would ever tell him, of course, but there were times when Turner was just so damn cute. Sexy, even, if you went for the tall, dark and saucy type, which Becca most certainly did not. She’d always been drawn to the shy, tame and bookish type, and Turner was none of those things. Of course, the sex with such men had always been rather shy and tame, too—and bookish, she couldn’t help thinking, since her last boyfriend had insisted that if they were going to consult the Kama Sutra as Becca wanted, then it must only be from a literary standpoint, because he abhorred people who only looked at books for the pictures. So maybe she ought to alter her outlook on the opposite sex….

At any rate, she didn’t think of Turner McCloud in any way other than as a friend.

Okay, okay, so maybe they did do a little sexual experimenting as teenagers once or twice. But that was to be expected, since they’d grown up in a small Midwestern town and were overcome by hormones at the time, and besides, nothing ever came of it, since Turner never got past second base. And he’d barely made it there.

And okay, okay, so maybe once, a couple of years ago, they did imbibe a little too much at the office Christmas party and ended up almost horizontal. But that wasn’t so unusual because everyone that night had been feeling festive, and lots of people ended up almost horizontal, and besides, nothing ever came of it. Turner never got past third base. And he’d barely made it there.

And okay, okay, so maybe she did sort of have dreams about Turner from time to time. And okay, okay, so maybe they were, um, naked dreams. And okay, okay, so maybe he made it all the way home—and then some—in those dreams. Like the one she’d had a couple of nights ago, for instance, where Turner was bathing in a moonlit desert hot spring, with steam rising up all around his—naked—body, and water was sluicing over his brawny—naked—shoulders and arms, winding through the dark hair on his muscular—naked—chest and sparkling like diamonds in the black hair slicked back from his face. And then suddenly, she’d been in the hot spring with him, and she’d been naked, as well, tracing with her fingertips the little rivulets of water as they wound down his—naked—arms, licking away a drop that clung precariously to his lip, then reaching slowly, slowly, oh…so slowly beneath the water to drag a finger along his strong—naked—thigh before closing her hand over his—very naked, very large—

Uh, where was she? Becca suddenly wondered. She seemed to have gotten off track….

Oh, yeah. Now she remembered. She’d been thinking of Turner as just a friend and nothing more. Which was how she always thought of him. Always. Really. She did. Honest. It was true. Hey, why would she think of him any other way?

But not all women thought of him as a friend, she knew. For instance, that brazen redhead Englund had hired just last month. Lucy somebody. Yeah, that was an appropriate name, all right. Except that it should have been spelled Loosey. Talk about hot to trot. And obvious? Please. She was all over Turner like white on rice. The tart. Honestly. What some women would do to attract a man’s attention. Not that Becca cared, of course. Or even noticed, for that matter.

Um, where was she? She seemed to have gotten off track again….

Oh, yeah. Now she remembered. She’d been thinking about her good buddy Turner. Yep, that was all he was to her. Her good buddy. And at the moment, he was her agitated good buddy.

“I’m tellin’ya, Becca,” he said as he began pacing again, “we need to go into business for ourselves. Just you and me. A partnership. This place isn’t suited to us at all.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But we were lucky to both get hired here. The pay and benefits are good. Well, except for the lousy health care plan. And this isn’t exactly a good time to be looking for work somewhere else. The economy sucks. The holidays are coming. It’s an even worse time to try and start up a business of our own. I mean, where would we get the capital?”

“Small business loan,” he said readily.

Becca shook her head. “It’s not a good time to start a business,” she reiterated. “But it is a good time to quit smoking.”

“Becca…”

They’d had this discussion before, a million times, in fact, about how they needed to quit smoking if for no other reason than that it was unhealthy. True, they were only twenty-seven and feeling immortal, but they’d both be better off if they quit. And now, with their jobs at stake, they finally had the motivation. If they took the vow to quit smoking together, maybe they’d be successful this time. They could do like in those twelve-step programs and call each other whenever they were at risk of falling off the wagon. Lighting up the wagon. Whatever.

“Turner, this is a sign that’s it’s finally time for us to quit,” she said. “The habit is unhealthy, it’s expensive, it’s socially unacceptable these days, and now it’s about to cost us our jobs. We have nothing to lose by quitting, and everything to gain. And if we both make a pact to do it together, we can succeed this time. I know we can.”

“We’ve tried before without success,” Turner reminded her. “We’ve tried going cold turkey, we’ve tried the patch, we’ve tried the gum. Hell, we’ve even tried smacking each other upside the head every time we saw each other light up. But none of it has worked, Becca.”

“We haven’t tried hypnosis,” she said tentatively.

He gaped at her and for a moment said nothing. Wow. She’d never seen him speechless before. But maybe this meant he was at least considering it.

Then, “Oh, no,” he said. He shook his head forcefully, settling his hands on his hips. “No, no, no, no, no. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. Nein. Nyet. Non.”

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t at least considering it.

“I am not going to let someone hypnotize me,” he added unnecessarily. “That’s a load of crap.”

“It could work,” Becca said, a bit less tentatively this time. “It’s worked for other people. My aunt Louise stopped biting her nails after she was hypnotized.”

Of course, what Becca didn’t add was that Aunt Louise went in to be hypnotized for her phobia of eggplant, and these days she still broke into a sweat whenever she saw ratatouille. Even as a side dish. Hypnosis had been beneficial for her aunt in one way. Just, you know, not the right way.

Becca repeated, “It could work for us. We won’t know unless we try.”

Turner covered the short distance between them in three long strides and dropped into the chair beside hers. He sat the same way now that he had in high school, all sprawling limbs and masculine confidence. These days, though, he took up considerably more room than he had back then. Funny how he’d gone through that second puberty while they were in college at IU. He’d always been so skinny as a kid. Now he was solid rock.

Becca shook off the observation, almost literally. “We could at least try it,” she said more softly.

He met her gaze levelly for a moment, and Becca thought again what nice blue eyes he had. Maybe she couldn’t blame Loosey for being such a tart around him. The tart.

“Right,” he said tersely. “We let ourselves be hypnotized, and the next thing you know, we’re on a stage in Vegas with some guy in a red, crushed-velvet blazer, named the Amazing Mesmiro, and he’s making us bark like a dog and flap our arms like a chicken. Is that what you really want?” Turner dipped his head lower, smiled a seductive little smile and gazed at her through hooded eyes. He dropped his voice an octave or two as he added, “Because ya know, Becca, I can make you bark like a dog if I use the right words and touch you a certain way….”

His voice held just a hint of sexual innuendo, enough to bring that wet, naked-dream business rushing to the fore, and she made herself ignore the tremor of heat that splashed through her midsection. It always made her uncomfortable when Turner acted as though he wanted sex, even when she knew he was only joking. Those few occasions when the two of them had kissed and stroked and groped had ended awkwardly, and it had taken days, sometimes weeks, for the two of them to feel comfortable together again. Turner, especially, had seemed to have trouble getting back to normal. But because of their reactions to each other after getting even remotely sexual, they knew they weren’t suited to it. They were much better as friends than lovers. And Becca didn’t want to risk losing that friendship.

So she ignored the last part of what he’d said to focus on the first part, something that had her biting back both the sarcastic retort and the smack upside the head she felt threatening. There. That was better. That was more in keeping with the way she wanted to feel about Turner.

“Not that kind of hypnosis,” she patiently corrected him. “Hypnotherapy hypnosis.”

He eyed her blankly. “And the difference would be…?”

“Hypnotherapists are better dressed, for one thing,” she quipped. “They have white jackets and name tags and stuff.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And licenses,” she quickly added. “They’re licensed to do this kind of thing. They go through a lot of training and education, whereas the Amazing Mesmiro probably got his training from the Johnson Smith catalog. Not to mention his license.”

Turner’s expression remained impassive. “Hypnotherapists are licensed and trained to make people bark like dogs and flap their wings like chickens? Wow. And here I wasted my time with an MBA and a bachelor’s degree in marketing.”

