THE NAME ON THE OUTER office door, Becca noted when she and Turner arrived for their Tuesday morning appointment, said not the Amazing Mesmiro, but rather Dorcas Upton, RN, BSN, LHT. And then, below that, to make matters clearer, Licensed Hypnotherapist.

“Registered Nurse,” Becca said brightly to Turner, pointing to the first two letters that followed Dorcas Upton’s name. “That’s good. That shows she’s not a flake.”

“Doesn’t prove she never played Vegas,” he replied grudgingly. “What’s BSN stand for?” he asked. “And LHT?”

“Licensed hypnotherapist,” Becca guessed for the latter. Especially since it was spelled out right there. Duh. For the former, however, she hadn’t a clue. “I’m not sure about the other letters, though,” she said.

Turner considered the sign for a moment himself before declaring, “I’m guessing BSN stands for Blatant Staggering Nutcase.”

“I doubt it,” Becca replied through gritted teeth.

“Big Simpering Neurotic?” he suggested further.

“Um, no,” she replied as patiently as she could. “Just a shot in the dark, but…I’m thinking not.”

“Blithering Schizoid Nitwit?”

“Turner…”

“Brilliant Scholar Not?”

“Turner.”

“I know. Bunch of Stupid Nonsense.”

“Turner, stop it,” she finally hissed under her breath. And then it hit her. The RN designation ultimately gave it away. “Bachelor of Sciences, Nursing!” she said triumphantly. “That really shows she’s not a flake if she has a bachelor’s degree.”

Turner said nothing in response to that. And just to show what a good sport Becca was about such things, she didn’t even grin smugly and lean in close and tell him—

Oh, who was she kidding?

“Told you so,” she said with a smug grin, leaning in close.

He growled something under his breath and made a big show of checking his wristwatch. “We’re more than half an hour early,” he said.

Becca glanced at her own wristwatch. He was being generous. They were closer to forty-five minutes early. She’d made the appointment for ten o’clock, and it was just past nine-fifteen now. “I thought traffic would be a lot worse,” she said lamely. “I wanted to get an early start.”

The real reason she’d wanted to get an early start was because she’d figured Turner would put up more of a fight about coming, so she’d shown up at his place extra early to allow time for the argument. But he’d been surprisingly cooperative about everything. He’d also been pretty yummy-looking in his faded blue jeans and a navy-blue sweater that made his blue eyes seem even bluer somehow, especially when he pulled a disreputable-looking denim jacket on over it. Becca, too, had opted for blue jeans today, pairing hers with a white, scooped-neck T-shirt and black blazer.

The day outside the downtown office building where Dorcas Upton and all the letters following her name had sited their office was coolish but sunny, the perfect weather, Becca couldn’t help thinking, for a good hypnotizing. She and Turner had both taken a personal day off from work, feeling not one bit guilty about it since they had to be present for a big meeting at the office on Saturday morning. Robert Englund hadn’t complained, and besides, they were doing this as much for him as they were for themselves.

Well, okay, maybe that was pushing it. But tomorrow, Becca and Turner would put the finishing touches on their pitch for a big new account Englund Advertising was trying to land—an account that could bring in loads of money, not to mention a nice, fat promotion for Becca and Turner both—and the meeting Saturday would herald the big reveal. It made sense that the two of them would want to be at their best for the rest of the week.

And their best, Becca had decided, would be smoke-free. That way, they could work on the campaign with one hundred percent of their focus, instead of always being distracted by when they might be able to sneak away for a cigarette.

“Maybe Ms. Upton can take us early,” she said now as she reached for the knob and opened the door. “I didn’t have any problem making the appointment yesterday. That makes me think she can’t be booked solid all the time.”

“It makes me think she’s a quack,” Turner muttered.

Becca shushed him, but had to admit he had a point. And that point was made even finer when they entered the hypnotherapist’s office to find it completely empty. Although there was a little frosted window pushed open over a counter where a receptionist might normally be seated, there wasn’t a receptionist sitting there now.

Still, it was a very nicely appointed office, with wallpaper in a pale yellow stripe, plush, plum-colored seating, soft lighting and lots of ferns. And someone must be around, because there was soft classical music playing, and somewhere on the other side of that frosted window, down a hall or in another room, someone was talking on the phone.

“Place doesn’t seem to be hopping,” Turner said. “I bet she could take us early.”

Becca nodded. “If she’s here…”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a door on the other side of the room opened and a slight, wiry woman came striding through. When she saw Becca and Turner, she seemed to be as surprised as they were, but she quickly recovered and smiled. “Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Dorcas Upton. Can I help you?”

