Under the Covers (13 page)

"I know. I figured I might as well stock up, too." She closed her eyes and grimaced. "I really need to go."

He couldn't let her run off yet. Especially not when he heard the emotion thickening her voice. "Nice save outside with the baby."

She blushed. "I... it just sort of happened."

"Really."

"I couldn't very well leave her." She shrugged. "Anyone would have done the same thing."

"I doubt that, Abby." Still, he remembered the interview and the fact that he'd missed out on an exclusive. He'd been sitting there first and could have gotten the scoop. But he was undercover, searching for a bigger story, he reminded himself, and he had to work Abby to get it. Even if she did look sad and weary, as if she needed holding instead of tearing apart.

Where had that thought come from?

He glanced at her cart again, determined to replace that sadness with a smile. "A big night planned, huh?"

That familiar blush added a much-needed splash of color back to her pale cheeks. "My husband's out of town, remember?" She gestured toward his. "How about you? Planning a getaway?"

He chuckled. "Thought I might take my daughter camping."

Her face softened. "You have a little girl?"

Why would it matter to her? "Yeah. She's five. Name's Lizzie."

"Ahh," she said in a soft voice that sounded almost envious. "I bet she's adorable."

Pride swelled his chest, along with the pain of not being with her enough. "She is. She, uh, she lives with her mother."
Because you gave my wife the idea of leaving me.

"But you do see her regularly?"

"As much as I can." He had to change the subject. He was trying to find out about her life, not reveal his own private one. And talking about Lizzie brought all his vulnerabilities to the surface. Made him feel raw. Exposed.

Besides, the concern in her voice made him question his motives—something he couldn't afford to do. Resorting back to their earlier teasing, he picked up the package of underwear, unable to imagine this sexy woman wearing something so ludicrous. "For an aging aunt, I suppose."

"No." A soft laugh escaped her as she snatched the pack and stuffed it back in the cart. "Um, they're mine."

"You recommend these in your book?"

She hesitated. "Not exactly."

"There's a section about panty passions, isn't there?"

She gulped. "You've read my book?"

"Parts." Just the juicy ones.

Her nervous gaze darted everywhere but to him.

"I like the thong better, Abby." He traced a finger over the package. "Although I suppose if the right woman were wearing these, I could get passionate about her."

A wispy sigh of arousal escaped her, floating toward him and wrapping around his sex like velvety fingers. But on the heels of that sigh, something akin to fear flashed in her eyes.

"I... have to go."

"Sure." He grinned, elated that he'd rattled her, then lowered his voice to a sexy timbre. "Just call me if you need me, Abby."

She flitted a nervous smile his way, then turned and hurried away. He forced his gaze away from the sway of her shapely hips as she disappeared around the corner beside the full-figured bras. His gaze flickered over the double-D cups, and he reminded himself he was a boob man. And Abby Jensen did not meet his requirements.

Even if she did have a nice ass and beautiful eyes.

And she had softened when he'd mentioned his little girl...

* * *

Four hours and too much junk food later, Abby had cried her eyes out. Her house echoed with the sound of lost love and silence. Not the pitter-patter of little feet, as she'd imagined when she'd moved in. The phone trilled, and she settled her wire-rims on her nose, having ditched the contacts hours ago.

Both her sisters piped in on speakerphone. "Congratulations, Abby," Chelsea said. "Everyone's talking about the show. And you delivered a baby at Wal-Mart!"

"You're amazing, Abby," Victoria said.

She opened her mouth to chastise Chelsea about hiring the actor, but her sister didn't give her a chance.

"I heard on the six-o'clock news that the lady named the baby after you," Chelsea said. "And Wal-Mart is giving you a shopping spree, and the girl a free year's supply of diapers!"

"I... I didn't watch the news," Abby said. "In fact, I've been avoiding it." But now she could buy all the granny panties and Reese's cups she wanted. Great, she'd
need
granny underwear because her butt would be as wide as the truck she'd delivered the baby in if she kept indulging herself. She pushed the half-eaten bag away.

"I'm proud of you for holding your head up in such a difficult situation," Victoria said. "The interview had to be tough."

"It was horrible. Chelsea, I can't believe you went behind my back and hired that man to play Lenny."

"He was wonderful, wasn't he?" Chelsea chirped, ignoring her barb.

Abby sighed in exasperation. "You didn't: tell him anything, did you?"

"Of course not. I'm not as ditzy as you think."

"I didn't mean that—"

"I was only trying to help." Chelsea sounded defensive.

"We're both worried about you," Victoria added.

Now she'd hurt her little sister's feelings. "I'm sorry, Chelsea; it's just that this whole ordeal has thrown me into a tizzy."

"Have you heard anything about Lenny?" Chelsea asked.

"No. As far as I know, the police still haven't found any connection between him and Tony Milano," Victoria said. "Although it's just a matter of time."

She didn't have to remind Abby of that. "I know. But I searched all my things and our files, and I didn't find any evidence of the scams."

Victoria made a disgusted sound. "He probably didn't want to leave a paper trail behind for you or the police to discover."

Chelsea broke into the strained silence that followed. "So tell me what you really thought about Harry, Abby. He's pretty hot, isn't he?"

Abby rolled her eyes and checked her hair for split ends. "I didn't notice."

"You didn't notice," Chelsea shrieked. "How could you
not
notice?"

"He certainly seemed to enjoy his part," Victoria commented.

"Yeah, he played it like a pro," Abby admitted.

"You know, he'd never been to the studio before," Chelsea rattled on, oblivious to Abby's turmoil. "What a break for you. Must have been serendipity."

"Yeah, what a break," Abby whispered.

"We'll be booking him for a lot of parts now."

"Probably." Any part that needed a sexy body and a killer kisser.

"Abby, are you okay?" Victoria asked.

Abby twisted the ends of her hair around her fingers. "That's a loaded question. I'm a marriage therapist who just released a hot, sexy book, but I'm so unsexy I can't hold a husband."

"Lenny's sexual preference is not your fault," Chelsea argued. "A friend of mine from the arts center said her first boyfriend dumped her to become a priest."

"But Lenny dumped me for a man."

"It's the new wave," Chelsea said. "We've always had women for competition; now we have men, too."

"It's not your fault," Victoria added in a firm voice. "You're sexy and beautiful and smart."

Abby knew she was feeling sorry for herself and hated it. "I'm sorry. I'll get over it." But a year ago she'd thought she'd been in love. How could she, a trained counselor, have been so wrong? How could she have not known her own husband—pseudohusband—preferred men over women?

"The best way to get over one guy is to find another," Chelsea offered.

Abby shook her head. "Not interested."

"But Harry—"

"Is an actor whom you paid to pretend to be my husband. End of story." She hung up, grateful the day had finally come to an end. And vastly relieved she never had to see Harry Henderson again. She was too vulnerable, and he was too damn appealing.

She grabbed the new journal she'd bought at Wal-Mart earlier as she headed to the bedroom. Maybe keeping a diary would be a good idea. It was a therapeutic technique she had taught her patients so they could purge themselves of their worries in order to sleep. And if anyone needed to be purged from their worries, she did. Abby settled comfortably on her bed and began to scribble.

Today marked my new start as a single doctor. Just discovered marriage of last year a fake.

Book doing great. Selling well. TV interview scheduled.

Interview a disaster. Chelsea showed up in banana costume waving actor/husband at me. Sex god with eyes like Russell Crowe and heavenly kiss. Made fool of self. Dropped panties from sleeve into his hands.

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."