So she ignored the last part of what he’d said to focus on the first part, something that had her biting back both the sarcastic retort and the smack upside the head she felt threatening. There. That was better. That was more in keeping with the way she wanted to feel about Turner.
“Not that kind of hypnosis,” she patiently corrected him. “Hypnotherapy hypnosis.”
He eyed her blankly. “And the difference would be…?”
“Hypnotherapists are better dressed, for one thing,” she quipped. “They have white jackets and name tags and stuff.”
He rolled his eyes.
“And licenses,” she quickly added. “They’re licensed to do this kind of thing. They go through a lot of training and education, whereas the Amazing Mesmiro probably got his training from the Johnson Smith catalog. Not to mention his license.”
Turner’s expression remained impassive. “Hypnotherapists are licensed and trained to make people bark like dogs and flap their wings like chickens? Wow. And here I wasted my time with an MBA and a bachelor’s degree in marketing.”
“They’re licensed to help people,” Becca told him through gritted teeth. Oh, yeah. That smack upside the head was really close now.
“It won’t work,” he said.
She studied him through slitted eyes, nibbling the edge of her lower lip in thought. Turner’s gaze seemed to zero in on the movement, and his pupils widened to nearly eclipse the blue irises. She figured he recognized it meant she was lost in thought—he’d be correct about that—and that he was probably dreading what she was going to say next.
And he was correct there, too, she thought. Because what she said next was, “I’ll make a bet with you.”
It was the perfect way to respond. Turner was just arrogant enough in his masculinity to never, ever, back down from a challenge. But he was also just arrogant enough in his masculinity to hardly ever win a bet he made with her.
“What kind of bet?” he asked.
Bingo, she thought with satisfaction. Aloud, however, she kept her smugness under control and told him, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. If you can make it through the entire day tomorrow—from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to sleep—without once having to light up, then I won’t say another word about quitting, and we can take our habit outside whenever we feel the need at work. But if you break down and light even one cigarette tomorrow,” she quickly continued, “then you have to go with me to a hypnotherapist ASAP.”
He grinned, clearly thinking he would have no trouble sticking to such a challenge. “Piece. Of. Cake,” he said.
Becca grinned back. Yeah, it would be a piece of cake, all right, she thought. And she made a mental note to go ahead and check the Yellow Pages, under H for Hypnotherapist, as soon as she got home. No sense waiting until the last minute.
2
TURNER WAS DRAPED ACROSS his couch, dozing off despite the fact that it was barely ten o’clock, and the TV was blaring the closing credits of The Zombies of Mora Tau, when he heard the ungodly thunder of what he suspected, in his half-coherent state, must be the pounding of one of those very Mora Tauian zombies. Even though Ray Milland had taken them all out with an angry, torch-bearing mob in the final scene, which Turner had witnessed at least a half-dozen times. And it occurred to him as he struggled to a sitting position and knuckled his eyes that he really should find some other way to spend his Friday nights besides feeding bad B-movie monsters into his DVD player.
The zombie pounding at his front door kicked up again, and he wondered where was an angry, torch-bearing mob when you needed one? Not so much to take care of the zombie at his front door, but because at least a few members of the mob also might be bearing cigarettes, which, coupled with the torches to light them, would set Turner up for the rest of the weekend. Then he remembered Becca’s bet. So much for the weekend. Or at least tomorrow. And even though it wasn’t Saturday morning yet, he ignored the half-full pack on the end table and went to see who the zombie knocking at his front door was.
But as he rose to standing and his heart began pumping blood into his bleary brain, he decided that the knocking probably wasn’t coming from anything as lame as a zombie. If what Turner suspected was true, his visitor was way more dangerous than that. More dangerous, even, than the Magma Creature from Milwaukee. Or the Lizard Man from La Jolla. Or the Wasp Woman from Walla Walla.
Stumbling barefoot across the living room, he mentally cued the Twilight Zone music, tugged down his T-shirt that read Vinnie’s House of Hubcaps, and made sure the drawstrings of his faded black sweatpants were suitably tied. Couldn’t go meeting one’s destiny with doom looking like a slob, after all. Well, not too much like a slob. Peeking through the peephole, he saw that he had been correct in his suspicions. Because the beast lurking on the other side of his front door was indeed the scariest, most perilous creature known to mankind.
Or at least to this man, kind of.
With a sigh of resignation, Turner curled his fingers over the doorknob and swiveled it, then pulled the door toward himself with an ominous creeeeeeak. And even though it probably would have been more appropriate for him to say, in his best Boris Karloff voice, “Gooood eeeeveniiiing,” he instead only smiled and said, “Hi, Becca,” to the woman who stood on the other side.
She smiled brightly, a response more dangerous than the heat lasers shooting out of the eye sockets of the Evil Ectoplasm from Encino. Well, more dangerous to Turner, at any rate. The residents of Encino might beg to differ.
“Hiya,” she replied cheerfully, in a voice more menacing than the fireballs exhaled by the Fiend from Fresno. Well, more menacing to Turner, anyway. The residents of Fresno… Oh, never mind. “Thought you might like a little company,” she added easily.
He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on his mantelpiece, the one shaped like a minuscule slot machine, with the glowing red numbers of the hour, minutes and seconds where the three cherries would have been had he just hit a jackpot. The clock had a purple lava lamp sitting on one side of it, and a framed, eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossy of Wayne Newton—though it had been autographed to someone named “Buddy,” unfortunately—sitting on the other side. But tacky as they were, the things on the mantelpiece went with the lounge look Turner had striven so hard to achieve throughout his apartment.
Of course, the main reason he had striven to achieve a lounge look was because he’d found a lot of stuff appropriate for a lounge theme at local garage sales when he’d moved out of his parents’ basement ten years ago, but that was beside the point.
“At ten in the evening?” he asked, turning to look at Becca again.
She lifted one shoulder and let it drop in what he supposed was meant to be a negligent shrug. However, if there was one thing Turner knew about Becca Mercer, it was that she was anything but negligent. No, what Becca Mercer was was…
He expelled a mental sigh of frustration. Gorgeous, that was what she was, he thought as he took in the dark-blond hair that fell just past her shoulders, and the coffee-colored eyes that made his heart pound faster and more furiously than all the caffeine in the world could. And she was built, too—like a brick shit house, as a matter of fact. He dropped his gaze—discreetly, so she wouldn’t know what he was doing—and ogled the snug, faded jeans that hugged her curvy hips, and the brief black sweater that molded her full breasts. Oh, yeah. Becca was curvy and full in all the places a man liked to see a woman curvy and full, all the places a man liked to touch and caress and taste and—
And she was intelligent, too, he knew, stopping his errant thoughts before they could get away from him—because they would get away from him if he let them, not to mention leave him feeling frustrated as hell, the way they