Looking for Love (Boxed set) (57 page)

* * *

Abby shivered after Harry left, silently chastising herself for being so caught up in listening to his seductive voice that she'd poured out her heart.

She wouldn't let it happen again.

He was an actor playing a part, and he played his role well. End of story.

She'd suffer through a few interviews with him, pay him off, then end this whole charade, and her life would return to normal.

No more playing the flirting game.

It was too dangerous. Her heart hadn't recovered from being broken by Lenny.

She shouldn't have shared the past with him, but... well, she was just too tired to hold everything inside. She felt like a kettle on a hot flame, bursting to release some steam.

She made a pot of tea and settled at her desk. Granny Pearl's comments about more advice for seniors needled her, and she decided to address the issue with an article entitled "Sex for Seniors."

She jotted down notes, listing common problems elderly couples experienced, everything from physical and emotional issues to the unique challenges a husband and wife who'd been together for fifty-plus years faced. Granny Pearl and Gramps Herbert came to mind. They had served as Abby's inspiration for wedded bliss since she'd been in diapers.

Unlike her own parents.

Her mom, a free spirit of the seventies, had thrived on fortune-telling and horoscopes, and hadn't believed in the institution of marriage, so she and Abby's father had never officially tied the knot, living together for years in a monogamous relationship. But one day her mother had taken a liking to the pesticide man and decided to experience free love. Frankly, Abby chalked her odd behavior up to too many incense-burning evenings. Her father had discovered the affair and tried to exterminate the man with his own can of bug spray, but her mother and the man had escaped in his roach-shaped van.

She could still hear her dad shouting, "I paid you to kill the bugs in this house, not to act like a rat."

Chelsea had been at the tender age of six and had adored their mother, loved playing in her makeup, and had grown up to be a free spirit like her. Victoria had been twelve at the time and had balked at both parents by burying her head in a book and becoming antisocial. Abby had clung to Granny Pearl's Southern values and tried to believe that in the chaos of modern times, couples could survive, even thrive within the sacred bounds of matrimony. All they needed was love.

Yeah, right.
And then there was Lenny....

And reality.

Now she had no idea if she was right or wrong about her theories. They certainly hadn't worked with the man she'd joined at the altar.

The telephone jangled and she jumped, realizing she hadn't written a single word of the article. Afraid it might be Hunter Stone—or worse, that slimy PI—she checked the caller ID. Granny Pearl. Hmm.

"Gran, hey, what is it?"

"Honey, I got a question."

She sounded so serious. "Sure, whatever I can do to help."

"Lulu wanted to stop at one of those sex-toy shops in Buckhead before we left town."

Abby groaned.

"I picked up one of those vibrator do-hickeys, but it's not working. Herbert and I have tried everything."

Abby dropped her head against the front of her desk. "Did you put batteries in it?"

"Why, mercy sakes, no!" Her grandmother hooted. "Herbert, get those C batteries out of the drawer."

Abby heard a whir in the background and shook her head.

"Thanks, honey, I gotta go," Gran chirped. "Herbert, I believe we're in business now!"

* * *

"Stefan, thank you so much for everything you did tonight." Victoria's skin was still crawling with humiliation from the ordeal at the police station as she opened her apartment door. She just prayed her coworkers at the firm didn't get wind of her interlude with the other side of the law.

"No big deal." Suarez leaned one hand on the doorjamb, his erotic scent sending shards of tension up her body.

But it was a big deal.

She entered the front hall, flicked the overhead light on, and lifted a brow to invite him in. A smile curved his mouth.

"You want to tell me what was going on?"

"Not really." A nervous laugh escaped her.

"Victoria, I don't want to push, but it would be nice if you were honest with me."

"I..." Could she break Abby's confidence and trust this man? What if she did and he used it against her sister?

He moved toward her, his tall, lean body invading her space. "You never go out, you refuse me dates, you've shown very little interest"—he paused, then lowered his voice—"and you were in a gay bar; I hate to ask this, but does that mean—"

"You think I'm... gay?" Laughter bubbled inside her chest, along with relief. But anger trotted on its heels. "Just because a woman doesn't date a lot or sleep around, it doesn't mean she's a lesbian."

"Then you're not gay?"

"No." Not that she should give him an opening.

Relief softened his eyes. "Thank God, I was worried."

A small laugh floated from her. "Maybe I'm just selective."

"Selective I can handle." He reached out as if to touch her, but Victoria panicked and backed away.

"How about some coffee?"

His dark eyes pierced her. "Coffee would be good."

Man, his voice was seductive.

"So, if you and your sister weren't there to pick up women, why were you in that gay bar?"

She fumbled with a coffee filter. "I wish I could tell you, Stefan, but I have to respect my client's privacy."

He nodded, his look of disappointment evident as he watched her measure out the grounds and water and flip on the coffeemaker. "You mean your sister's?"

Her breath caught. Damn, a telltale sign. She'd coaxed clients not to react, yet she'd forgotten how to play the game.

But she liked this man, and she didn't like lying to him when he'd been nothing but nice to her. "This isn't about Chelsea."

"I was referring to Abby."

Damn.
"Why would you ask that?" she said, forcing her tone to be neutral.

"Because I know your sister is married to Lenny Gulliver and you were asking about him in the bar."

"What else do you know about Lenny Gulliver?"

The steady drip of the coffee added to the tension brewing between them. "Not much now, but I can check him out if you'd like."

"You would do that for me?"

He closed the distance between them, then brushed his knuckles gently across her cheek, his dark gaze trapping hers. The whisper of his breath bathed her face, his eyes darkening to black. "I'd do just about anything for you."

