Indecent Suggestion - By Elizabeth Bevarly Page 0,34

take the company in a whole new direction. We want to show the women of today that Bluestocking Lingerie isn’t their mothers’ underwear of yesterday.”

Turner gave himself a mental pat on the back. “I’m glad we were able to create a campaign that does that,” he said. “Naturally, Becca and I are open to suggestions if you have any. Or if we’ve overlooked anything…”

“No, it’s perfect exactly the way it is,” Donetta said. “I wouldn’t change a thing.” She glanced at the two suits who had been sitting so obsequiously and obediently—and silently—on each side of her during the presentation, then back at Turner. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d be very comfortable going with the campaign you’ve presented. Naturally, though, I can only make the recommendation. The final decision will rest with others. In any event, we’ll definitely get back to you early next week.”

Each of the suits nodded once, wordlessly, and Turner’s relief was complete.

Until he felt Becca’s stocking foot nudging his under the table in a way that was infinitely more affectionate than he’d ever known her to be.

No, he told himself as a puddle of heat seeped into his belly. No, no, no, no, no. Nuh-uh. No way. No how. La. Hayir. Oh-chee. She was not coming on to him again. For God’s sake, they were sitting in a room with a half-dozen other people! She was only giving him a little congratulations nudge under the table, since it was looking pretty obvious that they’d won the account. He was just jumpy because of what had happened Wednesday night. But Becca had explained all that—well, kind of—and they’d both agreed it wouldn’t happen again. Or, at least, she had. Becca was only—

Rubbing her stocking foot up the length of his calf now. Slowly. Sensuously. Seductively.

No. Mai chai. Bu. Bukan. There was nothing sexual in what she was doing. She was just—

Putting her hand on his knee and giving it a little squeeze.

She was only—

Inching her fingers up to his thigh.

She was just—

Moving her hand forward, between his legs.

She was—

Pushing her hand against his cock and palming it hard.

“Ms. Prizzi,” Turner said suddenly, jumping up from his chair with enough force to send it scuttling backward, slamming into the wall behind him.

Every eye in the room fell on him, and, belatedly, Turner realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. Except for maybe “Becca, get your hand off my dick,” which, just a shot in the dark here, probably wouldn’t go over too well with the clients.

“Yes, Mr. McCloud?” Ms. Prizzi asked. And right when the word dick was going through his head, too, wouldn’t you know it, which sorta threw Turner for a minute.

“I, um, I, uh, I’m glad you liked the presentation,” he finally managed to stammer.

Fortunately—not to mention miraculously—Donetta Prizzi didn’t even seem to notice he’d suddenly turned into a raging idiot. “Oh, I liked it very much indeed, Mr. McCloud.”

She turned her attention to Becca then, obviously wanting to include her in the praise, but when she did her smile fell some. Turner told himself to look at Becca, but he honestly feared what he would see when he did.

Forcing his gaze in her direction, he saw that she had given him her full and undivided attention, and was completely ignoring the woman who was promising to be their newest—and most important—client. Worse than that, the look on Becca’s face made clear what kind of mood she was in, and it was totally inappropriate for the workplace. Well, he amended, for any workplace that didn’t involve the oldest profession, at any rate.

“Uh…” he began eloquently.

“Turner,” Becca whispered. Loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear her. “I need to talk to you. Outside.”

He closed his eyes, stole a few seconds to pretend he was in the Bahamas with a beautiful beach bunny named Mindy, then opened them again. Without looking at Becca, he said quietly, “Can’t it wait?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. Vehemently. “No,” she told him, still whispering. Loudly. “It’s really, really important. I need you right now.”

“Mercer,” Robert Englund boomed, his tone of voice considerably less tolerant than Turner’s had been. In fact, it was his don’t-even-think-about-it voice, which no one in their right mind at Englund Advertising would mess around with. “It can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” Becca immediately replied, her tone of voice, amazingly, even more terse than their employer’s. “Excuse me, Mr. Englund, but