Looking for Love (Boxed set) (48 page)

Summer heat bowed the blades of grass and shimmered off the pavement as she parked in the guest space at the TV station and climbed out of her car. The downtown area buzzed with traffic and sirens and blaring horns. Her heart raced as she mentally ticked off the disasters dogging her.

She was a normal, rational, basically good person; she even attended church and gave a regular tithe. But she'd achieved success only to discover the very same day that her marriage was fraudulent, and that her fake husband and possibly a criminal, was gay and now she'd been thrust into a TV interview that she didn't want to do in order to avoid having to do a string of other publicity stunts.

She had never had secrets in her entire life. She'd always been an open book.

Now her life's pages had been smeared with smut, and she needed to superglue them together to keep them from being placed on display for the public to read. She imagined her face plastered on a grocery store tabloid—the headlines:
Lunatic Therapist Professes Love but Leads Double Life,
Sex Therapist Nothing but a Fake.

How much more could a sane body take?

Frantic and debating over whether or not she should skip the country like Lenny, she rushed into the studio at eleven-thirty, praying the interview was short and sweet and to the point. With a name like
BookTalk,
surely the show and staff would be professional and serious, none of that invasive suggestive, smutty stuff about Dr. Abby and the bedroom.

Several minutes later, after she'd been ushered through makeup, had her hair spritzed and woven into a sleek chignon, and her panty hose replaced—thank heavens for female staff, since she'd ripped her stockings when she'd climbed out of the car—she approached the set with trepidation.

Francine, the director, a distinguished woman with ebony skin and glossy hair, escorted her backstage. "We film before a live audience."

Abby froze. "I thought this was a taped interview. Just me and the anchorperson."

"Oh, no. We want audience participation."

Abby teetered sideways. A poster-sized copy of her cover sat in the middle of two wingback chairs. Bright spotlights glared at her. Through the resulting darkness, a sea of people swam before her frightened eyes.

"We have about five minutes; then we'll call you on." Francine left to speak to the cameraman, and Abby watched, trying to calm her nerves, when suddenly Chelsea attacked her from behind.

"I'm so glad I made it in time."

Abby hugged her, her eyes widening at Chelsea's banana costume: yellow face makeup, yellow tights, yellow everything.

"I'm auditioning for a commercial for a new fruity kids' cereal after this. I thought dressing the part might help me land the job." Chelsea said automatically. "But I couldn't miss your show."

"Thanks, sis, I need all the moral support..." Her words died at the sight of the man beside Chelsea. Light blue eyes the color of a summer sky gazed down at her from a broad, tanned face.

He had a body to match. Six-feet-plus of hard planes, muscles, and sinewy strength, dark hair that looked rumpled, as if he'd just jumped out of a mattress mambo himself, a thick mustache that curled up when he smiled, and a powerful presence that exuded the scent of a lover.

Raw and carnal and primitive.

Her own husband had never affected her like this.

On second thought, the man's hair looked fake. And so did the mustache. But his overwhelming size could not be padded. Underneath he was still as dangerously potent as homemade sin.

Something about him seemed familiar. Who did he remind her of?

No, if she'd met this man before she wouldn't have forgotten him. He had charisma, sex appeal, and the most intense hungry look in his eyes.

He must be Chelsea's latest boyfriend. They came and went faster than race cars at the tracks. She was just about to ask for an introduction when the director waved her on-air.

The voice of the anchorman, Eric Segoda, sprang from the microphone. "Dr. Abigail Jensen is here to visit us today and talk about her new book,
Under the Covers."
He paused for emphasis. "Welcome Dr. Jensen onstage, folks! She's the Dear Abby of the bedroom."

Abby staggered backward as if she might bolt. Applause suddenly rang out and people started chanting her name.

"Abby, Abby, Abby...?"

Chelsea shoved her from behind and she tottered forward.

Abby was thankful the first questions were easy: the idea for the book, her professional expertise, her work ethics, and her beliefs about marriage and monogamy.

"Your workshops, Women First..." Segoda paused and Abby nodded in confirmation. "They advocate putting a woman's desires and pleasures before a man's?"

Abby frowned. "Not at all. By nature, women are caregivers. I simply encourage them to consider their own needs and try to communicate them to their husbands."

"So you aren't suggesting women assume a dominant role?"

Abby shrugged. "I'm not advocating either sex take a dominant role. Each relationship is different; it depends on the couple."

"But you find women dominating men sexually stimulating?"

Abby fought the urge to squirm. "As I said, it can be or it might not be, depending on the couple involved, their likes and dislikes, their needs, their preferences."

"About your chapter on sexual positions – do you think women should be on top there?"

Abby blushed. Sometimes she liked to be on top, sometimes she liked a powerful man over her. "Again, it depends on the couple's preferences. But changing and trying new positions can add excitement to a sexual relationship."

"I agree." Segoda grinned. "We're aware you're a newlywed yourself, Dr. Jensen, and that you've been avoiding the press."

"I simply appreciate my privacy," Abby stated. "I didn't write this book to gain attention. I want to help open the doors of communication between couples."

"To keep the divorce rate down?"

"Yes."

"So where is this husband of yours, Dr. Jensen?" Segoda's eyes crinkled. "All of Atlanta is dying to meet the lucky man."

Abby's gaze flitted across the stage, her heart racing in a panic.

"Oh, wait." Segoda pressed his finger to one ear; then a jaunty smile flashed onto his handsome face. He glanced offstage, where the coproducer gave him a thumbs-up signal, then turned to the audience with a cheeky wink. "It seems Dr. Jensen has a surprise for us today."

I do?
Abby cut a questioning look toward Segoda.

