by Rita Herron
Victoria panicked. "We—"
"We're new," Chelsea said, kicking Victoria on the heel.
"You are some fine specimen, girl." He raked his gaze over Chelsea from head to toe, then slid a card from his jacket pocket. "You ever do any strippin'?"
Victoria coughed into her drink, and her sister glared at her.
"No, but I'm an actress."
The man winked. "Well, well. I should have known." He flagged the bartender and indicated Chelsea's drink. "Make the next round on me."
"That's not necessary," Chelsea said. "But thank you."
He nodded. "You decide you want to dance, check out the Blackhorse Club on Tenth. Tell the manager Horace sent you." He winked. "Pays good, sweetheart. Especially for someone with your talents."
Victoria nudged her, daring the man to challenge her. "We really should go."
The man laughed and wove through the crowd. Chelsea narrowed her eyes at Victoria. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
"He wanted you to work as a stripper," Victoria said in a hiss. "Or worse. I bet he was a pimp."
"You're overreacting," Chelsea said, blowing it off. "Now, let's remember the reason we came." She tossed a killer smile at the bartender. "Have you seen a man named Lenny Gulliver hanging out in here?"
"Sure." The bartender poured two glasses of Chardonnay while he talked. "Used to come in here all the time. Word is, he and this guy Johnny used to spend a lot of time in the apartment out back. Johnny does the books for the club, so he gets his apartment rent-free."
"Really?" Chelsea sipped her drink. "Does that guy Johnny still live there?"
"Sure. Might be home now, but I doubt it."
Chelsea thanked the man, finished her drink, then leaned over and whispered, "Let's go check it out."
Victoria pushed her drink away. A beefy woman in all black had been eyeing her. "Sure, anything to escape this place."
They paid the bartender and slipped out, then circled around to the rear of the building and found the apartment. The wooden structure looked dark, the curtains shielding the inside. Chelsea reached up and knocked. No one answered, so she knocked again, to no avail. She pointed to the open window. The inside was dark, a musty odor floating out.
Chelsea grinned. "Let's go in and see if we find something that might lead to Lenny."
"Are you crazy? Last I looked, breaking and entering was illegal."
"Where is your sense of adventure?" Chelsea pointed to the opening. "Besides, we're not breaking anything."
"Except the law," Victoria muttered as Chelsea crawled headfirst through the window, her bare legs dangling out, her spiked shoes clinking onto the ground. She scooted on her belly, kicking to move forward. "Damn, I'm stuck."
"What?" A siren wailed in the distance.
"I'm stuck. Shove the window open some more."
Victoria whispered, "Just get out and let's go. I hear a siren."
Chelsea squirmed and kicked but couldn't budge herself. "I can't. Push the window up some more."
The sirens wailed louder, coming closer. A bad premonition engulfed Victoria. "God, Chelsea, I think the police are coming here. We have to go."
Chelsea kicked wildly. "Then hurry!"
Victoria reached up to the window and shoved, but just as she did, police cars screeched into the parking lot and several policemen unloaded, a few slipping to the front entrance, a couple inching around back.
"Oh, God." She must have been insane to have listened to Chelsea. "They're raiding the place."
Chelsea dragged herself forward, her butt sticking up in the air as she tried to lunge inside.
"Don't move, ladies. You're under arrest."
Victoria and Chelsea froze as two police officers in uniform strode toward them, their flashlights shining in Victoria's face and highlighting the only visible part of Chelsea, her backside. Victoria closed her eyes, mortified.
Her entire career had just gone down the drain.
* * *
A clattering noise in the tiny plot serving as Abby's backyard jerked Hunter's attention to the rear of her house. Was an intruder behind her house?
Hunter paused and listened, but the sound faded. Still, concerned about a prowler, he slowly crept around the hedges flanking the yard and peered over the bushes. A short, bony man wearing a cheap suit was stooped over, plundering through Abby Jensen's garbage. Hunter frowned and studied the man, surprised when his rubber-gloved hands extracted pair after pair of brightly colored thong underwear from a garbage bag. What the hell was Abby doing throwing away all that lingerie?
A black cat hissed at Hunter's feet, suddenly lunging sharp claws into the skin at his ankle. Hunter yelped. The intruder dropped the bag and pivoted, but Hunter lowered his head below the top of the bushes. He clenched his jaw, and with one hand plucked the cat from his jeans leg.
He'd recognize the shifty man anywhere! Mo Jo Brown, a low-rent PI. Last he'd heard, Brown worked for the mob—more specifically for a guy named Eddy Vinelli.
What the hell was he doing pawing through Abby's garbage?
* * *
Abby was just waving good-bye to Granny Pearl and the other ladies as they climbed into the church van when a loud clatter rang out from her backyard. Good grief, was that alley cat prowling in her garbage again?
