Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  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.

  The very reason he wanted to ruin the woman.

  * * *

  Shaken by all the publicity, Abby switched TV channels, but a faintly familiar face flashed onto the screen—the preacher who had married her and Lenny.

  For a brief second the past year flitted through her mind. The good parts.

  And bad.

  A year ago, Lenny had convinced her to elope at a resort in the north Georgia mountains. The special honeymoon getaway came at a steal for only five hundred ninety-nine dollars and included the reverend, marriage certificate, witnesses, organ music, champagne, and a weekend at the resort called the Velvet Cloak Inn. Smitten with the man and not wanting to grapple over wedding plans with her unorthodox parents, who would have squabbled over every detail, she'd agreed.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, we have another late-breaking story," the reporter announced. "Rev. Tony Milano, who has been marrying couples at the famous Velvet Cloak Inn in north Georgia, was arrested today for fraud."

  Chelsea refilled their glasses with fresh margaritas. "Isn't that where you got married, Abby?"

  Abby nodded and turned up the volume.

  "Apparently Mr. Milano is not a real man of the cloth, as he professed, and is not legally qualified to perform marriage ceremonies. Therefore"—the announcer paused, letting the tension build—"if you and your spouse were married by Mr. Milano, your marriage is not legitimate."

  Abby gasped.

  Chelsea slapped her hand on her thigh. "Oh, my gosh."

  "I have to find Lenny," Abby whispered in a weak voice.

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know. He left on a business trip three weeks ago and I haven't heard from him since."

  Chelsea raised an eyebrow as the announcer gained speed. "Mr. Milano has also been accused of conning couples out of their retirement money by offering them vacation packages at another resort in Tennessee, a resort that sources have proven doesn't exist. Milano was released earlier on bail, but law-enforcement officials report that he has disappeared and may be headed out of the country. If you have any idea of his whereabouts, please contact your local police."

  "I can't believe it," Abby whispered in shock. "Lenny and I are—"

  "Living in sin," Chelsea chirped, twisting her crystal necklace between blue fingernails.

  Abby's chest constricted. "We're: not married."

  The doorbell rang and Abby shot off the sofa, sloshing the cold drink all over her bare thigh.

  Chelsea dropped her fingers from the clear crystal. "You want me to get it?"

  Tears threatening, Abby grabbed a napkin and swiped at her leg. "I... you don't suppose reporters have already found out that I was one of Milano's... his fakes?"

  Chelsea shrugged. "So what if they did? You and Lenny can get married by a real preacher. Plus, it'll make great publicity."

  Abby groaned in horror. "The last thing I want is more publicity about my personal life." Lenny's face dashed into her mind—had he heard the news? And if he had, what would he say?

  Would he want to get remarried?

  The doorbell rang again, the sound pealing through the room like fingernails on a chalkboard. Chelsea's gaze locked with hers.

  "See who it is," Abby whispered.

  She huddled behind her sister as they inched to the door. Chelsea peeked through the peephole. "It's a tall, skinny guy with glasses," Chelsea said as if she were suspicious. "Oh, and he's wearing a mailman's uniform."

  "It is the mailman." Abby rolled her eyes and waved Chelsea aside, then opened the door.

  "I have a certified letter here for Abby Jensen Gulliver." He held out an envelope and a clipboard for her to sign. "Are you the Dr. Abigail Jensen who wrote that book Under the Covers?"

  Abby nodded. "Gulliver's my married name." Although Gullible should be. "Jensen's my maiden name." She'd almost said her real name. Which it was, since she wasn't technically married.

  The middle-aged postman beamed at her. "Wow, I can't believe it. My wife bought a copy of your book, and, man... it's hot."

  "I hope you two enjoy some of the exercises." Abby signed for the letter.

  "Oh, yes, ma'am, it's already doing wonders. My wife never would... Well, she didn't like to try different things until she read your advice. She especially liked that chapter on oral—"

  "Great." Abby cut off what she thought might have been a long-winded personal confession, which didn't seem appropriate on her front porch. "Have a nice day and tell your wife hello for me."

  She thanked the postman, then closed the door, but a bad premonition engulfed her as she walked back to the den. What if the letter was some form of notification from the police about her illegal marriage? Would they question all of the people involved with Tony Milano? Subpoena them to testify against him?

  Chelsea sat cross-legged on the sofa with her drink, her gaze fastened on the TV. "They said that preacher married over a hundred couples last year. He made a killing off those phony resort investments."

  "And I just happen to be one of the lucky ones who only fell for his romantic honeymoon haven." She narrowed her eyes, surprised there was no return address. "This is odd."

  "What?"

  "It's from Lenny. Why would he send me a certified letter?"

  Chelsea shrugged. "Maybe he found out about the fake marriage and he's proposing again?"

  Yeah, right. He hadn't been so formal the first time. Her fingers trembled as she tore open the envelope and removed the plain white sheet of paper.

  Dear Abby,

  You have probably seen the news by now and know that our marriage was a sham.

