Looking for Love (Boxed set) (56 page)

At least she used to be.

But temptation had never rolled in with dark, mesmerizing eyes, broad shoulders, and a macho attitude, acting like a real-life hero—until now, until Harry.

Still, she had to guard her secrets until Lenny resurfaced. Then she could end the lies. A shiver rippled through her, reminding her of how violated she'd felt when she'd seen that PI snooping through her garbage, her underwear wrapped around his hands.

He rubbed her arms. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"

She frowned. He was watching her, his blue eyes hooded, his powerful presence as unsettling sexually as it had been comforting a few minutes earlier.

"Residual shock waves, I suppose."

"Tell me what I can do to help."

Hold me. Touch me. Make the pain go away.

She closed her eyes and inhaled his musky scent. Leather. Sex. Manly scents that pulled at her womb.

He gently removed her glasses and laid them on the counter. "Don't worry about that moron, Abby. I'll take care of him if he comes back."

Abby froze as reality intervened. Her book. The PI. Lenny.

Harry.

He was an actor playing a part, and she was a fool falling into his fickle hands.

She opened her eyes and saw the sultry invitation in his.

Her stomach knotted. How would a woman ever know the truth about a man who acted for a living? How would she recognize real desire from a one-man show? He probably seduced women all day long and bragged to his friends about it.

And she had worked too long and hard to earn her reputation to allow herself to be fooled by another man.

Especially one she was paying to pretend to be her husband.

"The only thing you can do for me is to play Lenny." She forced a coolness to her voice that she didn't feel. "And keep what we're doing confidential so no one finds out."

* * *

Hunter had played cards too many times in his life not to know when he'd lost a hand. He folded gracefully, though heat thrummed through his body like a brushfire out of control. "All right. I'll do my job." He lowered his hand, brushing her hip and thigh with the barest of touches before he jammed it in his pocket. The fact that she looked all sexy in a pair of white shorts and that slinky tank top didn't help. Her breasts might not be large, but they certainly had felt heavenly against him. "But if you need to talk sometime, I'll be glad to listen."

A slow smile played along the seam of her lips. "I thought I was the therapist."

He willed his body in check, but inhaled and nuzzled his cheek against her hair. "I wasn't offering therapy, sweetheart."

Her smile faded, the tension between them palpable. "Then I can't accept anything."

Regret laced her voice. Had her husband hurt her so badly? "So when do we start?"

The teakettle whistled, and she jumped. "Excuse me?"

"When do we make our next appearance?"

She removed the kettle and set it on the stove.

"I'm still trying to convince my publicist to call off the tour." Her eyes flickered away from him. "If she won't bend, we start this week." She removed a tea bag from the cabinet. No exotic flavor, just Earl Grey. "She and I need to iron out the details of the schedule. I want to make sure I still have time to see a few of my patients. Just give me your number, and I'll fax you the itinerary."

He hesitated, but scribbled his number on a pad. "Is there anything I should know before we go on air?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Details on how we met. Our relationship." He studied her. "Things that might come up in an interview."

She arched a brow.

"I wouldn't want to screw up in front of the camera."

She hesitated, her shoulders stiffening as if she might run any second. "I guess you're right. We should get our story straight."

He noticed a bottle of wine on the counter and gestured toward it. "Maybe we can have a drink while we talk. You seem awfully tense."

"I guess it might relax me." The tea forgotten, she removed two wineglasses from the tray on her counter, and he followed her into the den. So
far, so good.

By the end of the night, maybe she would reveal the trouble surrounding her husband. And why she didn't want anyone to know he was missing.

* * *

Abby played a soft jazz CD in the background, hoping the music would calm her raging nerves and drown out the quaver of her voice as she described the beginning of her relationship with Lenny. The first part, the truth poured out easily, although it hurt to think how he'd deceived her.

"Lenny and I actually met in Chattanooga," she said softly. "I visited the psychiatric hospital there to speak. Afterward, I went sight-seeing at the Chattanooga Choo-choo...." She hesitated and he nodded encouragement.

"It's nice. I've been there."

She smiled, remembering her first encounter with Lenny. "The weather was bad that day. Storm clouds opened up about the time I arrived and I got drenched. But I'd already spoken at the college, so I didn't care. It felt good to be in the mountains and out of the office for a day."

He smiled as if he could relate.

"I was walking along the train when I noticed this man taking pictures of me."

"Really?"

"Yes." Heat crept up her neck. "He told me he had his own photography business, that he entered his work in shows, and suggested I'd make a good subject."

"You didn't think it was a line?"

She laughed. "Actually I did at first. But since we were in a public place and all he suggested was a few poses in front of the train station, I didn't see any harm."

What a fool.
She'd been so flattered.

"Did you pose for him later, too?"

Abby's fingers tightened around her glass. She'd never told anyone about her honeymoon. "Why do you ask?"

"He was a photographer, seems natural. Especially since you were married."

Abby didn't intend to discuss her private secrets. "I think you know enough to play the part, Harry."

He sipped his wine, his gaze never leaving her, as if he knew he'd breached the line, but he would continue to push until he severed it. "No, Abby," he said softly. "I don't know anything yet. How long did you date before you married?"

Not long enough.
"About three months."

"Where did he propose?"

She envisioned the day in her mind as if it were yesterday, only now she heard the falseness in his words. "He rented a boat on Lake Lanier and we took a midnight ride."

"Romantic guy."

She bit her lip. "Yes, he seemed to be." Only it had all been an act.