"Yes." Segoda rose and gestured toward the side of the stage. "She's brought her husband here to meet us, folks."

"I have?" Abby squeaked.

"She has," Segoda said with a chuckle.

The man who had come with Chelsea suddenly bounded onto the set, broad shoulders thrown back in a light blue designer shirt, Italian loafers clicking as he paraded toward her.

Her shocked gaze turned to Chelsea, who waved her hands in joyful exuberance.

"What's your husband's name?" Segoda asked.

"Len... Leonard."

"I'm sure our viewers want to know if you practice at home what you preach in your books," Segoda prodded.

The microphones planted in the audience captured their enthusiasm. "Let's hear it from the husband," a woman shouted.

"Yeah, we want to see this hunk in action."

Before Abby could open her mouth to protest, the man pulled her up to stand beside him. "I'm Abby's husband, Lenny," he announced with a devilish grin. Then he swooped her up in his arms, lowered his head, and captured her mouth in a deep kiss that sent her senses reeling.

Abby clung to him, her legs bowing like dandelions in the wind. She had talked about hot lips in her book, yet she'd never tasted lips that held as much fire as this man's. Or been pressed against a body that could make her forget a crowd was watching.

And that the man kissing her was a complete stranger.

* * *

Hunter heard the roar of the crowd and realized he must be acting his part well.

He was
acting
wasn't he?

Tunneling one hand through Abby Jensen's chignon, he slowly pulled out the pins and felt the long, wild tresses tangle around his fingers. Her hair felt like silk, satiny and soft between his fingers. And it smelled like fresh rain and roses. She sank into the kiss, her tongue dancing with his in erotic love strokes, her hands gripping his arms as if she might collapse with desire if he released her.

He did have to release her.

Yes, he did. Sometime. And he should be attracted to Chelsea, he thought, the woman who'd hired him just this morning to play Abby's husband, not Abby. Chelsea had the bombshell body.

But Abby Jensen did know how to kiss....

What a stroke of luck to find such a great cover. Luckily, Chelsea had agreed he should wear a disguise in case someone recognized him or a photo of the real Lenny surfaced. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to finagle out of Chelsea the details of Lenny's whereabouts or the reason for his disappearance.

The mystery intrigued him. And he eventually would get those answers. They would make his story.

He traced Abby's mouth with his tongue, nibbled at her lower lip, then gently broke the kiss and pulled away slightly, just enough so her breath still bathed his face. Her dazed look of passion aroused him to the point of pain, and the low sound of excitement that gurgled from her throat cranked the flame of heat in his belly up a notch.

Cheers and whoops of laughter filled the stage, and the anchorman cleared his throat. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I guess you have your answer. It looks as if Dr. Jensen follows her own rules."

Abby's look of stark shock rattled Hunter. She was hot and obviously a very passionate woman, but she also seemed stunned at her own reaction. Didn't she and her real hubby have this kind of volatile heat between them?

Of course.

She was simply reacting oddly because he was a stranger and she was in shock, he reasoned. And because she was married.

She probably didn't expect an actor to turn her on.

"Mr. Jensen," the talk show host said, obviously assuming Jensen was her married name—come to think of it, Hunter hadn't checked to see for himself—"Why don't you sit down and tell us what it's like to be married to a sex goddess?"

Hunter grinned at the audience like a man well pleased, not a far stretch at the moment. Maybe Abby Jensen did know a few secrets in the bedroom.

He'd definitely have to spend more time with her to find out.

A tough story, but someone had to do it. And it would take a strong man to step up to the plate, play her soul mate, and not be knocked out by the curveballs she tossed at him. Like the seductive whisper of her voice. And the enticing, innocent look she displayed for the public.

Hell, she was as innocent as a street girl, he thought.

Abby coughed beside him, and he wondered again at her reaction. She seemed so shocked to have him appear—hadn't she told her sister to hire him? When Chelsea had sworn him to secrecy, he'd assumed Abby had instigated the charade.

Taking her hand in his, he pulled her back into her seat, surprised to find her palm sweating. "Life couldn't be better," he answered. "My wife is making all my dreams come true." After all, that wasn't exactly a lie. His dream of making a name for himself as a reporter would come true.

Just as soon as he nabbed this story. Then Ralph wouldn't care about his unorthodox methods—he'd be grateful to Hunter for being so ingenious.

Chapter 6

The Orgasmic Kiss

Abby was thankful that the man pretending to be her husband chatted with the host for several minutes, giving her a few minutes to recover from the shock of his appearance on the show.

And from that erotic kiss.

Even as the gorgeous stranger spoke, he pulled her hand into his, cradling it between his huge hands, then resting them on his thigh. Coupled with his deep, husky voice, the possessive masculine gesture awakened feminine senses left dormant for a long time. So did the scent of his maleness, the heat of his muscular leg, and the friction of his warm palm against her own.

Abby answered any questions directed her way by rote, her convictions firmly planted in her mind. But her subconscious had drifted to another plane, a higher level where her inner thoughts and her body's reaction had reached a catastrophic epiphany.

The orgasmic kiss really did exist. And so did those titillating touches.

Her lips still tingled from her pretend-husband's hot mouth, and liquid heat pooled in her belly, erupting like a brushfire caught anew each time he squeezed her hand or flexed his thigh. And she felt dizzy from his cologne—what was he wearing? Whatever it was, the fragrance enhanced his masculinity a hundred times over.

She had written about the power of the senses, about the orgasmic kiss and those titillating touches, because she'd believed the seductive play of a man's and a woman's lips together, their tongues mating, their souls seeping one into the other, could actually bring a woman to ecstasy.

Although it had never happened with her.