Indecent Suggestion (9 page)

But he digressed.

He’d respected Becca’s wishes, though, and he’d done what he had to do to keep his feelings for her from her, since her feelings for him had been platonic and in no way romantic. So what had suddenly changed in their relationship to make her want him so badly that she came on to him in the middle of a very important meeting with their very important boss and a very important—and as yet still potential—client? Especially after just reiterating that such a thing would never happen? Especially after such a thing had just happened a few days before?

But having it happen during the meeting this morning was the weirdest thing yet. That was much too stressful and pressure-filled a situation for Becca to be acting in such an unprofessional—never mind uncharacteristic—way.

Which was precisely his point, he supposed, in a long, roundabout way. Stress and pressure. They went together like peanut butter and jelly, only not so tasty. Becca’s behavior had to be a result of how hard they’d both been working lately. That was the only explanation that made any sense. So that had to be it. It had to.

But what if it wasn’t?

Turner had no choice but to consider that possibility. Because maybe, just maybe, Becca’s sudden, vehement attraction to him wasn’t the result of stress or pressure. Maybe, just maybe, it was the result of feelings she’d had for him for a long time that, for whatever reason, she’d finally decided to reveal. Maybe it was the stress and pressure bringing those feelings to the fore. It had happened twice now. And even though she was swearing it wasn’t what she wanted, she was the one who kept doing it. And doing it
so well
.

Bottom line, he thought. What was the bottom line?

The bottom line was that Becca wanted to get sexual with him today. There wasn’t any way he could deny that. And he wanted to get sexual with Becca, too. Today or any day. That was the bottom line.

Maybe the reasons didn’t matter, he told himself. Maybe all that mattered was that they both wanted the same thing for a change. Why was he trying to fight it? This was what he’d wanted for as long as he could remember. And he knew Becca well enough to be certain that she only got sexual with a guy when she cared about him. Emo
tionally. So if she was coming on to Turner, it was because she had come to care for him in a way that went deeper than the way she’d cared for him before. And when all was said and done, what difference did it make what the reason for that was?

Becca wanted Turner. Turner wanted Becca. He didn’t need to know any more than that.

He glanced up from his musings to see that he had driven halfway to Becca’s apartment without even paying attention to where he was going. His subconscious, at least, knew what was what. Still, he was dressed in his work clothes, and he hadn’t had lunch. Becca probably hadn’t, either. So he decided that instead of going straight to her place, he’d go home first and change clothes. Maybe even pack a few things for the night. Then he’d stop by their favorite deli and grab some stuff to go. Becca had been awfully adamant earlier in voicing her needs. Turner’s needs were no less demanding. What he had in mind for the rest of the day—and night—was going to require a lot of stamina. And that meant refueling. Once he entered Becca’s apartment, he didn’t want to leave again for a long, long time. So maybe a few provisions were in order before he arrived.

He smiled as he made an illegal U-turn to take him back to his place so he could change into something more comfortable. Something that would take less time for Becca to remove. Too bad Bluestocking didn’t make underwear for men, since it might have been kind of fun to see where that led. Ah, well. Becca had taken all those samples home with her, so he’d still be able to enjoy their newest client’s products. As long as it took for Becca to strip them off, anyway.

Oh, yeah, he thought as he pulled into his parking space
outside his apartment building. He had big plans for Becca’s underthings once he got to Becca’s house.

And he had even bigger plans for Becca.

B
ECCA AWOKE FEELING
disoriented and confused, and wondering what the racket was that had caused her to wake up. Her bedroom wasn’t fully dark the way it would be at night, but the blinds were drawn, and what little light did get through indicated it was late in the afternoon and not a sunny day. What was she doing sleeping in the afternoon? she wondered groggily as she pushed a long strand of hair out of her eyes. The last thing she remembered was—

Oh, God.

Her hand stilled in the process of nudging her hair over her shoulder, and she closed her eyes again—though not because she was sleepy this time. The pitch to the Bluestocking people. She remembered that she and Turner had given it that morning, and that it had gone extremely well. And then…

Oh, God.

And then Becca remembered being suddenly and inexplicably turned on. So turned on that she hadn’t been able to stand it. And she hadn’t wanted just anyone. She’d wanted Turner. The same way she had wanted him Wednesday night when they’d stayed late to work on the pitch: thoroughly. Completely. Obsessively. Immediately.

Oh, God…

What the hell was going on? she asked herself as the racket started up again, and she recognized it as someone pounding on her front door. Turner, she knew. Because she also remembered how he had dragged her out into the hallway, and how shamelessly she’d thrown herself at him, and how ruthlessly she’d pawed him and how adamantly she’d shoved her tongue into his mouth. And she remembered, too, how she had made him promise to come to her house after he’d finished the meeting, and how she’d compelled him to touch her so intimately before she would leave.