“They’re licensed to help people,” Becca told him through gritted teeth. Oh, yeah. That smack upside the head was really close now.

“It won’t work,” he said.

She studied him through slitted eyes, nibbling the edge of her lower lip in thought. Turner’s gaze seemed to zero in on the movement, and his pupils widened to nearly eclipse the blue irises. She figured he recognized it meant she was lost in thought—he’d be correct about that—and that he was probably dreading what she was going to say next.

And he was correct there, too, she thought. Because what she said next was, “I’ll make a bet with you.”

It was the perfect way to respond. Turner was just arrogant enough in his masculinity to never, ever, back down from a challenge. But he was also just arrogant enough in his masculinity to hardly ever win a bet he made with her.

“What kind of bet?” he asked.

Bingo, she thought with satisfaction. Aloud, however, she kept her smugness under control and told him, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. If you can make it through the entire day tomorrow—from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to sleep—without once having to light up, then I won’t say another word about quitting, and we can take our habit outside whenever we feel the need at work. But if you break down and light even one cigarette tomorrow,” she quickly continued, “then you have to go with me to a hypnotherapist ASAP.”

He grinned, clearly thinking he would have no trouble sticking to such a challenge. “Piece. Of. Cake,” he said.

Becca grinned back. Yeah, it would be a piece of cake, all right, she thought. And she made a mental note to go ahead and check the Yellow Pages, under H for Hypnotherapist, as soon as she got home. No sense waiting until the last minute.

2

TURNER WAS DRAPED ACROSS his couch, dozing off despite the fact that it was barely ten o’clock, and the TV was blaring the closing credits of The Zombies of Mora Tau, when he heard the ungodly thunder of what he suspected, in his half-coherent state, must be the pounding of one of those very Mora Tauian zombies. Even though Ray Milland had taken them all out with an angry, torch-bearing mob in the final scene, which Turner had witnessed at least a half-dozen times. And it occurred to him as he struggled to a sitting position and knuckled his eyes that he really should find some other way to spend his Friday nights besides feeding bad B-movie monsters into his DVD player.

The zombie pounding at his front door kicked up again, and he wondered where was an angry, torch-bearing mob when you needed one? Not so much to take care of the zombie at his front door, but because at least a few members of the mob also might be bearing cigarettes, which, coupled with the torches to light them, would set Turner up for the rest of the weekend. Then he remembered Becca’s bet. So much for the weekend. Or at least tomorrow. And even though it wasn’t Saturday morning yet, he ignored the half-full pack on the end table and went to see who the zombie knocking at his front door was.

But as he rose to standing and his heart began pumping blood into his bleary brain, he decided that the knocking probably wasn’t coming from anything as lame as a zombie. If what Turner suspected was true, his visitor was way more dangerous than that. More dangerous, even, than the Magma Creature from Milwaukee. Or the Lizard Man from La Jolla. Or the Wasp Woman from Walla Walla.

Stumbling barefoot across the living room, he mentally cued the Twilight Zone music, tugged down his T-shirt that read Vinnie’s House of Hubcaps, and made sure the drawstrings of his faded black sweatpants were suitably tied. Couldn’t go meeting one’s destiny with doom looking like a slob, after all. Well, not too much like a slob. Peeking through the peephole, he saw that he had been correct in his suspicions. Because the beast lurking on the other side of his front door was indeed the scariest, most perilous creature known to mankind.

Or at least to this man, kind of.

With a sigh of resignation, Turner curled his fingers over the doorknob and swiveled it, then pulled the door toward himself with an ominous creeeeeeak. And even though it probably would have been more appropriate for him to say, in his best Boris Karloff voice, “Gooood eeeeveniiiing,” he instead only smiled and said, “Hi, Becca,” to the woman who stood on the other side.

She smiled brightly, a response more dangerous than the heat lasers shooting out of the eye sockets of the Evil Ectoplasm from Encino. Well, more dangerous to Turner, at any rate. The residents of Encino might beg to differ.

“Hiya,” she replied cheerfully, in a voice more menacing than the fireballs exhaled by the Fiend from Fresno. Well, more menacing to Turner, anyway. The residents of Fresno… Oh, never mind. “Thought you might like a little company,” she added easily.

He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on his mantelpiece, the one shaped like a minuscule slot machine, with the glowing red numbers of the hour, minutes and seconds where the three cherries would have been had he just hit a jackpot. The clock had a purple lava lamp sitting on one side of it, and a framed, eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossy of Wayne Newton—though it had been autographed to someone named “Buddy,” unfortunately—sitting on the other side. But tacky as they were, the things on the mantelpiece went with the lounge look Turner had striven so hard to achieve throughout his apartment.

Of course, the main reason he had striven to achieve a lounge look was because he’d found a lot of stuff appropriate for a lounge theme at local garage sales when he’d moved out of his parents’ basement ten years ago, but that was beside the point.

“At ten in the evening?” he asked, turning to look at Becca again.

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop in what he supposed was meant to be a negligent shrug. However, if there was one thing Turner knew about Becca Mercer, it was that she was anything but negligent. No, what Becca Mercer was was…

He expelled a mental sigh of frustration. Gorgeous, that was what she was, he thought as he took in the dark-blond hair that fell just past her shoulders, and the coffee-colored eyes that made his heart pound faster and more furiously than all the caffeine in the world could. And she was built, too—like a brick shit house, as a matter of fact. He dropped his gaze—discreetly, so she wouldn’t know what he was doing—and ogled the snug, faded jeans that hugged her curvy hips, and the brief black sweater that molded her full breasts. Oh, yeah. Becca was curvy and full in all the places a man liked to see a woman curvy and full, all the places a man liked to touch and caress and taste and—

And she was intelligent, too, he knew, stopping his errant thoughts before they could get away from him—because they would get away from him if he let them, not to mention leave him feeling frustrated as hell, the way they always did where Becca was concerned. And she was funny, too, he continued, still cataloging her positive traits. And she was witty. And sweet. And kind. And hot. And amazing. And a million other things he could spend the rest of the night listing. Above all else, though, she was his best friend in the whole wide world.

Dammit.

Because although Turner cherished his friendship with Becca and had for two decades, what he felt for her deep down—what he’d felt for a long time—went way beyond friendly. As much as he hated to admit it—and God knew he never would admit it to anyone but himself—what he felt for Becca might very well be the big L.

No, not lust, though there was certainly plenty of that in the mix. And not licentiousness, either, though that was definitely in there, too. As were lechery, lasciviousness, lubricity and libido. And maybe even a little lewdness, too. But it was that other L-word that had him so worried. The big L. Love. If Turner let himself think about it long enough, he’d probably have to admit that he was in love with his best friend. So he never let himself think about it. Or, at least, he tried to never let himself think about it. And whenever he did catch himself thinking about it, he made himself knock it off.

Because Becca didn’t feel the same way about him. Yeah, she loved him, but it was in the same way she loved her other—female—friends. She wasn’t in love with him. And he wasn’t about to bare his soul to her and tell her how he really felt, because he was afraid he’d lose her if he did. She’d always been the one to put a stop to things whenever the two of them had gotten physical in the past. And she’d always made such a big deal of telling him how lucky she was to have a guy friend like him, and how they were both too smart to mess it up by getting sexually involved. Because she’d seen too many good girl-guy friendships turn sexual, and after they did, everything just went to hell, and the friendship dissolved completely.

And Turner had to admit that maybe she was right about that. Sex, for being such a basic, natural act, did have a tendency to screw up relationships for some reason, sometimes beyond repair. It was probably best just to keep things the way they were. He’d rather have Becca for a friend than not have her at all. And if that meant he had to carry a torch for her for the rest of his life…

He’d just do his best not to set fire to anything. Unless it was an ancient castle full of zombies.

As he studied her more closely, he realized she was carrying a bigger bag than she usually carried. A bag big enough to hold, say…a change of clothing. And maybe something to sleep in. And girl stuff like makeup and a toothbrush. Like maybe she was planning to…

“Oh, no,” he said when he realized her intention. “No, no, no, no, no. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. Não. Nem. Ikke.”