Becca wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when it came to hypnotherapists, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t this. Dorcas Upton had more in common with Mother Goose than she did with the Amazing Mesmiro. Probably around sixty years old, she had her gray hair fixed atop her head in a tidy bun, and beaded black half-glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Slender to the point of being almost angular, she stood a good three or four inches shy of Becca’s own five-six, even though she was wearing sensible black pumps with a one-inch heel. Her outfit, too, was mostly black; a plain, straight skirt that fell to midcalf and a black, pearl buttoned sweater open over an ivory blouse.

No white coat after all, Becca mused. For some reason, that made her feel better, though. Dorcas Upton looked like a school librarian, her dark eyes reflecting intelligence, proficiency and good humor. Becca liked that in a hypnotherapist.

“I know we’re not on time for our appointment,” Becca said by way of a greeting, not quite able to quell the anxiety she could hear lacing her voice. Probably because she couldn’t quite quell the anxiety coursing through her brain and body, too. “But is there any chance we could still see you?”

“Certainly,” Ms. Upton said. She smiled as she tilted her head toward the empty waiting room. “As you can see, I’ve no one else waiting at the moment. If you’ll just follow me?”

She swept her hand toward the open door behind her, and Becca turned to look at Turner. He was studying the hypnotherapist through slitted eyes, but he seemed resigned to going through with it. Becca tried to smile at him reassuringly, then reached out and took his hand. Though she honestly couldn’t have said whether she did that for his benefit or for her own. It just felt better holding his hand.

“Come on,” she said softly, tugging gently. “In a little while, it’ll all be over. And then we’ll have the rest of the day off from work to celebrate our new commitment.”

Turner smiled back, a little halfheartedly, but he nodded. “This better work,” he told her. “That’s all I can say. Because we’re both going to be frustrated in the extreme if it doesn’t.”

DORCAS UPTON SMILED at the couple, deciding immediately that she would forgive them for being twenty minutes late for their appointment. And not just because they were the cutest couple she’d ever seen, either, single or married, and obviously perfect for each other. But also because she had just hung out her shingle two months ago, and she wasn’t exactly overrun with clients yet.

Starting a new business wasn’t easy. And she hadn’t been a hypnotherapist for very long. Dorcas was still working the bugs out both her method and her office. So even if Mr. and Mrs. Feder were late for their nine o’clock appointment, she’d see them. And she’d take care of their problem for them. And then, as Mrs. Feder had just said, they could go home and celebrate their new commitment. To each other, and to a happily wedded way of life. Once Dorcas was finished with them, they wouldn’t be frustrated anymore.

Because she was confident she could help the shy newlyweds iron out their little problem. And a delicate little problem it was, too. She wasn’t surprised they’d arrived late for their appointment. If their extreme shyness and inhibitions were keeping the two of them from making love, then certainly it might result in the sort of nervousness and hesitation that would make them late for an appointment to remedy the problem.

“Won’t you come into my office?” she asked the Feders, smiling with as much encouragement as she could. Didn’t want the precious—though nervous—lovebirds to bolt, after all.

The couple exchanged one final, reassuring glance, then Mrs. Feder nodded. “We’re ready,” she said.

They followed Dorcas into her office, which did have the bugs worked out of it, at least where the decor was concerned. In an effort to make her clients feel as comfortable as possible, she’d opted for muted earth tones with splashes of pastel blue, hoping to evoke an earth-and-water feel that might appeal to more elemental aspects of the human psyche. An electric desk fountain bubbled pleasantly atop a bookcase on the other side of the room, and the classical music of the waiting room was replaced here by a recording of a windswept canyon in New Mexico. The atmosphere certainly made Dorcas feel relaxed and contented. Hopefully, her clients felt that way, too.

As she rounded her desk and took a seat behind it, she glanced down at her appointment book in an effort to discern the Feders’ first names. But she frowned when she realized her receptionist hadn’t written them down when she recorded the appointment, only “Feders.”

Ah, well, Dorcas thought. There was time enough to get acquainted. Although her next appointment was at ten, that would be a fairly mundane quit-smoking session. Dorcas could do those in her sleep. They didn’t take long. This one with the Feders, though…

It wasn’t every day you ran across two people who wanted to make mad, passionate love and couldn’t get over their combined inhibitions to do it. And newlyweds to boot! But that was all right. They’d be at it like rabbits when she was finished with them.

