Looking for Love (Boxed set) (44 page)

"Look, Abby," Chelsea said, "you have to do the book signing, so you might as well look good."

"I only agreed to the book signing because Rainey refused to take no for an answer. I still think it's a bad idea."

"You told her about Lenny?"

Abby winced miserably. "Yes. She almost went into heart failure when I suggested admitting the truth and forgetting the interviews."

"So do the interviews and enjoy your fame. You'll be so fabulous no one will care whether or not you have an albatross of a man around your neck when they do find out about loser Lenny."

Like that would really happen.

Chelsea wrapped a gold chain belt around Abby's hips and adjusted it. "There."

Abby gestured toward the revealing neckline of the shell. "This outfit is just not me...."

"I know. Don't be such a prude." Chelsea laughed, hot pink lips pursed. "It's perfect. That neckline accentuates your cleavage."

"I'm not a prude; I'm modest." Abby pivoted in the mirror to study the back of the short blue skirt. She really had to lay off the Reese's cups. "Don't you think it's a little tight in the butt?"

"Honestly. God gave you assets, so use them." Chelsea shook her head, crystal earrings dangling. "If I left you on your own, you'd show up in a feed sack."

"I would not." Abby glanced at the flowing dress she'd chosen earlier. So it didn't hug her figure or show the lines of her body. That was what she intended. She'd always favored a more traditional style, especially in her clothing. It matched her conservative approach to life.

Marrying Lenny had been her one impulsive decision.

And the biggest mistake of her life.

She unzipped the skirt and dropped it to the floor. If she wore a feed sack, at least she wouldn't have to worry about her hips being too big. She could eat all the Reese's cups she wanted. "This is too short. I'm wearing the calf-length dress."

"That one with the high collar? Good grief, Abby, you'll look like a nun!"

"I will not; it's perfect, classy. If I wear that short one, every man around will be ogling my legs. Giving me that lusty look—"

"That's exactly the point."

"Well, I don't want to be ogled."

"You're hopeless." Chelsea jerked the long black dress out of reach. "This is hideous. Now try on that red silk suit with the camisole. It'll look sexy."

Abby dragged it on under duress. "My butt's too big, my ankles are too thick, and my boobs are too small to look sexy."

Abby's cell phone trilled from her purse, and she clicked it on while Chelsea stacked up her clothing finds. "Hello."

"Hi, Dr. Jensen, this is Hunter Stone from the AJC again. I realize you were busy yesterday—"

"I'm busy again today, too. How did you get my cell phone number?"

"Your publicist, Rainey Jackson."

"Rainey gave you my number?"

"Yes, she faxed me a bio and some photos, too."

Good grief, he sounded so pleased with himself. Rainey obviously didn't share Abby's distrust of reporters. "Mr. Stone, I have no interest in talking to journalists. Why, one article I read implied that I acted out my exercises with my patients."

"Maybe if you meet me, I can get the details right this time," Stone said.

Oh, wouldn't he love that? But she didn't intend to be tricked into anything. "I told you no, and I meant it."

"Listen, Dr. Jensen, the press is going to write about you, so it would be easier if you cooperated. Give me an exclusive, and I'll print the truth. I swear."

His voice sounded strong. Sincere. But Abby didn't trust him for a minute.

"We can talk about your ideas," he continued. "People want to know if your own love life inspired you, if any problems in your marriage or past played into this...."

Abby heaved a breath in and out, panic attacking her as his words faded into an echo around her.

"Dr. Jensen?"

He knew the truth. Why else would he mention problems in her marriage?

But he couldn't print the truth because it was too humiliating. Just as it had been when her father had been arrested and all her mother's lovers had been plastered across the papers. The pictures of her in the paper at age twelve flashed back in painful clarity. She imagined the new ones and the accompanying headline:
Like Mother, Like Daughter, Both Forgo Traditional Wedding and Live in Sin.

Suddenly her lungs tightened, she lost her breath, and she dropped the phone. The handset banged against her leg as she heaved in and out, but she couldn't catch her breath. The room spun, her pulse raced, and her skin grew clammy. She had never had a panic attack before, but she recognized the symptoms.