Oh, God…

Why had she done such a thing? How could she have behaved in such a way? Especially after just telling Turner something like that would never happen again? How could she have been so completely overcome by one emotion, to the utter exclusion of all others? And not just any emotion, either, but pure, unadulterated lust. For a man she’d always considered her best friend, the one man she had always vowed she would
not
have sex with. And not just once had this happened, but twice now. To the point where she had endangered not only her relationship with Turner, but her job—and his, too. How had such a thing happened?

Stress, she told herself instantly as she pushed herself to sitting and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Even as she uttered the explanation to herself, though, she knew it was pretty lame. But what else could it be? People reacted to stressful situations in different ways—often in ways that were so not beneficial, and sometimes in ways that were downright self-destructive. Some people drank. Some people smoked. Some overate. Some became irritable. Some bit their nails.

Some had sex?

Was that really possible? Becca wondered as she rose from her bed and made her way toward the front door, where Turner was still pounding away. Did people actually use sex as an outlet when they were under a lot of pressure? She’d always thought that was just some lame excuse used by arrogant, promiscuous politicians who got caught sleeping around. Male politicians, at that. Women seemed to be above that sort of thing. Whenever women got stressed out, they were supposed to eat chocolate and buy shoes, not throw themselves shamelessly at the nearest warm body. Women were the ones who were supposed to be in control of their baser instincts. It was just one of the many things to feel smug about when compared to men.

But Wednesday night, she’d been stressed-out trying to put the finishing touches on the pitch. This morning, she’d been stressed out because of having to give the pitch. Maybe on both occasions she’d just been on the verge of exploding—emotionally, she meant—because of the demands of her job. And because of that, she’d needed an outlet. In both situations she’d been unable to light up a cigarette because both times, she’d been in the office. And when her usual calming ritual had been denied her, she’d had to turn to another one. A sexual response to Turner.

In a weird way, it kind of made sense. Because Becca and Turner always smoked together, she must have decided on some subconscious level that being with him was a way to relieve tension. And since she hadn’t been able to smoke with him on those two occasions, maybe on that same subconscious level, she’d decided that having sex with him would be the next best thing.

Hey, it could happen.

Because the minute she’d hit the street after leaving the
meeting this morning, she’d lit a cigarette. And she’d enjoyed another on the drive home. And by the time she’d arrived at her apartment, she’d felt a little better, a little calmer. But she’d still been turned on, she recalled, and she’d still been looking forward to Turner’s arrival. So much so that she’d taken off her work clothes and replaced them with a lacy nightie and robe set that was virtually see-through. She glanced down at the set, which she still wore, and felt herself blush. She’d actually planned on answering the door to him wearing that and nothing else, and she’d fully intended to remove them again right after he walked in. But now…

Now, she didn’t want to. Because she’d finished another cigarette when she got home, then had lain down to wait for Turner, and evidently fallen asleep. Between the cigarettes and the nap—not to mention the conclusion of the pitch to the Bluestocking people—her stress level had plummeted and the pressure had disappeared. And now that the pressure was off, so was her libido. The last thing she wanted to do at the moment was have sex with Turner.

That had to be it, she told herself again. It had to be the pressure and stress of the job. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t…

How was she going to explain that to Turner, though? she asked herself without completing that last thought. Turner, who stood on the other side of the door whose knob she was holding and was about to turn? Uh, the door’s knob, not Turner’s, since turning his knob would totally negate everything she’d just said to herself. She’d had enough trouble trying to explain away her aberrant behavior of Wednesday night. She still wasn’t sure he’d bought it. Now she’d have to do it a second time.

But then, he’d done his best to fight her off in the hallway, hadn’t he? she recalled. And he’d done the same on Wednesday night. And Wednesday, he’d declined to come over to her condo when she’d called and asked him to. Today, too, he’d wanted to turn down her very blatant invitation.

Naturally, he hadn’t wanted to get jiggy right there in the open, in front of Englund and everybody, but even at that, she’d had to practically beg him to promise her he would come over today. He honestly hadn’t seemed to want to have sex with her today
or
Wednesday night. Both times, he’d been the one trying to put a stop to things. He had even told her that, although he’d come over after the meeting today, it would only be to talk. So it shouldn’t be a problem telling him she couldn’t go through with it now, right?

Right?

She glanced down at her attire again and thought,
Big problem
. Especially now that the pounding at her front door had grown more frantic and was being punctuated by Turner’s voice calling out, “Becca! Are you home?”

Crap,
she thought. The neighbors were going to wonder what was going on. She didn’t have time to change. So she hastily ran back to the bathroom and grabbed her ratty chenille bathrobe from the hook inside the door, then jammed her arms through the sleeves and belted it as best she could before returning to answer the front door. She was a little breathless when she finally opened it, but the sight that greeted her completely took her breath away. Because Turner stood there looking freshly showered, shaved and dressed for a very nice evening.

A very nice evening
in
.

