Indecent Suggestion (10 page)

“Turner?” she asked when he remained silent. “Is everything okay?” She tried to inject a lightness into her voice that she was nowhere close to feeling when she added, “Hey, do we still have jobs or what?”

He inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly, his blue eyes never straying from hers. “Our jobs are safe enough,” he told her. “But there’s a lot of other, nonjob-related stuff up in the air right now.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor once again. “Yeah, about that…” she began.

“Becca, what the hell is going on?” he asked point-blank.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’m not sure,” she told him honestly. But she had no idea what else to say.

Turner seemed not to suffer from the same problem, though. When she didn’t elaborate, he continued, “I mean, twice now, you’ve made it clear you want us to get sexual, then you’ve immediately backed off in a big way. I was surprised that first time it happened—hell, I was surprised both times—but I wasn’t sure I should question it. And when I thought more about it today, I decided I wasn’t exactly averse to taking things to the next level myself.”

The entire time he spoke, Becca couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Probably because she couldn’t disagree with anything he’d said. Not about her, and not about the two of them. Before, when they’d gotten physical, Turner had been the instigator, and Becca had gone along for a little while, because, at the time and under the conditions, it had felt nice to do so. But she’d only gone along with him long enough to decide that what they were doing was a mistake.

She’d never really let herself think too hard about
why
she was so certain it was a mistake, though. She
had
enjoyed herself on those occasions. In fact, she may have enjoyed herself too much, and that had been the problem. Because she knew neither of them had ever made much of a commitment to anyone they dated. Not one that lasted longer than a few months, anyway. For something to feel so good with Turner, she’d want it to go on forever. But she hadn’t been able to convince herself that he would, too.

And as good as it had felt with Turner, there had still been something about getting physical that hadn’t been
quite right. She couldn’t really describe or explain it to anyone, herself included. But
something
had made her stop them from having sex. Because somehow, she had known things between them weren’t the way they should be for them to make their relationship sexual. And somehow, she’d known, too, that making it sexual when things weren’t the way they should be would only mess up the great friendship that
did
feel right.

Oh, how did everything get so screwed up?

“Turner,” she began cautiously, forcing her gaze up to meet his again, flinching a little when she saw how coolly he was looking at her. “I wish I could give you an answer that makes sense, but I’m not sure there is one.”

He nodded slowly, but his expression changed not at all. “Okay, then tell me this. A few hours ago, you made me promise to come over here after the meeting, because you wanted us to have sex. Do you still want that?”

She owed him total honesty, Becca knew. But how could she be honest with him when she wasn’t even sure she could be honest with herself? There was one thing she did know, though. She couldn’t make love with Turner feeling the way she did right now. She was confused, uncertain and troubled. Although looking at him right now made her feel things she hadn’t before, she couldn’t imagine the two of them walking into her bedroom right now and falling into each other’s arms. It would just be too weird. And it wouldn’t feel right.

“No,” she told him honestly. “I don’t want that. Not now.”

He closed his eyes and expelled a sound that was rife with frustration.

“I’m sorry, Turner,” she exclaimed. “I know what I said… What I
did
…earlier,” she added, blushing when she
remembered the way she had taken his hand in hers and pushed it between her legs. Even the memory sent a wave of heat splashing through her midsection. “But I’ve had time to think since then, and now I’m just not sure it would be a good idea.”

“And Wednesday night?” he asked, opening his eyes to meet her gaze levelly. “Is that what happened then? You came home and thought about it and decided we shouldn’t go through with it?”

Actually, Becca couldn’t remember doing much thinking about it Wednesday night. She recalled coming home and taking a bath and going to bed, feeling aroused and unsatisfied the whole time, and she recalled thinking extremely lusty and graphic thoughts about Turner, and she recalled a longer-than-usual session with her vibrator. Not once Wednesday evening had she had second thoughts about wanting him. It hadn’t been until Thursday morning that she’d decided her behavior had been unwarranted and unwise—and that had come about after just one look at Turner, and very little thought. She honestly couldn’t remember now what had made her change her mind.

“Yes,” she told Turner. “That’s what happened Wednesday, too.”

“So what brought it on in the first place?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, sorted through her thoughts, then told him about everything she had decided upon waking a little while ago. Stress and pressure, pressure and stress, blah blah blah blah blah. And although she knew neither one of them was buying any of it anymore, Turner had the decency to nod when she was done.

“I’m sorry, Turner,” she repeated lamely when she’d finished. “I really can’t explain it any better than that. And I’m
sorry if I led you to believe one thing and then pulled back and acted differently. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Next time you get the urge,” he said, “just light up a cigarette, for God’s sake, okay?”

