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exhibited endearingly boyish expressions sometimes, as if he couldn’t quite meet my eyes.
    “Immensely,” he said, and raised his gaze.
    “I’m glad to hear that. Still, I think—” I began, but then he brushed his jacket aside.
    My eyes popped like peeled grapes and my jaw ricocheted off my desk top. There, between the spread edges of his jacket, I saw that his jeans were unzipped. He wore no underwear and voilà . . . it looked as if that impotency problem was pretty much taken care of.
    “Well?” he said. I raised my attention with a jerky effort. His elbows were propped casually across the back of my couch as he watched me. He grinned. “What do you think?”
    “Damn,” I croaked. “I’m good.”
    He chuckled and rose slowly to his feet, a big man fast losing his boyish demeanor. “Yeah, you are,” he said, “and I’d like to thank you.”
    “You could double my pay,” I suggested and rolled my chair cautiously backward. It was one thing to fantasize about an illicit affair with a hunky client. It was quite another to have that fantasy unzip in front of God and everybody.
    “That’s not the kind of payment I had in mind, Doc,” he said, and placed his hands on the edge of my desk.
    “As I’ve told you before, Mr. Bomstad, I prefer to be called Ms. McMullen.” I sounded like I was lecturing a twelve-year-old. Or giving an order to the bartender. Not at all like I was talking to a guy whose genitalia was draped over my desk like berries on a vine.
    “Whatever,” he said. “You done good, and now I’d like to do a little something for you. Or should I say . . . a big something?” Removing one hand from my desk, he brushed his jacket aside again.
    Crimony! It may have been smaller than a bread basket, but it blew a button all to hell.
    He smiled as I stared. “I’ll lock the door so we ain’t disturbed.”
    It was those words that set the alarms exploding in my head. I reached for the phone, and his hand, still large and clean and square-nailed, thumped suddenly atop mine.
    “Who you calling?”
    I glanced up. The boyish expression had been replaced by something less appealing. My stomach pitched.
    “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Bomstad.” My voice was still steady, but my knees were bumping together like wind chimes gone mad.
    “Leave?” he said, and wrapping his fingers about my hand, eased around the corner of the desk. I rose to my feet. I’ve never considered myself weak, but all things are relative. “After you done such good work?”
    My heart was banging against my ribs and my head felt feather-light. “I’m flattered that you attribute your umm . . . newfound health to my services,” I said, “but I’m afraid I still must insist that you leave.”
    He grinned and edged closer. “I like to hear you talk.” I could feel the heat of his body now, and my own temperature rose so that my face felt hot. “All slick and high-class, but I wonder . . .” He touched me with his knuckles, brushing them against my cheek. “I wonder what you’re like when you get riled.”
    “My secretary will be returning any minute.” It was an out-and-out lie and not a very good one, apparently, because Bomstad didn’t even acknowledge it.
    “Always dressed so classy.” He ran a hand over my shoulder. “Always smell so good.” He leaned in, taking a deep breath near my neck. “But sometimes I think there might be a touch of animal in you. A little white trash.” Bending his neck, he nipped at my throat. I was no longer sighing.
    “Let go of my wrist,” I warned. The words only warbled a little.
    He grinned. “There’s a stain on your blouse,” he said, gazing down at my breasts but not loosening his grip. “Almost hidden. What else you got hidden, Doc?” Raising his free hand, he brushed his fingers down my throat, pressing my blouse aside during his descent. I shivered as he touched the slope of my breast.
    “You like that, Doc?”
    No, I didn’t like it. Only a moron