Hey, he’d known those cassette tapes from the “How to Talk to Any Girl in Any Language” correspondence course he’d taken in college would come in handy someday. Except he’d planned to use all the “yes” words instead of the “no” words. He’d bagged the whole Grand Tour of Europe thing, though, when he ended up spending most of the money he earned waiting tables to buy cigarettes, instead of socking it into a Grand Tour bank account, the way he’d promised himself he would.

Oh, well, he thought. Maybe he’d still meet a woman named Deolinda or Sziszi or Frøydis someday. It could happen. Hey, Indiana was a huge draw for European women. Everybody said so.

“You are not spending the night here,” he finally concluded.

“What makes you think I plan to spend the night?” Becca asked innocently.

He eyed her warily. “Then why are you here?” he asked flatly.

“I’m spending the night,” she told him, taking a step forward.

Immediately, Turner braced his forearms against both sides of the doorjamb. Hard. Then he leaned forward to crowd into her space, which was really his space anyway, on account of he rented it.

“Why?” he asked.

Becca halted when she realized he had no intention of letting her in. But she didn’t back away, something that left her standing barely an inch from him. Turner could smell the faint soapy scent of her and knew she’d showered before she came over. Her skin was probably still warm and rosy from the hot water gushing over her naked body, and she was probably soft and silky to touch. She was standing close enough that, if he’d wanted to, he could have slipped a hand right under her sweater to find out. He could have moved it up over her torso to her breast, could have caught her nipple in his fingers and thumbed it to life while unbuttoning her jeans with his other hand and slipping it between her legs. She’d still be damp there, he thought, but not from the shower. And he could make her wetter, raking the pad of his thumb over her sweet little clit, driving his long middle finger in and out of her, again and again, until she came in the palm of his hand.

He bit back a groan. Dammit, he had to stop thinking about her like that. She wasn’t interested in him as anything but a friend. Even if she had sighed with pleasure the night he had licked and sucked on her nipples, and even if she had cried out with delight the night he’d stroked her sweet little clit. Even if he could think of no greater pleasure in the world than going further still, and making love to her, just once.

Of course, once would never be enough with Becca. But, hey, it would be a hell of a start.

“I don’t trust you,” she said. “That’s why.”

Well, hell, that made two of them, Turner thought. Then he remembered she was talking about something completely different from what he was thinking about. He just wasn’t sure what.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Our bet,” she said.

Oh, right, he thought, still dreading having to go the whole day tomorrow without lighting up.

“Of course you can trust me,” he said. Lied. Whatever.

“Hah.”

“Becca…”

“From the moment you wake up tomorrow morning,” she reminded him. “Until the moment you go to sleep tomorrow night.”

“I know. I will. I mean, I won’t.”

She nodded. “I’m here to make sure of that.”

He expelled an incredulous sound. “You don’t trust me.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Becca, I’m crushed that you could think of me as being untrustworthy.”

“Stow it, Turner,” she said as she reached for one of his arms and shoved it down to his side. Then she breezed past him into his apartment, toward the very couch he had just vacated. “I’m going to be here the minute you wake up tomorrow,” she said as she tossed her bag onto one end of it, “and I’m still going to be here the minute you go to sleep. Just to make sure you don’t renege.”

He gaped at her. “I have never reneged in my life,” he assured her. “I do not now, nor will I ever, renege. I am not a reneger.”

She didn’t look anywhere near convinced. “Got any popcorn?”

In response, Turner growled something under his breath that he hoped she didn’t hear and slammed his front door.

It was going to be a long Saturday.

“I JUST LOVE THIS MOVIE,” Becca sighed as she thumbed the volume up on Now, Voyager and stuffed her hand into the popcorn bowl—the second batch she and Turner had shared so far tonight.

Before Now, Voyager, he recalled distastefully, she’d insisted on watching Camille. He hated to think what other sappy—crappy—sentimental movies she’d brought with her. He’d bet good money there wasn’t a rubber monster to be had in any of them. Give him a Wasp Woman or Fresno Fiend over this stuff any day. At least the death scenes in his favorite movies had some action. And there was a hell of a lot more honor going to meet his maker by eye socket heat lasers than some disease-of-the-week. Not to mention his obituary would be a lot more interesting.

“Go easy on that popcorn,” he said. “It’s all that’s left.”

It was his way of telling Becca that 1:00 a.m. was a good time to start winding down, but she didn’t take the hint. Instead she reached for the cigarettes on the end table and shook free the last one. Not that Turner was concerned. Like any good smoker—or alcoholic or drug addict, he couldn’t help thinking—he had stashes all over the apartment. And at work. And his car. And the basement laundry room.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

“Be my guest,” he told her.

“But it’s the last one in the pack. It could be your last one, ever.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“If you light up tomorrow—today—after you wake up in the morning, then you have to go to a hypnotherapist with me, and that’ll be the end of the smoking,” she reminded him. “Are you sure you don’t want this last one?”

“Number one,” he said, thrusting up his index finger to punctuate what he was about to say, “that’s not the last cigarette in the apartment. I mean, what kind of smoker would I be if I let myself run out of cigarettes? Number two,” he continued before she had a chance to comment, bringing his middle finger into the action, “even if we go to a hypnotherapist, it ain’t gonna work, so I don’t have to worry about never smoking again. Number three,” he concluded, flicking his ring finger up to join the other two, “you said I have to not light up from the moment I wake up Saturday until the moment I go to sleep.”

She nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. “Yeah…”

He dropped his hand back into his lap. “I’m not going to sleep tonight. Which means I won’t wake up tomorrow, something that rather blurs the terms of the bet. I could go so far as to say it negates the terms of the bet. So I can smoke all I want tomorrow…today…whatever.”

She emitted a rude sound of disbelief. “What?”

“If I don’t go to sleep, then I won’t wake up, and then you can’t hold me to the bet.”

“But that’s not fair!”

He thrust his hand into the popcorn bowl. “Of course it’s fair. You’re the one who set the terms of the wager. I’m just going to use them to my own ends. I’ve decided I’m not going to go to sleep tonight. Therefore, I can continue to smoke. Therefore…Four,” he concluded, “you lose the bet. I don’t have to go to see the Amazing Mesmiro with you.”

Becca narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing for a moment. Then, suddenly, her expression lightened. “Did I tell you what other movies I brought with me?” she asked.

Uh-oh…

“After Now, Voyager is Dark Victory. And then Stella Dallas. And then Imitation of Life. And then,” she said, her eyes widening, “the coup de grâce. An Affair to Remember.”

Oh, hell, Turner thought. No way could he stay awake through all that. And even if he could, he’d die of estrogen overload. His obituary would be so embarrassing he’d never live it down.

He looked at the cigarette Becca held delicately between her fingers. Then he looked at the TV. Then he looked at Becca’s smug grin. Then he looked at the cigarette.

“Gimme that,” he said as he snatched it away from her.

She chuckled as she held the lighter for him. “You won’t last till noon,” she predicted.

“Watch me,” he warned her as he blew out a thick stream of white.

“Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I’ll be watching you very closely, Turner. You can count on it.”

EVEN THOUGH TURNER WENT down for the count right about the same time Bette Davis wasn’t asking for the moon, he at least managed to sleep until almost noon, thereby lasting until noon—take that, Becca—and, even better, thereby knocking out half the day. As he squinted blearily at the jackpot clock from where he lay sprawled on the couch, he was relieved to note that there were only twelve hours, four minutes and thirty-two seconds left to go until bedtime. Thirty-one seconds. Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine…twenty-eight…twenty-seven…

Hell, maybe he’d just spend the whole day right here on the sofa, watching the seconds tick past. That might keep his mind off of just how badly he wanted a cig—

Shit.