She nodded, but didn’t feel good about the way they’d resolved things. Probably because they hadn’t come close to resolving things. There was still a strange awkwardness between them that hadn’t been there before, and she hoped she hadn’t done irreparable damage to their friendship. Deep down, she didn’t think she had. She just had to be careful not to send Turner any mixed signals in the future, even in jest. Their friendship was too precious for her to screw—ah, she meant
mess
—around with it.

He sighed again, uncrossed his arms and legs and pushed himself away from the counter. “Then I guess tonight we’ll have dinner together as friends, if that’s okay with you.”

Becca smiled, relief winding through her. “That would be great,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”

As he reached into one of the bags, he added, “Oh, I almost forgot. Englund has invited you and me to a party at his house next weekend. Though he didn’t say so, I imagine it’s part of our reward for landing the Bluestocking account.”

“Then it’s official?” Becca asked. She’d been reasonably sure, judging by Donetta Prizzi’s face when they concluded the pitch, that the woman had been extremely impressed by the campaign. But no one had made a formal commitment by the time Becca left.

Turner shook his head back and forth. “Well, it’s not quite official, but Donetta Prizzi made it pretty clear. We should know something for sure by midweek. She promised Englund a definitive answer by Wednesday. And, hey,
Englund is confident enough that we’ve won the account to invite us two peasants to the castle next weekend.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Becca said. Robert Englund wasn’t the type to take things for granted.

A party at the boss’s mansion, she thought as she joined Turner in removing their meal from the bags. They were definitely coming up in the advertising world. It was just too bad they were doing it at a firm whose vision wasn’t exactly their own. Still, she’d take what she could get at this point.

And hey, a party at the big house. How cool was that? Now all she had to do was figure out what to wear….

R
OBERT
E
NGLUND’S SWEEPING
estate in the Indianapolis suburb of Carmel was an exuberant Tudor mansion situated atop a high, regal hill, its unseasonably green lawn rolling down before it like a carpet of cold, hard cash. The house itself was a stunning bit of real estate, three stories of beautifully formed fieldstone and diamond-paned windows topped by a gray-blue slate roof. There was even a turret at one end. The double front doors, painted a rich patrician blue, formed a perfect arc at the house’s center, and were outlined by beveled glass that glittered with the light shining from within.

As Turner rolled his Saturn to a halt in front of the valet—both behind and in front of expensive European sedans, Becca couldn’t help noticing—she tried to quell the butterflies in her stomach. She’d visited her boss’s home only one time before, and on that occasion, she’d been not a guest but a messenger girl, dropping off some work for her employer when he’d been at home feeling under the weather. She hadn’t made it past the foyer that day, but even that small glimpse of the house had told her everything she needed to know. Specifically, that Mr. and Mrs. Robert Englund were rolling in dough. Of course, she’d already known that.

At any rate, it was a sure bet that tonight’s glittering affair would be populated by the city’s uppermost and crustiest upper crust, and Becca was more than a little nervous about having come from a solid middle-middle-class background. She hoped she didn’t do or say something that would embarrass her or Turner or both of them. Like use her seafood fork to eat her salad. Or, worse, use her seafood fork to put someone’s eye out. That could look really bad when it came time for her annual review at work.

And she had no idea how to strike up a conversation with a rich person. Unless it was to begin with something like, “Here are the papers you wanted from the office, Mr. Englund.” Probably, she thought, it would be best to just avoid any subject that could lead to a vicious argument. Like politics, for instance. Or religion. Or personal wealth. Or fashion.

Oh, she was not looking forward to the evening ahead. She had a bad feeling about this….

She reminded herself that their boss had invited her and Turner to the party as a reward for their exceptionally good work. He’d reiterated the invitation, after all, on Thursday morning, right after the call from Donetta Prizzi saying Englund Advertising had, for sure, won the Bluestocking Lingerie account, as long as he could guarantee that that nice Turner McCloud and that, um, interesting Becca Mercer handled it. Becca was supposed to have a
good
time tonight. Nevertheless, she already felt out of place and was glad Turner was with her. At least she’d have someone to talk to who didn’t make her feel nervous or poorly educated or plebeian.

Of course, he
did
make her feel really weird when she was around him now. Though that wasn’t any of his doing,
she knew.
She
was the one who kept coming on to him, not the other way around—though his reciprocation of her actions hadn’t exactly helped her when she’d tried to figure things out. Not that she blamed him for that, either…

Oh, hell. She didn’t know what to think lately. Really, she decided, she and Turner both needed to talk more about what was going on. Eventually. When they were both less edgy about what was going on. Which she figured they would be in, oh…twenty or thirty years. Fifty, tops.

