Looking for Love (Boxed set) (74 page)

Stefan slid a hand to Victoria's neck. "Will you call me if you need me?"

Victoria turned to him and kissed him thoroughly, smiling when she pulled away and saw Chelsea's shocked expression. "Let me take Chelsea home and put some ice on her eye; then you can come over."

* * *

On the Friday flight back to Atlanta, Hunter studied Abby. One more interview and their week of playing husband and wife would end. Abby had fallen asleep on his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering gently as they coasted through the sky. The last three days had passed in a blur of simmering sensuality, sinful sex, and interviews. Hunter had never been so sated in his life.

Or so nervous.

He was walking a tightrope with Abby, and any minute the truth about his identity might shake the foundation beneath him and he would crash to the ground. He only prayed that when that happened, that she could forgive him.

Only Abby hadn't mentioned the future.

Not that they'd talked a lot.

They'd been too busy giving each other pleasure.

But when they'd come up for air twice, he'd heard her on the phone with her sister Victoria, the lawyer, speaking in a hushed, urgent voice. Something was seriously wrong.

He only wished she would confide in him so he could help her.

Odd, since he'd started out wanting to hurt her.

Abby stirred and opened her eyes, her hand still curled on his chest. His heart instantly picked up its beat, his body alive and thrumming with tension.

"I'm going to the rest room," she whispered. With a sly wink, she reached down and cupped his sex, then stood and moved down the aisle. He glanced down, his mouth growing dry when he saw that she'd laid her panties in his lap.

Hunter instantly lurched from his seat, his body hard as he watched her hips sway. He stole glances around them to make sure they weren't being watched, then slipped inside the small bathroom with her. She came at him with such fervor that he feared he might lose it before he could get inside her. "I've never done anything this impulsive and wild in my life."

He cupped her buttocks in his hands. "Me, neither."

She reached for his pants, unzipped them, and freed his already throbbing sex from its prison, stroking him hungrily as he pushed up her shirt and found her heaving breasts. His mouth suckled her until she whimpered and climbed on top of him.

"I have to have you," she whispered in a passion-glazed voice.

The cramped quarters made it awkward, and she bumped her head as she wrapped her body around him. But the bump was forgotten as she impaled herself upon him. He caught her moan of pleasure with his mouth. They rode together, pumping and grinding, clinging to each other as the tension mounted and spiraled through them. And just as the plane began to descend and the captain ordered everyone to buckle back up for landing, they climbed to heaven and soared there together.

* * *

Abby hated for the week to end. The past few days with Harry had been incredible, full of the most erotic love-making of her life. Sprinkled in with their lust, she also sensed some tender emotions that were fighting to rise above the mound of distrust.

But as they neared her home, reality nagged at her. What if Lenny was waiting?

Harry stroked a finger along her thigh, and she squeezed his hand. She wanted to tell Harry everything. But she had trusted Lenny enough to marry him and she had misjudged him terribly. What if Harry considered their weeklong romance simply a fling? She was the proponent of marriage and romance and love—he'd never marched to that tune.

The limo ate at the miles, the tension between her and Harry thick as they pulled into her driveway. The impatiens and marigolds she'd planted mocked her from the flower bed, reminding her of lost dreams and the life she'd imagined when she'd moved in the house, of her life before all this craziness.

Harry had seemed unusually quiet the entire ride home. They had one final appearance on
Good Day, Atlanta
Monday morning; then he would be free to go.

Would she see him again after their final appearance?

* * *

What was Abby thinking?

She'd been quiet and anxious the entire ride home.

He'd hoped their incredible week of lovemaking would have destroyed some of the walls she'd built around herself enough for her to confide in him. He'd given her a dozen chances, but each time she had retreated into a shell of silence. As they neared home and the acting gig came to a close, his anxiety mounted.

The driver parked in front of her house and Hunter helped Abby out with her bag. He itched to ask her to let him stay the night, but he had to leave the choice of an invitation up to her.

"I... Thanks for a great week," Abby said in a quiet voice once she'd unlocked the door and stepped inside.

He started to reach out and stroke her cheek, but she backed away slightly. "I... It's late, Harry. It's been wonderful, but maybe we should get some rest before the final show on Monday."

"Right." Was she already cutting him off? Writing him out of her life the way he would cut an awkward sentence or a misused adverb?

"I'll see you Monday morning."

"I'll call you Sunday night."

She nodded and started to close the door, but Hunter couldn't let the week end on this strained note. He grabbed her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her once more, putting his tongue and his whole heart into the moment. And when he walked back to the car, he carried a small amount of satisfaction in knowing that she had looked just as confused and passion-stricken as he felt.

At least she would have something to think about until Sunday.

A half hour later, the driver dropped him at his apartment. The place looked even more dismal than ever. Inside, it would be quiet. No Abby. No Lizzie.

Not even Angelica.

But a FedEx envelope sat propped on his stoop. He gathered it and hurried inside, dropped his garment bag, and tore it open. His heart thundered in his chest as he read the notice. Apparently Shelly had seen the TV interview in New York when the audience had overheard them panting and heaving in the curtained area.
Dear God. No.

His ex-wife was suing him for full custody of Lizzie.

Chapter 24

Multiple Orgasms

Abby had never had as many orgasms as she'd had with Harry.

Which made it even harder to be alone.

The doorbell rang and Chelsea bounded in, Abby's heart lurching when Butterball wiggled and squirmed to get to her. "Hey, buddy. Did you like staying with Aunt Chelsea?" She scooped him into her arms, laughing at the colorful bow Chelsea had clipped to his hair.

