Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  * * *

  Abby fought with the umbrella, cursing in frustration as the wind sucked it upside down, lifted it from her hands, and flung it into the air. She jogged after it, but a runaway grocery cart full of disposable diapers suddenly flew out of nowhere and whacked into her stomach. Abby yelped, stumbled, fell against a Ford pickup, and broke the heel of one shoe.

  A pregnant woman ran after the cart, her big belly leading. "I'm so sorry," the woman screeched over the downpour as she grabbed the cart.

  "No problem." Abby pushed the buggy toward her, staggering on her broken shoe, then realized the woman was driving the pickup, so she moved away.

  "Thanks." Rain splattered the woman's pale face, and she suddenly clutched her stomach in pain. "Oh, my God."

  Abby froze. Was the lady going into labor?

  "Get in," Abby said. "I'll put your things in the truck for you."

  The woman offered a weak smile. "Thank you. I don't feel so good."

  Abby's heart raced. "Can you drive yourself?"

  The woman fought with the door against the wind, but eventually climbed inside the cab awkwardly. "I only have a block to go."

  And where was her husband when she needed him?

  Cursing men in general, Abby stuffed the diapers into the other side of the truck, slammed the passenger door, and waved. But suddenly the woman clutched the steering wheel, doubled over, rested her head on top of it, and let out a loud screech.

  Abby shivered and ran around to the driver's side. Dear heavens. The woman was having her baby right here in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot.

  "Help!" The woman turned a panicked look Abby's way, then pointed to her stomach. "It's coming!"

  Abby swallowed, momentarily paralyzed. She didn't know anything about delivering a baby, but the woman swung open the truck door, bellowed again, and clawed at Abby's arm, jerking her out of her stupor. She jumped on the lower step of the cab and tried to calm the woman. "Are you sure?"

  "My water just broke."

  Abby glanced down at the seat and saw the evidence. "I'll get an ambulance."

  "Don't leave me!" The young girl flopped backward, grabbed her belly, and howled. "I have to push!"

  Sweet Jesus, no. Not yet. Didn't deliveries take time, long hours of waiting at the hospital?

  "Just hold on," Abby said. "I'm sure you've got—"

  "It hurts!" The woman panted and heaved. "I feel the head!"

  Abby grabbed her cell phone, punched in 911, and grimaced when the woman screamed again, scooted backward on the seat, and began shoving at her clothes. Abby told the dispatch officer where to come, then hung up and tried to think.

  "I've got to push!"

  She couldn't have the baby on the seat of the truck!

  Frantic, Abby searched the woman's bags for something sterile to place under her. She certainly couldn't boil water! Toothpaste, cosmetics, a toilet brush, rubber gloves—she tore open the plastic gloves and pulled them onto her hands.

  The lady bucked up off the seat with a yowl, grabbed the steering wheel, and hit the horn. It blared along with her howl.

  "Hang on, honey; the ambulance is on its way," Abby murmured. She ripped open the diapers and spread them on the seat for a makeshift blanket just as the baby's head made its appearance.

  * * *

  Hunter stared in amazement as an ambulance rolled to a stop in the downpour and the paramedics jumped out and rushed to a pickup truck. Abby Jensen had climbed into the truck only minutes earlier with a very young, very pregnant woman. To do what?

  Deliver her baby?

  An 11-Alive truck screeched in next and a camera crew jumped out, a newscaster fumbling with her rain hat as they ran to the scene. Seconds later, he gaped as the paramedics loaded a woman and a newborn onto a gurney and transferred them to the ambulance. The woman clung to Abby Jensen's hand. Abby looked shaken but relieved.

  The newscaster shoved a microphone toward the good doctor. Hunter couldn't hear, but he suspected the reporter had just gotten the scoop on a Wal-Mart delivery by Abby Jensen.

  A hero story if he'd ever heard one.

  Hunter gripped the steering wheel. Dammit. Here he was sitting on a great story and he couldn't move forward and interview Abby himself or he'd blow his cover. Although her heroic act didn't quite fit the angle he had planned....

