Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  The camera jumped back to the audience. "The big mystery, you mean," another man commented.

  A brunette in her twenties jumped up. "We want men who care."

  "And men who take care of us."

  "And men who make us scream with pleasure."

  "I pleased my woman." A young black man threw up his hand. "See, I wrote crib notes from the book right here to help me out."

  "I did, too," a yuppie-looking guy with wire-rimmed glasses added. "We had sex for twenty-four hours straight."

  "What about what we want?" a bodybuilder-type man asked.

  "Yeah, what about our needs?"

  Abby cut in smoothly. "The book addresses both sexes' needs and the fact that each partner needs to listen to the other."

  "That's right." Hunter leaned sideways. "Just let your girl whisper in your ear what she wants. You take care of her"—he pulled their clasped hands to his chest—"she'll take care of you."

  "I'm afraid we have to close on that note," Segoda said. "But we'd love to have you come back, Dr. Jensen, and talk with us again."

  She stood to shake the host's hand, and Hunter followed suit. But just as she extended her arm, a pair of her panties slid from beneath the cuff of her jacket. Hunter grabbed them just before they fell into Segoda's hands.

  Pasting a shit-eating grin on his face, he twirled them around his hand. "See, ladies and gentlemen, how can the honeymoon be over when your wife tosses her panties at you everywhere you go?" He nuzzled her neck for emphasis.

  Abby's mouth dropped open, the crowd roared, and he covered her reaction with another kiss. Her mouth felt hot, her small gasp of surprise another kick to his libido as he tasted the inner recesses of her mouth. Reminding himself he was still onstage, he slowly pulled away, laced his fingers with hers, turned and waved the panties in the air, then led her offstage.

  * * *

  "That was great!" Chelsea jumped up and down, her banana suit bobbing.

  "Great?" Abby whispered between clenched teeth. "It was horrible."

  "Nonsense, you were wonderful. I can't believe you pulled that clever trick with the panties."

  "That was an accident," Abby screeched. "They must have gotten stuck to my blouse in the dryer."

  "Good show, you two." The producer pumped their hands. "Nice touch with that underwear trick."

  Several crew members joined in the congratulations.

  Chelsea's cheeks glowed pink beneath her yellow makeup as she embraced the actor. "And you were fabulous. I loved the thong."

  Abby blushed to the roots of her hair. The man still had the panties wrapped around his hands!

  Staff and more camera crew flocked around them, asking for autographs. Abby spent the next few minutes trying to be gracious, accepting praise for what she considered a fiasco and they considered a stroke of TV brilliance. The actor who'd played her husband stood in the shadows and watched her, his eyes gleaming with emotions she couldn't read. Curiosity. Enjoyment over her discomfort.

  Lust.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Chelsea's wave good-bye. She gestured toward the banana suit. "Got to run for the commercial. I can't keep the fruity flakes waiting."

  Abby glared at her, but Chelsea ignored her and dashed out the back. Desperate to escape the show set as soon as possible, Abby thanked the producer and host and turned to leave. As soon as they got out of earshot, she'd find out this actor's name, pay him whatever salary Chelsea had offered him, and say good-bye to him.

  And to her TV days.

  * * *

  "Where do we go from here?" Hunter asked as they stepped outside together. The late-afternoon breeze stirred Abby's perfume toward him like an aphrodisiac, sucking him into its seductive lair. They stood under the awning of the building, the parking lot stretched out before them, traffic moving slowly by in the distance.

  Abby's startled gaze swung to him. "We don't go anywhere, Mr...." She threw up her hands. "Good grief, I don't even know your name. Or what Chelsea told you about today."

  "Harry." Hunter extended his hand, grinning when she simply stared at his offering as if he were a bloodsucking slug that had crawled from beneath a rock and would latch onto her any second. Then again, the handshake formality did seem ludicrous in light of their earlier kiss. "Harry Henderson."

  A short bubble of laughter erupted from her. "Stage name, right?"

  He nodded. "Definitely."

