Looking for Love (Boxed set) (63 page)

She had exposed too much.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the deejay waved that they were ready to start. Abby clamped her mouth shut. She'd been ready to spill everything. Why, she didn't know, except that for a moment she'd felt some sort of deep soul connection with Harry.

God, she
was
losing it.

The producer walked toward them.

No time now,
Abby thought. Besides, what was she thinking? What did she really know about Harry Henderson except that he was an actor? An actor who was virtually a stranger. He could very well run off and sell her story to the tabloids. That would be even worse than that Neanderthal Stone getting wind of it.

"Ready?" the producer asked.

Abby nodded. No, she wasn't. But she hadn't been ready for any of this other stuff either. She would just have to deal with her problems alone.

"If this goes well, Dr. Jensen," the producer said, "we're hoping to turn this hour into a daily talk show."

"The 'Dear Dr. Abby Hour,' " the deejay said with a wink.

Abby's stomach twisted. She wouldn't do a radio talk show in a million years. The last thing she wanted was to perpetuate an image of herself as the Dr. Abby of the bedroom.

* * *

Hunter listened to Abby answer the routine questions, his mind spinning over her earlier comment that nobody could make or break the marriage but the couple themselves.

"Our next caller is a woman from Buckhead," the deejay said in a baritone voice. "You're on, Elaine."

"Hi, Dr. Jensen. First off, I want to thank you for your book. It's so liberating to be able to express myself sexually. I never considered telling my husband what I wanted in bed before I read your book."

"A lot of women, especially Southern ones, grow up being taught that sex is something to hide, something that we don't talk about. That it should stay behind closed doors." Abby paused. "We should teach our daughters that sex is a wonderful part of an adult relationship, especially if the two people involved love each other and are responsible."

"Right," Elaine said. "I just feel so much more alive now. And my husband seems to appreciate knowing what turns me on. He said before he felt like he was plundering in the dark."

Hunter contemplated his relationship with Shelly. Had he listened to her needs when they were married? She certainly hadn't listened to his. Then again, they had been young and their ideals had been so different. Shelly's pregnancy had brought them together, but there were things they should have discussed before they'd said their vows.

"Thank you, Elaine," the deejay said. "Now we have William on the line."

"Since my wife read your book," William said, "all she does is criticize me. 'Do it like this, don't touch me there, you're too rough.'"

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Abby said softly. "Can I make a few suggestions?"

"Anything would be better than the way we're going."

"Is your wife there? It might be better if you both listen together."

"I'll get her." He paused, then yelled, "Bernadette, get in here, honey!"

Abby grinned. Hunter studied her, thinking that so far tonight he'd agreed with her comments. And she had certainly made him rethink his own failed marriage—and his part in it.

Maybe he'd been blaming the wrong person.

"The key to communication is not to criticize, but to tell the other person gently what you want. Instead of saying, 'You're too rough,' try whispering something like, 'Oh, I like it soft, honey.' When your partner does something right, touches you gently or finds a G-spot, then tell him or her how wonderful it feels." She hesitated. "You can also try doing this outside the bedroom. Start with a simple compliment. Would you like to try one on-air?"

"I reckon," Bernadette said. "William, I sure do like it when you leave your muddy boots in the washroom."

Abby glanced at Hunter, a sparkle of laughter in her eyes. "That's good. Now it's your turn, William."

He cleared his throat, his voice gruff. "Bernadette, honey, your buttermilk biscuits melt in my mouth."

"That's a start," Abby said, her lips twitching. "I have a feeling if you two work at it, things will be all right."

Hunter nodded, her earlier comment still on his mind.

Abby was right. A couple didn't break up because of an argument or two, or even because one of them had read a book or heard a lecture. In fact, now that he thought about it, Shelly had complained about their marriage two months after they'd married, before she'd ever heard Abby's lecture. Hope and promises hadn't fed her blueblood tastes. She'd wanted Tiffany lamps, designer furniture, and a million-dollar house, while all he could afford was a one-room apartment with a leaky faucet and garage-sale furnishings.

Had he blamed Abby for a marriage that failed because he and Shelly hadn't put their hearts in it and worked hard enough? Because they had wanted different things in life and hadn't loved each other enough to compromise?

* * *

"What a success," the producer said as soon as they were off the air.

His assistant, a tall woman with German features, pumped Abby's hands in a victory sweep. "We received a record number of listener phone calls. It's looking good for that weekly show."

"What do you say, Dr. Jensen?" the producer asked. "Are you interested?"

"I... don't think so. I wouldn't have time with my patient load."

Abby thanked them both and headed out: of the station. Harry walked beside her; he'd been quiet during the interview, which had been fine with her—the less touching and flirting the better. In fact, he'd answered only once when a caller had specifically asked about their marriage. He'd chimed in and said they were in heavenly bliss.

She grimaced, hating the lies lining up like dominoes. One mistake could trigger the first one to fall; then they'd all come crashing down around her.

Another week and it would be over, she promised herself.

Harry caught her at the door, his hand curling around her arm. "Abby, can we get a drink?"

His invitation surprised her. "Uh... I'd better not."

"Come on, just a cup of coffee."

She rubbed her neck where the muscles had knotted. She supposed she could use some caffeine for the drive home. And he did seem unusually quiet, as if something was disturbing him. And she was a counselor.... "All right."

A few minutes later, they entered a tiny cafe, the scents of chocolate brownies, cheesecake, and rich coffee filling the air. They claimed a seat at a small round table in the corner, the bright purple-and-yellow decor cheery compared to Abby's mood.