He battled the urge to reach up onto the end table for the pack that habitually lay there. Then he remembered it wasn’t there anyway, because he had smoked the last cigarette it held hours earlier. Not long before Becca had evidently tossed a blanket over his sleeping form, he thought when he noted the cotton covering tugged up to his chest. Man, he must have slept like a rock not to have dislodged it—or himself, for that matter—from the cramped sofa.

Which meant that, at the moment, not only did he have a wicked crick in his neck, but Dishwaterblondilocks was probably still sleeping in his bed. And realizing that just made Turner crave a cigarette more. Because ever since the two of them were teenagers, he’d wanted nothing more than to find Becca in his bed. Just, you know…with him. But hey, at least he had her halfway there now, right? Because she was in his bed. Just, you know…without him. Still, she was probably all rumpled and warm and contented, the way he’d figured she would be when she was in his bed. She just wasn’t that way because he had spent the night making her all rumpled and warm and contented.

Trying not to think about the fact that the only reason Becca was in his bed in the first place was because she didn’t trust him, and with a heartfelt groan of frustration, Turner jackknifed into a sitting position on the couch. He rolled his head back and forth to relieve the tension in his stiff neck—and tried to ignore his stiffness elsewhere. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair in an effort to rouse himself.

Coffee, he thought. That was what he needed most. Well, maybe second most, he amended as he pushed himself up to standing. What he needed most was fast asleep in his bed—without him. And even if she wasn’t fast asleep, she’d still be oblivious to his feelings for her.

Automatically, he moved in the general direction of his kitchen and went about making coffee. And he tried to make as much noise as he could, so Becca would be jolted awake—hey, why should she wake up feeling good when he was going to feel like hell all day? But he never heard a sound of stirring. Obviously, she slept like a rock, too.

He inhaled a deep lungful of the coffee as it was brewing, and that fortified him enough to find his way to his bedroom. The door was standing half-open, so he peeked inside. Then he immediately wished he hadn’t. Because not only was Becca still sleeping soundly in his bed without him, she had kicked the covers down to the foot. And although what she chose to sleep in was in no way sexy—a shapeless, long-sleeved nightshirt imprinted with nauseatingly cute cats wearing nauseatingly cute nightshirts—it was bunched up around her waist, so that her sweet ass, encased in soft red cotton, was right there in plain sight, as were the delectable thighs Turner had spent many nights fantasizing about burying his head between.

His libido launched into the lambada just looking at those loins.

And it actively annoyed him how he was always alliterative when aroused.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight to block out Becca’s bodacious butt, something that only made the image more graphic. Probably because closing his eyes enabled him to start fantasizing. And since the object of his fantasies was right smack in the middle of his reality, not to mention oblivious to the fact that she was frequently front and center—especially her front and center—in his fantasies, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. So he opened his eyes again, just in time to see the object of his fantasies—and her bodacious butt—beginning to stir.

He told himself to duck out before she caught him staring at her like a lovesick teenager. But he couldn’t make himself move away from the door. Mostly because Becca chose that moment to roll over onto her back and propel herself into a full-body stretch, something that made her nightshirt ride up even higher. It also had her gripping the wooden spools of his headboard with both fists as she spread her legs toward the lower corners of the mattress.

And oh, God, did that make him want to do things he knew he shouldn’t want to do. Not with his best friend who didn’t return his feelings. Call him crazy, but Becca might be a little alarmed if he hurtled himself onto the bed, pulled down her panties, buried his head between her legs and ate his fill of her while penetrating her with his fingers.

Of course, he pondered further, that would probably go a long way toward finally waking her up….

He must have made some sound that reflected his yearning, because she suddenly stopped stretching and looked toward the bedroom door. “Good morning,” she said with a sleepy smile.

“Afternoon, you mean,” he corrected her. That much, at least, he would concede. It was afternoon. It just wasn’t necessarily good. Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he smiled back and added lightly, “I see England, I see France.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in confusion. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite as awake as she seemed.

“I see Becca’s underpants,” he added for clarification.

She glanced down, then hastily back up at Turner. And for one delirious second, he thought—hoped—that instead of rearranging her clothes, she was going to ask him in a silky, seductive voice why didn’t he come on over there to see even more of Europe. There was just something in her eyes—okay, so obviously she was still half-asleep—that made him think she was as hot and bothered at the moment as he was. Then whatever had sizzled between them was gone—if it had ever been there to begin with—and she began to tug her nightshirt back down, over England, over France, over her sweet ass.

“Uh…sorry,” she said as she awkwardly completed the action.

Not me, Turner wanted to reply. But he said nothing, not trusting what he might say—among other things—at the moment.

Unable to help himself—probably because he was a glutton for punishment, or maybe because he hadn’t had enough sleep, or maybe because he felt edgy not being able to smoke, or maybe all of the above—he strode into the bedroom, until he was standing only a couple of feet from the bed. Then he sat right next to her and arced his arm over her body, to brace it on the mattress on her other side.

Yet she said nothing, only gazed at him with huge brown eyes that were filled with something he told himself he’d be better off not pondering. Mostly because he was afraid if he pondered it, he’d figure out what it was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, because as long as he didn’t know, he could still harbor a hope, however crazy, that maybe someday she’d be in his bed, with him, not just because she trusted him implicitly, but because he made her hot as hell.

So instead of pondering, Turner leaned forward, closing what little space was left between them, until his face was scarcely inches from her own. She really was rumpled and warm from sleep, he couldn’t help noticing, her face flushed and her breathing shallow from that early morning sort of breathlessness. Somehow, though, he kept himself from reaching out to her, from skimming his fingertips over her fine skin and silky hair.

He couldn’t avoid the scent of her, however, because it rose up to encircle him, entice him, enchant him. She smelled like summer soap and springtime laundry, a fragrance made all the more poignant because the weather outside was cold and gray, heralding the onset of winter, and it would be a long time before he encountered such warmth and sunshine again. Better than that, though, she smelled like cigarettes, something he wanted almost as badly as he wanted Becca, which made her doubly desirable.

Her eyes, like polished onyx, had grown larger, darker, as he’d drawn nearer, and they searched his face, so close to her own now, as if she were seeking the answers to the mysteries of the universe there. Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of the pillowcase on each side of her head, almost as if she were trying to keep herself from reaching out to touch him, too. More than anything he had ever wanted in his life, he wanted to loosen those fingers and see where she would put them.

And he wanted, too, to kiss her. For starters. So he leaned in a little closer, his mouth hovering now scant millimeters above her own. And then very, very softly, and very, very seductively…

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

3

IT TOOK A MOMENT for Turner’s question to register with Becca, because she was way too busy being bewitched, bothered and befuddled to try and figure out what the hell he was yammering about. All she could do was wonder about the weird, wanton wistfulness winding through her, and how her body temperature had been rising ever since she’d awoken to find him gazing at her from the bedroom door.

God, he was sexy in the morning. In all their years as friends, she’d never spent the night with him, so she’d never seen him like this, all tousled and sleepy-eyed and unshaven. His jaw was dark and rough and uncivil looking, and his black hair hung over his forehead in a way that made her want to lift a hand to brush it back. In fact, she wanted to thread her fingers repeatedly through those silky locks, then skim her palm back over the crown of his head, until she could curl her fingers around his warm nape and pull his head down to hers, and take his mouth in a hungry kiss that just went on and on and on. Then push his head lower, down over her breasts and belly, then lower still, between her legs and—

And what the hell was she thinking? she wondered when she realized where her thoughts—and Turner’s mouth—were going. Obviously, she hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. But that was what happened when you stayed up late watching old movies and then stayed up even later watching your best friend sleep because you’d never realized before how sexy he was when he did that. And now here Turner was, crowding her space, looking all hot and smelling all earthy and sounding all seductive, and gosh, would he think her untoward if she just sucked on his lower lip a little bit, just for a minute, and then maybe moved her own head lower, over his chest and torso, and then lower still, between his legs to suck some more, this time on his—

And what the hell was she thinking? Turner was her friend, she reminded herself ruthlessly. He was her bestest buddy in the whole wide world. You weren’t supposed to suck the, um, lower lip of your best friend, not even for a minute. Everybody knew that. It was like rule number two of friendship, right after “You should never fool around with your best friend’s boyfriend.” Which actually didn’t even apply with Turner, so the, um, lower-lip-sucking rule would be numero uno for them. She’d told Turner things she’d never tell someone whose, um, lower lip she wanted to suck. So why would she even be thinking about sucking his, um, lower lip? And why would thinking about that make her feel so freaking hot?