“I’m sorry about the timing,” Mrs. Feder stated as she took a seat in one of the chairs opposite Dorcas’s desk. “This was just one of those mornings when—”

“Say no more,” Dorcas interrupted gently in as soothing a voice as she could manage. “And don’t think anything of it. It isn’t a problem, honestly.”

In spite of her reassurances, Mrs. Feder seemed a little nervous about the session ahead. And Mr. Feder, who still stood at the door, looked too wary to even enter the room.

“I’m sorry,” Dorcas said, “but you’ll have to tell me your first names again. My receptionist didn’t write them down in my appointment book.”

Mrs. Feder smiled. “I’m Becca, and this is Turner.”

Dorcas smiled in return. “And you must both call me Dorcas. Well, since time is of the essence, let’s get started right away, shall we?”

Becca turned to look at her husband, who still seemed reluctant to enter. Funny, Dorcas thought, but he didn’t look like the sort of man who would have trouble consummating his marriage. On the contrary, he looked like the sort of man who would pounce on whatever female held his interest. He also seemed extremely interested in his wife, if the expression on his face when he looked at her was any indication.

He turned to Dorcas. “You’re not going to make us bark like dogs for your own amusement while we’re under, are you?” he asked.

She smiled. “Of course not.” She waited until he looked relieved before adding, “I’m going to make you flap your arms like a chicken. I find that much more entertaining.” Then she chuckled good-naturedly at his panicked expression. “I’m sorry. Couldn’t resist. Just a little hypnotherapist humor there.”

He said nothing, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not.

“It will be fine, Turner,” she said. “I run a professional, legitimate business. Hypnotherapy may not be understood by most people, but it is, without question, a viable treatment for many.” She offered him her most reassuring smile. “It may interest you to know that not all people are able to be hypnotized.”

“Really?” Becca asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of both curiosity and concern.

Dorcas nodded. “And of those who are able to be hypnotized, not all respond to hypnotherapy. Should that be the case with one or both of you, I can recommend another therapist who might be able to help you with your problem through more conventional methods.”

“We’ve already tried those,” Becca said. “This is kind of a last resort for us. If you can’t help us…”

She didn’t finish the statement, only looked forlorn at the prospect of what might lie ahead, should this session fail.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Dorcas said. “Just relax, and we’ll give it our best. Truly, I think you’ll be pleased by the results. Now, then, Turner, if you’ll take your seat next to Becca, we can get started.”

As Dorcas extended her hand toward the vacant chair, Turner pushed himself away from the door and strode with obvious reluctance toward it. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a seat.

“That’s fine,” Dorcas said, still smiling. “Now let’s get you two hypnotized.”

She began the session the way she always did, with some relaxation techniques that included deep breathing and mental visualization. Little by little, Dorcas took the Feders through the steps, until she was confident that both were in a state of deep hypnosis. Only then did she give them the posthypnotic suggestions that they wouldn’t be able to remember consciously once they were brought back, but which they would hopefully act upon when confronted by the proper stimulus.

She’d given much thought to the stimulus in this case, thinking it would be best if she gave the Feders a word to respond to. But it had to be a word they would be most likely to use or hear only in the privacy of their own home. She didn’t want the two of them to be overcome with passionate desire for each other in a public place. Ultimately, she had decided on the word underwear, thinking it was one that wasn’t used too often, and one they would most likely only say when they were at home together. Nevertheless, it was common enough that it would come up eventually.

If one could pardon the pun.

And Dorcas was confident it would only need to be spoken or heard once, because after the Feders made love that first time, their inhibitions and shyness would most likely disappear, regardless of whether they had been hypnotized or not. Once they experienced sex with each other, they wouldn’t need a stimulus like the word underwear for it to happen again. Because after that first time, they would realize there was no need for shyness or inhibition, and they would respond to each other naturally. Until that happened, however, the trigger word would do the trick.

So Dorcas told the Feders that any time either of them heard the word underwear, he or she would be completely overcome with desire for the other, and would initiate lovemaking with complete and uninhibited abandon.

“Upon hearing the word underwear,” she said softly as the couple sat still and silent, “each of you will think of or look at the other and will immediately want to make mad, passionate love. You will feel no inhibition about sex whatsoever. You will feel no shyness, no guilt, no shame, no worry. You will be eager to explore any sexual impulse, fantasy, act or position either of you wishes to try. You will each respond to your partner without fear or reserve or modesty. Whenever you hear ‘underwear,’ that’s your signal to forget your inhibitions and turn to each other with all the desire and passion you feel for each other. Whenever you hear that word you will stop whatever you’re doing and be as sexual together as you want to be.”

