Looking for Love (Boxed set) (52 page)

Went from stupid to more stupid. Fantasized about complete stranger today.

Do not believe in aliens but if did, would assume they'd invaded my body.

Must be having a mental breakdown. Possibly early menopause.

Should know by now not to trust men. Only women.

Wish I was gay. Life would be so much easier.

* * *

As far as Chelsea could tell, the gay dating scene was just as stressful as the heterosexual version. Only the players and sexual inclinations were different.

She adjusted her pale blue blouse to reveal her tanned shoulder as she climbed onto the velveteen bar stool and ordered a wine spritzer. Not that she wanted to be picked up or hit on by the women, and she certainly didn't expect to be hit on by any of the men, but even in a gay bar, she had to be in vogue.

The first night, she'd barhopped from Uncle Sam's to High Five to Callie's Cove, but no Lenny. Tonight she'd opted to try the trendy Posh-Ten in Little Five Points. The place was packed, techno music wafting from overhead speakers, martinis and cosmopolitans floating in abundance, and soft, muted shades of pinks and grays a backdrop for the animal-print chairs and red pleather futons.

She sipped her spritzer and watched the players make their moves, the meat market slightly off balance with more men than women. Two Hispanic men danced around each other while a female couple played hip-tango to the music. She thumped her foot up and down, ignoring the inquisitive eye of a drag queen weaving her way through the crowd. Tall, with a crew cut and leather pants that hugged her butt, she stalked toward Chelsea.

Chelsea squirmed in her seat. The other night, she'd avoided getting hit on by not making eye contact, but this time it didn't work.

"Hey, cutie. My name's Honey, what's yours?"

Chelsea nearly spilled her drink. "Uh, Chelsea."

"What's wrong? First time?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Don't worry, it gets easier." Honey unfolded a wad of bills from a money clip and ordered a scotch. "Can I get you another?"

"No, no, this is fine." God, she sounded like a blithering idiot.
Remember you're an actress. So act.

The music heated up along with the dance floor, and she automatically began tapping her foot to the beat.

"You wanna dance?" Honey asked.

"No, I... actually I was looking for someone."

Honey twisted her mouth sideways, muscles flexing in her calves as she propped a black-heeled boot on the stool beside her. "You mean you were waiting on someone?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Good." An appreciative gaze shot down to Chelsea's shoes.

Oh, shit.
"I mean I'm looking for a guy."

A look of disdain replaced Honey's smile. "You're in
here
looking for a guy?" Her gaze cut across the room. "I think you got the wrong place, baby."

"No, it's not like that. You see, this guy is gay but he was married to my sister." Now she sounded like a total nutcase.

"You're into swinging both ways then?"

Honey looked as if she were considering the possibility. Lord help her.

"No. He did, though. At least he pretended to. Oh, hell, he just came out of the... the..." What did they call it? Honey had her so rattled she couldn't think. "The garage."

Honey chuckled. "You mean he just came out of the closet."

Chelsea snapped her fingers. "Yes, that's it. Thank you." Whew, she would be fine now. "His name is Lenny Gulliver. Maybe you heard of him?"

"Hmm, Gulliver." The drag queen leaned forward and spoke to the bartender, then slumped onto the bar stool beside Chelsea. "Yeah, Gulliver used to hang in here occasionally. But Tank there hasn't seen him in about a month."

So she'd reached another dead end. "Well, thanks so much."

Without realizing it, she'd flopped her hand down on top of the Honey's.

Honey curled her fingers around Chelsea's. Releasing a panicked laugh, Chelsea bolted off the seat and ran, wobbling on her heels toward the exit. Next time, she'd better leave her fuck-me shoes behind. They might have been just a tad too much.

* * *

Hunter forced his mind off work and Abigail Jensen as he approached his ex-wife's mansion. A knot tightened in his stomach as he surveyed the opulent surroundings, the stately English Tudor, the immaculate gardens full of exotic roses and other flowers he couldn't begin to name, the backyard swimming pool, the silver Mercedes parked in the driveway.

All things he couldn't give his daughter.

Material things didn't matter, he reminded himself. He and Lizzie had fun together. She liked to camp and pal around with him. Just as he had with his own father when he was young.

The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, and the weatherman reported that the storm had bypassed north Georgia. Figuring his ex-wife and her new hubby had gone out on one of their customary romantic evenings, and Lizzie would stay home with the nanny they kept around the clock, he brushed off his wet, wrinkled clothes, climbed from his Explorer, and headed up the winding driveway.

Just as he neared the front, the door sprang open and Lizzie bounded outside clutching her Angelica doll, his ex and her new husband close behind. They were all dressed to the nines, even his darling little daughter.

"Daddy!" Lizzie yelled. "I didn't know you was comin'."

He shrugged and grabbed her as she flew into his arms. "Hey, pumpkin." She felt like an angel. "I thought I'd surprise you."

"It's not your weekend, Hunter," Shelly said curtly.

Hating to expose Lizzie to another confrontation between them, Hunter bit his lip to keep from saying something he would regret. "I know. I was just in the neighborhood—"

She arched a brow and he grimaced. Ok, so he never came to this neighborhood. "I came on a whim." He settled Lizzie back down, brushing her blond braid back in place. "You obviously have plans."

"Mom and Daryl are takin' me and Angelica shoppin'."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and they're gettin' me a mankin."

"A what?"

"A mankin."

"A manicure," Shelly corrected.

Hunter nodded. Lizzie stuck out her fingernails. "I'm getting pretty pink, Daddy."

"Great." Definitely more of a girl's thing than camping.

"Then we're goin' dancin'."

"To the ballet," Daryl interjected smugly.

