Indecent Suggestion (15 page)

She didn’t love him.

He had no choice but to make himself accept that now. Because if she loved him, she would have told him so. At some point during the night, she would have revealed it, because Becca wasn’t a woman to keep something like that to herself, especially during a time when she was letting down so many barriers. And the fact that she hadn’t voiced her love for him—or
any
feelings for him, short of
Oh, baby, do that again, it feels so good
—could only mean one thing. What had happened last night hadn’t happened because she loved him.

Dammit.

He turned until the shower was pounding his shoulders and back, pushed his troubling thoughts to the back of his brain, and reached for the shampoo. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the words
passionfruit fragrance
. Then he tipped the bottle sideways to pour as little as he thought he could get away with into his palm, and scrubbed it vigorously into his wet hair.

Hey, that actually didn’t smell too bad. In fact, he kind of liked it….

Then he realized the real reason he liked the fragrance was because it reminded him of Becca, and he ducked his head under the stream of water again to rinse it out. The soap, too, something pinkish-orange and citrusy smelling, roused more reminders of Becca, so he hurried through the rest of his shower and stepped out, reaching for the clean towel she had handed him on his way to the bathroom.

But it smelled like the sheets on her bed, and that, naturally, just brought back all the memories of the night before, not that his memory needed jogging there, thank you very much, but there it was all the same, and he wondered if he would ever be able to do anything again for the rest of his life that didn’t remind him of Becca, and his night with Becca and his feelings for Becca.

Doubtful, he thought as he knotted the towel around his waist, since so much of his life involved Becca. He worked with her every day. He lived within three miles of her place, so they often ran into each other, even when they didn’t plan to, at the grocery store or Starbucks or the park in between their apartments. And they liked a lot of the same things, too, so they went out together regularly, to movies, or concerts, or restaurants, or whatever caught their fancy. And, hell, he’d grown up with her, so he couldn’t even claim any memories from childhood or adolescence that didn’t include her in some way, too.

So that kind of sucked.

Maybe that was the problem, he thought as he searched through the bathroom closet for a comb and hair dryer, feeling in no way hesitant about rifling through her things, since that was what friends did—they felt comfortable enough together that they didn’t need to always ask permission or worry about the repercussions of their actions.
Maybe he and Becca had spent too much time together over the years, and they continued to spend too much time together now. No wonder he’d never formed a long-term attachment to another woman, and no wonder Becca had never formed a long-term attachment to another man. They’d scarcely given themselves a chance to do that, because they always hung out together.

Of course, the fact that Turner had been in love with Becca since junior high school may have kind of hampered him with regard to that long-term commitment business, too….

But Becca hadn’t been in love with him ever, he reminded himself as he thumbed on the hair dryer, and she’d never kept a boyfriend for more than a year. Usually, she called it quits with a guy after a few months. And that—

His thoughts stopped right there. As did his hand, so that the hair dryer was blowing one section of his hair straight up toward the ceiling. But Turner didn’t care, because he suddenly realized that since Becca never stayed with a guy for more than a few months, then that meant he might not have more than a few more months with her, either. Because he’d witnessed for himself how she tended to lose interest in guys not long after getting sexually involved with them. Not that Turner had ever paid that close of attention to her sexual liaisons with other men over the years, but…

Oh, all right. So he’d watched her sexual liaisons with other men over the years like a hawk and analyzed them to death to see what those guys had going for them that he didn’t. And not only had he come to the conclusion that none of them was in any way good enough for her—in fact, the majority of them were bums, but who knew what attracted women to jerks like that?—but he’d also noticed
that Becca’s feelings for them cooled not long after the initial launch stage.

So to speak.

And now that Turner had fully launched himself—yeah, baby, he’d launched himself like a surface-to-Becca missile—and was orbiting her like a satellite, his days might very well be numbered.

But maybe that was good, he told himself, grimacing when he realized how one side of his hair was sticking straight up in the air, making him look like a dog with one ear perked in curiosity—or stupidity. He wet his hand under the faucet and flattened the hair again, then moved the hair dryer to the other side of his head. Maybe it was good that Becca would soon grow tired of him, because then he’d have to accept once and for all that there was no future for the two of them the way he’d always hoped for, and fantasized about a future for the two of them. And then he could get on with his life. A life where he might have the chance to build a loving, lasting, sexual relationship with someone else.

Hey, it could happen.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror as he tried to convince himself that such a thing was possible. That they’d both enjoy this new sex thing for as long as it took to run its course, and that Becca would ultimately tire of Turner the way she had all the other men in her life. That they’d talk it over and agree to remain friends, and just put down that brief sexual dimension as an aberration, however amazing and satisfying and incredible and erotic and licentious and hot and sweaty and tasty and zesty and arousing and raw and—

And where was he?