Dorcas paused for a moment, thinking she should also give them a turn-off switch for their passion, too, just in case they found themselves in a situation where they heard the word but weren’t together, or where having sex wouldn’t be possible. No reason to make the two of them wander around in a state of constant arousal, after all.

So she said, “The only thing that will assuage your desire will be to engage in sex, or to sleep.”

Now if one of them had to travel without the other, they could at least feel better in the morning about not having been able to have sex when they wanted it.

That should do it, Dorcas thought. Now the Feders could go home and do it, too. Over and over again. To their hearts’ content. And with that escape valve of sleep, they shouldn’t have to go around in a perpetual state of wanting without being able to have. Her work here was finished.

Gradually, she brought Becca and Turner back to consciousness, reminding them before total awareness recurred that they would consciously remember nothing of what they heard while under hypnosis, and that they would feel rested and relaxed upon waking. And then, with a slow, steady count to five, Dorcas woke them.

Their eyes fluttered open in unison, almost as if they were of one body. Becca smiled a dreamy little smile as she brought her hands out in front of her, threaded her fingers together and stretched. But Turner immediately jumped out of his chair and stood, frowning as he looked around at the office.

“I don’t think it worked,” he said. “You never even got me under.”

“Yes, I did,” Dorcas replied easily. This wasn’t an unusual response for people, especially men, to have. “You won’t remember it, because I told you not to. But you were most assuredly under hypnosis, Turner.”

“Did I bark like a dog?”

Dorcas grinned. “No. And I didn’t make you flap your arms like a chicken, either.”

“I don’t feel any different,” he told her.

“That’s not unusual,” she said. “You’re not supposed to feel any different.” Well, not yet, he wasn’t, she added to herself. Just wait till he heard the word underwear. “Unless perhaps it’s to feel rested and relaxed, since I told you to feel that, too.”

“I don’t feel rested or relaxed,” he said.

“I do,” Becca said. “I feel very rested and relaxed. Like I just had a nice, long nap.”

She was going to feel even better after she heard the word underwear, Dorcas thought, still grinning.

“Well, regardless of how you feel at the moment,” she told the Feders, “I gave you both a posthypnotic suggestion that should help you with your problem. If you’re still having trouble this time next week, call me, and we can try again. But you were both well under, I assure you. Do you remember anything that I said to you?”

The Feders exchanged a glance, then shook their heads and turned back to look at Dorcas.

“Then I think you’ll see some results,” she told them. “As I said, if not, do let me know, and we’ll see if another session will take care of it. But I think the two of you will be pleased.”

Oh, Dorcas did so love being able to help people. And the Feders seemed like such a nice couple.

“Now go home and relax,” she told them. “Take the rest of the day to yourselves and see what develops. Maybe you could do a little laundry,” she suggested helpfully. “A load of lights. See what happens when you go to put it away. You can settle up with my receptionist on the way out. She should be off the phone by now.”

The Feders gazed at her with obvious confusion about the laundry recommendation, but Dorcas only smiled and showed them out. She needed to get them close to some underwear as soon as possible. Whatever it took to get these two lovebirds in the sack going at it. As often and as long as possible.

Becca and Turner Feder were in for a pleasant surprise, she thought as she watched her office door close behind them. And with any luck at all, it would be soon.

TURNER KNEW THE HYPNOSIS hadn’t worked on him as soon as they hit the street. Because not only did he not feel in any way rested or relaxed—though he had to admit Becca seemed more mellow at the moment than he’d seen her for a while—he was craving a cigarette more than he’d ever craved anything in his life.

Well, except for Becca, natch.

But he was craving a cigarette. Something fierce.

“It didn’t work up there with the Amazing Dorcaso,” he said after they exited the building and began the walk toward where they’d parked her car.

“What do you mean it didn’t work?” Becca echoed, halting in her tracks, forcing Turner to stop walking, too. He turned to face her as she added, “How do you know it didn’t work? It’s too soon to know that.”

“I know because right now, I want a cigarette real bad,” he told her. “Don’t you?”

She thought about that for a moment, then frowned. Dejectedly, she confessed, “Yeah. I do.”

“I told you hypnotherapy was a load of crap,” he said.

They started walking again, more slowly this time. “Well, Dorcas said we could try again,” Becca reminded him. “Maybe we could go back up right now. It’s ten o’clock, when our original appointment was scheduled. She’d have time to see us again for another session.”

