Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  Although the three of them looked nothing alike, judging from their close comradeship, they were either best friends or sisters. The blonde and the brunette faintly resembled the girls in the newspaper picture he'd seen of Dr. Jensen at age twelve, but he couldn't be sure.

  Judging from Abby's tone, something was wrong.

  She sounded stricken. As if she'd just been delivered some very bad news.

  He fought the sympathy that welled inside him. And the other part of him that swelled at the sight of those angelic eyes and those luscious lips.

  Angelic dark eyes that held secrets and luscious lips that might be telling lies.

  Besides, she was a married woman. Attached. Unavailable to his lusting libido.

  "I can't deceive everyone like that," Abby Jensen whispered in a strained voice.

  "But it's perfect," the blonde argued. "I'm sure I won't have any trouble finding someone. Just leave it all up to me."

  "No," Abby said in a hiss. "I'll just have to find another way to address the reporters' questions."

  The blonde jiggled her silver hoop earrings. "What about Lenny?"

  "I don't know," Abby said, a note of despair in her voice. "But I'm not ready to reveal the sordid details of my private life."

  Hunter scooted his chair back farther, fighting ficus leaves that clawed at his head as he jammed himself closer to Abby's table, then leaned backward in the chair, tilting it on two legs. The waitress across the way spied him and frowned, but he merely waved and cocked his head to the side to listen for more.

  "I'll check with that friend of mine from the police force and see if I can find out any more information on Lenny," the dark-haired woman said.

  Hunter's eyebrows arched.

  "Shh, keep your voices down," Abby whispered. "The last thing I want is for all of this to get out. Those nosy reporters would ruin me. What if one of them followed me here?" She glanced around the restaurant, and Hunter jerked his head into his hand, then yanked the menu up to cover his eyes.

  Suddenly a beefy face appeared on the opposite side of the opening. Hunter froze, trying to formulate an explanation. "What are you doing, sir?"

  "I... uh, lost my sunglasses."

  The man circled the plant to glare at him. "They're on your head, sir."

  "Oh, yes." What was wrong with him? Had he lost his investigative skills?

  The man eyed him suspiciously.

  Not wanting Abby Jensen to spot him or make a scene, he pivoted and stood to leave, but the back of the chair caught the plant and sent it careening. The waiter tried to grab it, but the ficus soared sideways, and its leafy top landed in the middle of Abby Jensen's table.

  * * *

  Abby and her sisters shrieked and jumped up all at once, drinks and food crashing to the gray patterned carpet. Victoria cursed and swiped at her silk pantsuit while Chelsea laughed and picked salsa from her black capris. Abby scooped the chips from her lap, snagged one from the cleavage of her shell, and dropped them back onto the white table.

  The waiter and bald maitre d' ran over, frantic. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm sorry, ladies." The maitre d' tried to brush scattered chips from Abby's jacket.

  "What happened?" Victoria asked.

  "Some strange man had wedged his chair back into that plant. He looked as if he was eavesdropping on you ladies," the bald man said. "When I went to question him, he knocked the plant over as he ran off."

  Abby dug her nails into the table. "Was he dressed like a woman?"

  The waiter narrowed his eyes. "No, why would you think that?"

  "Uh, no reason," Abby said.

  "I bet it was a reporter." Chelsea craned her neck to see, as did Abby and Victoria, but only a few curious guests stared back. "They've been hounding my sister for an interview. She's famous, you know. She wrote a book on sex."

  Abby glared at Chelsea, ready to throttle her.

  The bald man's eyes widened. "Really?"

  "Yes, she's the Dr. Jensen," Chelsea chirped. "She wrote the bestseller Under the Covers, hottest sex tips ever."

  Suddenly the waiter and maitre d' treated them like royalty. "Let us get you to a clean table, ladies." The waiter whipped a fresh napkin from the new table, whisked it out, ushered Chelsea into a seat, and laid it on her lap.

  The maitre d' coached Abby to the table. "Yes, and how about a round of drinks on the house."

  Chelsea beamed and extended her hands as if to say thanks while Victoria eagerly slid into the rearmost seat of the secluded table. "I'll face the doorway so I can see if anyone else comes looking for you."

  Abby claimed the chair opposite her, tension knotting her neck as she tried to forget the incident. Was the man a reporter? And if so, had he overheard their conversation?