  * * *

  Abby hobbled toward the store, her hair plastered to her head, her clothes soaked, her emotions riding a rocky roller coaster. After that delivery, she should just go home, but she was here anyway and the traffic still wasn't moving, so she might as well stock up. Besides, what did she have to go home to? Nothing but an empty house... no loving husband waiting for her. No baby to rock or feed or cuddle. Not even a dog or the proverbial single girl's cat.

  Of course, Lenny had wanted the cat. Another sign that he wasn't the man for her. She was definitely a dog person.

  Her heart squeezed as she grabbed a cart and trudged inside. All the hopes and dreams she'd had when she'd bought the house rose like a tidal wave, clogging her throat with tears. The minute she'd seen the little blue cottage with the white picket fence she'd fallen in love with the property. She'd imagined painting the spare bedroom with rocking horses for a nursery, bringing her own baby home there one day, building a backyard sandbox and swing set, Christmases with Santa Claus and stockings over the fireplace.

  Having the perfect stable family for which she'd always longed.

  The air conditioner blasted her, sending chill bumps up her drenched body, along with the realization that her dreams had died along with Lenny. Damn him.

  She used a handiwipe to clean her hands and dabbed at her wet face with a tattered tissue, grimacing at the telltale marks of mascara and makeup. She could just imagine her raccoon eyes. She didn't care what she looked like, she reminded herself as she pushed her cart down an aisle. No one in the store would recognize her anyway. Not unless they'd seen the TV camera crew outside. She'd cut that interview short and sweet by turning the attention to the brave young woman on the gurney.

  Geez, for someone who hated publicity, lately she felt a magnet drawing her to the camera's watchful eye.

  Thoroughly depressed and well into her pity-party mood, she filled her cart with three tearjerker movies, new tapes for her minirecorder, five bags of miniature Reese's cups, and a twenty-four-pack of toilet paper, then saw the sale sign above the tampons—Buy one, get one free—and grabbed four boxes. Next went in salsa, chips, three kinds of cookies, a bag of popcorn, a pair of fluffy bedroom shoes, and a baby blue pajama set with pictures of cows all over them. What else? Underwear.

  No more embarrassing thongs.

  Comfortable, practical underwear that didn't crawl into nether regions and suggest that she might be having sex.

  Still shivering, she rushed toward the clothing section, exhausted and weary from the day's ordeal. The choices seemed endless. Elastic waist. Cotton. Satin. Bikini. Control-top. Colored. White. She debated over the control-top panties or the plain white granny panties, then thought, What the heck, and tossed in three packages of each.

  Oblivious to her surroundings, she swung her cart around to head toward the cash register when she crashed into a man's back. Tall, with massive shoulders, he turned, narrowing mesmerizing blue eyes at her.

  Even without the wig and mustache, she recognized him immediately.

  Harry Henderson.

  * * *

  Hunter's hands tightened around his shopping cart. Even wet and bedraggled, with her mascara and makeup smeared, drenched to the bone, and a non-blonde, Abby Jensen still stirred his sex to life.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  M-a-r-r-i-e-d—he purposely spelled out the word silently, giving himself time to recover.

  She glanced at his cart, her brows arching in surprise at the camping gear and child-size folding chair inside. His gut tightened, though, when he noticed her raccoon eyes. Had she been crying?

  Ignoring the fact that her puffy re
d eyes disturbed him, a smile gripped him at the sight of the granny panties, junk food, toilet paper, and feminine supplies. At the coffee shop, she had flirted with him so he would keep her secret. He'd use the same tactic on her now to get what he wanted—the real story on Abby Jensen. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon," he murmured.

  "I... didn't expect to see you either," she stammered, her voice quavering, as if she thought he'd suggested she'd followed him. "The traffic..."

  "Was deadlocked," Hunter finished. "Figured I might as well take advantage of it."

  "I know. I figured I might as well stock up, too." She closed her eyes and grimaced. "I really need to go."

  He couldn't let her run off yet. Especially not when he heard the emotion thickening her voice. "Nice save outside with the baby."

  She blushed. "I... it just sort of happened."

  "Really."

  "I couldn't very well leave her." She shrugged. "Anyone would have done the same thing."