The important thing was that there hadn’t been a repeat of those two…bizarre incidents. She and Turner had passed the entire week without so much as a steamy look. Which, she had to admit, just went to reinforce that whole pressure-stress theory, making it seem a bit less lame. Once they’d landed the Bluestocking account, they’d turned their attention to other accounts that caused less tension. And they’d skipped their lunch hours so they could take shorter breaks during the day to go outside for an occasional smoke when they felt the need. This week had been a much calmer one, all things considered. And because of that, neither of them had felt the need to repeat their earlier sexual responses to each other. Becca was pretty confident that nothing like that was going to happen again.

No, she was
certain
it wouldn’t happen again, she told herself adamantly. Now that things were settling down with her and Turner, and now that they had the Bluestocking account firmly in hand, and now that their boss had no choice but to realize how important they both were to the company, they could relax a little and sort out what was going on.

Eventually, she repeated to herself. But not tonight. Because everything between her and Turner was starting to
go back to normal. Yes, there was still a certain amount of tension humming between them, but that wasn’t exactly surprising. They were back to being friends again. And that, Becca was confident, was where they needed to stay.

“Nice digs,” Turner said now from the driver’s seat as he gazed through the passenger-side window at the Englund residence.

Becca nodded. Their boss’s home was something right out of an estate magazine. But when she turned her gaze from the breathtaking house to the man seated beside her, she decided the view was even nicer. Under his dark overcoat, Turner wore a dark suit—an honest-to-God, exquisitely tailored suit, too, with pinstripes, no less—and a white dress shirt with a tastefully patterned silk tie. Clearly, he wanted to impress their employer with his appearance now that he had impressed their employer with his abilities.

As did Becca, since her own attire complemented his, and was equally conservative. Beneath her swingy black velvet jacket, she wore a little black dress that fell nearly to her knees, with long sleeves and a barely scooped neckline. To accessorize it, she’d added black sheer stockings, black heels that weren’t
too
high, a strand of sedate pearls and pearl earrings. She was playing Robert Englund’s game, too, for now, wanting to reassure her boss that she could play by the rules if it meant being compensated for it. He still hadn’t said anything firm about a promotion or raise or bonus, even though she was confident all were forthcoming. And if she looked half as nice as Turner did tonight…

She let her thoughts stop there, because she didn’t want to think about how nice Turner looked tonight. That way lay madness, she knew.

“You ready?” he asked as one valet came around to his side of the car and another tugged open Becca’s door.

She nodded. “But I think I’m going to need a drink as soon as we get inside the door.”

“Feeling like a commoner already, are we?” he asked with a smile.

She shrugged, but couldn’t quite manage a smile in return. “Among other things,” she told him softly.

She could tell her response puzzled him, and he opened his mouth as if he were going to say something else, but the valet on his side of the car opened his door, forcing him to exit and take a receipt from the young man instead. Becca climbed out, too, then used Turner’s distraction to change the subject.

“Do you remember Mrs. Englund’s name?” she quizzed him as he joined her on the steps leading up to the front door.

“Yes, I do,” he told her. “It’s Mrs. Englund.”

This time Becca was able to smile. “Very good,” she said.

She was about to make her way up the steps, but hesitated when Turner crooked his elbow and offered her his arm. Normally, she would have linked arms with him and not thought a thing about it. After the way things had been over the last couple of weeks, though, she wavered.

“Come on,” he said quietly, obviously understanding her uncertainty. “If we still feel the need to, we’ll talk more later, when we can both think a little more clearly. For tonight, though, we’re just Turner and Becca, the way we’ve always been. Okay?”

She nodded, but wasn’t sure she believed him. She wasn’t sure he believed himself, truth be told. Because there was something in his eyes when he looked at her…

No, she told herself. It was just her imagination play
ing games. In spite of the positive way he’d responded to her overtures, when all was said and done, she didn’t think he really wanted to take things to the next level any more than she did.

And she told herself she
wasn’t
disheartened by that. She wasn’t. And just to prove it, she wasn’t going to think about it
at all
tonight.

So there.