Man, she needed a cigarette. Bad. But how unfair would that be, to smoke in front of Turner, when he had to go the whole day without? Then again, why did she care? He wasn’t exactly being fair, either, looming over her looking all sexy and sounding all sexy and smelling all sexy and being all sexy and making her want to suck his, um, lower lip.

She expelled a long, unsteady breath she hadn’t even been aware of holding, and took a minute to let her heart stop racing. But when she realized it was going to be awhile before her heart stopped doing that, she gave up. Trying not to sound as breathless as she felt, she replied, “Sure, I’d love some coffee.”

He smiled in a way that made her think he knew what she really wanted—and it wasn’t coffee—and she couldn’t help wondering if he suspected her of that, um, lower-lip-sucking business. Nah, she immediately reassured herself. Turner only thought of her as a friend. As his bestest buddy in the whole wide world. Dammit. He couldn’t possibly suspect her of wanting to suck his, um, lower lip.

And she didn’t want to suck his, um, lower lip, anyway, she reminded herself. She didn’t. She’d just woken up feeling horny, like ninety percent of women in her demographic—that demographic being single, twentysomething, professional females who had gone date-free for way too long. And since Turner was the only human being in the vicinity with a Y chromosome, it was only natural she’d want his, um, lower lip. Simple chemistry. No, she quickly corrected herself. Simple biology. She and Turner didn’t have any chemistry together. Well, not since their junior year in high school. And the kind of chemistry she was talking about now didn’t involve beakers and Bunsen burners. Well, not in the way they were supposed to be used, anyway.

Oh, stop it, she told herself. Thinking that way was only going to make this day longer than it already promised to be. Turner was her friend. Period. And she wasn’t about to let anything change that. Friends, good friends, the kind you could trust no matter what happened, were too hard to come by in this life. What she and Turner had was too special to mess with. She needed to wake up a little more, that was all. The day was going to be just fine.

But when she inhaled another breath to steady herself, Becca pulled the musky, masculine scent of Turner—mixed with the aroma of forbidden tar and nicotine—deep into her body with it. And even as he leaned away from her and rose from the bed, she noted again how his T-shirt stretched taut across his brawny chest and muscular arms, and how his rough, dark jaw gave him a feral look, and how his blue eyes seemed to be sizing her up for…something.

And she started thinking that maybe, just maybe, the temptation offered by cigarettes wasn’t going to be the biggest obstacle she faced today. Maybe, just maybe, the toughest thing she was going to have to battle would be her own wayward thoughts.

BECCA HAD JUST FINISHED making Turner’s bed when she heard the water shut off in the bathroom. He’d magnanimously offered to let her shower and dress first, so she’d figured the least she could do was change his sheets for him—especially since she’d probably drooled all over them during that odd little morning interlude that had so confused her at the time.

Of course, now that she was dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a cropped red sweater, and now that she was fortified by coffee and Cap’n Crunch—honestly, did men ever eat anything healthy for breakfast?—she was confident she knew exactly what had been behind that odd little… That unusual little… That strange little… That weird little… That mysterious little… That bizarre little…thing. Now she was confident that what had passed between the two of them earlier had simply resulted from a lack of sleep and nothing more.

There was a reason why some governments used sleep deprivation as a form of torture. It made a person crazy. Crazy enough to do and say things they would normally never say or do. Like drool on their best friend’s pillow because their best friend suddenly seemed kind of sexy, where he would never seem sexy if one had gotten enough sleep and was in one’s right mind.

That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

Unfortunately, her adhesive must have collected some lint or something while she was changing the bed, because Becca became decidedly less stuck to that story when the door to the bathroom just outside the bedroom flew open, and Turner emerged in a puff of steam, completely naked, and she found herself wanting to be stuck to him in the most basic, most wanton way two people could be stuck together.

Oh, no, wait, he wasn’t quite naked, Becca was relieved—sort of—to realize. He had a towel slung around his midsection—sort of. So he was decent—sort of. Of course, the thoughts that popped into her head just then, not to mention the feelings that went zinging through her bloodstream, were anything but decent. Because as sexy as Turner had been that morning all rough-jawed and sleep-rumpled, he was ten times more so all wet-skinned and steamy.

Lack of sleep, she reminded herself, closing her eyes against the sight. Note to self: Must be in bed at a decent hour tonight so Turner will get laid. Ah, that is to say, so that all errant thoughts of Turner will be laid to rest.

Right.

“Oh, sorry,” he muttered as he backed into the bathroom and pushed the door half-closed in front of himself. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she hastily told him, heading for the bedroom door. Which meant she also was headed toward the bathroom door. And Turner. And Turner’s towel. Among Turner’s other things.

“I thought you’d be longer in the shower,” she added as she made herself race through the bedroom door and into the living room.

“Longer?” he echoed as he poked his head back out to look at her. “All I had to do was get clean. What else would I be doing in here?”

Don’t answer, she told herself. Don’t even think about an answer.

Oh, damn. Too late…

“Uh…” she began as she turned her back on Turner to give him some privacy and herself some sanity. “I’ll just be out here in the living room, ’kay?”

Out in the living room trying not to think about you all naked and steamy, with water streaming down over your skin, and you pushing the soap across your chest and over your abs and stomach, the frothy foam oozing between your fingers and over taut muscle, and then your hand moving lower, over your lean thighs and toward your, um, uh…lower lip?

She cleared her throat indelicately. “I’ll be out here in the living room,” she repeated, striving for lightness in her tone, but thinking she probably only succeeded with lewdness instead.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought Turner mumbled something in response. She was too busy not thinking about him to ask him to repeat himself. Though she was pretty sure she heard the words crazy lunatic female somewhere in the mix. She also thought she heard the sound of a towel being whipped from a wet, steamy, hard body, but that could have just been her imagination. Wishful thinking. Whatever.

Oh, where had she put her cigarettes?

Recalling that she had smoked the last of them before going to bed, she gave herself a good mental shake and told herself to calm down. It wouldn’t be fair, anyway, to smoke in front of Turner when she’d bet him he couldn’t go all day without. She could go without, too. She’d just have to keep her thoughts focused, that was all.

Yeah, focus, she reiterated to herself. That’s the ticket.

Unfortunately, when Turner emerged a few minutes later from his bedroom, wearing snug, faded jeans and an even more faded denim work shirt that he hadn’t bothered yet to button up, Becca’s focus flew immediately to his person. To be more specific, her focus flew to that part of his person that was currently uncovered. And then her focus focused way too well. The rich scattering of dark hair that peeked out from his open shirt spanned his chest from shoulder to shoulder, she knew, because she’d seen him shirtless on more than one occasion.

But somehow, seeing him this way now felt different from the way it had on those other occasions. Before, when Turner had been shirtless around her, it had been in some public venue. Because they were swimming or he was working out in his parents’ yard or playing basketball or something else equally harmless. Now his state of dishabille seemed anything but harmless. Here, in the privacy of his apartment, when it was just the two of them, alone, it seemed more intimate somehow.

Lack of sleep, she reminded herself again. Yeah. That was for sure why she suddenly felt so restless around him.

“So what do you want to do today while you’re not trusting me to light up in secret?” he asked as he began to button his shirt. “Besides pretend we both don’t want a cigarette, I mean.”

Becca shrugged. “I don’t know. We could see a movie.”

He gazed at her through narrowed eyes. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Had enough, have you?”

“Let’s just say that when it’s my time to go to that big disease-of-the-week in the sky, I’ll know all the right things to say about moons and stars and no regrets.”

“Mmm.”