  "I doubt that, Abby." Still, he remembered the interview and the fact that he'd missed out on an exclusive. He'd been sitting there first and could have gotten the scoop. But he was undercover, searching for a bigger story, he reminded himself, and he had to work Abby to get it. Even if she did look sad and weary, as if she needed holding instead of tearing apart.

  Where had that thought come from?

  He glanced at her cart again, determined to replace that sadness with a smile. "A big night planned, huh?"

  That familiar blush added a much-needed splash of color back to her pale cheeks. "My husband's out of town, remember?" She gestured toward his. "How about you? Planning a getaway?"

  He chuckled. "Thought I might take my daughter camping."

  Her face softened. "You have a little girl?"

  Why would it matter to her? "Yeah. She's five. Name's Lizzie."

  "Ahh," she said in a soft voice that sounded almost envious. "I bet she's adorable."

  Pride swelled his chest, along with the pain of not being with her enough. "She is. She, uh, she lives with her mother." Because you gave my wife the idea of leaving me.

  "But you do see her regularly?"

  "As much as I can." He had to change the subject. He was trying to find out about her life, not reveal his own private one. And talking about Lizzie brought all his vulnerabilities to the surface. Made him feel raw. Exposed.

  Besides, the concern in her voice made him question his motives—something he couldn't afford to do. Resorting back to their earlier teasing, he picked up the package of underwear, unable to imagine this sexy woman wearing something so ludicrous. "For an aging aunt, I suppose."

  "No." A soft laugh escaped her as she snatched the pack and stuffed it back in the cart. "Um, they're mine."

  "You recommend these in your book?"

  She hesitated. "Not exactly."

  "There's a section about panty passions, isn't there?"

  She gulped. "You've read my book?"

  "Parts." Just the juicy ones.

  Her nervous gaze darted everywhere but to him.

  "I like the thong better, Abby." He traced a finger over the package. "Although I suppose if the right woman were wearing these, I could get passionate about her."

  A wispy sigh of arousal escaped her, floating toward him and wrapping around his sex like velvety fingers. But on the heels of that sigh, something akin to fear flashed in her eyes.

  "I... have to go."

  "Sure." He grinned, elated that he'd rattled her, then lowered his voice to a sexy timbre. "Just call me if you need me, Abby."

  She flitted a nervous smile his way, then turned and hurried away. He forced his gaze away from the sway of her shapely hips as she disappeared around the corner beside the full-figured bras. His gaze flickered over the double-D cups, and he reminded himself he was a boob man. And Abby Jensen did not meet his requirements.

  Even if she did have a nice ass and beautiful eyes.

  And she had softened when he'd mentioned his little girl...

  * * *

  Four hours and too much junk food later, Abby had cried her eyes out. Her house echoed with the sound of lost love and silence. Not the pitter-patter of little feet, as she'd imagined when she'd moved in. The phone trilled, and she settled her wire-rims on her nose, having ditched the contacts hours ago.

  Both her sisters piped in on speakerphone. "Congratulations, Abby," Chelsea said. "Everyone's talking about the show. And you delivered a baby at Wal-Mart!"

  "You're amazing, Abby," Victoria said.

  She opened her mouth to chastise Chelsea about hiring the actor, but her sister didn't give her a chance.

  "I heard on the six-o'clock news that the lady named the baby after you," Chelsea said. "And Wal-Mart is giving you a shopping spree, and the girl a free year's supply of diapers!"

  "I... I didn't watch the news," Abby said. "In fact, I've been avoiding it." But now she could buy all the granny panties and Reese's cups she wanted. Great, she'd need granny underwear because her butt would be as wide as the truck she'd delivered the baby in if she kept indulging herself. She pushed the half-eaten bag away.

  "I'm proud of you for holding your head up in such a difficult situation," Victoria said. "The interview had to be tough."

  "It was horrible. Chelsea, I can't believe you went behind my back and hired that man to play Lenny."

  "He was wonderful, wasn't he?" Chelsea chirped, ignoring her barb.

  Abby sighed in exasperation. "You didn't: tell him anything, did you?"

  "Of course not. I'm not as ditzy as you think."

  "I didn't mean that—"

  "I was only trying to help." Chelsea sounded defensive.

  "We're both worried about you," Victoria added.

