Looking for Love (Boxed set) (43 page)

Abby silently cursed all men. "I really can't talk now, Mr....?"

"Stone. Hunter Stone."

The alcohol was making her head fuzzy. "Listen, Mr. Stone, if I wanted an interview I'd call you."

"Just answer that one question. What can it hurt?"

Reporters could twist anything into dirt, Abby thought. "The book is a composite of exercises I conduct with my patients. End of story."

She glanced at Lenny's picture, memories of her honeymoon flooding her.

"And have you tried these exercises yourself?"

Oh, had she! But she was way too smart to answer a question like that. "Listen, Mr. Stone, my private life is my business. Now good night." She dropped the phone in its cradle, praying the man would take a hint. The last thing she needed was a reporter adding to her humiliation by nosing into her personal life and exposing her secrets....

* * *

He would expose all of Abby Jensen's secrets, Hunter vowed, his body tingling from the sound of her seductive voice. That low, husky voice had quavered, though, as if full of emotion. For a moment he'd even thought she might be crying. Had she been upset about something?

And if so, what?

He dismissed the possibility, reminding himself she was cold and calculating. She'd simply been playing a seductive little game, the way cunning women did to entice a lover. Using that breathy bedroom voice, low and sexy the way a man craved in the middle of the night with the lights turned off and nothing but the two of them between the sheets.
Shit.

He stood and slammed down the phone. So the woman had a voice that could reduce a man to jelly and give him a hard-on the size of a...

His ears were still ringing from when she'd dropped the damn phone to hang up on him. To hell with what she'd said—her private life was news now; she'd opened the door to the public when she'd become an instant celebrity.

Yep, he'd find all the little details about her life that had led to her book, to her marriage, to her cockeyed belief that she could tell other people how to run their lives.

The way she had when she'd convinced Shelly he was a sorry husband.

Tomorrow he'd find out the name of Abby Jensen's publicist and see what kind of information he could weasel out of her.

He grabbed
Under the Covers
along with a beer, adjusted the air conditioner, undid the top button of his denim shirt, and stretched out on the sofa to dissect the book. Tonight he'd read; tomorrow he'd research her background in even more detail, see if he discovered any ghosts lurking in her closet. Then he'd figure out a way to finagle an interview. An exclusive maybe.

He lifted the back cover and studied her picture. Slender, small-boned. Serious, soulful eyes. Her lips were too full. Her hair too dark and curly.

Not his type at all.

No, he much preferred busty redheads or voluptuous blondes.

Thank God he didn't have to worry about being physically attracted to her.

She'd probably had that publicity photo retouched, too, so in person she didn't even resemble it. Photographers worked wonders with computers today, smoothing out age lines, covering up flaws.

He chuckled, took a long pull from his beer, and skimmed the introduction to her book—just as he'd expected, a lot of hogwash about wanting to improve your interpersonal skills with your partner. How to communicate. Mars-Venus theory. Making eye contact. Reflective listening. Focusing on wording your needs so they became a request, not a criticism of the other person.
Don't take your problems to the bedroom.

Some of the same stuff Daryl Jeffries—aka the bastard Shelly had married—had babbled when they'd first met the shrink. Hunter yawned and flipped a few pages. Hmm, exercises to try with your lover. This must be the gritty part that had everyone in such a spin. Skeptical, he took another sip of beer and began to read.

The Seductive Whisper

There are several stages of seduction, moving from that first moment of contact to the culmination of the sexual act. Men rely heavily on their physical and visual senses for arousal, while women are aroused through all their senses and emotions....

It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure that out. He skipped to the next section.

Exercise one: Getting in the mood. From the moment you walk into the room, or meet your man, offer him a look that tells him he's special. Attractive. Desired.

During dinner, a walk together, a ride in the car, whisper in his ear how much you want him. Lower your voice to that intimate level you associate with privacy, the one you save for the dark.

The intimate voice of a vamp.

Like the voice Abby Jensen had used on the phone. He skimmed forward some more and found a section on exercises to set the mood.

For the man: Play soft music in the background. Dance with her in your arms.

Hell, he'd danced with Shelly. Once or twice. And they'd watched movies. Lots of James Bond flicks; those were his favorites. All the
Die Hard
and
Rocky
sequels, too. And Star
Wars.
God, he loved sci-fi movies. And he had taken her to that horror festival.

Satisfied, he read on.

Gently trace your finger, then your mouth over her fingers, her knuckles, down to the sensitive skin of her palm. Cradle her hand in yours, press it to your thigh, your chest. Let her feel the way your heart pounds when she's near. Whisper in her ear the naughty things you'd like to do to her. The ways you want to touch her. The ways you want to make her writhe with pleasure.

This was ridiculous. He swiped at another bead of sweat and unfastened another button. No real man talked like that. Did they?

Stroke the side of her cheek with your thumb. Touch her hair. Wind a strand around your fingertip. Kiss the soft ends and brush them against your rough jaw. Watch the hunger grow in her eyes. Feel her desire in her heated breath.

Now, close your eyes and imagine her performing a slow strip tease for you. Murmur what you see, the things you like about her. Not just the physical aspects. The way she smiles. The way her eyes light up when it's raining outside. The way she caresses her own body. The soft, heady sound of her laughter.

He groaned. Did women really want to hear that garbage?

He was burning up, he realized. The damn air conditioner must be on the fritz. He'd have to call and report it. He shucked his shirt completely and stared at the next paragraph.