  When we married, Abby, I thought I needed a wife. I wasn't ready to admit a lot of things to myself, much less to the world. But time and circumstances have changed things. Since the police have found out about Tony, he has to leave the country.

  I can't continue this farce of a marriage, not when I finally have the chance to be with Tony, the love of my life.

  Good-bye, Abby.

  Abby swayed and sank to the sofa in shock as the words swam in front of her eyes. "What is it, sis?"

  The letter fluttered to the floor. "It's a Dear John letter," she said in a weak voice. "Lenny left me for..."

/>   Outrage filled Chelsea's eyes. "He ran off with another woman?"

  "No." Her gaze swung to Chelsea, her stomach plummeting. "He ran off with another man."

  Chapter 2

  The Voice of a Vamp

  Hunter tried to momentarily forget about the queen of sex, Dr. Jensen, when his five-year-old daughter's innocent voice called his name. She raced toward his SUV, her Angelica doll clutched in one hand, leaped into his arms, and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

  "Hey, Daddy."

  "Hey, pudding."

  "You'll have her back by bedtime, won't you?" Shelly wiped a speck of dust from the door of her silver Mercedes sports car.

  Hunter nodded tightly and ruffled Lizzie's blond curls as he buckled her into the front seat of his Explorer. "We're just going to dinner, Shelly."

  "Good. Daryl says it's better for children to stick to a schedule."

  Hunter circled around to his side of the car, his jaw aching from clenching it. For the past fifteen minutes his ex had lectured him on Daryl's idea of parenting. As if Hunter intended to take advice from the wife stealer on how to raise his own child.

  Besides, a routine schedule was a sore subject between him and his ex. During their marriage he'd encouraged her to put Lizzie on a schedule when she was a baby, but Shelly's version of a schedule meant whatever tickled her fancy at the moment.

  Or whatever sale hit the malls.

  Maybe she'd changed. After all, she actually seemed concerned about Lizzie's diet. Yet he couldn't help but think Shelly had gone to the extreme the other way.

  "Oh, and make sure she eats properly." Shelly pointed to the tofu-and-bean-sprout cafe beside them. Apparently her new husband was also a health fanatic, or maybe Shelly had taken up an alfalfa-sprout-and-seaweed diet. She'd always jumped from one diet to another. Flitted from one man to another, even after they were married... only he'd been too foolish to know it. She'd been young and beautiful and charming and had a great pair of legs....

  And he'd been a fool for following after those legs and not looking to see if the woman had a brain on top of that body.

  Shelly huffed. "Are you listening to me at all, Hunter?"

  "I'll make sure she eats," he said, refusing to argue in front of Lizzie.

  Shelly briefly touched Lizzie's forehead with a manicured hand. " 'Bye, sweetie. Have fun."

  Hunter frowned and watched her climb into her car, adjusting her outfit to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in her linen skirt. He wondered if she ever hugged their daughter, ever cuddled or played with Lizzie.

  "Daddy, what's this?"

  His ex's Mercedes screeched as she peeled from the parking lot.

  Hunter swung his gaze toward Lizzie and mentally groaned. "It's a book, honey."

  Dr. Jensen's book. He'd finally gotten a copy at the fourth store he'd visited. Of course, he had a few scratches to show for it.

  "What's the name of it?"

  He climbed into his seat, took the book from her, then tossed it onto the backseat. "Uh... Under the Covers."

  Lizzie's big brown eyes looked up at him innocently. "Is it a bedtime story?"

  "Sort of. For adults, I guess."

  "Oh, I've seen it afore." Lizzie patted Angelica's head. "It's that sex book Mommy gots."

  "What?"

  "That sex book. Mommy readed it to Daryl."

  "Really? What did she say about it?"

  "She talked about doing the mattress mambo."

  Mattress mambo? He made a mental note to warn Shelly that Lizzie's ears were bigger than she might realize.

  "What's mattress mambo, Daddy?"

  "Uh, it's complicated, honey." Sweat dribbled down Hunter's neck. "Daddy's supposed to interview the author of the book and write a story about her for the paper."

  He had to change the subject. "I heard your tummy growl. What do you want for dinner?"

  Lizzie licked her lips. "French fries."

  He laughed, then steered the car across the street to the nearest fast-food burger place and parked. "All right, but you have to eat some hamburger, too."

  Lizzie frowned. "Icky Micky said hamburger comes from dead cows."

  "Who's Icky Micky?"

  "This boy at school that gots cooties. He throws dead bugs at the girls on the playground." She undid her seatbelt and crawled into his lap. "Do hamburgers really come from dead cows?"

  Hunter swung her from the SUV onto the sidewalk. "Afraid so."

  "Icky Micky said they grinded up their guts to make 'em."

  "Well—"

  "Are we're eatin' bloody guts and stomachs, Daddy?"

  "Well..."