  Now she'd hurt her little sister's feelings. "I'm sorry, Chelsea; it's just that this whole ordeal has thrown me into a tizzy."

  "Have you heard anything about Lenny?" Chelsea asked.

  "No. As far as I know, the police still haven't found any connection between him and Tony Milano," Victoria said. "Although it's just a matter of time."

  She didn't have to remind Abby of that. "I know. But I searched all my things and our files, and I didn't find any evidence of the scams."

  Victoria made a disgusted sound. "He probably didn't want to leave a paper trail behind for you or the police to discover."

  Chelsea broke into the strained silence that followed. "So tell me what you really thought about Harry, Abby. He's pretty hot, isn't he?"

  Abby rolled her eyes and checked her hair for split ends. "I didn't notice."

  "You didn't notice," Chelsea shrieked. "How could you not notice?"

  "He certainly seemed to enjoy his part," Victoria commented.

  "Yeah, he played it like a pro," Abby admitted.

  "You know, he'd never been to the studio before," Chelsea rattled on, oblivious to Abby's turmoil. "What a break for you. Must have been serendipity."

  "Yeah, what a break," Abby whispered.

  "We'll be booking him for a lot of parts now."

  "Probably." Any part that needed a sexy body and a killer kisser.

  "Abby, are you okay?" Victoria asked.

  Abby twisted the ends of her hair around her fingers. "That's a loaded question. I'm a marriage therapist who just released a hot, sexy book, but I'm so unsexy I can't hold a husband."

  "Lenny's sexual preference is not your fault," Chelsea argued. "A friend of mine from the arts center said her first boyfriend dumped her to become a priest."

  "But Lenny dumped me for a man."

  "It's the new wave," Chelsea said. "We've always had women for competition; now we have men, too."

  "It's not your fault," Victoria added in a firm voice. "You're sexy and beautiful and smart."

  Abby knew she was feeling sorry for herself and hated it. "I'm sorry. I'll get over it." But a year ago she'd thought she'd been in love. How could she, a trained counselor, have been so wrong? How could she have not known her own husband—pseudohu
sband—preferred men over women?

  "The best way to get over one guy is to find another," Chelsea offered.

  Abby shook her head. "Not interested."

  "But Harry—"

  "Is an actor whom you paid to pretend to be my husband. End of story." She hung up, grateful the day had finally come to an end. And vastly relieved she never had to see Harry Henderson again. She was too vulnerable, and he was too damn appealing.

  She grabbed the new journal she'd bought at Wal-Mart earlier as she headed to the bedroom. Maybe keeping a diary would be a good idea. It was a therapeutic technique she had taught her patients so they could purge themselves of their worries in order to sleep. And if anyone needed to be purged from their worries, she did. Abby settled comfortably on her bed and began to scribble.

  Today marked my new start as a single doctor. Just discovered marriage of last year a fake.

  Book doing great. Selling well. TV interview scheduled.

  Interview a disaster. Chelsea showed up in banana costume waving actor/husband at me. Sex god with eyes like Russell Crowe and heavenly kiss. Made fool of self. Dropped panties from sleeve into his hands.

  Went from stupid to more stupid. Fantasized about complete stranger today.

  Do not believe in aliens but if did, would assume they'd invaded my body.

  Must be having a mental breakdown. Possibly early menopause.

  Should know by now not to trust men. Only women.

  Wish I was gay. Life would be so much easier.

  * * *

  As far as Chelsea could tell, the gay dating scene was just as stressful as the heterosexual version. Only the players and sexual inclinations were different.

  She adjusted her pale blue blouse to reveal her tanned shoulder as she climbed onto the velveteen bar stool and ordered a wine spritzer. Not that she wanted to be picked up or hit on by the women, and she certainly didn't expect to be hit on by any of the men, but even in a gay bar, she had to be in vogue.

  The first night, she'd barhopped from Uncle Sam's to High Five to Callie's Cove, but no Lenny. Tonight she'd opted to try the trendy Posh-Ten in Little Five Points. The place was packed, techno music wafting from overhead speakers, martinis and cosmopolitans floating in abundance, and soft, muted shades of pinks and grays a backdrop for the animal-print chairs and red pleather futons.