"I'll have a mocha," Abby said, allowing herself to take a shot of chocolate in her coffee. But no dessert. All those comforting Reese's cups had bulldozed their way straight to her hips.

"Regular coffee, black," Harry said. "Oh, and a piece of that double-fudge layer cake."

It figures.
The man didn't have an inch of fat on him, and he could eat chocolate cake till the cows came home. All she had to do was look at it and she could feel her thighs bulging.

They were both quiet until the waitress reappeared with their order. As Hunter picked up his fork to dig in, he glanced at her. "You seem upset tonight," he said, surprising her again with his directness.

Abby shrugged and licked at the whipped cream topping her coffee. His gaze followed the movement, until he realized he was staring; then he jerked his eyes back to his cake.

"It's been a stressful few days."

"Wanna talk about it?"

She shook her head. "Thanks anyway, though."

A few heartbeats stretched between them.

"You were quiet, too," Abby commented. "I guess we really didn't need you for the radio interview."

"I was just thinking about what you said," Harry admitted.

"And what was that?"

"That only the couple concerned can make or break their own marriage."

"It's true," Abby said, her voice strong with conviction. "Of course, every situation is different, but both the husband and wife have to want their relationship to work or it won't." Lenny proved that. "All the therapy in the world won't work if the couple doesn't love each other, and if both of them aren't willing to compromise."

He chewed thoughtfully. "I was thinking about my ex-wife and our divorce." A sip of coffee washed down the cake. "At first I blamed her and... and her therapist."

"Did you attend counseling together?"

"Oh, yeah."

"That didn't work?"

"She had an affair with our therapist. They're married now."

"I'm sorry." Abby leaned her chin on her hand. "How unethical. And hurtful."

He hesitated, dropping his fork on the plate with a clatter. "Now he gets to play daddy to my daughter."

Bitterness and hurt underlay his words. Instinctively she reached out and laid a hand on his thigh. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I can't imagine what that must be like."

"I'd do anything for my kid." His voice turned rough, filled with emotion.

"That's admirable," Abby said. "Your daughter is very lucky." Her father certainly hadn't felt that way about her.

"Only thing is, this shrink has money, and he and my ex... well, they can give Lizzie everything I can't."

"They can never give her a father's love,
your
love," Abby said softly. "Remember that, Harry. There's not enough money or toys or trips in the world to replace that."

She would know.

He squeezed her hand in his, the moment both electrifying and oddly tender, and something changed inside Abby. She was beginning to really like Harry. He was much more complicated—deeper—than she'd ever imagined.

Harry's head came up and he studied her again with that long, steady, intensely unsettling look. That look that reached deep into her soul and ripped apart the protective walls she was trying to erect.

Abby jerked her gaze away, afraid he would see the need and desire in her eyes. She couldn't get involved, even remotely, with another man. Not now. Her pain was too new. Too raw. Too fresh.

But Harry didn't seem to hear her silent battle. He brushed her chin up with the pad of his thumb, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her. Not the passionate I have-to-have-you kind or the earth-shattering I-love-you kind.

The much gentler kind that said, I really like you and I want to get to know you better. The kind that said he wanted more than a one-night stand, that he might become a long-term lover.

The kind that was much more intimate and scary.

Chapter 17

The Masterful Massage

Hunter deepened the kiss, sinking his entire body into it as he tasted the sweetness of Abby's mouth. The little hitch in her breath when she'd realized his intention had drummed up more sexual energy inside him than the best issue of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition. She tasted both innocent and sultry, an odd combination that stirred protective feelings and made his adrenaline pump fast and hard.

Something was happening to him. Changing.

He was growing hard all over. But soft inside.

Losing his objectivity.

Her hands framed his face as his tongue absorbed the honeyed passion of her kiss. He had to pull away or he wouldn't be able to stop. Because he wanted to make every one of her senses come alive. To touch her without clothes, with no barriers between them.

But there were so many lies.

His. Hers.

His chest aching with the effort, he slowly ended the kiss and dropped his forehead against hers, giving them both time to steady their breathing and thoughts.

"Harry, I can't—"

He brought his finger to her lips to silence her. "Shh. I know."

She swallowed, her eyes melting puddles of need and confusion. Their gazes caught and held, his heart thundering, her mixed emotions mirroring his own.

The situation was impossible.

He couldn't allow himself to lose his objectivity like this or he'd never be a successful reporter.

"I have to go," she whispered on a ragged sigh.

"I'll drive you."

"I have my car."

"Then I'll follow you."

She pressed a gentle hand on his chest. "Harry..."

He clasped his hand over hers and helped her stand. "I don't have to come in, Abby. I just want to make sure that PI isn't lurking in your bushes again."

His reminder put a fear in her eyes that he didn't like. But she nodded and agreed, and he walked her to her car and said good-night. He wouldn't even get out of his car when they arrived at her house, he told himself. He'd just make sure Mo Jo Brown wasn't there to harass her.

* * *

Abby pulled her into her driveway, grateful Harry had followed her home, but her sense of security vanished the minute she spotted her father sitting on her porch.

Granted, she had always been the caretaker of the family, but this was getting ridiculous. First Uncle Wilbur, then her mother. Now her father, who still wore the stamp of prison life on his pale, drawn skin.

She let the engine die, took a deep breath, and exited her car, not surprised that Harry pulled in behind her and climbed out, a frown marring his forehead as his gaze landed on her father. She tried to look at him as a stranger would—he was a scruffy old man puffing an unfiltered cigarette, blowing smoke circles into the dark sky, his face pale, age lines framing his mouth.