"I wanna dance, too." Lizzie twirled around, letting her fluffy yellow dress billow out, and Hunter laughed.

"We need to go." Shelly gave Hunter a pointed stare. "Please call next time. We do have an agreement, Hunter."

" 'Bye, Daddy."

Hunter blew Lizzie a kiss, his chest aching as he watched his daughter climb into the Mercedes with his ex-wife and his ex-shrink. They quickly drove off, leaving him standing in the driveway of their mansion, the ornate Tudor home standing like a fortress that divided him from his child.

Tomorrow's headline about Abby's heroic delivery in the Wal-Mart parking lot mocked him—she might have played the hero today, but she was not a hero to him. She had given Shelly the first brick to lay in building that wall against him. And he could never forgive her for that.

Chapter 8

The Art of Seduction

Hunter was so agitated when he left his ex-wife's house that he parked his Explorer at his apartment, typed up his article, and faxed it to the office for the morning edition, then threw a duffel bag on the back of his Harley and rode as far as he could make it into north Georgia. His leather jacket's sleeves flapped in the wind, the sound of the motor and the wheels meeting pavement a welcome retreat from the voice in his head: the voice of Shelly telling him it wasn't his weekend to see his daughter. To call first.

The mountain air smelled like fresh rain and cut grass, not like a vixen named Abby who was trying to tempt him away from a story that could help shape his career—a career he needed to advance so he could have more time with his daughter. Lizzie was the only thing that meant a damn to him.

The minute he'd laid eyes on his six-pound baby girl, those little blond ringlets, those chubby toes and stubby little fingers, he had fallen in love. And he'd traded his freedom for her in seconds.

But now Shelly had the nanny. And Lizzie.

And he had no one.

Even worse, he was losing Lizzie.

Which wasn't fair, since Shelly had been the one to want her freedom. She'd claimed she felt suffocated and needed wide-open spaces. Space enough to spread her wings and fly to greener pastures.

A man with more money.

He had been a fool. The one who'd stayed up with his baby at night and fed and rocked her. The one who'd changed diapers when Shelly had turned up her nose at the smell. The one who'd arranged his work at the paper around his daughter's needs.

Yet he'd gotten screwed in the divorce decree and was still getting screwed.

His throat felt thick as the motorcycle spun in the gravel on a hill, and he choked back his emotions. Realizing it was past midnight and there were no camping grounds nearby, he pulled into a deserted wooded area on top of Red Bud Mountain. Exhausted, he sprawled on the ground and stared at the distant stars, wishing his daughter were with him.

Memories of his own childhood echoed with the rustling of the trees. The times he'd camped with his friends to escape his parents' arguments. The strict military stance his father took with him, demanding perfection, offering little affection.

He'd sworn to be different with Lizzie. To try to make things work with Shelly for his daughter's sake. But he'd failed. Then his wife had found the ritzy shrink.

And he'd known he couldn't force Lizzie to live in a house where nightly fights and bickering had replaced the loving atmosphere with tension.

He couldn't sleep, so he pulled out a flashlight and Abby Jensen's book and began to read the chapter "The Art of Seduction," hoping to find something he could use against her. A tiny seed of guilt sprouted at his plan, but he quickly buried it. Abby had started the wheels of discontent rolling in his wife's head, feelings of dissatisfaction that had ultimately led to his divorce. If she hadn't, he wouldn't be in the position of having to compete for Lizzie in the first place.

Seduction doesn't start when you begin removing your clothes. It starts with that first look. That first whisper of the other person's name. That hint of longing and desire that you see in your partner's eyes.

Take time to play the seduction game and you'll find yourself in erotic heaven.

Whether you are new lovers or have been together many times, slowly disrobing can be as alluring as that first touch. Watch the clothes slide seductively over your partner's body, listen to the friction of the garment against her bare neck, her collarbone, her breasts. Feel the fabric slide across her abdomen, rub against her soft inner thigh. Watch the way her breath hitches as she peels her panties down her legs and the cool air brushes her naked skin for the first time. See the chill bumps cascade up her thigh....

Hunter closed his eyes, the images Abby had described flitting through his mind, his sex stirring to life and swelling like an insatiable beast. The woman peeling her panties off, tossing that silver thong at him, was Abby herself. Her breath filtered out in short little hitches as she trailed one finger over her own swollen sex.

Then she stalked toward him, pushed him down on the ground, freed his aching erection, lowered herself on top of him, and whispered all her dirty little secrets.

Hours later, Hunter woke up in a sweat with Abby's thong tangled in his hands. He cursed himself for a fool for still carrying her unmentionables around. But he couldn't ignore the one question that had repeatedly plagued him through the night.

Just why had Abby reacted so hotly to his kiss if she was happily married?

* * *

Nightmares of Abby's disenchanted clients strangling her with a pair of granny panties drove her from bed. Even worse, in her dreams, Harry Henderson had watched, waving her thong and telling her she should have stuck with them, that they were too small to fit around her neck.

But they had fit perfectly around his hands. Those big, masculine, strong, dark hands.

Dammit.
Harry should have looked apish, like the big-foot from the movie. Instead, he'd looked sexy and hot and too damn interested in that thong.

Luckily, Harry Henderson was history. As was her TV career.

She padded to the kitchen for coffee, grabbed the morning paper from her front porch, then stretched out on her sofa for a morning read. Too bad it wasn't Monday, so she could go to work and listen to someone else's problems and forget about her own. And where most people she knew now enjoyed the news from their computer, she enjoyed the feel of the paper in her hands.

The front-page story highlighted the news about a tanker that had exploded on 285. The expressway would be closed for repairs to the bridge—a nightmare for traffic. Another advantage to the fact that she often worked at home.