She watched as he finished buttoning himself up, and continued to watch as he rolled back his sleeves over strong forearms, and continued to watch as he dragged both hands through his still-damp hair, slicking it straight back from his face. And then she continued to watch some more as he gazed back at her.

“What?” he asked.

“What, what?” she replied.

“Why are you looking at me? Do I have toothpaste on my lip or something?”

Oh, she really didn’t want to talk about his lip right now. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

Probably a little too quickly, because he narrowed his eyes even more. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Why do you think something is wrong?”

“I don’t know. You’re looking at me kind of funny.”

“Well, I don’t know why. I don’t feel funny.”

“How do you feel?”

Oooh, not a question she wanted to answer right now. She needed a diversion. Quick. So she strode across the room to where she had slung her purse over the back of a chair, rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for, then shamelessly withdrew a limp, bent, God-only-knows-how-long-it’s-been-in-there cigarette, plus her lighter, and strode back over to Turner.

“Hey,” he objected. “You can’t smoke today.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have a bet, that’s why.”

“I didn’t make any bet,” she pointed out as she tucked the cigarette between her lips. “You did. I can smoke if I want to.”

He gaped at her. “But that’s not fair!”

She smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

“But…but…but…”

She withdrew the cigarette from her mouth and extended it toward him. “Would you rather have it yourself?” she asked sweetly.

For some reason, it suddenly seemed imperative that she get him to smoke. Not just because she needed him to lose the bet in order to accompany her to the hypnotherapist, but because the sooner he lit up, the sooner she could win the bet and vacate the premises. Then, in the privacy and safety of her own home, she could wonder just why the hell she suddenly felt so weird around Turner. So she moved the cigarette closer, rolling it between her fingers in an effort to free the sweet aroma of unsmoked tobacco, a fragrance she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

“C’mon,” she taunted him. “You know you want to. Can’t you smell it?” she cooed in the sexiest siren voice she could muster. She took another step closer, until her body was almost flush with his, then pushed the cigarette even closer to his face. “Smell how good it smells,” she entreated him seductively.

But Turner glanced away, silently declining her offer. She frowned at the rebuff, feeling strangely rejected. So she lifted her free hand to his face, cupping his jaw in her palm until she could turn his head toward the cigarette again.

“Look at it, Turner,” she said softly.

“I don’t want to look at it,” he replied, turning his head away again.

So Becca cupped his jaw more firmly and urged his face to where she’d held it before. “Look at it,” she instructed him more forcefully, her voice sounding throatier now, though she couldn’t recall making a conscious effort to have it do that. “Look how smooth and round it is.”

He did as she told him to, glancing down at the cigarette, then hastily back up at her face. “Yeah. So?”

“Don’t you want to touch it?” she whispered, arching one brow.

He shook his head slowly, but his gaze flittered back down to the cigarette she held out to him. “No,” he told her roughly. “I don’t want to touch it.”

“Of course you want to touch it,” she said sweetly. She threaded her fingers intimately into his hair. “You want to touch it sooooo bad.”

“No, I don’t,” he declared.

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “You want to caress it, and stroke it and hold it in your hand. You want to run your fingers over it, up and down and around and around. Then you want to put it between your thumb and forefinger and roll it back and forth. It feels so good to do that, doesn’t it? I love how that feels.”

Becca lifted the cigarette to her mouth, and Turner’s gaze followed. Instead of tucking it between her lips, however, she raked the cigarette slowly across her mouth. “But as good as it feels to touch it, there’s nothing like putting it in your mouth, is there?”

“Becca…” he said, the warning in his voice unequivocal.

“You want to feel it against your lips,” she murmured. “Taste it on your tongue. You want it in your mouth, don’t you, Turner?”

“No. I don’t.” But his words were quiet, uncertain.

“Yes. You do,” she said. “You want your mouth on it, sucking hard. Don’t fight it, Turner. Take what you want. Take it now.”

For a moment, she thought he would succumb, because he actually lifted his hand toward her—or, rather, toward the cigarette. His fingers hovered there for a moment, lingering…lingering…. Then he drew his hand away again and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“No,” he told her, his voice still a little shaky. “I’m just saying no. I will not submit to peer pressure.” And then, as if he wanted to physically illustrate that, he took a solid step backward, away from the cigarette, away from Becca.

Dammit. They had been so close. Though, somehow, what they had actually been close to doing wasn’t the thing she had wanted them to be doing. Or worse, maybe they had been close to doing that.

She made herself roll her eyes, as if she were as unconcerned as he. “Fine,” she conceded petulantly. Then, smiling playfully again, she placed the cigarette between her own lips and said, “Then you won’t mind if I smoke.”

He opened his mouth to object again, then closed it. “Feel free,” he said. “This is by no means a smoke-free environment.”

“Thanks,” she replied, her tone just as clipped as his. “Don’t mind if I do.”

But the reason Becca lit the cigarette wasn’t so much to tempt Turner by smoking in his presence as it was an effort to calm her own nerves. Because their little exchange just now had left her feeling edgy and irritable and very close to blowing her top. Or something.

It made no sense. There was no reason for her to feel edgy or irritable around Turner. Just because he wasn’t folding as quickly as she’d thought he would, and just because he obviously had more willpower than she did, and just because it looked as if she might lose this bet instead of him, that was no reason for her to get edgy and irritable.

Funny thing was, she suspected her bet with Turner had nothing to do with her current state of unrest.

Deciding not to think about any of that, she palmed her lighter and thumbed the flame to life, moving it to the tip of her cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she savored the warmth of the smoke filling her mouth and lungs, and relished the false heat that wound through her body. Nothing felt as good as smoking, she thought. She couldn’t imagine a greater physical pleasure than that soothing, pleasant sensation curling through her body.

Until she glanced up to find Turner gazing at her—or, rather, the cigarette—with unmistakable desire and unmitigated hunger. And then she began to imagine, too well, a physical pleasure that might rival, or even surpass, the one she was enjoying now.

“You’re playing dirty, Becca,” he said as he watched her enjoy herself. And without awaiting a reply—not that his comment really needed one—he spun on his heel and went back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

It was all Becca could do not to follow him. And not because she feared he might light up in secret, either. But because she felt hungry and wanton herself. So she inhaled deeply on the cigarette again, waiting for the familiar sensation to calm her down.

But for the first time she could ever remember, smoking did nothing to soothe her nerves.

IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN that night when Turner finally gave up all pretense of being unaffected by the day’s events, and surrendered to the urge to smoke. Because even at that late hour, he knew sleep was a long way off, and he’d spent most of the day feeling half-crazy as it was. The craziness had resulted less from going smoke-free, however, than it had from watching Becca move about his life as if she belonged there.

It wasn’t that they did anything unusual together, but that was just the point. They spent the day doing the most mundane things two people—two friends—could do. They ate lunch together at a nearby fast-food restaurant, and they had dinner at a favorite pub near Englund Advertising where they had had dinner together a million times before. In between, they went to a home improvement store so Becca could look at paint chips and other items because she was thinking about redecorating her condo.

Normally, Turner loved home improvement stores. Normally, he could pass an entire day in one without ever marking the passage of time. Normally, he experienced an almost erotic gratification at handling power tools and light fixtures and PVC tubing. But normally, he wasn’t with Becca when he was visiting one. Throw her into the mix, and suddenly one of his favorite activities felt totally abnormal. Well, except for the part about experiencing erotic gratification. Because having her hovering over his shoulder while he handled power tools and light fixtures and PVC tubing just made all of those items seem overtly sexual somehow. So by the end of the day, his nerves were frazzled to bits.

Even so, he managed to make it through the day without lighting up. Without lighting up a cigarette, anyway. His libido was another matter. It raged completely out of control. Especially when Becca had been bent over to inspect the color on a can of paint, and her round, firm ass brushed against his hip, and he’d wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her from behind. Still, he had survived. Even more difficult, he had kept his hands to himself.