Oh, yeah. That they’d talk it over and decide they could still be friends, and both would move on to other people. And then, armed with his newfound resolution about not spending the rest of his life in a man-woman thing with Becca, Turner would finally be forced to look elsewhere for the man-woman thing with someone else. And he would find someone else. And fall in love with someone else. And the sex thing with the new woman would be even better than the sex thing with Becca had been. He and his new woman could invite Becca and her new man to their new home for cocktails and cards, the way his folks and Becca’s folks had spent a couple of nights a month together when they were kids, playing cards and filling the family room with the sound of laughter and the haze of blue cigarette smoke and the sharp scent of bourbon.

Yeah, they could do that, he told himself. Sure they could.

Except that Becca’s guy would no doubt be some bum who wasn’t nearly good enough for her, and all Turner would be able to do was sit across the card table from her, shaking his head and wondering what she saw in some schmuck when she could have had him, because not only had the sex thing been phenomenal between the two of them, but also he loved her more than any guy ever could or would, even if he did have a new wife and a new house and a family room for entertaining.

“Idiot,” Turner said to the guy in the mirror. “You’re a first class, see-exhibit-A idiot.”

“What was that?” he heard Becca call through the door. “Did you say something, Turner?”

He closed his eyes tight and felt like the biggest fool who ever had the misfortune to be born. “Nothing,” he called back through the bathroom door. “I was just talking to myself.”

Idiot,
he berated himself silently now. He should have told Becca how he felt this morning when he’d had the chance, no matter how she felt about him. Because he might never have the chance to do it again. She hadn’t exactly said she wanted them to continue on this newly discovered path of sexual enlightenment. For all Turner knew, last night might end up being a one-night stand. The best damn one-night stand he’d ever had, but a one-night stand nonetheless. What if he never had the chance to be skin-to-skin and heart-to-heart with her again? What would he do then?

Suffer,
he told himself.
A lot.

Because now that he’d been with Becca the way he’d always fantasized about being with her, he knew the reality was even better. Because what had happened last night had been incredible.

And it might never happen again.

I
N THE TWO WEEKS
that followed Becca and Turner’s excellent adventure, neither said another word about it. There were days, honestly, when she wondered if maybe she’d dreamed the whole thing. Some weird, oversexed fever dream unlike any she’d ever dreamed before, the result of simply going too long without the sort of basic skin-to-skin contact with another human being that every normal, red-blooded adult demanded. But then she’d remember some of the things they’d done that night, things she’d never even dreamed about before—because, quite frankly, some of it was stuff she hadn’t even known was physically possible—and she’d had no choice but to admit that what had happened had been very, very real.

And very, very amazing.

And very, very surprising.

And very, very satisfying.

And very, very odd.

Which maybe was why neither of them talked about it afterward. Because it had just been so out of character for either of them, so outside the normal boundaries of their friendship. Once they’d cleared the air that morning after waking, they’d taken separate showers and dressed in separate rooms, then had walked together—but not hand-in-
hand—to a nearby café where they often went for coffee. They’d seated themselves at their usual table near the window and had chatted the way they normally did, about work and people they knew and books and movies and all the other usual things. Then they’d taken in a movie and dinner, as they so often did on the weekend, and then Turner had walked her home, as he always did after such a day.

But there had been a moment of awkwardness at her front door, when neither of them seemed to know what to do or say, or what the other expected. Finally, though, Turner had smiled and bent forward to brush a kiss over Becca’s cheek, something he’d never done before, but which for some reason didn’t feel awkward at all. And then he’d left, and she’d gone inside, and she’d wondered if things would ever feel normal between them again.

And although things hadn’t quite felt normal over the last two weeks, they hadn’t been as uncomfortable as Becca had feared they might. Gradually, she and Turner had fallen back into their usual routine, both at work and when they saw each other socially, and little by little, things had started to feel, if not normal, then at least okay. Like maybe they’d be normal again eventually. Just…not yet. In any event, neither of them had said another word about…

That Night.

Oh, certainly over the two weeks that followed That Night they both thought about That Night—at least, Becca thought about it, and she was reasonably certain Turner did, too, on account of that statistic about men not being able to go longer than a nanosecond without thinking about sex, and since That Night had consisted of some of the most amazing sex Becca had ever had, and since
any
sex is the best sex men have ever had, then Turner must have
considered the sex of That Night to have been pretty freakin’ phenomenal, which, of course, the sex of That Night
had
been—pretty freakin’ phenomenal—and not just from a physical standpoint, either, so—

Where was she?