  She rolled her eyes, irking him, and he dropped his hand. It wasn't as if she were being completely honest here herself.

  "And your sister hired me to play your husband for a day. What else was there to tell me?"

  Abby studied him, her eyes narrowed, her suspicions brewing. "Nothing."

  Hunter nodded, deciding not to push just yet. "What other shows or interviews do you need me for?"

  That telltale blush stained her cheeks again. "Um..." She shifted to her other foot, squinting through the fading afternoon sunshine. Her dainty chin wobbled as she tried to collect her thoughts. "None, thankfully. Today was the beginning and the end of my TV career."

  "You don't have other interviews lined up?"

  "No." She shrugged. "I hate all this publicity."

  "Really?" He cupped her elbow with his hand. "Then you won't be needing a husband—"

  "Shh." Her gaze darted around nervously, although the parking area seemed deserted. "Can we go someplace and get a cup of coffee? I'd like to finish our business in private."

  His eyebrows arched involuntarily. "Lead the way, honey."

  She glared at him. "I'll meet you at Third Cup. It's right around the corner."

  He nodded and watched her rush to her Toyota. Maybe over coffee Abigail Jensen would let her defenses slip and spill the beans about her marriage.

  And he would move in for the kill, rake them right into the palm of his hand, and make himself a double-tall latte with the grounds. Then he could sip the fruits of his labor while he lay back and watched his name climb the ladder of success.

  * * *

  Abby settled into a corner with her decaf mocha, her nerves on edge as Harry Henderson seated himself across from her. Something about the man seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. It was almost as if she'd met him before. His eyes... they were so blue. Where had she seen eyes like that before?

  The cross-dresser who'd rescued her at the book signing that day? She tilted her head, studying him. No, she hadn't seen the woman's eyes because of those funky orange sunglasses. And this man was too masculine, too macho ever to dress as a woman, Even in acting a part. Besides, she hadn't actually seen the woman/man very clearly that day.

  She pulled out her checkbook, determined to make this short and sweet. Then again, she'd better play nice and find out just how much he knew about her situation. Had Chelsea opened up a whole can of worms or what? Forcing herself to relax, she offered him a smile. "So, Mr. Henderson, how did you fall into today's part?"

  One dark eyebrow rose as he leaned back casually in his chair, his big body oozing masculine testosterone. "I stopped by the arts center to find out if they held general auditions and as luck would have it Chelsea said she might have just the job for me." He raised his coffee, his thick fingers wrapped around the cup. "Apparently they hadn't advertised very well for this part. I was the only male, so I lucked out."

  Yes, well, Chelsea hadn't exactly advertised that Abby needed a husband. Had she?

  Because if she had, those worms might escape the can.... "Have you done a lot of acting?"

  "A little." His big shoulders lifted and fell, drawing attention to the way his blue shirt matched his eyes.

  Good heavens, she was not supposed to be looking at his eyes. "Where else have you acted?"

  "Oh, small-time jobs. Nothing you would have heard of."

  She nodded. Not a man of words, was he? Then again, maybe she sounded as if she were interrogating him. "And Chelsea just said you needed to play my husband for a day?"

  He sipped his dr
ink, his dark gaze locking with hers. Heat emanated from his blue eyes, from every cell in his body. "Yes. I have to admit I was curious as to the reason." He leaned closer, his mouth just a hairbreath away. She remembered his lips, the feel of them on hers, and swallowed. "Where is the real superstud husband?"

  Abby squeezed her cup so hard, coffee sloshed out. She grabbed a napkin, wiping the whipped cream from her fingers. "I thought Chelsea probably explained."

  His gaze trapped hers. "She said he was out of the country. So unless there's trouble in paradise, why didn't you just tell the director the truth?"

  Abby's fingers tightened around her cup again. No trouble in paradise. There was trouble everywhere she turned. "I... I was going to, but Chelsea had this wild idea and hired you before I could stop her. In fact, I told her the other day I didn't want to do this."

  "I still don't understand." He splayed his hands in a questioning gesture. "Why hire an actor? Why not wait until your real husband comes home?"