Not wanting the cat to tear open the bag and strew her garbage everywhere, as it had done last week, she hurried to the back door, flipped on the light, and ran outside.
Her heart thudded as she halted on the porch. A beady-eyed little man with a thick, bulbous nose and bushy eyebrows was on his knees pawing through her garbage, several pairs of the thongs Lenny had given her dangling around his arm like charm bracelets.
What kind of pervert was this guy? Some kind of psycho panty thief?
She backed up slowly, hoping to call 911 before the prowler spotted her, but the porch light flickered and he jerked up like a wild animal caught in a pair of headlights. His dark, eerie gaze met hers.
Abby shivered.
A menacing leer curved his mouth, the light from a cigarette glowing like a pinpoint in the dark. She pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle a scream, gasping when Harry Henderson suddenly stepped from the shadows of the live oak tree, yanked the man by his collar, and dragged him out of the yard.
Abby ran inside, grabbed her cell phone, then sprinted to the window to see what was happening.
* * *
Hunter towered over Brown as he dragged him through the bushes. "What are you doing snooping around Abby Jensen's garbage?"
Brown's beady eyes narrowed. Hunter recognized the scent of fear and the act of bravado; the man was scared witless. His thin, reedy body shook like a young sapling in the wind.
"None of your business," Brown said in a hiss.
"I'm making it my business—"
"What are you doing here, Stone?" Brown cut his eyes toward Abby's house. "On a story?"
Figuring he had the intimidation factor on his side, Hunter ignored the PI's question. "I asked you why you were pawing through the lady's garbage. Looking for something in particular?"
"Harry?"
Hunter froze, his hand tightening to a choke hold on Brown's collar. Brown's eyebrows rose as if he'd discovered something important.
Abby suddenly appeared around the corner, her cell phone raised like a weapon. "What's going on?" Her gaze shot from Hunter to Brown.
"I found this creep plundering your trash," Hunter said. "I thought he might be trying to break in."
Abby gestured toward Brown to answer. "I'm a private investigator, ma'am. I'd like to ask you some questions."
"I..." Abby's voice cracked. "Then you should have used the door. Now leave before I call the police."
"But—"
"You heard the lady," Hunter said harshly.
Abby frowned, her eyebrows pinching together. "What are you doing here, Harry?"
Brown's eyes flared, and Hunter knew the PI had noticed Abby didn't use his real name. The sleezy
PI opened his mouth, ready to give Hunter away, but Hunter shot him a warning look and loosened his grip. He hated to let the damn man go before squeezing some answers from him, but he had to keep his identity a secret.
Brown seized advantage of the moment, yanked his hand free, and ran down the street like a rooster after a hen. Abby backed toward the porch, still wary.
"What are you doing here, Harry?"
He brushed his hands down his shirt to rid himself of the stench of Brown's hands. "Your sister called me about another interview. I dropped by so we could firm up our schedule, but I heard this creep prowling around back. I didn't want him to bother you."
"Where's your car?"
He gestured down the street toward the Harley. "I'm on my bike."
Relief quickly surged through her, evident in the sharp release of a shaky breath. Without thinking about the consequences, he moved to her, took her in his arms, and offered her comfort.
"Thanks, Harry." Her sweet scent bathed his senses, sending a tingle down his spine. "I hate all these people invading my privacy."
She would hate him, too.
"You don't have any idea why a PI would be snooping around, do you?"
She stiffened, then shook her head no. He tightened his arms around her, knowing her fear was real, but that she was also harboring secrets.
Things just got more curious by the minute. Why would a PI who worked for the mob be interested in Abby Jensen?
Chapter 10
The Allure of the Forbidden
"Let's go inside," Hunter whispered.
Trying desperately to ignore his body's response to Abby's curves pressed against him, he forced himself to pull away slightly. She nodded and let him guide her back into the kitchen. Her satiny hair tickled his chin, her sweet fragrance made sweat break out on his brow, and the tender way she'd clutched the front of his shirt triggered his protective male instincts.
He'd read all about the forbidden fruit in her book and realized that he was experiencing the phenomenon every time he touched her. But the want and desire that surged through him was something he couldn't act on.
And didn't want to.
Did he?
Lying to someone to get a story had become second nature, so much that he barely questioned the ethics of it anymore. But he had been raised in the South, and sleeping with a woman for information was out of the question. Especially when he wanted the information to impugn her character.
No, having sex with Abby Jensen was forbidden. Not that she'd offered...
"Harry?"
He closed his eyes and grimaced, absentmindedly stroking her hair. The intoxicating scent of her shampoo mingled with her feminine scent, nearly driving him wild. God, he hated that name. Why hadn't he thought of something better in the first place?