Oh, yeah. She’d been thinking about how neither of them had talked about That Night over the past two weeks, but both had probably thought about That Night over the past two weeks. A lot.

And neither of them had tried to initiate an encore performance. They seemed to be in a constant state of anticipation, as if each was waiting for a cue from the other, but neither seemed to want to be the one to offer the other a cue. It was almost as if they were afraid to. Though whether that fear was of rejection or the consequences of a repeat performance, both of which weighed heavily on Becca’s mind, she couldn’t rightly say.

There had been one definitively good thing to happen since That Night, though it had nothing to do with That Night. She and Turner both had been promoted to managers, effective the first of the year, and each would move into new offices at Englund Advertising. Naturally, they were delighted by the news, but Becca, for one, knew she would miss being able to glance up from her desk and see Turner sitting scarcely ten feet away from her, behind his own desk. They’d be in two different parts of the business now, he on one side of the building, she on another. So those shared smiles and the simple pleasure of his company during the day would be a thing of the past.

The thought of being so far away from him felt weird. As did the prospect of not working closely together anymore. As managers, they’d be making more money and
have more benefits, but they wouldn’t participate as much in the creative side of their work, where the two of them had been so good together. And although they’d be performing the same job, they’d each oversee different projects now. They wouldn’t see nearly as much of each other at work as they used to.

Still, it
was
good news, Becca reminded herself. Right?

Now, as she stayed late at work on a snowy Friday evening two weeks after That Night, sitting alone in the boardroom of Englund Advertising and gazing out the windows that surrounded her on two sides at the rapidly falling snow outside, she was thinking about That Night again.

And she still didn’t quite know what to make of it.

She should be working on the Bluestocking account, she told herself. Turner had offered to stay late with her, but she’d made him promise to go home. There was no reason they both needed to be here. She was just going over sales figures and projections that he’d already gone over himself, and tomorrow they were going to compare notes on the company’s demographics and how they seemed to be affected from one area of the country to another. It was a one-person job, for the person who hadn’t done it yet, and that person was Becca.

Besides, she’d kind of looked forward to being here by herself after hours. She was perfectly safe in the office this time of night, not to mention the place was quiet and peaceful and all hers. And the weather outside
was
frightful. The roads would be clear enough to travel later, when she was ready to go home, after the salt trucks had made their rounds, and she didn’t relish driving while the snow was falling so thickly. As beautiful as it was out there, she’d just as soon wait until the storm had passed.

Still, she sighed with something akin to longing as she looked out the windows at the high-rise across the way, its offices lit up here and there from one floor to the next with the late-burning lamps of other late-working people. All around her, the Indianapolis skyline sparkled amid the fat, furiously falling flakes, as if some snow fairy jacked up on Ritalin had cast down fistfuls of diamonds along with the frantic flurries. Becca might as well have been the only human being allowed into this magical winter wonderland.

Suddenly, for no reason she could name, she felt very, very lonely.

She pushed the strange sensation away and went back to the figures that lay before her on the table. She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat there studying them when she heard the buzzer that heralded the arrival of someone in the outer office. She wasn’t alarmed by the sound, however, since the only people who had access this time of night were the security guards and a handful of other employees who had keys to the place. But when she heard Turner’s voice greeting her softly from the boardroom door behind her, she smiled.

“Hi,” she said as she turned in her chair.

He still wore his work clothes of earlier in the day, but they were rumpled and disarrayed, his white shirttail spilling free from the waistband of his dark blue corduroys, his necktie completely undone and hanging unfettered from a collar unbuttoned to the third button. But then, Becca’s work clothes weren’t any tidier than his were. Her slim, tobacco-colored skirt was wrinkled, her cream-colored blouse was unbuttoned at the cuffs and neck, not to mention untucked. She’d also discarded her jacket a long time ago and kicked off her shoes, as well, to get more comfortable.

Turner looked comfortable, too, she thought. And also pretty sexy.

And he was holding a bottle of scotch in one hand, two highball glasses in the other. Since she recognized the cobalt color of the latter from the bar on the first floor of the building they frequented, she assumed he’d acquired the scotch there, too. Which was some feat, since the bar didn’t have a package license. He must have sweet-talked one of the bartenders into turning a blind eye.

Probably that bottle blonde named Jessica, Becca thought uncharitably. That tramp. She’d always made it clear she’d do anything for Turner. That tramp. She’d even crashed the office Christmas party last year with a sprig of mistletoe, Becca remembered, and she’d deliberately sought out Turner to corner him with it. That tramp.

