Looking for Love (Boxed set) (45 page)

To make matters worse, a baby in the back started crying, and two people complained that they had appointments to make. Refusing to cause a scene and have everyone search for the lost lens, Abby decided to plow through the signing without it. The idea of holding up the line any longer than necessary was too horrible to contemplate. She'd just have to deal with blinking and squinting through the rest of this publicity nightmare.

After the spindly little lady wobbled off with her copy in hand, a divorced military woman in her sixties enlightened her on the singles club she'd joined and some man with a bulldozer tattooed on his arm who had swept her off her feet. The eighty-year-old man behind her had just gotten married for the sixth time and wanted this marriage to last longer than the others.

A grungy man with a beer belly stepped forward and wagged a finger in her face. "My wife read this and now she says I'm not a good lover—"

Abby drew back, stunned at the man's vehemence.

"She was always satisfied before, lady." The robust man slammed his fist on the table, rocking the stack of books. "You have to talk to her."

The bookseller approached and spoke in a hushed voice to the man.

"I'm sorry you're having problems, sir," Abby said calmly, although his tone frightened her and added to the headache forming behind her eyes from not being able to see.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I think you'd better leave, mister."

The cross-dresser stepped forward, took the man's beefy arm, and hauled him away. Abby reminded herself to check the parking lot before she went to her car.

Seconds later, the cross-dresser came back inside, broad shoulders stretching the flowery dress, feet thudding loudly as he/she stalked back to join the line. Abby's right eye twitched as she tried to distinguish his/her face.

* * *

Abby Jensen had been flirting with him—rather, with his female counterpart—Hunter realized as he returned from carting off the obnoxious redneck. She'd been winking and blinking and giving him that slit-eyed look she talked about in her book. What did she title it—the lusty look?

Was she a lesbian?

Could that be the secret Abby Jensen was hiding?

Whew-eeee, what a story that would make.

Or maybe she liked to ride both sides of the sexual seesaw. Well, he would not fall for the lusty look.

He had a job to do and he'd do it. Landing bigger assignments might make the difference in his getting more time off to spend with Lizzie. Frustrated memories of their last hasty good-bye pushed to the forefront of his mind.

When he'd dropped Lizzie off after dinner the day before, Shelly had announced that she and Daryl planned to take Lizzie to Bermuda for two weeks in the winter. With his ex-wife's money and the shrink's, they'd be bribing the child with their gifts and trips and he'd never see her.

He couldn't let that happen.

Scattered applause brought him back to the present. The bookseller came over to shake his hand and thank him. Abby Jensen winked at him again, beaming an appreciative smile as bright and warm as the summer sunshine.
Damn.
The last thing he'd needed was to bring more attention to himself while incognito. Besides, if her fans knew he'd come here in disguise to desecrate their female icon, they wouldn't be clapping or thanking him.

The crowd parted, allowing him to move forward to her table. This was his opening.

"Thank you for getting rid of that man," Dr. Jensen said.

Something hot and surprising flamed inside him at the sound of her husky voice, but he banished the heat and thrust his copy of
Under the Covers
toward her. For the briefest of moments their fingers touched, an electrical charge zipping through Hunter that sent a shudder coursing through him.
What the hell...?

Fighting the sudden chemistry, he cleared his throat and raised his voice in his best imitation of a feminine pitch. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Jensen."

"You, too." She winked again and his libido stirred to life, strong and steady.

He forced himself to ignore the traitorous beast. Mousy, brown-haired Abby Jensen was not even his type.

Except she wasn't mousy, brown, or plain. The candy apple-red suit she wore dipped low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, not the schoolmarm outfit he'd expected, and the color contrasted well with her dark hair and those vibrant dark eyes....

The lady beside him coughed into her hand and glared at him, and he remembered he was supposed to be acting like a woman, not ogling or flirting with the doctor.

Another wink; then she narrowed her eyes. He was thankful the sunglasses hid the heat simmering in his own. "Who do I sign it to, Ms....?"