The interior of the Englund home was as luxurious as Becca remembered, and then some. The foyer soared two stories above them and was paneled on all sides and the ceiling with a dark, rich wood she suspected was mahogany. A sweeping staircase rose before them, opening onto a second floor gallery that boasted a series of oil paintings of landscapes and still lifes. A thick Persian runner in variegated jewel tones covered the stairs, matching the carpet that spanned much of the foyer floor. To the left of the stairway and beyond it was a hall that led farther into the house, and on their immediate left was what appeared to be a roomy parlor. To the right was the living room, where much of the party seemed to have congregated for now, because the room was teeming with guests.

A liveried maid appeared out of nowhere to take Becca’s and Turner’s coats once they’d slipped out of them, then carried the garments off to the magical Kingdom of Infinite Coat Storage. Becca had no idea how the woman would keep track of who owned what coat, but she was confident Robert Englund would only hire the best coat-keeper-tracker-of that money could buy.

Turner threw her a reassuring smile as he gestured toward the hallway. “My tingling spider sense tells me the bar is thataway.”

“Hmm,” Becca replied as she followed him in the direction he’d indicated. “I think that’s actually your bourbon sense that’s tingling.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “I always get those two confused.”

His bourbon sense was right on the mark, too, because they found the bar—at least one of them, since she suspected there would be more than one for a party this size—set up in the library. That room, too, was paneled in dark wood, but its walls were filled, floor to ceiling, with books, giving it far more color and character than the foyer. Turner deftly threaded his way through the crowd to the bar and, in addition to his own drink, returned with a Manhattan for Becca, since he knew that was what she always drank at parties and didn’t even need to ask. He wasn’t the only one whose bourbon sense was tingling.

“Thanks,” she told him as she took the drink from him and enjoyed a fortifying sip.

“Anytime,” he replied.

“You always know what I like,” she added as she lifted the drink to her mouth again.

Belatedly, she realized how the statement could be misconstrued, and her gaze flew to his to see if he’d picked up on the double entendre. Of course, it went without saying that he had. She could tell by the way his blue eyes darkened, and how his pupils expanded briefly before returning to their normal size.

“I mean, uh…that is, um…what I meant to say is… I mean I
didn’t
mean…” she backpedaled. Clumsily.

“Becca, don’t,” he said, his expression softening.

“Don’t what?” she asked, feigning innocence. Badly.

He sighed softly. “Don’t start worrying that every time you say something, I’m going to think you mean something else.”

“I wasn’t doing that,” she stated. Futilely.

“The hell you weren’t.”

“Well, didn’t you think—at least for a moment—that I did mean something else?” she asked. Suspiciously.

He lifted one shoulder and let it drop in what she supposed was meant to be a shrug. “Maybe.”

“Then I should start worrying,” she said. Worri—Oh, never mind.

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“Maybe we should talk more about what happened, sooner instead of later,” she said.

Though, honestly, she didn’t know what they could say that hadn’t already been said. Okay, admittedly, she had some unresolved issues with Turner. But maybe what she needed was a little time—personal
alone
time—to figure out why she kept acting toward him the way she did.

“Look, let’s just keep saying too much stress and too long between hookups, and leave it at that. And let’s start moving forward again.”

She met his gaze levelly. “
Can
you leave it at that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied immediately.

Maybe a little too immediately, she thought. Because the look in his eyes when he answered her wasn’t anywhere near as certain as his response had been.

In spite of that, she nodded. “Okay. I can leave it at that, too.” Probably. Maybe. Possibly. Perhaps.

Um, what was the question again…?

“McCloud! Mercer!”

No, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t even a question. That was an exclamation. From her boss, she realized belatedly. And she didn’t think he knew the question, either, never mind
the answer. Of course, he did sign their paychecks, so maybe she should pay a little more attention to what he was saying.

What was it he had said?

She caught sight of Robert Englund picking his way through the crowded library toward them, and what little gaiety she’d managed to rouse fizzled out. She’d been hoping to come to the party and enjoy her employer’s home and hospitality—not to mention his bourbon—without having to actually
see
her employer while she was enjoying it, since that would be in no way enjoyable. Alas, ’twas not to be.

“Mr. Englund,” she said, conjuring a jovial smile as he joined them. “Thanks so much for inviting us tonight. Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But I can’t take credit. It’s all my wife’s doing. She hired the decorator.”

“Great party, sir,” Turner interjected for good measure.

“Can’t take credit for that, either,” their employer said with a smile. “My wife hired the caterer, too.”

“Mrs. Englund sounds like quite a catch,” Becca said. And she wasn’t being sarcastic at all when she said it. Good delegators of responsibility were hard to find these days.

Interestingly, her boss made no comment one way or another in response. “I just wanted to congratulate the two of you again for a job well done, and a pitch well thrown,” he said. “And to thank you again for landing us such a substantial account.”