  * * *

  Hunter grimaced as he entered his boss's office, still unable to believe he'd knocked a plant right on top of his target and almost gotten caught. But at least he was onto a hot story, and he had an idea how to get closer to Abby Jensen.

  The scents of ink and coffee and stale doughnuts wafted up from Ralph's desk. The man grabbed a jelly doughnut, bit a hunk out of it, and stuffed a handful of notes into Hunter's hand without bothering to look up.

  "Here, check out this stuff next."

  Hunter glanced at the top assignment and bit back a curse—the ongoing battle between the Little League parents in Fulton County. Dads and moms fighting on the field like kids; it had become a suburban nightmare. One man had even beaten a referee with a baseball bat and sent him to the hospital.

  Not that the story wasn't newsworthy, but... he had bigger fish to fry.

  Only, he'd made a mess of things at the restaurant. Once that plant had gone flying, he had to disappear fast or blow his cover.

  "Get those to me as soon as you can," Ralph said.

  "Listen, Ralph, I think I may have a lead on that Jensen woman—"

  "I'm putting Addleton on that story," Ralph said. "He thinks he can get an in-depth interview."

  "Just give me a chance here." Hunter squared his shoulders and stood to his six-three height, hoping his size might add weight to his argument, but once again Ralph crammed the doughnut into his mouth and didn't bother to look up. Instead he mopped jelly from the copy he was editing.

  "Listen, I'm already working on the story. I think I have a way to get close to her."

  Ralph finally glanced up, his eyes narrowed in his pudgy face. "All right. You've got twenty-four hours to come up with something." He stabbed a finger at him. "But make sure whatever it is, it sticks. I want facts, not a lawsuit on my hands."

  "Right. Thanks, Emerson. You won't be sorry."

  Ralph poked the pencil behind his ear. "Oh, and get that Little League story, too, while you're at it."

  Hunter nodded and headed to the door. He'd knock that little piece out in no time, then check to see what he could dig up on Abby's husband.

  But first he'd head toward the arts center and find Abby's sister, Chelsea.

  He had a feeling she would lead him to the story of a lifetime.

  * * *

  Victoria's questions about Lenny had needled Abby all the way home.

  She literally tore apart her new house looking for evidence that her husband—no, her faux husband—might have been involved in a conspiracy with Tony Milano. Adding an arrest for impeding an investigation to her growing repertoire of mistakes would only add more madness to the mayhem. She did not want to be caught unaware if the police approached her with accusations or questions. If she found anything, she'd call Victoria.

  Two hours later, she stared at the disheveled boxes and her belongings, which lay scattered helter-skelter all over the room. Clothes, books, magazines, shoes, kitchen gadgets, and small household odds and ends littered the floor. Some of the sketches that had accompanied the chapters in her book sat propped against her desk. She blushed slightly at the nude poses, tempted to put the pictures away. But she needed to remember that she was a sexual being, an appealing
woman. It wasn't her fault Lenny had stopped wanting to sleep with her.

  He was simply gay.

  Trying to make herself believe his lack of interest in her wasn't her fault was another story, though. She had to wonder if she'd been deficient in some way....

  Haunted by his lies, she riffled through her office files, studying the ones relating to their finances and investments, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

  Nada. Not one thing in her house pointed to Lenny as a criminal.

  Unless she counted the fraudulent marriage.

  Grateful for small favors, she pocketed her keys, headed to her trusty Toyota, and drove toward the old apartment she and Lenny had shared. The rent had been paid through the remainder of the month, and she still had a key. Had Lenny returned to retrieve his things or were they still there? And if they were, would she find evidence of his betrayal?

  * * *

  A sliver of guilt had attacked Hunter on the way to the arts center, so he decided to try one last time to get an upfront interview with the good doctor. He climbed the steps to her porch, a summer shower threatening, the heat beating down on him like a sledgehammer. The blue Williamsburg-style cottage looked like something out of the movies. A white picket fence. Bird feeders in the yard. A patch of impatiens in a flower bed along the front with marigolds in pots on the front porch. Nice and homey and old-fashioned. Traditional.

  Not at all the type of outlandish, wild place he might have expected from the contemporary sex therapist.

  Dismissing the unsettling feeling that she might not be the vixen he believed, he planned a little persuasive argument. He'd hint that he knew she was hiding something, and if she spoke with him, he'd cut her a break and write the story from her viewpoint. He'd even suck up and tell her how much he admired her work.

  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.