Under the Covers (2 page)

And a lot of other things...

* * *

Hunter Stone situated himself in a metal chair in his boss's office and glared at the junior reporter, Addleton, the ass kisser, leaning against their boss's cluttered desk. Files, unedited copy, layouts, dirty coffee cups, and Twinkie wrappers covered the once shiny black-lacquered surface. Shelves overflowed with old copies of the AJC—
Atlanta Journal and Constitution—
and the faded white walls held framed evidence of Emerson's writing credentials. Ralph Emerson, the chief editor of the
Journal and Constitution,
had nothing in common with the legendary Ralph Waldo Emerson, except that they both had male genes and two legs.

This Ralph Emerson scratched his protruding stomach, a copy of the morning edition in his hand, smoke stains yellowing his teeth. "Great story, Addleton. That piece on the bombing near the Fox Theater came in just in time for the front page. And it's spiked our website ratings."

Hunter frowned. So far Addleton, number one kiss-up reporter, had outscooped him on everything. But only because Hunter had a black streak on his file from his previous job, and Ralph hadn't unleashed him from the repercussions of it yet.

He'd been at the
Chicago Tribune
before the
AJC,
and one lousy error of judgment had flagged him as a man who would do
anything
for a story, including the unethical. Just because he had hidden in the senator's private bathroom and overheard confidential details about his affairs...

Well, when he'd moved to Atlanta his reputation had preceded him, and though he had managed to get a job at the
AJC,
he'd been given only piddly stories. After a month, he was damned tired of covering crappy pieces like the recent Maltese pageant and the pancake-eating contest at the local elementary school. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the pancakes...

"Hey, great piece on the hog-hollering contest in Gwinnett County," Addleton said as he loped past him, a cocky grin pasted on his conceited face.

Hunter glared at him, but ignored the barb. After all, the boss was watching.

As soon as Addleton cleared the door awning, Emerson handed him a list of assignments. Hunter thumbed through them in disgust. The local soup kitchen, the daisy festival... He'd missed his dinner with Lizzie twice last week covering some of the same kinds of stuff.

"Look, Ralph, you know I can handle bigger pieces than this. Why don't you give me a chance?"

Emerson opened a peppermint and popped it in his mouth, his concession to a nonsmoking office. "You dig up something on your own time, I'll take a look."

Hunter nearly fell off the chair with relief.

But Emerson jabbed a stubby finger toward him. "Only I don't want any trouble, you hear me?"

Hunter nodded, thanked him, and strode back to his cubicle. He'd knock out these easy stories, then look for something bigger. Not a criminal piece yet, but something timely that would draw a lot of attention. Anxious for a lead or at least a topic, he dropped into his chair, logged on to the Internet, and searched various bulletin boards, looking for anything that might make big news.

An ad for a new sex-talk book, one of those self-help things, called
Under the Covers
drew his eye. The author was none other than Dr. Abigail Jensen, who'd made landmark sales with her new release.

Holy hell.
Abigail Jensen—the psychologist who'd toured the country offering seminars on marriage. The woman who'd planted seeds of doubt in his ex-wife's head about their marriage.

Oh, yeah, Abby Jensen had wreaked havoc in his personal life with her theories.

He ran a hand through his hair, reading further. So far the woman had avoided interviews, refusing requests.

Why?

Did she have some secrets she didn't want to share?

He shut down his computer, snatched up his cell phone, and strode from the noisy den of reporters hacking away at their computers, his adrenaline pumping. Somehow he would get an interview with Abby Jensen. After all, she owed him one after the way she had interfered in his life.

She was not the know-all, do-good counselor she portrayed herself to be. He knew firsthand. And he would take great pleasure in writing all about her.

And if he dug up some dirt on her, the story might convince Ralph to let him do some criminal investigative reporting, and make his career.

Of course, it might ruin hers, but that would simply be the icing on the cake.

* * *

"Oh, my gosh. Look!" Chelsea pointed to the TV, where the camera zoomed to the bedding section in a nearby shopping mall holding several cardboard dump displays of Abby's book, along with free sets of gift-wrapped pillowcases.