“No way,” Turner said decisively. “I’m not going through that hoodoo again. If it didn’t work once, doing it again won’t make any difference.”

She eyed him thoughtfully for a moment before asking, “What do you think she meant by all that ‘go home and do laundry’ stuff?”

“Got me,” he replied.

Becca’s disappointment was obvious. “I was so sure it would work,” she said. “Now what are we going to do?”

Turner glanced up the street, at a drugstore on the corner. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going for a pack of smokes.” He started off, but Becca’s hand on his arm halted him.

“Wait,” she said.

“What?” he asked, turning around to face her.

“Maybe we could still try to quit on our own. Cold turkey.”

He expelled an irritated sigh. “We tried that already, remember? Back in college. It was pointless.”

“But we were kids then,” she reminded him. “We’d do better now. We’re grown-ups. We have more stamina.”

Oh, she had to use a word like stamina, Turner thought. Yeah, he’d love to show her some stamina now. Except not where it came to quitting smoking. On the contrary, he wanted to start smoking with her. And there wouldn’t be a cigarette in sight when he did. Screw the statistics that said college boys had more stamina than guys his age. Turner could prove it all night to Becca if she gave him half a chance.

Oh, yeah, baby. I got your stamina right here.

“Turner?” she said, bringing him out of his reverie. His daydream. Fantasy. Lurid desire. Whatever.

“What?” he asked, unable to curb his irritability.

“You look kind of…”

“What?” he demanded again, even more grouchily this time.

But instead of answering him, Becca began to nibble her bottom lip worriedly. Oh, hell. He hated it when she did that. Because it made him want to nibble her bottom lip, too. And still she had her fingers curled so tentatively—and so temptingly—into his forearm, making him want to curl his fingers less tentatively—and more temptingly—into parts of her.

Dammit, why did she have to value their friendship so much? Why couldn’t she dislike him enough to become sexually involved with him? Life was so freakin’ unfair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, gentling both his voice and his attitude. “I just get a little irritable when I go too long without smoking.” And he wasn’t just talking about cigarettes there, either. It had been too long since he’d smoked up the sheets with a woman, too. Which, now that he thought about it, could also be contributing to his need for cigarettes lately. Not to mention compounding his need for Becca.

“Well, since you’re already irritable,” she said, “what’s the harm of trying to go longer between cigarettes? We don’t have to go cold turkey yet. Just cut back. How about that?”

God, she was so beautiful, he thought, scarcely hearing her question. Behind her, a streetwise maple tree was still clinging to what was left of its reds and golds and oranges, and the sun overhead lit reddish-gold fires in Becca’s tawny hair. The cool autumn breeze danced with the silky locks, nudging a few errant strands over her shoulder and into her eyes. His fingers itched to reach up and tuck the wayward tresses behind her ear, but she beat him to it, carelessly flipping her hair back on her own.

He’d touched that hair himself, he recalled, had sifted it through his fingers and buried his hands in it. And he’d touched other parts of Becca, too. Parts he wouldn’t mind exploring again, though years had passed since the last time it happened. He’d touched his lips to hers, had tasted her deeply. He’d held her breast in the palm of his hand, and his fingers had been slick with the damp heat of her. Maybe it had only happened a few times, and maybe only because they’d both been under the influence of either raging hormones or holiday spirits of the alcoholic variety. But he had tasted and touched Becca once upon a time. And he remembered every single moment of every single time.

Someday, he hoped, he would touch and taste her again. Only the next time it happened, the sole influence they’d be under would be their feelings for each other. And their need for each other. Someday, he told himself again. He just had to be patient, that was all. But it would happen again.

Someday.

“Look, we have the whole day off from work,” she reminded him. “Let’s do something fun. Something that will distract us from smoking. Let’s go to a movie. I’ll even let you pick which one. And then I’ll cook dinner for you at my place.”

“We should probably talk about the new account at some point,” Turner told her, deliberately replacing thoughts of their personal relationship with thoughts of their professional one, since that was so much easier to think about. “We may have taken the day off from work, but we still have a lot to do on our presentation before Saturday.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow,” she told him. “We have the rest of the week before we have to present it, and we don’t have that much more to do. And, all modesty aside, I think we both realize how brilliant our pitch is. If we don’t land that account for Englund Advertising, nobody can.” She smiled with much satisfaction as she looped her arm through his and began to walk leisurely up the street. “By Monday morning, Turner, you and I will be working on the ad campaign for real. I just know it. By Monday morning, the account for Bluestocking Lingerie is going to be all ours.”