Under the Covers (9 page)

How could she resist a fair deal like that?

He tucked his white shirt into his khakis, adopted a non-threatening smile, and punched the doorbell. He only hoped his charm worked with Abby Jensen. Several seconds passed while he waited, the drilling sound of a woodpecker hammering at the roof invading the quiet. He punched the bell again, shifting from foot to foot as he waited. Nothing. Three more times he rang, adding a loud knock to the door just in case she didn't hear the bell.

Still nothing.

Was she home, simply ignoring him?

He glanced at the small garage but the windowless room offered no clue as to whether her car was parked inside, so he stepped to the right side of the porch and peered inside her front window.

His curiosity stirred further.

A group of charcoal drawings of nudes engaged in various forms of sexual contact lay propped against a wooden desk. A couple lying side by side, not touching, simply staring into each other's eyes. A man tracing his finger over a woman's soft, pouty lower lip. Another man with his lips pressed to a woman's long, slender thigh.

He jerked at his collar, perspiration trickling down his back as he studied the other poses. A woman poised with her head thrown back, long hair flowing down her back, her bare breasts jutting forward in offering. A man leaning over a woman's voluptuous body, their naked bodies tangled together. This was the Abby Jensen he'd expected.

Her heart-shaped face floated into his mind and replaced the sketches. He imagined her naked body tangling with his own. Her supple curves, the contours of her hips as she arched her back—

No, he was a breast man, not a butt man. Why would he be imagining her hips?

A cat screeched somewhere in the background, jerking him back to reality. Irritated with himself, he dragged his gaze from the artwork and surveyed what little he could see of the rest of the house through the curtainless window. Clothes, shoes, papers, and books littered the floor, a dozen file folders were strewn across a computer desk, and a lamp lay on its side. Gold candy wrappers dotted the mess. It looked as if the house had been ransacked.

His pulse leaped. What if there had been a burglary? Was the intruder still there?

He craned his neck to investigate further but spotted no sign of life or movement—only boxes and more items scattered haphazardly through the front hall.

Hmm. What exactly had happened at the doctor's house? Had she just moved in or was she packing up to move away now? Maybe she was going somewhere in a hurry.

He jangled his keys as he jogged down the steps to his car. Then he sped off and headed toward the arts center.

* * *

Midnight shadows hugged the walls as Abby finally returned to her house.

She had searched the old apartment, but Lenny had obviously taken any financial and business data with him. She had, however, found several pairs of women's panty hose and garters that didn't belong to her.

If he hadn't revealed his sexual preference in his kiss-off letter, she would have thought he'd had a woman on the side. Now she realized he'd probably bought the undergarments for himself or his lover.

What had she become—a magnet for cross-dressers? Gays? Men confused about their sexuality? Not that there was anything wrong with gay men or women, but... she must be putting out the wrong vibes.

Exhausted, she pulled into her driveway, hit the automatic garage-door opener, and coasted inside. But as she climbed out, she noticed a dark SUV across the street. She turned for a brief moment and thought she saw someone inside.

Could a reporter be sitting outside? Or could it be the police—had they found a connection between Tony and Lenny?

Chapter 5

Hot Lips

Victoria wet her lips with her tongue, a case of nerves attacking her. She would rather face a ruthless judge or a notorious criminal than go on a date. In fact, she should be home working now.

But Abby needed her, so she would go through with the evening.

Stefan Suarez, a detective with the Atlanta Police Department, stalked toward her, his dark Latino looks even more appealing in the white button-down shirt and gray slacks he'd chosen to wear. Damn, he was what Chelsea would call a hot tamale.

She clutched the edge of the checkered tablecloth, the scents of Mama Mia's famous Italian food fading as Stefan neared. His aftershave or cologne, whatever he wore, smelled like sex and sin and male, deadly combinations that destroyed the salutation she'd been practicing all day.

"I'm glad you finally returned my call." He slid into the booth across from her, his piercing brown gaze raking over her with appreciation.

"I
..." I have no idea what to say.
"I wasn't sure I would call you back."

He studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes serious and unnerving, giving her just enough time to notice that his dark hair was still damp, the long strands feathering down his neck around his collar. He also wore some kind of gold cross around his neck. And he probably needed to shave three times a day.

"Why not, Victoria?" He reached across the table, pried her hands from the edge, and pulled them into his, a slow smile curving his mouth. "You know I've been interested in you for a long time."

She had to look away. This was not going as planned. She'd met with him only to pick his brain for information about Lenny. "I'm afraid I might have misled you."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I wanted to ask you a favor."

His smile faded slightly. "All right. But let's order first." He flicked a hand at the waitress, who glided over and took their order. Before she could refuse a drink, he'd ordered wine, a dark, rich red that soothed her nerves slightly.

"Now, what was that favor?" He tore off a chunk of bread and she averted her gaze, determined to resist his potent charm. She gathered her senses enough to relate her fabricated story and ask about Lenny.

"So a client of yours was jilted by this guy and you want me to see what I can find out about him?"

"That's right."

He took a long sip of his drink, letting his fingers curl around the base of the long-stemmed glass. She imagined him stroking her skin with those nimble fingers....

"I suppose I could do that." He leaned forward, and Victoria's eyes were riveted to his mouth. "Now, will you do something for me?"

She swallowed. "That depends."

A low chuckle escaped him. "What's wrong? You don't trust me, Victoria?"

"I don't trust any man."

His dark brow shot up, although he didn't look surprised. "Care to fill me in?"