  Abby grappled for a reply. She'd never been good at lying, but the entire truth was just too painful to share. "Because I'm not sure where Lenny is."

  He waited, studying her. Was that sympathy in his eyes?

  "He's been detained, and I need some time to figure out why and to help him before the press finds out."

  "I see."

  He did?

  A slow smile curved his mouth. "Chelsea said he's in Brazil?"

  Mexico. Brazil. Hell if she knew. "Yes." Desperate, she covered his hand with hers. "Please, Mr. Henderson. I need some time. I don't want to do anything that might endanger him."

  She was surprised her nose hadn't grown with that whopper of a lie.

  His long fingers curled around hers, enveloping her small hand. The touch set off a siren in her mind, warning her that Harry Henderson, apish though the name sounded, exuded sex in spades. He should come equipped with a warning label that read Danger.

  She slowly released his hand, well aware his dark gaze tracked her jittery fingers as she reached for her purse. "Well, thank you, Harry. Now, how much do I owe you?"

  His dark eyebrow rose. "You don't owe me, Abby."

  "But—"

  "Your sister hired me; she'll take care of the bill through the arts center."

  "Oh, right." She'd forgotten how the center worked. She'd just have to cover it with Chelsea.

  "Are you sure you don't need me for other appearances?" A wicked grin teased the corners of his mouth. " 'Cause I'm available if you do."

  She squirmed and sipped her mocha. "I don't plan any. Today was humiliating enough."

  "I thought it went pretty well. The audience loved you."

  "No, they loved you... I mean your act."

  "They did enjoy that quick save with the panties."

  She froze, remembering he'd stuck them in his pocket as they'd left.

  "By the way, nice choice," he said in a gruff voice.

  Abby avoided his gaze, but his husky tone washed over her like silk along her skin. "They got caught in the dryer with my blouse."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Really." Abby fanned her face. "I spilled something on my blouse this morning and had to rinse it and dry it before the show and..." His low chuckle forced her to let the sentence trail off. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

  The devilish look remained. "It's hard to believe a woman who's written a sex guide could blush."

  "It's not a sex guide."

  "Call it what you want, but it is hot, Abby."

  "I only wanted to help couples. The divorce rate is just so high these days—"

  "Tell me about it."

  She searched his face for the truth, seeing it in the sudden sadness in his eyes. "You're divorced."

  "Yes."

  Sympathy tugged at her. "I'm sorry."

  "It's history." He shrugged again, although his expression seemed strained as his broad shoulders stretched along the back of the chair.

  She clutched her purse, a case of nerves attacking her. As if the man's raw sexuality hadn't affected her enough, now she was beginning to like him.

  Well, maybe not like, but at least see him as a real man, not just an actor.

  An impossible situation.

  He knew part of her secret, and she could not get tangled up with anyone right now. Besides, she was reacting this way only because Lenny had left her ego desperately in need of feeding. "I have to go." Gathering her courage, she squeezed his hand one more time. That electric touch zinged through her just as it had earlier. "And thanks for today. I hope you'll be discreet."

  "Don't worry, Abby." He leaned closer again, this time so close he actually brushed a gentle kiss to her hair as he whispered, "Your secret's safe with me."

  She sighed in relief and stood, legs wobbling like rubber bands. "Thank you so much. By the way, good luck with your acting. I'll look for you on the big screen." Then she turned and hurried away.

  Thank heavens she would never see the man again.

  Chapter 7

  Panty Passions

  Shaken from the interview, Abby drove toward home, storm clouds brewing above, the interlude with that actor Harry Henderson playing over and over in her head. Had she said too much? Given away too much? Would he keep her secret or would she get caught in her lies?

  She had to extricate that man from her mind.

  He had been sexy and powerful and too damn charismatic for her. Just as Lenny had been in the beginning. Only even more so...

  But she'd remedied what little chemistry she and Lenny might have had, she thought with a rueful shake of her head. She'd been so stunning in bed, he had preferred men.