"Did we—I mean, did you get married in a church?"

She shook her head, pain knifing through her.

"Did your families attend?"

"We sort of eloped." She'd missed her sisters and Granny Pearl that day. But Lenny had been in such a rush they hadn't had time to plan things properly. Now she understood his reasons.

"How about the honeymoon?"

"I'm not telling you the details of my honeymoon, Harry."

"Did you take a cruise? Fly to Europe? Go for a beach getaway?"

She traced a finger around the stem of her glass. "We rented a cottage in the mountains. It was... very secluded." And a flop of a night. Literally.

Anger warred with mortification. Any normal, sane woman would have recognized they had a problem then. But no, she'd been understanding. She had even tried to smooth over the awkward moment and make him feel better.

"I see." His husky voice wrapped around her again, intense.

"I suppose we made love before the wedding." He chuckled. "I mean you and your husband made love before the wedding."

A soft gasp escaped Abby. "I don't think anyone will ask us that."

"Your book is all about sex. People will expect you to be open and honest."

Honest? No, they really didn't want to hear the truth. "But people won't ask that."

"They
will
ask, Abby. You need to be prepared."

She stood, poured them both another glass of wine, and paced across the room. "That doesn't mean I have to answer them."

"So you want me to ad lib?"

Abby nodded. "Yes, that's fine."

"Great." He set down his drink, closed the distance between them, and brushed a kiss across her cheek. "Then I'll tell them we had the hottest, rawest, wildest sex two people could have."

"Because if
we
did make love, Abby," he continued in a low voice, causing a thousand delicious sensations to ripple through her as he caressed her cheek with blunt fingers, "that's exactly how it would be."

Chapter 11

The Flirting Game

The minute Hunter murmured the sentiment, he regretted it. Abby's eyes flickered with unease, and something else that shook him to the core—desire.

For a brief second, she'd thought about what he'd said and it had turned her on.

Damn, he did not want to be attracted to this woman. And he sure as hell didn't want to get involved with her.

Except to get his story.

Why didn't she put those little glasses back on and throw him out the door?

"You're very seductive, Harry. You have the voice of a lover," Abby said in a measured tone. Her reluctance made him want to reach out and reassure her. Made him want to cross the line he'd drawn for himself. "But let's keep our relationship professional."

Exactly what he wanted. Didn't he? "Sure. I was simply practicing my part."

"Oh." Embarrassment tinged her voice. "I... Of course."

Now he felt like a heel.

"It's all right to flirt, Abby. Even if you are married."

"No, it's not." That haunted look returned to her eyes. "I took—take my vows seriously."

He arched a brow, his instincts roaring at her slip of the tongue.

Releasing a troubled sigh, she dropped her head forward and rubbed at her neck, her soft breath filling the darkness. Her hair fell across her face in a seductive curtain. The moonlight from the window outlined the delicate column of her neck, the shadows of fatigue evident in her posture. "I'm really tired. Maybe you should go."

He nodded, his throat tight. "You sure you're okay alone? You're not anxious about that PI coming back?"

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "Do you think he will?"

"Probably not tonight." Brown wouldn't give up, though. He would show up again; Hunter was sure of it. "I could stay here, if you'd feel better. On your sofa, I mean."

A sharp little laugh escaped her. "No, thanks, Harry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

Only she didn't know what she was up against: Mo Jo Brown.

And him.

And the other masses of reporters who would dog her once they sensed her marriage had gone awry. It seemed obvious, now that he thought about it. Pictures of her sisters sat on a small sofa table, as well as a photo of an older lady whom he guessed to be her grandmother. But there were no pictures of her husband anywhere. No wedding photo on the wall. No picture of the boat where he'd proposed, or the cottage they'd rented in the mountains for their honeymoon. No young lovers embraced.

His hand brushed his pocket where he kept his wallet and the photo of Lizzie.

She gestured toward the foyer. "I'll fax you the schedule and see you later in the week."

Hunter relented and walked to the door. "Right. Abby, can you tell me one more thing?"

She hesitated, then slowly met his gaze. "What?"

"Why do you hate reporters so much?"

A soft sigh escaped her; then she hugged her arms around her middle as if to protect herself. "It goes back a long way, Harry. Back to when my dad got arrested years ago. I was only a kid. The newspapers and tabloids were filled with humiliating pictures of my whole family."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We all have ghosts in our closets."

"And now the reporters and this PI are trying to drag mine out. For the longest time after those photos were printed, Chelsea couldn't sleep. And Victoria..." A dark sadness lined her face. "She wouldn't let anyone, including relatives, take her picture, not even at Christmas. She became withdrawn, while Chelsea acted out all the time. Eventually the school counselor stepped in to help."

"I'm sorry, Abby." Hunter's heart clenched. What would he do if someone had hurt his little girl like that?

But it wasn't the reporters' fault, he reasoned. Abby's father's had broken the law and brought the publicity on the family. The reporters had simply been doing their job, reporting the news....

Still, as he said good-bye a heaviness weighed on him. Couldn't they have reported the news without exposing the children to such painful humiliation?

Heat blasted him as he headed to his bike, the dry air nearly suffocating. But he threw on his helmet and headed toward Mo Jo Brown's office. Even though it was Sunday night, he had a feeling the creep would be there. Abby's troubled face floated in his mind. She had focused on her sisters and how much the ordeal had affected them, but she hadn't mentioned her own reaction. Because she'd taken care of them, he realized.

Even though she'd been hurting herself.