The clincher came after they arrived back at his apartment and were settling in for another movie marathon—this time with his choice of cinema. Because just as he was popping a copy of Mothra into his DVD player, Becca exited his bedroom dressed for spending the night again, because she didn’t want to leave until morning, to witness him falling asleep, thereby proving he hadn’t lit up from the moment he awoke until the moment he fell asleep.

The problem for Turner, however, wasn’t that he had to watch Becca exiting his bedroom alone when he’d rather see her entering it with him. Still, seeing her anywhere in the vicinity of his bedroom certainly wreaked havoc with his carnal appetite. Of course, seeing her breathe today had wreaked havoc with his carnal appetite. No, the problem was, and the thing that really sent his carnal appetite into overdrive, demanding some kind of, ah, nutrition—and if it couldn’t be sex, then it had damn well better be nicotine—was the fact that when she emerged from his bedroom, she was wearing nothing but his old college football jersey and a pair of knee socks.

Turner had to do a double take to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. And when he realized he had actually seen what he thought he saw, he could only sit on the sofa staring openmouthed at the vision. Never mind that the jersey fell to midthigh on Becca and covered everything that needed to be covered. That was beside the point. The point was that the outfit she had on was the one she always wore in his second favorite sexual fantasy about her, the one where she got stranded at his apartment in a snowstorm, and all she had to wear was the very thing she had on now. And the realization that sexual fantasy number two was about to be played out in his very nonsexual reality was just a little more than Turner could stand.

Sexual fantasy number one was the one where she came on to him at the office when they were working alone together late one night. In that fantasy, Becca suddenly realized she had a powerful sexual attraction to him and had for years, one that was so ferocious and demanding that, although she managed to get all of her own clothes off, most of his stayed on, and he ended up bending her forward over the big table in the Englund Advertising boardroom to take her from behind. Then, it went without saying, he took her again in her cubicle, spilling pencils off her desk and knocking over that stupid coffee mug Doug in accounting had given her as her secret Santa last Christmas, the one that said “Let’s get naughty for Christmas…it’ll be SO nice” in big red letters, and breaking it into a million pieces. Doug in accounting was such an asshole.

There were other sexual fantasies starring Becca on Turner’s list, too, of course. The one with the roller coaster at King’s Island was a favorite, as was the one where Becca bought him at a bachelor auction and then handcuffed him to her bed for days. And then there was the one where they got jiggy in the back seat of a Rolls Royce, but fat chance that was ever going to happen since the only person Turner knew with a Rolls Royce was his employer’s father. But the football jersey/knee-socks fantasy held firm at number two, and there was Becca in his reality now, all decked out to play.

Next thing you know, he thought, she’ll be doing just like in the fantasy and telling me how sorry she is that she has to wear my clothes, but she spilled something all over herself, and this was the only thing she could find to wear.

“I’m sorry to have to borrow your stuff,” she said as she took a few steps into the room, tugging on the hem of the jersey and looking way more nervous than she should, seeing as how they were just friends and shouldn’t have any reason to feel nervous around each other. “But when I went to pour milk on my cereal this morning,” she continued, “I dropped the carton, and it spilled all over my nightshirt. This was all I could find to sleep in.”

Uh-oh…

“I hope you don’t mind,” she added, sounding nervous, too. “This is the only thing you have that’s big enough to cover my, um…my assets,” she added with a sheepish grin.

The minute she said it, Turner was helpless to do anything but look at her…assets. And as his gaze roved over her from the top of the silky hair he longed to run his fingers through to the tips of the knee-sock-clad toes he wanted to suck, he was damn near overcome with a sexual urge unlike any he had ever experienced before.

And then all he could do was reach for the pack of cigarettes she’d tossed onto the end table earlier, shake one free and say, “So. What time is this appointment with the Amazing Mesmiro? And do you want to drive, or shall I?”

4

THE NAME ON THE OUTER office door, Becca noted when she and Turner arrived for their Tuesday morning appointment, said not the Amazing Mesmiro, but rather Dorcas Upton, RN, BSN, LHT. And then, below that, to make matters clearer, Licensed Hypnotherapist.

“Registered Nurse,” Becca said brightly to Turner, pointing to the first two letters that followed Dorcas Upton’s name. “That’s good. That shows she’s not a flake.”

“Doesn’t prove she never played Vegas,” he replied grudgingly. “What’s BSN stand for?” he asked. “And LHT?”

“Licensed hypnotherapist,” Becca guessed for the latter. Especially since it was spelled out right there. Duh. For the former, however, she hadn’t a clue. “I’m not sure about the other letters, though,” she said.

Turner considered the sign for a moment himself before declaring, “I’m guessing BSN stands for Blatant Staggering Nutcase.”

“I doubt it,” Becca replied through gritted teeth.

“Big Simpering Neurotic?” he suggested further.

“Um, no,” she replied as patiently as she could. “Just a shot in the dark, but…I’m thinking not.”

“Blithering Schizoid Nitwit?”

“Turner…”

“Brilliant Scholar Not?”

“Turner.”

“I know. Bunch of Stupid Nonsense.”

“Turner, stop it,” she finally hissed under her breath. And then it hit her. The RN designation ultimately gave it away. “Bachelor of Sciences, Nursing!” she said triumphantly. “That really shows she’s not a flake if she has a bachelor’s degree.”

Turner said nothing in response to that. And just to show what a good sport Becca was about such things, she didn’t even grin smugly and lean in close and tell him—

Oh, who was she kidding?

“Told you so,” she said with a smug grin, leaning in close.

He growled something under his breath and made a big show of checking his wristwatch. “We’re more than half an hour early,” he said.

Becca glanced at her own wristwatch. He was being generous. They were closer to forty-five minutes early. She’d made the appointment for ten o’clock, and it was just past nine-fifteen now. “I thought traffic would be a lot worse,” she said lamely. “I wanted to get an early start.”

The real reason she’d wanted to get an early start was because she’d figured Turner would put up more of a fight about coming, so she’d shown up at his place extra early to allow time for the argument. But he’d been surprisingly cooperative about everything. He’d also been pretty yummy-looking in his faded blue jeans and a navy-blue sweater that made his blue eyes seem even bluer somehow, especially when he pulled a disreputable-looking denim jacket on over it. Becca, too, had opted for blue jeans today, pairing hers with a white, scooped-neck T-shirt and black blazer.

The day outside the downtown office building where Dorcas Upton and all the letters following her name had sited their office was coolish but sunny, the perfect weather, Becca couldn’t help thinking, for a good hypnotizing. She and Turner had both taken a personal day off from work, feeling not one bit guilty about it since they had to be present for a big meeting at the office on Saturday morning. Robert Englund hadn’t complained, and besides, they were doing this as much for him as they were for themselves.

Well, okay, maybe that was pushing it. But tomorrow, Becca and Turner would put the finishing touches on their pitch for a big new account Englund Advertising was trying to land—an account that could bring in loads of money, not to mention a nice, fat promotion for Becca and Turner both—and the meeting Saturday would herald the big reveal. It made sense that the two of them would want to be at their best for the rest of the week.

And their best, Becca had decided, would be smoke-free. That way, they could work on the campaign with one hundred percent of their focus, instead of always being distracted by when they might be able to sneak away for a cigarette.

“Maybe Ms. Upton can take us early,” she said now as she reached for the knob and opened the door. “I didn’t have any problem making the appointment yesterday. That makes me think she can’t be booked solid all the time.”

“It makes me think she’s a quack,” Turner muttered.

Becca shushed him, but had to admit he had a point. And that point was made even finer when they entered the hypnotherapist’s office to find it completely empty. Although there was a little frosted window pushed open over a counter where a receptionist might normally be seated, there wasn’t a receptionist sitting there now.

Still, it was a very nicely appointed office, with wallpaper in a pale yellow stripe, plush, plum-colored seating, soft lighting and lots of ferns. And someone must be around, because there was soft classical music playing, and somewhere on the other side of that frosted window, down a hall or in another room, someone was talking on the phone.

“Place doesn’t seem to be hopping,” Turner said. “I bet she could take us early.”