Chelsea took one look at her, shrieked, then pushed her into a chair and shoved a paper bag into her hand.

* * *

He had shaken Dr. Jensen, Hunter realized as he replaced the phone. So much that she'd hung up on him again. Or at least she'd dropped the phone and he'd heard some wild breathing in the background.

Or maybe she had some kind of sex game going on and he'd interrupted.

He chuckled, envisioning the scenario and a photo of it on the front page of the paper. The minute that breathy voice of hers had wavered he'd sensed he was onto something. Something about her past, her personal life... maybe even her marriage.

He had to figure out what she was hiding.

The familiar adrenaline rush of an impending breakthrough zigzagged through him, and he contemplated going incognito to her scheduled book signing. If Abby Jensen even suspected he was the reporter who'd been hounding her, she'd run like crazy.

But how could he disguise himself so he wouldn't be recognized later on when he zeroed in for the kill?

His gaze scanned the room and he spotted the video of
Tootsie
he and Lizzie had rented the other night, and a sly grin curved his mouth. He'd dress like a woman. After all, he'd disguised himself as a bag lady once to investigate a thug in Chicago. Dr. Jensen might warm up to a female at the signing and spill a few tidbits about herself. Things her publicist had been careful not to reveal when he'd questioned her earlier.

He scavenged through Lizzie's dress-up trunk, wincing at his image in the mirror as he yanked on white tights and a humongous, old-fashioned flowery dress that had belonged to her former nanny, a plus-size woman with bad taste. The dress had dragged the floor when Lizzie put it on, swallowing her whole, but it hung midcalf on him, and with a little padding it almost fit. Except for the bust area, of course. A little stuffing helped fill that out nicely. A curly red wig came next, then bright orange sunglasses with rhinestones and a floppy hat that covered most of his face. Perfect.

Finally he stuffed the book beneath his arm, suppressing the fact that Abby's words had aroused him the night before. Luckily she wasn't his type.

Nope, he preferred busty blondes and redheads, not pale-faced, frizzy-haired brunettes who dressed like school-marms. Even if they did have sinfully seductive voices.

Besides, who would want to be caught dead in such a getup in front of a woman he wanted to impress? He painted his lips red and blotted powder on his face to cover his beard stubble.

Sheesh.
The things he did for his career...

* * *

Chelsea Jensen would do anything for her sisters.

Oh, she knew she was a screw-up. At least according to her oldest sister, Victoria. But Abby had always cut her a break, and now Abby was the one in trouble, and she had to do something.

For God's sake poor Abby, had almost hyperventilated in the dressing room of Egor's, the most expensive and only exclusive shop Chelsea bothered to drop her plastic in.

Now, if
she
were going to hyperventilate it would be over that sexy tie-dyed bikini she'd seen in the window, or a pair of fuck-me shoes with rhinestones and feathers, not a man.

Especially one who was gay.

Damn Lenny Gulliver.

If she found him, she would tie his dick in a knot with her curling iron and pluck his lying tongue right from his mouth with her tweezers.

She teetered on her new hot pink heels, strutting toward the elevator to Victoria's office, smiling and waving her acrylic nails at the stuffy suits and dressed-for-success nine-to-livers running to and fro. The women had no fashion sense whatsoever. Never had Chelsea seen so many plain black pumps in one place. And the men all had navy and red striped ties that screamed conservative and wore their cell phones attached to their leather belts like a second penis. God, no wonder Victoria stayed home and did her laundry on Saturday night; her pickin's weren't just slim; they were practically nonexistent.

The elevator whizzed up eleven floors, the mixture of expensive perfumes and colognes of the inhabitants sending her into a tizzy to name the different fragrances, a little game she'd enjoyed playing since second grade. The elevator jolted to a stop, and a tall dark-headed man with a woodsy smell—Stetson, she guessed—elbowed his way out as if his life depended on a ten-second exit.

Moments later she stood in the hall outside Victoria's office, her stomach already flip-flopping back and forth, that little demon of insecurity that dogged her whenever she was in Victoria's presence whispering all kinds of nasty things in her ear. Like the fact that she shouldn't have worn the bumblebee costume. But she'd had little choice. She was on break from her commercial shoot and hadn't had time to change in and out of her costume, and still make it to Victoria's office and back in an hour.