Describe the strip tease. Her removing one item of clothing after another. Dropping them to the floor. Think about what you want to do to her and tell her in that bedroom voice. Whisper how her mouth would feel beneath yours, how her ripe, warm breasts will spill into your hands, how her breath will feel touching your own male hardness, how you'll fit inside her, how you'll pleasure her, how her voice will sound whispering your name in the throes of ecstasy.

Wet your lips with your tongue. Say her name, letting desire echo in your voice. Tease her neck with soft gentle kisses.

Trace a finger over her lips. Gently stroke her mouth with your thumb. Let her take your finger into her mouth and lick the tip, suckle the end. Imagine her doing this to your sex.

Listen for her breath to hitch. Watch her breasts rise and fall, her nipples pucker for your touch. Brush the barest of kisses across her forehead. Her nose.
Down her cheek. Into her hair. Her neck. The sensitive skin of her earlobe. Along her shoulder blade. Down her arm. Over her hardened buds. Near her heat. Bring your hand away before you touch her. Slowly move back to her mouth.

Gently. A little more pressure
now. Let her feel the urgency building.

Cradle her jaw with your hands. Lower your mouth. Tease her lips apart with your tongue. Nibble at her lower lip. Then close your lips slowly over hers. And taste a slice of heaven.

Hunter shifted restlessly on the sofa, momentarily envisioning Abby Jensen's mouth coming toward him. Her lips touching his. Her tongue...

He slammed the book onto the coffee table. He would not let that woman's writing affect him. Hell, he was a journalist—he knew firsthand the power of the written word. He made his own damn living by twisting it and turning it every which way.

Her sentences were written by an expert in manipulation—the words were meant to be titillating. She wasn't saying them to him. And he hadn't been fantasizing about her.

Muttering a loud curse, he headed to the bathroom to take a cold shower and forget the nonsense in the book—and the fact that as he'd read, he'd heard her seductive voice purring out every word.

* * *

Anger suddenly churned through Abby. She needed to be angry, she realized. Anger was better than hurt. "How dare Lenny Gulliver use me." Tears blinded her vision, but she blinked them away, fighting the heartache of her lost marriage. All she'd ever wanted was a nice, quiet, happy life: a fulfilling career, a stable family. The type of stable family she'd never had. The loving marriage...

And
I thought I had it all, but this past year's been a total lie.

The beautiful rooms she'd wanted to decorate, to raise her kids in, closed around her, hot, stifling. She pressed the cold glass against her face, willing her heart to mend itself.

"Lenny made a mockery out of our marriage because he was too chicken to admit he was gay. How could I have been so naive?"

Chelsea refilled their drinks. "You want Victoria to sue him?"

Abby shook her head. "For what? Humiliating me?" Tension hummed between them as Abby paced the room. She stared out the big picture window, replaying the last three weeks in her head. When she'd bought the house, she'd thought it would be a new beginning for her and Lenny. The flowers had been blooming, the grass green and lush. But the heat wave and drought this past week had parched the brilliant colors and turned everything brown. Left everything looking desolate.

Just like she felt inside.

Seconds later the phone trilled, sending her nerves into a dozen pieces. Both their gazes swung to the machine.

"I can't deal with anything else today. If it's Victoria, please don't tell her yet. And if it's that reporter again..."

"Why won't you give them an interview?" Chelsea asked. "In spite of what Lenny's done, you're a star, Ab."

Abby hesitated. "Because I'm not comfortable with the slant they're giving the book. And you know how I feel about reporters."

Chelsea nodded as if she too was remembering the embarrassing spread the local press had written about their mother's affair years ago. And then their father when he'd been arrested...

The phone trilled again, and Chelsea checked the
caller
ID. "It's a New York number."

Panic slammed into Abby. Rainey, her publicist.

"Relax," Chelsea said. "They can't know about Lenny yet."

Abby nodded, took a deep breath, and reached for the phone. Her sister was right. She had to calm down. Not give Lenny the power to destroy her.

"Abby, hello, it's Rainey," her publicist said in a sharp New York accent. "I have good news."

She could certainly use some of that.

"Do you have any idea how well your book is doing?"

"Pretty well, I think. I know some of the stores around here are selling out."

"They're selling out everywhere! Congratulations! And that satin pillow idea was ingenious."

Thanks to her mother's latest lover. Her mom who used to play two-bit parts in commercials as vegetables. She'd been a stalk of celery once, broccoli, a carrot....

"We've decided to send you on a publicity tour," Rainey continued. "We'll have you visit bookstores, TV stations, a few radio shows. The way things are going
Under the Covers
will hit the
New York Times
list before week's end. We want to be ready to meet the public's demand."

Abby clutched the phone cord, twisting it in her fingers. "Listen, Rainey, a tour's not a good idea right now."

"Why not? Everyone wants to meet the genius behind this fascinating book."

Abby's mind raced for excuses. How could she go out in public and promote a book about marriage therapy when she couldn't hold her own marriage together? And how could she tell this woman and her agent and editor and the whole world her marriage had been a total sham?

Chapter 3

The Lusty Look

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this makeover." Abby stepped into the fitting room of the exclusive dress boutique Egor's where Chelsea insisted they shop, and grimaced. The Paris designs were expensive and the staff wanted to dress her with their own hands. She was thankful it was one of Chelsea's more upscale choices, not the outlandish favorite where Chelsea, a real bellwether, purchased her lime heels and leopard-skin pants.