Becca nodded. “If she’s here…”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a door on the other side of the room opened and a slight, wiry woman came striding through. When she saw Becca and Turner, she seemed to be as surprised as they were, but she quickly recovered and smiled. “Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Dorcas Upton. Can I help you?”

Becca wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when it came to hypnotherapists, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t this. Dorcas Upton had more in common with Mother Goose than she did with the Amazing Mesmiro. Probably around sixty years old, she had her gray hair fixed atop her head in a tidy bun, and beaded black half-glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Slender to the point of being almost angular, she stood a good three or four inches shy of Becca’s own five-six, even though she was wearing sensible black pumps with a one-inch heel. Her outfit, too, was mostly black; a plain, straight skirt that fell to midcalf and a black, pearl buttoned sweater open over an ivory blouse.

No white coat after all, Becca mused. For some reason, that made her feel better, though. Dorcas Upton looked like a school librarian, her dark eyes reflecting intelligence, proficiency and good humor. Becca liked that in a hypnotherapist.

“I know we’re not on time for our appointment,” Becca said by way of a greeting, not quite able to quell the anxiety she could hear lacing her voice. Probably because she couldn’t quite quell the anxiety coursing through her brain and body, too. “But is there any chance we could still see you?”

“Certainly,” Ms. Upton said. She smiled as she tilted her head toward the empty waiting room. “As you can see, I’ve no one else waiting at the moment. If you’ll just follow me?”

She swept her hand toward the open door behind her, and Becca turned to look at Turner. He was studying the hypnotherapist through slitted eyes, but he seemed resigned to going through with it. Becca tried to smile at him reassuringly, then reached out and took his hand. Though she honestly couldn’t have said whether she did that for his benefit or for her own. It just felt better holding his hand.

“Come on,” she said softly, tugging gently. “In a little while, it’ll all be over. And then we’ll have the rest of the day off from work to celebrate our new commitment.”

Turner smiled back, a little halfheartedly, but he nodded. “This better work,” he told her. “That’s all I can say. Because we’re both going to be frustrated in the extreme if it doesn’t.”

DORCAS UPTON SMILED at the couple, deciding immediately that she would forgive them for being twenty minutes late for their appointment. And not just because they were the cutest couple she’d ever seen, either, single or married, and obviously perfect for each other. But also because she had just hung out her shingle two months ago, and she wasn’t exactly overrun with clients yet.

Starting a new business wasn’t easy. And she hadn’t been a hypnotherapist for very long. Dorcas was still working the bugs out both her method and her office. So even if Mr. and Mrs. Feder were late for their nine o’clock appointment, she’d see them. And she’d take care of their problem for them. And then, as Mrs. Feder had just said, they could go home and celebrate their new commitment. To each other, and to a happily wedded way of life. Once Dorcas was finished with them, they wouldn’t be frustrated anymore.

Because she was confident she could help the shy newlyweds iron out their little problem. And a delicate little problem it was, too. She wasn’t surprised they’d arrived late for their appointment. If their extreme shyness and inhibitions were keeping the two of them from making love, then certainly it might result in the sort of nervousness and hesitation that would make them late for an appointment to remedy the problem.

“Won’t you come into my office?” she asked the Feders, smiling with as much encouragement as she could. Didn’t want the precious—though nervous—lovebirds to bolt, after all.

The couple exchanged one final, reassuring glance, then Mrs. Feder nodded. “We’re ready,” she said.

They followed Dorcas into her office, which did have the bugs worked out of it, at least where the decor was concerned. In an effort to make her clients feel as comfortable as possible, she’d opted for muted earth tones with splashes of pastel blue, hoping to evoke an earth-and-water feel that might appeal to more elemental aspects of the human psyche. An electric desk fountain bubbled pleasantly atop a bookcase on the other side of the room, and the classical music of the waiting room was replaced here by a recording of a windswept canyon in New Mexico. The atmosphere certainly made Dorcas feel relaxed and contented. Hopefully, her clients felt that way, too.

As she rounded her desk and took a seat behind it, she glanced down at her appointment book in an effort to discern the Feders’ first names. But she frowned when she realized her receptionist hadn’t written them down when she recorded the appointment, only “Feders.”

Ah, well, Dorcas thought. There was time enough to get acquainted. Although her next appointment was at ten, that would be a fairly mundane quit-smoking session. Dorcas could do those in her sleep. They didn’t take long. This one with the Feders, though…

It wasn’t every day you ran across two people who wanted to make mad, passionate love and couldn’t get over their combined inhibitions to do it. And newlyweds to boot! But that was all right. They’d be at it like rabbits when she was finished with them.

“I’m sorry about the timing,” Mrs. Feder stated as she took a seat in one of the chairs opposite Dorcas’s desk. “This was just one of those mornings when—”

“Say no more,” Dorcas interrupted gently in as soothing a voice as she could manage. “And don’t think anything of it. It isn’t a problem, honestly.”

In spite of her reassurances, Mrs. Feder seemed a little nervous about the session ahead. And Mr. Feder, who still stood at the door, looked too wary to even enter the room.

“I’m sorry,” Dorcas said, “but you’ll have to tell me your first names again. My receptionist didn’t write them down in my appointment book.”

Mrs. Feder smiled. “I’m Becca, and this is Turner.”

Dorcas smiled in return. “And you must both call me Dorcas. Well, since time is of the essence, let’s get started right away, shall we?”

Becca turned to look at her husband, who still seemed reluctant to enter. Funny, Dorcas thought, but he didn’t look like the sort of man who would have trouble consummating his marriage. On the contrary, he looked like the sort of man who would pounce on whatever female held his interest. He also seemed extremely interested in his wife, if the expression on his face when he looked at her was any indication.

He turned to Dorcas. “You’re not going to make us bark like dogs for your own amusement while we’re under, are you?” he asked.

She smiled. “Of course not.” She waited until he looked relieved before adding, “I’m going to make you flap your arms like a chicken. I find that much more entertaining.” Then she chuckled good-naturedly at his panicked expression. “I’m sorry. Couldn’t resist. Just a little hypnotherapist humor there.”

He said nothing, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not.

“It will be fine, Turner,” she said. “I run a professional, legitimate business. Hypnotherapy may not be understood by most people, but it is, without question, a viable treatment for many.” She offered him her most reassuring smile. “It may interest you to know that not all people are able to be hypnotized.”

“Really?” Becca asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of both curiosity and concern.

Dorcas nodded. “And of those who are able to be hypnotized, not all respond to hypnotherapy. Should that be the case with one or both of you, I can recommend another therapist who might be able to help you with your problem through more conventional methods.”

“We’ve already tried those,” Becca said. “This is kind of a last resort for us. If you can’t help us…”

She didn’t finish the statement, only looked forlorn at the prospect of what might lie ahead, should this session fail.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Dorcas said. “Just relax, and we’ll give it our best. Truly, I think you’ll be pleased by the results. Now, then, Turner, if you’ll take your seat next to Becca, we can get started.”

As Dorcas extended her hand toward the vacant chair, Turner pushed himself away from the door and strode with obvious reluctance toward it. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a seat.

“That’s fine,” Dorcas said, still smiling. “Now let’s get you two hypnotized.”

She began the session the way she always did, with some relaxation techniques that included deep breathing and mental visualization. Little by little, Dorcas took the Feders through the steps, until she was confident that both were in a state of deep hypnosis. Only then did she give them the posthypnotic suggestions that they wouldn’t be able to remember consciously once they were brought back, but which they would hopefully act upon when confronted by the proper stimulus.

She’d given much thought to the stimulus in this case, thinking it would be best if she gave the Feders a word to respond to. But it had to be a word they would be most likely to use or hear only in the privacy of their own home. She didn’t want the two of them to be overcome with passionate desire for each other in a public place. Ultimately, she had decided on the word underwear, thinking it was one that wasn’t used too often, and one they would most likely only say when they were at home together. Nevertheless, it was common enough that it would come up eventually.

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