He was contemplating a fake name when a commotion erupted behind them. Two men, a woman in a yellow suit, and a young, skinny guy wielding a camera on his shoulder strode in, scanning the crowd and pointing. "There she is, fellows."

Three or four others followed. The press.

"Start rolling," a seedy-looking guy all in black ordered.

Panic flitted onto Abby Jensen's face the moment the camera zoomed in on her.

Protective instincts arose, along with Hunter's curiosity. Just why was Dr. Jensen so nervous?

* * *

Victoria Jensen gave her client, Marcus Baldwin, an encouraging smile. Normally she tended to lobby on the side of the female in custody issues, but she wasn't stupid. This man had been unjustifiably hurt and deprived of seeing his children by a vindictive, conniving, spiteful woman who did not have a heart. The poor man had been shuffled from one lawyer to the next to no avail and had actually been arrested for knocking on the door to see his children. His story was heart-wrenching, his love for and devotion to his children obvious.

If only her own father had loved her and their sisters half as much.

"I promise I'll do whatever it takes to get your boys back."

He stood, shoulders rigid, his heartache in his eyes.

"Thank you, Ms. Jensen. I appreciate this."

She rose to escort him out, promising to start action immediately, when the door swung open and Chelsea waved.

"Oh, hi, sorry. I didn't realize you had a client."

Her secretary must be at lunch.

Mr. Baldwin smiled gravely and headed to the door, the weight of his pain obvious in his slow gait. As soon as he left the outer office, she turned to her sister.

"What is it, Chelsea?"

Her sister launched forward, her jacket flapping open to reveal a yellow-and-black bumblebee outfit. Victoria rolled her eyes, wondering what Chelsea had up her sleeve—well, her costume—this time.

Chelsea leaned against Victoria's desk, a mass of bobbing insect. "I'm worried about Abby."

Victoria's heart skipped a beat. "What's wrong with Abby? Is she sick?"

"Not exactly, although I thought she was going to pass out at Egor's today."

"Egor's? Who is Egor, and why did Abby almost pass out?"

"It's a long story."

It usually was with Chelsea. "Maybe I'd better sit down."

"Maybe you could pour us a drink."

"Chelsea, it's too early for alcohol. Besides, I have to meet another client later."

Chelsea winced and Victoria realized she'd sounded like a prude. "Okay, okay. I was only joking about the drinks."

Victoria frowned at her sister, Marcus Baldwin's case fresh on her mind. "Listen, if you're in trouble and need something—"

"No, no, it's not me. Not this time." Chelsea chewed on her lip. "It's Abby."

"What about Abby?"

"She didn't want you to know...."

"Know what, Chelsea? For heaven's sake, if this is some of your dramatics—"

"It's not." Chelsea swallowed. "Lenny sent her a Dear John letter and left her for a man."

Victoria fell back into her chair as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her. "What?"

Chelsea spent the next ten minutes detailing the letter and the story about the fraudulent marriage.

Victoria pressed her fingers to her head, a migraine beginning to shoot pinpoints of pain behind her eyes. "Dear God, we have to do something."

Chelsea grinned. "My thoughts exactly. For once, sis, we agree on something."

Now, that was a scary thought. "What do you have in mind?" Victoria asked suspiciously.

"You tell me your plan first."

A diversionary tactic if she'd ever heard one. But she'd play along. Only, she had to think for a minute. "Well, I suppose I could see what I could find out about Lenny. I do have a friend on the police force." At least there was one guy who'd been asking her out. Mostly she had avoided his calls.

Normally, her life revolved around work, twenty-four-seven. In fact, nothing but the call of sisterhood could tear her away from her job.

"That's a great idea. I knew you'd help, Victoria."

Victoria folded her arms. "Now, what do you have in mind?"

Chelsea pushed herself away from the desk and practically flew across the room. "Well, first I have to finish my shoot; then I'm going to check out the gay bars."

* * *

Abby's hand cramped, her eyes were bleary, and a headache had started pulsing at the base of her neck. Forget vanity—she should have worn her glasses. At least then she would have been able to find the nearest escape without blinking every two seconds.