Victoria sighed and wet her lips. He watched the movement, then released a low groan of desire, lowered his head, and claimed her with a kiss that rocked her to the core.

* * *

Hunter was wrong. Brown wasn't at his office. He hoped the PI hadn't gone back to Abby's. Frustrated, Hunter drove home, but as he walked up the sidewalk he spotted the bony little man perched on his stoop. He should have guessed the weasel would show up.

"Hello, Harry."

Hunter flexed his hands, clasping his fingers together and bending them backward until they cracked. Brown rose, his thin lips forming a frown, and followed Hunter inside his apartment.

Hunter ignored the shadow of the man as he shuffled through the mail on the narrow counter that served as his drop box. Nothing important. Just bills. He noticed the light blinking on his answering machine but resisted the urge to listen to his messages with Brown underfoot.

Without asking, he poured two short glasses of bourbon, handed one to Brown, then turned to face him. Brown's eyes narrowed as if he hadn't expected him to be so cordial.

"So who are you working for and what are you after?" Hunter asked, cutting to the chase.

Brown nearly choked on the bourbon. He coughed, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Hunter grimaced, remembering the man had had his hands in garbage an hour earlier.

"You talk first. Tell me what kind of story you're doing under cover?"

Hunter shrugged. "Why don't you kiss my ass?"

Brown downed his drink in one swallow, a laugh bubbling out as he removed a pair of Abby Jensen's white lace underwear and wound it around his finger. "No, thanks, I prefer a sweet little tush like the doctor's."

Anger tightened Hunter's jaw. "Somehow I don't think you're her type. And you certainly didn't win any points pawing through her garbage."

"You'd be surprised how much you learn about someone from their trash."

Hunter waited, jiggling his glass and watching the amber liquid swirl around inside. Rookie mistake. Didn't Abby own a shredder? "So what did you learn?"

"Why do you suppose a sex therapist would throw away brand-new lingerie? Some of those things I found still had the tags on them."

Hunter shrugged. "Maybe they didn't fit."

"The thongs are one-size-fits-all."

"Maybe she stopped wearing underwear at all."

Brown laughed. "We could both fantasize about that."

Hunter refused to go there with this man. "Maybe she put them in a bag for the needy, and they got mixed up with the trash."

Brown shook his head. "You don't believe that any more than I do."

Hunter leaned against his counter and studied the PI. "Then you tell me."

"I think she was mad at the person who gave them to her. So mad that she wanted to get rid of them and everything associated with the person."

Hunter's chest felt tight. He knew where this was going. He just didn't know why Brown would care. "So she and the hubby had a little spat? Why would you be interested?"

"Because the person who hired me to check up on her wants to find Abigail Jensen's husband. Do you know where he is?"

"Nope. I was assigned to do a fluff piece about her and her book, that's all."

Brown twisted his mouth in thought, debating whether to believe him.

"Are you working for Vinelli?"

Brown set his glass down and turned toward the door. "You can't connect me with him."

Hunter saw the truth in his eyes. Brown was working for the mob, but he was too afraid to admit it. "Does this Lenny guy owe your boss some money?"

Brown nodded. "A bundle. Do you know where he is?"

"No." Hunter gave him a warning look. "And I don't believe Abby Jensen does, although I'm looking into it. Now, stay away from her."

"Only if you let me know when you find him."

Like hell.
"Sure. You keep me posted and I'll do the same."

* * *

Anxious about the possibility of more interviews and playing wife to Harry Henderson, Abby jotted down her thoughts in her journal.

Have lowered self to despicable demonic behavior. Paid man to act like husband. Worse, have turned into type of woman always despised—fickle female. Husband been gone less than two weeks and had foolish reaction to actor. No more drinking wine with man. Too dangerous.

Must check self for possible early onset of bipolar disorder.

Bad influence on Granny Pearl, who went to Buckhead sex-toy shop with church friends. Gives new meaning to church friendship circle. Wrote article, "Sex for Seniors." Will send to agent tomorrow.

Must take charge and get life back to normal. Will see patients. Will not flirt with strange actor husband. Will not indulge in corrupting sweet grannies. Will talk Rainey out of needing husband for interview. Must take control of life. Forget Lenny.

Forget Harry Henderson.

Chapter 12

Sex in the Suburbs

The next afternoon, Abby dragged herself back into the office after lunch, grateful for the air-conditioning. The summer heat had been oppressive all day, magnifying her dismal mood. Chelsea and Victoria followed her inside, each of them dropping dozens of packages on the floor of Abby's office. When Abby had found out her itinerary for the week, she'd called her sisters in a panic. They had met for lunch to discuss Abby's situation, and Chelsea, who believed any problem could be solved with a new pair of shoes, had insisted they take advantage of a sale at Shoe Caravan.

Of course, shopping had lifted her spirits, but it had also depleted her wallet.

"I can't believe I just bought three pairs of shoes," Abby muttered. "I don't even need gold pumps. What was I thinking?"

"Heck, I bought thirteen pairs." Chelsea stuck out her feet, her toe ring glittering beneath the fluorescent lights.

"But these flip-flops in all the different colors were too cool to pass up. Now I have a pair to match each of my bikinis."

Victoria rolled her eyes. "Just what every girl needs."

"Well, I couldn't very well go to the pool clashing." Chelsea flicked at her acrylic nail. "Or maybe I could. What do you think, Abby?"

"I think you have a shoe fetish."

"Don't they have a rehab program called Shoes Anonymous we can send her to?" Victoria asked, deadpan.

Abby laughed, but Chelsea shrugged off their good-natured teasing.

"What's wrong, Abby?" Victoria asked.