Indecent Suggestion - By Elizabeth Bevarly Page 0,48

always happy to do it.”

Wow, Becca thought. That was good. He was an even better suck-up than she was.

“Well, the Bluestocking account is easily the biggest one our firm has ever landed,” Englund told them, “and I can assure both of you that you’ll be very pleased with the Christmas bonuses you’ll find in your office stockings this year.” He smiled. “In addition to all the free underwear you’ll ever need, I mean.”

He simultaneously clapped both Turner and Becca on the back and, with a smile of pure delight, strode off to greet some of the other partygoers. Becca barely noticed his departure, however, because she was too busy being suddenly overcome again by that strange urge she’d been having lately. That weird, unexplainable, uncontrollable urge to be close to Turner. Really close to Turner. Like naked close. Body-to-body close. Mouth-to-nipple and hand-to-cock close. Hand-to-nipple and mouth-to-cock close. Joined in a way where she wouldn’t be able to tell where her body ended and his began.

She looked at him then, but his gaze had drifted away from hers, and he was scanning the crowded library as he lifted his drink to his mouth. In spite of the soft lighting in the room, his dark hair shone with silvery highlights, and his eyes seemed even bluer than usual. She loved it that he was so much taller than she—easily by eight or nine inches, a statistic she found interesting on more than one level. His shoulders were so broad, and his chest was so solid and well-formed, just perfect for laying one’s head on after hours and hours of exhaustive sex.

He was just so incredibly handsome. Just so unbelievably sexy. And she just wanted him so bad.

What had she been thinking, to tell him she didn’t want the two of them to get sexual? Why had she been so insistent over the years that they keep their relationship platonic? She obviously hadn’t been in her right mind when she’d made such decisions. She’d been missing out on so much for so long. Sexual was exactly what she wanted to be with Turner. As often as possible. In as many ways as possible. As soon as possible. She should drop down on her knees and give thanks that he was up for getting sexual, too.

Or maybe she should drop down on her knees and get sexual. He’d be up for that, she was sure….

Man, it was hot in here. She lifted a hand to run her index finger under the scooped neck of her dress, pulling it lightly away from her skin. She gulped down another mouthful of her drink in the hope that it might cool her, but the cold bourbon seared her throat and her belly, spreading heat to every extremity.

All these people, she thought, looking around at the inconvenient crowd. There were too many people in here. It would be better if she and Turner were alone. No wonder she was so hot. She needed to get out of this crowd, someplace where she could breathe. And she needed to take Turner with her.

“Turner?” she said softly, scarcely recognizing her own voice. “I’m feeling a little, ah, warm. I think I’m going to take a walk outside. Would you come with me?”

He gave her a puzzled look and she could tell he was trying to fabricate some excuse as to why he couldn’t join her outside in the below-forty-degree evening. Of course, he didn’t understand—yet—that they wouldn’t be cold for long.

She hurried on. “Please? I’m just not sure I’ll feel safe out there all by myself.” Nor would she feel satisfied.

Now he started to look suspicious. “We’re in Carmel, Becca,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “The only crimes committed here are crimes of fashion. And even those only happen when it’s discovered that someone bought something off-the-rack at Wal-Mart instead of in couture at Saks.”

On any other occasion, Becca would have been wondering how Turner knew the difference between off-the-rack and couture—or even the difference between Wal-Mart and Saks, he was that backward when it came to fashion. Tonight, though, even her curiosity about that took a back seat to her…

Well.

She wasn’t sure she could even put a name to what she felt at the moment. All she knew was what she had known before. On two befores, as a matter of fact: that day in her cubicle when she and Turner had been working on the Bluestocking account, and the morning of their pitch to the Bluestocking people. That