Her deodorant had probably worn off as well. And now a man dressed like a woman was staring at her as if he/she might be interested in her sexually. But she didn't have time to deal with the cross-dresser—she had to face the nosy reporters rushing toward her. She squinted again, wondering if that obnoxious Hunter Stone lurked in the group.

Keep calm. Don't act suspicious. And for God's sake, don't hyperventilate again.

She braced herself for the onslaught of questions. In a few minutes she'd be home, away from the hoopla, and in a few weeks the publicity would die down and her life would return to normal. A sexy man would never get the best of her again. Of course, first she had to fend off the reporters.

And keep her failed marriage a secret.

* * *

Hunter's investigative instincts roared to life. Abby clutched the table as if she might jump up and flee the scene any second.

Why would she panic? She was an instant success, her book the talk of the town, her career on a roll. Why
wouldn't
she welcome publicity?

"Just sign it generically," he told her when she winked at him again.

Her fingers trembled as she scribbled her name; the smile she aimed at the camera looked forced.

He grabbed his book, moved into the thick of the group, and watched her sweat.

Suddenly all half dozen or so of the reporters fired questions at her at once. Abby's breath seemed to hitch in her throat as she quickly signed the last of the customers' books.

Avoiding the camera, Hunter ducked into a nearby aisle, grabbed a book off the shelf, and stuck his face in it. He had to devise a plan to get her alone and get an exclusive.

A lanky man in a suit flashed his press badge, indicating he worked for one of Atlanta's local magazines. "Where did you come up with the idea for your book?"

"How do you research all your chapters?" another reporter asked.

"You're a newlywed yourself, aren't you?"

"Does your husband get involved in your research?"

"What is your secret fantasy, Dr. Jensen?"

"I..." She squirmed in her seat, dark eyes flitting toward the nearest exit. "I'm not here to discuss my personal life."

A short, dark-haired woman jammed a microphone toward her. "But you have to give us something."

"We're just doing our jobs," another whined.

"And you are the news, Dr. Jensen."

"All right, let me make a few comments." Composing herself, she folded her hands on the empty table. Hunter leaned against one of the displays and studied her in detail for the first time, deciding to hold off on his own questions until he observed her actions. She wasn't the self-assured, in-control woman who'd refused him so baldly when he'd phoned for an interview.

This woman seemed vulnerable. Nervous.

Almost like the little girl in the photo he'd found in her file.

And despite the fact that he usually preferred blondes and redheads, he had to admit she was attractive. Definitely not the bitter, wrinkly, middle-aged woman he'd hoped she'd be.

Wavy hair so dark it looked like midnight framed her heart-shaped face. She'd swept it off her shoulders into some fancy twist, but ringlets escaped and spiraled around her high cheekbones. He'd expected her pale skin to look sickly, but the porcelain white gave her an exotic look. Her lips were full and pouty, painted a delicious dark red that matched her suit. Long, slender hands curled around her book cover, reminding him of the chapters he'd read last night. And her voice rippled out, so deep and husky it made his body thrum with desire... the seductive whisper of a vamp. She'd probably perfected it.

He shifted, irritated with himself again for succumbing to her female charm.

"I wrote
Under the Covers
because I wanted to help relationships in distress. I've been counseling numerous couples for the past few years and have noticed similar patterns, which are common problem areas, lack of communication being one of the prime ones."

"So you're teaching couples how to communicate?" the magazine reporter asked.

Someone else snickered. "Yeah, between the sheets."

Abby's full lips pursed slightly, but she seemed to realize her reaction and tried to temper it, dazzling the group with a radiant smile—the kind of sincere smile that probably hypnotized her patients into trusting her with their darkest, innermost secrets. Admiration stirred inside Hunter, but he fought the feeling. He did not want to like any aspect of her, yet professionalism emanated in her demeanor.

"Both in and outside the bedroom," she said softly. "Improving a couple's love life also helps improve other aspects of the marriage, and vice versa."

A balding man from a local cable show elbowed Hunter. "I keep telling my wife that, but she don't buy it."