Abby gaped.

People literally grabbed the books from the display and rushed to the counter to pay for them. Another camera focused on a bookstore where a long line of people wound outside the door, anxiously waiting for their copy. The report quickly switched to a mob of customers in a local discount store who were actually pushing and shoving to get the last few copies remaining on the store's shelf. An elderly woman in an orange jogging suit wrestled with an overweight bald man for the last book.

"Well, I never." Abby sat in shock while her sister poured margarita mix into a blender, added tequila and crushed ice, and punched the button. The sound of grinding ice filled the silence.

"You hit on something big, sis. I wish I could come up with a get-rich-quick scheme."

"Under the Covers
was not meant as a get-rich-quick scheme," Abby said. "I hate the downward spiral in marriage statistics today and want couples to realize the sacred value of their union. Once they've committed, they should give marriage their best shot."

"You're such an idealist, Abby. Marriage is archaic. It doesn't fit with contemporary couples; you know,
Sex and the City—"

"Sex in the suburbs is not exactly dead, you know."

Chelsea harrumphed.

"Family and marriage should be appreciated more, treasured and coveted, not just the sex part but the love and commitment."

"Hey, I'm committed"—Chelsea raised her eyebrows—"to staying single."

Abby shook her head and laughed in spite of her difference of opinion. Everything about her and Chelsea was different from their homes to their hairstyles. Chelsea, with her long blond hair and big boobs, rented a loft above the arts theater where she worked; her apartment was completely art deco, her wardrobe trendy.

Abby, with her mousy brown bob, on the other hand, had bought a nice little cottage house, furnished it in a homey country style, and wore a middle-class wardrobe that screamed not to be noticed.

"Face it, sis, most marriages are doomed from the start," Chelsea continued. "Just ask our oldest sister."

"Victoria is a divorce attorney. Of course her views are skewed." Abby sighed; she worried so about Victoria. Whereas Chelsea jumped from man to man, Victoria never dated or paused from her busy work schedule to give a man a chance at being decent. Her apartment in Buckhead, an eclectic mix of styles, her wardrobe, Anne Klein, her sophisticated raven chignon shouting "Hands off."

"Victoria's dealing with reality." Chelsea dipped the rims of the glasses in salt, waving a bejeweled finger as she spoke. "But don't get me wrong; I think it's great you're such an optimist, especially in light of our parents' history. And I'm envious you're making money doing something you really want to do."

Abby shook her head. She could use the money; not a month went by that Chelsea or her mom or another relative didn't turn to her for a loan. And it didn't escape her that Chelsea had sided with Victoria—the only thing her sisters agreed on was their doom and gloom view of marriage. Growing up, Abby had often played referee between her sisters and also between her parents, who'd never actually tied the knot into respectable parenthood.

No wonder she'd turned out to be a marriage therapist. "Don't you like your job, Chels?"

"Sure, the theater's fun, but the money's sporadic, and then there's the inconsistency of jobs." She wiggled her eyebrows. "The guys are pretty hot though."

Abby laughed.

Chelsea poured the drinks into two tall, frosted glasses and handed one to Abby. "Did Lenny help you research your book?"

Grateful for the quick buzz of alcohol, Abby sipped her drink. "What?" Her husband, the man she'd fallen for and married within three months of meeting him, the man who hadn't had the least bit of interest in sex lately. Or in her.

Chelsea licked salt from the rim of her glass, eyes glowing. "Well, did he?"

Abby's stomach twisted. As an advocate for marriage, how could she confess that her own had been void of titillating touches lately? "You know I don't talk about my personal sex life, sis."

"Oh, rats. I wanted some juicy stuff. Victoria acts like a nun, and you're so secretive it's pathetic." Chelsea winked. "Guess I'll have to read the danged book."

Abby's gaze raced back to the TV. She'd kept a journal of the various exercises she'd had couples try over the last three years. One of her associates had persuaded her to submit the journal entries as a book, and she'd done so on a whim, sincerely wanting to help her patients and share her expertise with other therapists.

She'd never dreamed the book would be advertised as a sex guide.