Had she mentioned Jessica was a tramp?

But then, Turner wasn’t with Jessica right now, was he? Becca reminded herself smugly. No, he was here with her.

“Thought you might like a nightcap, since you’re going to be working late,” he said. But he remained framed by the doorway, as if he were hesitant about entering the boardroom without her okay.

She smiled. “That would be great. Thank you.”

With that, he smiled back, but his entry still seemed a little tentative. Nevertheless, he set the bottle and glasses down on the table and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair at the end.

“You always seem able to read my mind,” Becca said as she watched him complete the action. “I was just thinking I should have taken this stuff home with me, so that I could at least relax in my jammies with a drink while I went over everything.”

“And why didn’t you take it home?” he asked as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured a generous two fingers of the amber liquid into each glass.

She shrugged. “I didn’t think I’d really go over them at home. I thought I’d probably turn on the TV or open a book instead. And I really need to get this stuff studied.”

“Yes, you do,” Turner agreed. “But there’s no reason why you can’t take a little break.”

She nodded. “You’re right. I’ve earned it.”

She didn’t mention that, so far tonight, she’d spent the bulk of her time staring out the window at the snow and thinking about him instead. A break was a break.

Turner extended a glass toward her, which she took gratefully, sipping the potent spirits carefully. She didn’t usually drink her scotch straight up, so wasn’t used to the heat of the liquor as it warmed her mouth and tongue and throat. She liked it, though. It reminded her of Turner’s heat, when he’d set her on fire That Night. Which made it an even more welcome diversion.

“How come you’re not at home?” she asked him.

He lifted one shoulder and let it drop, then gazed at the scotch as he swirled it around in his glass. “It was snowing when I got downstairs, so I went into the bar to have a drink and wait for it to ease up some. It never did, so I ordered something to eat, to wait for it to ease up some.” He looked up at her and smiled. “It never did.”

“I know,” she told him. “I’ve been watching it for the last hour and a half, and it hasn’t let up once.”

Turner sipped his drink and lowered the glass to the table. “I knew you were still up here, so I thought, since we were both probably going to wait it out, we might as well wait together.”

“Thanks,” she told him. And she hoped he realized she was thanking him for a lot more than just the scotch and the company.

“You’re welcome,” he told her. “How much more do you have to go?” he asked, dipping his head toward the paperwork before her.

She sighed heavily. “Not too much,” she hedged. She’d gone through more than half of it. “It’s just not organized very well. Bluestocking should hire a new company to do their next demographic analysis.”

“I thought it was a mess, too,” he said. “So I broke it down myself, according to each product group.”

Becca arrowed her eyebrows down in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked.

He set his glass on the table and stood to move behind her, reaching past her to fan the papers out and rearrange them. And as he did, Becca became more aware of him, of his physical presence and the effect it had on her. As he moved in a thoroughly benign, completely nonsexual way, she couldn’t help but be reminded of how he’d moved That Night—in an aggressive, totally sexual way. And something inside her kindled at the memory, the flames flickering higher with each passing second. She started noticing more about Turner—how he smelled and sounded—and when his arm accidentally brushed her shoulder, the heat inside her leaped higher.

“Here,” he said as he finally finished his reorganization of the papers. He pointed at the first one, an action that left his chest pressing against her shoulder, and she swallowed hard as the heat inside her multiplied. “This is a list of all of Bluestocking’s product categories,” he continued, his voice and posture nothing but professional, his
effect on Becca anything but. “Hosiery, bras, panties, yada yada yada.”

He dropped his hand from the paper and straightened, which moved his body away from hers. But her awareness of him remained just as acute. She could still smell him and hear him and sense him, and she found herself wanting to reach behind herself to grab his hand and pull him forward again, so that his body was pressed to hers once more.

That she wanted him closer, she realized then, told her a lot. Maybe she did know how things stood between them. Or, at least, she knew how things stood with her. And maybe it was time for her to start thinking about that. To start focusing on what she
wanted
. Maybe she should stop fighting this thing and just
do
what she wanted to do. Right now. In this moment. And what she wanted to do, right now, in this moment, was stand up, turn around and drape her arms over Turner’s shoulders, then cover his mouth with hers and see what developed. She’d worry about the rest of it later.

Without a word, she pushed her chair back from the table, an action that made Turner step backward to make room. Then she stood and pivoted, and silently met his gaze. He gazed back at her, his expression reflecting confusion mixed with…something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or anticipation. Or hopefulness. She wasn’t sure.