Under the Covers (19 page)

"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.

Abby's smile turned to a frown as she thumbed through her messages. "I'm losing control, and I hate it." She also despised the desperation she heard in her own voice.

Victoria propped herself on the edge of the desk. "Have you heard from Lenny?"

"No." Abby thumped her pencil down on her calendar, expecting her two o'clock any second. "Rainey has a week-long schedule all set up. Everything from signings to interviews to cutting the ribbon for a new arts center on Piedmont that plans to specialize in erotic shows for African Americans. It's called Punany."

"Punany?"

"Erotic poetry." Abby hesitated. "It's actually very sensuous—"

"I want to go to a punany show," Chelsea said. "Do you think it's true what they say about African-American men's—"

"Don't say it," Victoria warned.

Chelsea adjusted her toe ring. "I was just curious. Don't you ever think about sex, Victoria? And men and their—"

"Yes, but I'm not obsessed with it the way you are. I want a real relationship."

"I'm not obsessed. I just happen to
like
sex. Maybe if you tried loosening up, wore something besides those boring suits—"

"Girls," Abby cut in. "Do we have to argue about this again? I'm having a crisis here and I need some advice for a change."

"Sorry," Chelsea mumbled, looking properly chastised.

Victoria toyed with a pencil on Abby's desk. "Abby, you have to slow things down with all this publicity. I'm afraid this is going to blow up in your face."

As if she hadn't envisioned the scenario a hundred times. "I know. Rainey promised that after this week, she won't schedule anything else. Do you know I found a PI in my backyard going through my garbage last night?"

"Oh, geesh." Victoria muttered an obscenity. "Do you know his name?"

"Mo Jo Brown."

"You met a real PI?" Chelsea asked.

"He was pawing through my trash."

"Sounds like Brown," Victoria said. "He's a real seedy character."

Chelsea's eyes brightened with interest. "What did he want in your garbage?"

"I have no idea."

Victoria buttoned her suit jacket. "Word is that Brown works for this mob guy. I bet Lenny was playing the books and got into him for some cash."

Abby's feet hit the floor with a thud. "Do you think Brown wants me to pay Lenny's debt?"

"I don't know, but watch out." Victoria straightened. "If he bothers you again, sis, let me know and we'll file a restraining order."

"Thanks, Victoria. I knew I could count on you."

A knock broke into their conversation and her sisters grabbed their packages. Abby hugged them both, then pasted on a smile when her two o'clock walked in. Her patient load had definitely picked up the last few weeks.

Maybe listening to these people's problems would make her forget her own.

At least she had a reprieve from Harry Henderson. Her first interview wasn't scheduled until Wednesday. Plenty of time to convince herself the man was not attractive or sexy, but a menace to her sanity.

* * *

Wednesday, Hunter drove toward the state fair, filled with excitement over seeing his daughter and dread over having to ride those godawful rides. When Lizzie had called and told him about the day-camp trip and begged him to come, then cried, saying she wouldn't be able to go on the rides without a parent, he had finally agreed.

How could he not have?

It was one thing he could give her that Daryl couldn't buy—his time.

There was only one small problem: Hunter hated heights. And Lizzie was determined to experience the Dragon and some suicide ride called Drop Dead, Fred. The first ride whipped you around until you were so dizzy you couldn't walk; the second carried you straight up, then dropped you into a pool of water about a hundred feet below. His stomach rolled over simply thinking about the fall. Of course, Lizzie had bragged about how much Angelica enjoyed them, so he couldn't very well decline, not that he was trying to impress a doll, but... hell, if Angelica liked the rides, he had to go along or she would make fun of him to Lizzie. Not that Angelica really talked to Lizzie except in her imagination.... He just didn't need any additional obstacles between himself and his daughter—even a doll.

He exited the freeway, his mind tracking back over the details of the past two days. He'd busted his butt both Monday and Tuesday, scrambling to keep up with the piddly assignments Ralph gave him, researching several victims who had been swindled by Tony Milano, and looking for information on Abby's husband.

So far he'd learned Lenny Gulliver was a pretty boy. He looked and dressed like a model for a men's fashion magazine, had attended photography school in California, and seemed as squeaky clean as a whistle.

But something smelled fishy.

While none of the records he checked had so much as a blemish, when he'd phoned Gulliver's landlord, the one who ran the apartment complex Gulliver had lived in prior to his marriage, the owner claimed Gulliver had rented an apartment but rarely stayed in it. Gulliver had hosted a few wild parties from time to time, an assortment of what the elderly man had called eclectic types present.