Or that people might associate the contents with her own personal life. What if people began asking questions...?

* * *

Hunter was going to get a copy of that book or die trying.

He braced himself for a fall as the crowd lunged forward, dozens of hands groping for the last copy of Dr. Abigail Jensen's new release,
Under the Covers.
A white-haired lady wearing three-inch-wide clunky heels plowed her foot on top of his, but he wedged himself into the second row. He was six-three, his arms a foot longer than hers, so he reached above her head and snagged the binding with the tips of his fingers. Someone poked him in the side and he fought the urge to push back. The heat wave was making everyone crazy these days; that was the only logical explanation. Otherwise, why would normally sane people be fighting over a book?

Dammit.
At least he had an excuse. He needed the copy today because of work. If not, he wouldn't be buying it at all.

His hand tightened around the spine, but a female hand swatted at him. "No, it's mine."

"I was here first but I had to go to the bathroom," a pregnant woman said.

"Your small bladder is not my problem," a thin man snapped.

"Good grief," Hunter muttered.

A middle-aged woman glared at him, then patted the pregnant woman's hand. "It'll get better once you have the baby, hon."

"My husband has a bladder problem," an elderly woman announced.

The gray-haired man beside her coughed, and Hunter offered him a sympathetic look. "Verna, you don't have to tell everything."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Henry. Lots of people have bladder-control problems, especially when they cough or sneeze. My aunt Wilma worked for a urologist...." She launched into a litany of surgery techniques to repair bladder disorders, which sent a combination of embarrassed giggles and irritated looks through the crowd.

Hunter ignored them and tugged at the book, feeling sweet success at his fingertips.

But a set of red acrylic nails pierced Hunter's skin, clawing at his hand. Someone slammed a purse into his head, and the old lady with the three-inch shoes kicked his shin. He yelped and released the book to ward off another blow when two more sets of hands grappled for the copy. The cardboard dump collapsed, the paperback hit the floor with a thump, and people dropped to their knees scrambling to retrieve it. A sweaty man nearly fell on him. Hunter dodged him and dropped to the floor too, feeling like a fool.

Seconds later, someone shrieked, "Look, she got it!"

Everyone turned on hands and knees to see a teenager with a nose ring, trotting toward the counter with the book tucked firmly beneath her arm, her dozens of colorful bracelets jangling. "I'm buying it for my mother," she yelled. "It's her birthday."

Several people huffed and grumbled.

Hunter stood, dusting off his jeans. For her mother? Right. He'd bet a hundred dollars the girl had snatched it for herself. She'd probably take it to a sleepover, and all the teenagers would hover in the basement with flashlights and highlighters getting the education of their lives. Or worse, she and her boyfriend might study the book
together,
taking tips and learning various sexual positions from the now famous Dr. Jensen. Add child corruption to Abby Jensen's list of sins.

His own five-year-old daughter's innocent face flashed into his mind. In a few years she'd be a teenager. He couldn't stand the thought. He wanted to keep her innocent forever.

He certainly didn't want her views tainted by some know-it-all sex writer who paraded as a therapist. Why, the marriage counselor he and his wife had visited when their wedded bliss hit the rocks counseled them right into divorce court, then counseled his way right into Hunter's ex-wife's bed. Hunter had not only paid the man's fees, but now was paying his ex-wife child support and having to share his little girl with the slimy shrink.

Dr. Abigail Jensen had been the catalyst for all his problems. His ex-wife had attended a lecture the cunning therapist had given in Chicago, where they'd lived at the time. After Shelly had heard the woman speak, she'd complained he wasn't romantic enough, criticized everything he said and did, including the way he made love. He couldn't help it if he'd been tired a lot and their relationship had suffered. He'd been trying to build a career, put food on the table; then Lizzie had come along and Shelly had been hormonal and obsessed with her extra pounds... Dr. Jensen's lecture had started the wheels of discontent turning in Shelly's head, and their marriage had gone for a roller-coaster ride straight to hell. Yep, Abby Jensen was a marriage
wrecker
in his book, not a therapist who helped couples stay together.