  Tears threatening, she flipped on the radio to try to calm herself; then the sky darkened to a fever pitch and rain clouds burst open. She cursed and turned on her wipers, and let the tears fall. Tears for the lies she'd told today. For the fool she'd been.

  For ever thinking she'd fallen in love with Lenny.

  For feeling an insane attraction to an actor her banana-sister had hired to play the husband who'd deserted her.

  Traffic crawled to a stop; an emergency vehicle raced by with its lights flashing. The cars in front of her braked to a dead halt. Obviously there was an accident ahead. Traffic would probably be at a standstill for an hour or two while the police cleared it.

  Realizing she was stuck, she decided to pull into the local superdiscount store to pick up some supplies. Tonight she would throw herself the mother of all pity parties and kiss her dreams of happily-ever-after good-bye.

  Because once again, it was Saturday night and she was single and alone.

  * * *

  Hunter finished his latte with a grin. He knew exactly what Abby Jensen was thinking as she left the shop: she would never see him again.

  A low chuckle rumbled from him as he tugged her thong from his pocket and gazed at the skimpy, silky fabric. But this time the good doctor would not have her way.

  He would find out exactly why Chelsea had hired him to play Abby's husband.

  He just couldn't let her get to him in the process. And for a minute she had....

  Then he'd realized she was simply flirting with him because he was privy to part of her secret and she wanted to make certain he kept it. Which proved his original theory about her being manipulative, not the family-oriented martyr type she portrayed herself to be.

  The scent of her delicate perfume lingered on his clothes as he left the coffee shop; he'd have to ditch these clothes so he could vanquish it. Just as he had to banish his memory of that erotic orgasmic kiss.

  Dammit. The woman was married.

  Even if he wasn't working on a story and detested the marriage therapist, he did not, had not, would not ever mess around with a married woman. Not only did he value his own life too much to chance being murdered by an irate jealous husband, he did have some scruples.

  Hunter peeled off the mustache and wig—okay, maybe not stringent scruples, but he had a bona fide reason for deceiving the woman, and the
end justified the means. Cursing, he scrubbed his hands through his hair to spike the matted mess as he cranked his Explorer and wove through the heavy traffic and rain. Still, Abby Jensen remained a puzzle to solve.

  One minute she was spouting off suggestions to improve intimacy and talking about passionate positions and orgasmic kisses, and the next she was blushing like a virgin.

  And that story she'd invented about her husband—what kind of baloney was that?

  She had actually looked vulnerable for a moment, sad, as if she were really concerned about the man. Had he been detained on business somewhere? Was he in trouble with the law?

  She'd said she didn't want to endanger him. Could he be the victim of one of those business kidnappings he'd heard so much about in South America?

  Hmm. That might explain why she wanted to keep his disappearance quiet. And why she was worried about his safety.

  Or had something else caused her sadness? Something more personal...? The obvious answer reared its ugly head.

  Had her husband had an affair? Had he left her for another woman?

  Rain splashed his windows, thunder rumbling overhead, cars slowing to a dead stop. He flipped on the radio to check the traffic reports.

  "Folks, we have a nine-car pileup on Peachtree Street, no fatalities or serious injuries reported, but traffic will remain gridlocked for at least an hour while the police clear the scene. And now for the weather".

  "The storm is passing through, folks. Believe it or not, it's headed south and will be gone in a couple of hours."

  Hell. He contemplated another route, but up ahead he spotted Abby's Toyota pulling into the big shopping complex. Maybe he'd follow the doctor, see what she was up to. He could pick up some supplies while he was here, maybe drop by Lizzie's later and see if she wanted to go camping, spend some quality time alone with her. If they headed north, they'd drive out of the bad weather.

  A father-daughter camping trip, complete with a sleeping bag on the hard, uncomfortable ground, would be the perfect way to help him forget Abby Jensen and her nonsense about bedroom talk between the sheets.

  And the fact that even though she wasn't his type, he wouldn't mind crawling under the covers into a nice, warm bed with her—naked, hot, and willing.