  She clapped her hands over her ears. "Angelica and I don't want to eat bloody cow guts and ears, do we, Angelica?" Lizzie wiggled the doll's head back and forth as if it were saying no.

  "You don't have to, honey. Let's have chicken fingers instead."

  "Icky Micky said they cut-off chicken toes to make chicken fingers."

  Hunter wanted to strangle Icky Micky. At this rate they'd be eating nothing but nuts and berries. "We'll just have french fries then."

  Lizzie exhaled a big sigh of relief. "Good."

  "By the way, where does Icky Micky get all his information?"

  "From his number one stepdaddy." Lizzie held up three fingers. "He gots three daddies. And his mama gots the sex lady's book, too."

  Hunter gritted his teeth. The book obviously hadn't helped her stay married any more than Dr. Jensen's advice to Shelly had.

  Would he wind up as a number in a long string of fill-in fathers to Lizzie someday?

  * * *

  "What do you mean, he left you for a man?" Chelsea snatched the letter from Abby's hands and skimmed the contents. "What a cold and impersonal note. That slimy SOB."

  "That slimy gay SOB," Abby clarified.

  "Bi, not gay," Chelsea corrected. "I mean, you two did have sex... um, didn't you?"

  Abby clenched her hands, battling tears. "Yes, Chelsea we were married almost a year. Of course we had sex." Not mindboggling sex, but okay sex, Abby thought, remembering Lenny's reluctance to please her in certain ways. In fact, he had been just as cold and impersonal as the letter the last few weeks of their marriage.

  She dropped her head in her hands, a dozen memories suffusing her. A million telltale signs... God, she'd been such a fool.

  Had Lenny known Tony was a fake all along? Had everything been a lie?

  She'd thought she was in love with him, especially during those first few months. And even after the initial sizzling attraction had worn off, she'd tried to make things work. Her whole world revolved around family and commitment, and she refused to become another statistic on the dismal divorce charts, so she'd pulled from all her resources to spark their romance back to life.

  But Lenny had never wanted her. Had never loved her. He'd been lying to her, pretending he wanted to be married to her when all that time he'd been hiding in the closet, struggling over whether or not to open the door and step out.

  She rocked herself back and forth, her insides aching.

  "I figured you two were wild in bed," Chelsea said, oblivious to her turmoil. "After all, you are a sex therapist."

  "I'm not a sex therapist," Abby said for what felt like the hundredth time. She swiped at her eyes. "I'm a couple's therapist. And obviously not a very good one if I couldn't tell my own husband was gay."

  "Bi."

  Abby sniffled. "Same difference."

  "Not really." Chelsea flipped a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder. "Did you know... he swung both ways?"

  "No." Abby flopped her head back on the sofa, feeling dumb and hurt. Why hadn't she known?

  The unpacked boxes scattered across the hall and den glared back at her. She considered the bag of comfort candy, but her stomach protested.

  "Has he been acting different lately?" Chelsea asked.

  Abby chewed at a hangnail. "I didn't think about it then, but yeah. He was sort of cool and distant before his trip. And
I was surprised he was going to be gone for three weeks."

  "Hmm. You haven't talked to him since?"

  Abby shook her head, hating to admit the truth. "Not even once. And he just left his things in the apartment and told me I could move them. But the rent's paid up through the month, so I left them there so he could sort them when he returned."

  "Did he show any interest in the house, talk about the future?"

  No. "Not really." But he had let her ramble on and on about fixing it up, making a nursery. "He gave me full rein. Told me to pick the colors I wanted." She paused and looked at her sister, realization dawning, along with all the little signs she had dismissed in her efforts not to become a nag. "He didn't even complain when I chose this striped-print design for the chair."

  "A bad sign?"

  Her lower lip trembled. "I thought he was just being sweet, trying to compromise." The way she had in bed.

  Chelsea gave her a sympathetic look and picked at the hem of her tie-dyed T-shirt with the words, The truth will set you free emblazoned on the front in neon pink lettering.

  The truth about Lenny jolted through her, fighting with reality the way the kaleidoscope of reds and oranges warred with one another on her sister's shirt. "He... he never planned to move in here. He was planning to leave with Tony all along."

  "I'm really sorry, Abby." Chelsea squeezed her hand. "I know how you feel about marriage. This must be such a shock."

  Abby hugged her arms around her middle, willing herself to hold back the landslide of tears pushing at her eyes. Like a damn bursting, they spilled over.

  "I'm an idiot, Chels." The tears gushed out. "I... I kept trying to make him happy while he was cheating on me with a m-man."

  * * *

  Three hours later, Hunter dropped Lizzie back with her mother, then hit the computer at home to research Abby Jensen's background before he approached her. This article had to be good.

  No, not good. Outstanding.

  He wanted to ressurrect his reputation, move up the ladder of success at the AJC, make enough money to give Lizzie everything she wanted. And maybe have more time off to spend with her. These bogus little assignments had him working day and night for nothing. If he missed time with her because of a big story and made a name for himself, at least she would be proud of him.