His charcoal corduroys were unrumpled and spotless beneath a heather-gray cashmere, V-neck sweater Becca
had given him for Christmas the year before, with the compliment that it brought out his blue eyes and the complaint that he never had anything nice to wear for special casual occasions. So he must be wearing it now, she concluded, because he considered this a special occasion. Judging by the look on his face, however—among other things—he was thinking less in terms of
casual
and more in terms of
intimate
. Over the sweater, he had pulled on a black wool blazer that made the occasion seem even more special—if no less, ah, casual.

He was holding a dozen red, red roses wrapped in green waxed paper in one hand, and a dewy bottle of chilled champagne in the other—both items really sealing that “evening in” business—not to mention the
intimate
business. And even if they hadn’t sealed the
in
part—as if—then the two items at Turner’s feet would have. Because on the floor on each side of him sat a small shopping bag from his and Becca’s favorite deli, and she could smell the aroma of her favorite menu items mingling with his.

All in all, he looked very, very handsome and very, very winsome. And he was smiling the sort of smile men smiled when they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they were going to get very, very lucky.

Oh. No.

But his smile fell some when he noticed her attire, the ragged bathrobe she usually only wore in front of him on those special occasions when she was puking her guts out because she had some heinous illness and he was at her place trying to nurse her back to health. Nevertheless, he rallied himself, and brought his head up again to meet her gaze, his blue, blue eyes earnest and eager and endearing.

And, alas, she had to admit, not a little excited.

Okay, so maybe they weren’t quite on the same page yet, she realized, amending her earlier reassurances to herself. He
had
agreed to talk when they were in the hallway at work. Just because Becca had made it clear she wanted to, um, do other stuff first didn’t mean they couldn’t change their plans around a little bit.

“Turner,” she said by way of a greeting, not sure what else to say.

“Becca,” he replied. Earnestly. Eagerly. Endearingly.

Excitedly.

Oh. Boy.

“I, um… Come in,” she told him as she took a giant step backward into her living room.

He looked down at all the things he’d brought with him, then back at her, silently requesting a cue as to how he should proceed. So Becca stepped forward again and gathered the two deli bags from the floor and carried them in, once again stepping aside so Turner could enter, too.

There. Let him make what he would of that. That she went for the food instead of the flowers and champagne—or him. That was a pretty clear message, right? And one that shouldn’t surprise him, either. At least, not under normal circumstances. Becca always went for the food first in any normal situation. Then again, their situation lately hadn’t exactly been normal, had it?

When she looked at him again, she could tell by his expression that her reaction hadn’t been what he’d expected. She could also tell that she’d hurt his feelings, and her heart turned over at that.

Oh, Turner,
she thought.
Have I screwed this up so badly we’ll never be able to straighten it out?

It was a legitimate concern. On the few occasions in the
past when the two of them had come close to having sex, he’d always taken it badly when she’d backed off. He’d gone days without wanting to see her or talk to her, making up some excuse for why he didn’t want to be around her that never made any sense. And even when he was around her again, he was moody and cranky for weeks. His reaction had only reinforced her determination not to get sexually involved with him. Because if that was how he acted after only getting close, then how would he act if they actually did have sex? Sure, it could be good for a while—it could be spectacular for a while—but once they got bored with each other, that would be the end of it. In every way. Turner wouldn’t want to be around her at all after a sexual relationship. And she didn’t want to lose him.

He followed her inside and kicked the door closed with his foot, but, like the big coward she was, Becca turned and fled to the kitchen with the food before he had a chance to say anything. Avoidance and denial had always worked great for her before. Why should she try something new now?

Gosh, Becca, maybe because Turner’s not the kind of guy who will be avoided or denied?

Mmm, could be…

She sensed more than saw him follow her into the tiny galley kitchen, which suddenly seemed even tinier than before, something she wouldn’t have thought possible. Without asking permission—probably because he knew he didn’t need it—he opened the refrigerator and stowed the champagne on its side. Then he placed the roses carefully on the counter opposite the one where she was unpacking the food. And then he turned fully around and pinned her with his gaze.

Studiously avoiding it—hey, hadn’t she just copped to
being a coward?—Becca dropped her eyes to the floor and said, “Thanks for bringing dinner. I’m starved.” And then, because she was suddenly kind of curious as to whether or not she still had a job—and oh, all right, because she was still avoiding and denying…details, details, sheesh—she added, “How did the rest of the meeting go after I left?”

When Turner didn’t reply right away, she dragged her gaze up to look at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter with his arms crossed over his chest and his ankles crossed over each other. His expression, she had to admit, was pretty cross, too.

Ironically, right next to his face, pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet, was a photograph of the two of them taken five years ago at the wedding reception of friends, where Becca had served as maid of honor and Turner as best man. She wore a surprisingly elegant bridesmaid dress of deep crimson, with tiny sweetheart roses twined in the dark blond hair braided around her head. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, and she was sitting in his lap. They were laughing uproariously about something—she couldn’t remember now what it had been—as there were so many photographs of the two of them. It was a complete one-eighty from the way they were looking at each other right now.