Under the Covers (24 page)

Abby's face reddened, but she glanced around, then placed her finger in the center. "It's all about stoking the fire, moving and feeling," she said softly. "We also use the withdraw and retreat technique when we're dating. It's that push-pull: you start to get a little close; then you back off. Call it foreplay for the next stage. People use the same technique with their tongues when they kiss."

"I see," Shamara cooed.

"You may be frantic for fulfillment," Abby continued in a silky whisper, "and sometimes it's okay to go ahead and grab a quickie for release. But it's much more erotic to go fast, then pull back slowly and change your rhythm. It's that game of tease and torture."

"Tease and torture," Shamara mimicked. "Ooh, I like that."

"If he's on top, he can move slowly around in circular motions, then penetrate you deeply and withdraw gradually. If you're on top, move yourself slowly round and round, then lift off of him and impale him deliberately. Close your eyes and feel him deep inside you, penetrating you, filling you until you can't breathe, you're so full of him."

Hunter felt himself grow aroused by her husky voice. Excitement bordering on pain held him a prisoner as erotic sensations built.

Shamara circled the desk and bumped her chair, which sent it rolling over one of his hands. He bit his cheek to keep from screaming in pain and tried to move his finger, but the roller held it hostage.

"I think I've got it." Shamara leaned against the chair, digging the metal feet harder into his fingers. "Thanks, Dr. Jensen. It's all clear in my head now."

Abby tossed the toilet paper tube on the cherry desktop, tucked the dog back under her arm, and hugged Shamara. Her movement hit the chair again and it rolled off him, releasing his hand. He pressed his fist to his mouth to keep from gasping in relief.

"And don't you worry about that Hunter Stone, Dr. Jensen," Shamara said with a laugh. "He doesn't know what he's talking about anyway." She made a tsking sound. "No wonder he's divorced; the man probably doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."

Hunter snarled silently as humiliation stung him. Shelly had made the same comment.

But it wasn't true—was it?

"I guess you're right," Abby said. "Thanks, Shamara."

"Anytime. I'll be looking for a sequel to your book."

Abby said good-bye, and Hunter watched her shoes disappear from the front of the desk, then heard them clicking on the floor as she hurried to the elevator.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hunter?"

He winced and glanced up at Shamara's curious face peering down at him. On top of his mental and physical injuries, now he had to face the wrath of Shamara.

Chapter 16

The Long-term Lover

"Listen, Bobby," Hunter said. "I'd appreciate anything you can find out about this guy Lenny Gulliver."

Bobby, a rookie cop he'd met when he'd written a story on careers for a special kids' segment, threw back his beer mug and took a hefty swig, studying Hunter. "What's he to you?"

"Nothing, really. Just research for a story."

Bobby cracked a peanut shell with his teeth, sucked out the peanut, and tossed the shell onto the floor. "Something personal?"

Hunter shifted, drumming his fingers on the table. "No. He was married to one of the women I'm investigating for an article."

"Investigating women—sounds like reporting is right up your alley, bud."

Hunter sipped his beer, remembering his hot reaction to Abby's voice when he'd been hiding under the receptionist's desk.
Disgusting.
She certainly hadn't been talking to him or trying to seduce him. She hadn't even known he was there.

"Gulliver's got an alias: Larry Lombardi. Went to UCLA, but he got kicked out. A couple of arrests, but they've been polished over."

Bobby arched a brow. "Is this a criminal story you're working on?"

"Could be tied to one. I think he ran off on his wife and robbed her blind. Not sure what else he's involved in, but I want the scoop. I'll owe you one."

"All right." Bobby swallowed some more beer, then backhanded his mouth to wipe off the foam. "Just remember me if you stumble on something in the alley while you're looking."

Hunter nodded. This guy probably wanted to make detective. "You know Mo Jo Brown?"

"Hell, everyone knows that creep."

"He's snooping around looking for the man, too. Seems Gulliver owes his boss Eddy Vinelli some money."

Bobby rocked his chair back on two legs. "Well, now you've really got my interest."

Hunter had known the mention of Brown would do it. "Good, I want to find Gulliver before he does."

Bobby glanced around the bar. The happy-hour crowd started to arrive with a riot of noise. A group of ladies who obviously worked out at the gym next door threaded in, dropping workout bags on the floor. A trio from the nail salon followed, flipping their hair and giggling as they ordered martinis. "Deal. Now, here's to bachelor life."

Hunter laughed and toasted, although his heart wasn't in it.

Once upon a time it had been, though. But now...

Now his heart lay in being a father to Lizzie.

The clock on the bare wood wall behind the bar struck five, and he tossed a few bills on the scarred wood counter. It was time to turn himself into Harry Henderson for the night—and probe further into Abby's secrets.

* * *

Abby ignored her attraction toward Harry when he arrived. For now, the only man in her life was going to be the four-legged kind. Her dog couldn't deceive her, run off with her money, or cheat on her. And if he was gay, it didn't matter.

She realized she was being cynical, suffering through the stages of anger and rejection that she had counseled so many scorned lovers through, but she couldn't control her reaction or her feelings.

This, too, would pass.

She counseled her clients to let the feelings come, to work through them, then to move on. She simply wasn't ready to move on yet.

"Dr. Jensen, the radio show will be live," the deejay explained. "It's a question-and-answer session. You two have a few minutes to talk until then."

Abby nodded. Great, she had private time with Harry. She could torture herself by looking at a sexy man she couldn't have.

Harry took his place beside her. "Hi, how was your day?"

Abby frowned. He sounded like a husband. "Rotten. My new puppy peed in my bed, this moron reporter named Stone wrote another slanderous article about me in the morning paper, and my credit cards are maxed because someone borrowed them and decided to treat themselves."

She had no idea why she'd unloaded all that baggage, except that she needed to vent, and Harry Henderson already knew she was lying and was sworn to secrecy, and his husbandly tone had reminded her that she had no husband.

"I'm sorry, Abby."

His quiet apology surprised her. And so did the odd expression on his face. He looked uncomfortable, as if he'd swallowed the proverbial canary and was about to sing.

Heck, she was hallucinating. There was no reason this man would care so much. He was acting, for crying out loud.

"You know, it wouldn't hurt so much," she said, needing to vent some more, "if the article were true. But I have to believe my therapy helps people or I wouldn't continue my work. I can't imagine this Stone guy believing that I actually break up marriages." She hesitated, her breathing quick. "My book, my advice, my therapy, I don't make or break marriages, Harry. Only the people involved can do that."

Harry stared at her long and hard, an intensity in his eyes that she would never have imagined. Maybe she was thinking in clichés, not being fair. He seemed to actually be studying her, looking to see inside her.

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."