"He looks like a girl," Abby said.

"You don't think it'll confuse him sexually, do you?"

Abby laughed. "I doubt it." Then she noticed Chelsea's black eye and her smile faded. "What happened to you?"

Chelsea hesitated, touching her puffy eye. "Oh, a little accident with another actress. We were practicing a pretend fight for this scene, but the girl missed the air and hit me by mistake."

"Oh." Abby peered at her sister. Something about the story sounded odd, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

Chelsea dropped the pizza on the counter and popped open a soda. "I saw the interviews with you and Harry. Pretty hot stuff."

"He's a good actor," Abby said, afraid her feelings about the man would show through.

Chelsea laughed. "That behind-the-scenes sex was not acting, sis, and there's no way you'll convince me it was."

Abby snuggled her face into Butterball, trying to hide her blush.

"All right, tell all, sis." Chelsea rubbed her hands together excitedly. "And this had better be good. I dumped my baggage of a boyfriend last week and the gay bars just don't cut it for me, so right now I'm living vicariously through you."

Chelsea had gone through another boyfriend? Had a black eye. Had been cavorting in gay bars.

What in the heck was happening to her? She'd been so wrapped up in herself, she didn't even know what was going on with her sister.

* * *

Misery
was too tame a word to describe Hunter's feelings. He tried all night to get in touch with Shelly and Lizzie, but no one was home. Finally the housekeeper answered the phone Saturday morning and informed him the Jeffries's had gone out of town until Tuesday.

Lizzie was
not
a Jeffries. And she never would be.

His chest ached from worry, his head hurt from exhaustion, and his eyes throbbed from trying to hold back tears. He had to change Shelly's mind. He'd spoken with a lawyer and she'd agreed to set up a meeting with a mediator, but nothing could be done until Shelly returned.

It was ironic that the very story he'd thought might help him climb the ladder at the paper and give him more time with his daughter might now cost him her company forever.

Meanwhile, what was he going to do about the article? His boss had left a message that he expected the story in the next week, but Hunter couldn't think straight. The words that flowed through his mind were not for the public.

They were for Abby, private thoughts about his feelings for her....

Words he might make public someday, but not in the newspaper.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. He wanted her again. And again and again. But not just in his bed—in his life. Forever. With him and Lizzie.

Frustrated and lonely and so damn worried he felt as though he might have a nervous breakdown, he fed Snarts, then grabbed his sunglasses, climbed on his Harley, and took off. Maybe a ride in the mountains would clear his head, help him focus on the slant for his article—or some idea that would save his position at the paper and his relationship with Abby.
Yeah, right.
Like Chicken Little, the answers to all his problems would probably fall out of the sky and hit him in the helmet.

* * *

Abby had tried to pry information from Chelsea about her gay-bar comment before she'd left, but Chelsea had flitted from one topic to another and had never quite answered her, except to say she'd had an adventure. Abby had a sneaking suspicion Chelsea might have gone looking for Lenny and that she had even talked Victoria into going with her. When she'd pushed for details, Chelsea had sidetracked her with questions about Harry. As if she didn't have enough of her own.

All night she'd tried to make some sense out of her feelings for him. She'd hoped distance would make him look duller, less desirable. Instead she ached for his hands and his lips and his body.

Irritated with herself and the mess she'd gotten herself into with this publicity stunt, she almost bumped into Victoria outside the bank. Her sister had promised to meet her for moral support. Chelsea had wanted to come, too, but an audition as a broccoli pod superseded.

Victoria clutched a double latte in her hands, her black business outfit professional, but she'd forgone her usual chignon to let her hair lie loose around her shoulders.
Hmm, maybe this guy Suarez is the reason.

She, on the other hand, had been so depressed she'd dressed in baggy jeans and a denim shirt, dreading the morning's trip to the bank.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Victoria asked. "We could have Lenny charged with blackmail."

"And leave those photos floating around out there?" Abby shuddered. "No way. I'll press charges
after
the pictures are back in my hands."

"You don't think he's dangerous, do you?"

Abby gnawed on her stub of a nail. "No, he's too much of a wienie to hurt me. Humiliation and robbery are more his style."

Victoria heaved an angry sigh. "I hope I get my hands on him when we're through."

As they stepped into the bank, Abby's pulse clamored. Her temper boiling, she slid the savings withdrawal slip up to the cashier.

Victoria gave her a sympathetic look. Thank goodness she'd tagged along for moral support.

"You want to withdraw ten thousand dollars?" the teller asked.

Abby nodded. Why didn't the lady just shout it out?

"I need to see some ID, please. And you'll have to fill out these forms." She shoved some papers toward Abby.

Abby winced, opened her purse, and pulled out her driver's license.

The elderly woman smacked a wad of gum as she plucked the license from Abby's fingers. Her beehive hairdo barely wavered as she angled her head and studied Abby, trying to decide if Abby's face matched the photo.

"I'm having a bad-hair day," Abby said, willing her to hurry.

"I'll say." Her eyes suddenly widened. "You that Dr. Jensen on the TV?"

Abby nodded tightly. Victoria moved closer to try to shield her from curious onlookers.

"You look better on TV." The woman handed her back the picture, then began to fill out the forms.

When she finished, Abby slipped the money into her tote bag, old bank-robbery movies replaying in her mind. Huddling together like two spies in a cheap thriller, the two of them slunk away, trying not to look conspicuous as Abby clutched the bag to her side in a death grip.

"Don't look now, but I think we're being followed," Victoria whispered.