She shrugged. "Comes with the job, I guess."

"And the family?"

"What do you know about my family?"

"Nothing." He offered a sad smile. "Just guessing."

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Stefan. I didn't mean to be rude."

He folded his napkin, his gaze meeting hers. "Don't apologize for being who you are, Victoria. Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That you'll give me a chance to prove you wrong."

* * *

Abby had hardly slept all night for wondering if the police or reporters were onto her. And then her publicist had phoned at five A.M. to spring her own surprise—she'd scheduled Abby for an appearance on a local talk show called
BookTalk.
Abby had balked, but Rainey had finally convinced her that one interview might quiet the hoopla surrounding her, so she'd agreed. She just prayed it worked.

Summer heat bowed the blades of grass and shimmered off the pavement as she parked in the guest space at the TV station and climbed out of her car. The downtown area buzzed with traffic and sirens and blaring horns. Her heart raced as she mentally ticked off the disasters dogging her.

She was a normal, rational, basically good person; she even attended church and gave a regular tithe. But she'd achieved success only to discover the very same day that her marriage was fraudulent, and that her fake husband and possibly a criminal, was gay and now she'd been thrust into a TV interview that she didn't want to do in order to avoid having to do a string of other publicity stunts.

She had never had secrets in her entire life. She'd always been an open book.

Now her life's pages had been smeared with smut, and she needed to superglue them together to keep them from being placed on display for the public to read. She imagined her face plastered on a grocery store tabloid—the headlines:
Lunatic Therapist Professes Love but Leads Double Life,
Sex Therapist Nothing but a Fake.

How much more could a sane body take?

Frantic and debating over whether or not she should skip the country like Lenny, she rushed into the studio at eleven-thirty, praying the interview was short and sweet and to the point. With a name like
BookTalk,
surely the show and staff would be professional and serious, none of that invasive suggestive, smutty stuff about Dr. Abby and the bedroom.

Several minutes later, after she'd been ushered through makeup, had her hair spritzed and woven into a sleek chignon, and her panty hose replaced—thank heavens for female staff, since she'd ripped her stockings when she'd climbed out of the car—she approached the set with trepidation.

Francine, the director, a distinguished woman with ebony skin and glossy hair, escorted her backstage. "We film before a live audience."

Abby froze. "I thought this was a taped interview. Just me and the anchorperson."

"Oh, no. We want audience participation."

Abby teetered sideways. A poster-sized copy of her cover sat in the middle of two wingback chairs. Bright spotlights glared at her. Through the resulting darkness, a sea of people swam before her frightened eyes.

"We have about five minutes; then we'll call you on." Francine left to speak to the cameraman, and Abby watched, trying to calm her nerves, when suddenly Chelsea attacked her from behind.

"I'm so glad I made it in time."

Abby hugged her, her eyes widening at Chelsea's banana costume: yellow face makeup, yellow tights, yellow everything.

"I'm auditioning for a commercial for a new fruity kids' cereal after this. I thought dressing the part might help me land the job." Chelsea said automatically. "But I couldn't miss your show."

"Thanks, sis, I need all the moral support..." Her words died at the sight of the man beside Chelsea. Light blue eyes the color of a summer sky gazed down at her from a broad, tanned face.

He had a body to match. Six-feet-plus of hard planes, muscles, and sinewy strength, dark hair that looked rumpled, as if he'd just jumped out of a mattress mambo himself, a thick mustache that curled up when he smiled, and a powerful presence that exuded the scent of a lover.

Raw and carnal and primitive.

Her own husband had never affected her like this.

On second thought, the man's hair looked fake. And so did the mustache. But his overwhelming size could not be padded. Underneath he was still as dangerously potent as homemade sin.

Something about him seemed familiar. Who did he remind her of?

No, if she'd met this man before she wouldn't have forgotten him. He had charisma, sex appeal, and the most intense hungry look in his eyes.

He must be Chelsea's latest boyfriend. They came and went faster than race cars at the tracks. She was just about to ask for an introduction when the director waved her on-air.

The voice of the anchorman, Eric Segoda, sprang from the microphone. "Dr. Abigail Jensen is here to visit us today and talk about her new book,
Under the Covers."
He paused for emphasis. "Welcome Dr. Jensen onstage, folks! She's the Dear Abby of the bedroom."

Abby staggered backward as if she might bolt. Applause suddenly rang out and people started chanting her name.

"Abby, Abby, Abby...?"

Chelsea shoved her from behind and she tottered forward.

Abby was thankful the first questions were easy: the idea for the book, her professional expertise, her work ethics, and her beliefs about marriage and monogamy.

"Your workshops, Women First..." Segoda paused and Abby nodded in confirmation. "They advocate putting a woman's desires and pleasures before a man's?"

Abby frowned. "Not at all. By nature, women are caregivers. I simply encourage them to consider their own needs and try to communicate them to their husbands."

"So you aren't suggesting women assume a dominant role?"

Abby shrugged. "I'm not advocating either sex take a dominant role. Each relationship is different; it depends on the couple."

"But you find women dominating men sexually stimulating?"

Abby fought the urge to squirm. "As I said, it can be or it might not be, depending on the couple involved, their likes and dislikes, their needs, their preferences."

"About your chapter on sexual positions – do you think women should be on top there?"

Abby blushed. Sometimes she liked to be on top, sometimes she liked a powerful man over her. "Again, it depends on the couple's preferences. But changing and trying new positions can add excitement to a sexual relationship."