She hugged her jacket around her, hoping to conceal most of the costume. To heck with what Victoria thought about her outfit anyway; this talk was not about her; it was about Abby. Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she tapped on the door to Victoria's office and pasted on her sugary smile. Victoria had to agree to her plan.

And if not, well, she'd do something on her own—whatever it took to help Abby.

* * *

Abby stared through the double glass doors, her hand trembling. Although at least a hundred people stood in line waiting to purchase her book, she had never felt more alone.

She also felt like a fraud.

What if someone had discovered the truth and revealed it any second? Like that nasty reporter Hunter Stone. Maybe in a few days or weeks when the pain wasn't quite so sharp, she could confess.

"It looks like we have a good turnout." The bookseller, a tall, attractive redhead named Katrina Blake, gestured toward the people waiting outside. "We'll probably sell all the books here and take orders for more. Can I get you anything before we start, Dr. Jensen?"

Thank heavens she'd used her maiden name on her book.

"A glass of water would be great." Abby fanned herself.
Although a double scotch would be nice.
The mall air conditioner must be on the blink just like half the units in the town. If she'd worn panty hose, they'd be melted to her legs like plastic wrap.

The bookseller set a cup of water on the table, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she headed to greet the eager customers. As soon as the glass doors slid open, the crowd rushed in, and Katrina ushered them into a line, having roped off the area into lanes in advance.

Excited chatter and laughter mixed with the soft piped-in music from the store. Men and women of all ages, sizes, and nationalities waited eagerly for an autographed copy.

Abby's hand trembled as she signed the first book.
One
person at a time,
she told herself. She could do this.

"I'm so excited to meet you, Dr. Jensen," a young woman holding a baby on her hip approached. "I'm Tammy."

"Nice to meet you, Tammy." Abby jiggled the child's chubby hand. "What an adorable little girl. What's her name?"

"Lisa Sue. Her daddy and I think she's pretty cute, too." Tammy nuzzled her daughter's fuzzy head to her own cheek and Abby's heart squeezed. She had wanted a baby, had planned to talk to Lenny about it soon....

"Dr. Jensen, I need to ask you something. Randy and I are doing okay, marriage-wise, but nursing takes a lot out of me, and I've been tired and Randy's a morning person, if you know what I mean, and I'm not. I need my coffee in an IV, especially after being up all night with the baby. I just fall back into bed smelling like sour milk and can't get in the mood. And we never go out anymore. Do you have any advice?"

Abby scribbled a note in the book. As much as she might like to, she couldn't give individual counseling sessions today or they'd never finish. Maybe she should pass out business cards, offer a free session with every book.

No, she was here only to sign enough books to please her publicist. Besides, she had her hands full now with everything else. She couldn't possibly take on more clients.

"You might try a baby-sitter," Abby suggested. "Plan a date night once a week. When the baby gets used to that, take a romantic weekend together—just you and your husband."

The woman brightened and thanked her. A tall, broad-shouldered woman wearing a floppy hat and bright orange sunglasses towered over several people in line, scrutinizing Abby. She shifted, uncomfortable with the woman's pointed stare, and she couldn't help but notice the lady's broad hands. She also had the hairiest arms Abby had ever seen on a female. She squinted to see more clearly—the woman's jaw was broad and covered in stubble.

Good grief, the woman in the flowery dress was a man.

A cross-dresser—or a transvestite?

She bit her lip not to laugh, then ducked her head, blinking to focus on her handwriting, but her right contact lens slipped, irritating her eyelid. Acting on instinct, she rubbed her eye. It was the wrong thing to do. The contact flipped out and the room blurred in front of her. She scanned the table, patting the books and her lap, her legs, her chest, but didn't see the darn thing anywhere.

An elderly woman leaning on a cane grunted as if her legs were about to give way. Abby blinked and tried to focus, hurriedly sweeping her hands over the books one more time, even leaning close to the surface to inspect them for the contact, but the table wobbled, and she realized the woman had clutched it for balance.
Poor thing.