"I'm okay." She gently pushed at his arm. "You can let me go now."
He chuckled and slowly released her, missing the warmth of her body against his. "Sorry. Guess I got carried away with how good you feel."
She backed away completely then, her big eyes cautious. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be forward. I'm m-married, remember?"
"Yes, I remember." But happily married? He didn't think so. She stumbled over the word as if it pained her. And where was her loving groom?
Perhaps he had hired Brown to dig up some dirt on Abby, evidence of betrayal for a divorce settlement? If so, her ruse with him would only add fuel to the flame.
"I guess that pervert out there upset me."
Hunter folded his arms, his gaze tracking her long, slender fingers as she wove them through the tresses of her tangled hair to smooth out the ends. His hands ached to take over the task. "Do you want me to call the police and report him?"
"No." Her reply came too quickly.
"Are you sure? You could arrest him for trespassing. Or harassment."
"Uh... no." She averted her eyes, fidgeting with the teacups on the counter, her hands trembling.
"So you can't think of any reason why a PI would be interested in you?"
"No. None at all." Panic momentarily flashed on her face. "I think I'll make some tea to relax me. Would you like some?"
He shook his head, allowing her a brief reprieve. Her jerky movements alarmed him as she filled a kettle with water, set it on the stove, and flicked on the burner. A bag of Reese's peanut butter cups lay open, spilling onto the counter, the only sign of disorder in the room. The last time he'd looked in her house, it had appeared to have been ransacked. Now the place seemed cozy, homey, as if she'd settled in. The pale yellow kitchen had accents of blue in the plates she'd hung on the wall and the placemats on the table. Thick sturdy blue-and-yellow ceramic mugs hung from a wooden dowel, while dainty teapots in various colors occupied a white shelf over the pine table.
Prim little teapots for a not very prim lady.
Who was running scared.
"My grandmother always played tea party with me and my sisters when we were little," she offered, obviously realizing he'd been studying them. A small shrug lifted her shoulders as if the story embarrassed her. "Those memories were the best part of my childhood."
He did not want to know about her sad childhood, or her grandmother, or the reason she collected teapots. Those personal things distracted him, evoked sympathetic feelings that would muddy the waters of his story. Just like the warmth of her body had evoked primal urges that held the same danger.
"Brown said he wanted to talk to you. Do you think he might know something about your husband?"
"What?" Her voice broke.
"You said you weren't sure where he is. I wondered if Brown does."
"I don't know." Abby shrugged and leaned against the counter. "Maybe he wanted to ask about my underwear."
Her attempt at humor failed.
"He did seem fascinated by it."
She pulled at a loose thread on the blue pot holder. "I just hope he leaves me alone." The newspaper lay on the counter, and she picked it up, crumbled it into a ball, then stuffed it in the trash. "Just like I wish that awful Hunter Stone who keeps writing derogatory things about me would leave me alone."
Hunter gritted his teeth.
"It doesn't matter what I do; if I don't give them some dirt on me, they'll go through my garbage and invent some."
He flinched. Unfortunately, she was right. And judging from the way she was acting, they weren't going to have to invent anything. They would find plenty of real dirt.
* * *
Abby mentally chastised herself for her display of emotion.
And for the erotic thoughts she'd let surface while Harry Henderson had held her. Not only had her body thrummed with desire and her heart pounded with excitement, but she had felt safe.
Something she hadn't felt in a long time. Not in the past few days anyway. Not even when she'd been with Lenny.
She couldn't lean on this man, though.
Hadn't she learned she had to fend for herself when her father went to prison?
Besides, Harry was an actor, not a friend. He'd come to her now to play her husband only because her real husband—no, the man she'd thought she'd married—had deserted her. And everyone still believed she was happily married.
Therefore, Harry Henderson was a piece of fruit dangling from the forbidden tree.
She couldn't allow her defenses to slip and reveal the truth about the scandalous turmoil in her life. Not just yet. If she even acted interested in him, he'd think she was an adulteress. And if that Hunter Stone got so much as a hint of such a rumor... She shuddered at the thought.
She'd devoted a full chapter to the allure of the forbidden fruit, but she'd never experienced the powerful and almost hypnotic draw of it before. Because Abigail Jensen had been the good girl who always played by the rules and minded her manners. The sister and daughter who'd taken care of everyone else.
At least she used to be.
But temptation had never rolled in with dark, mesmerizing eyes, broad shoulders, and a macho attitude, acting l
ike a real-life hero—until now, until Harry.
Still, she had to guard her secrets until Lenny resurfaced. Then she could end the lies. A shiver rippled through her, reminding her of how violated she'd felt when she'd seen that PI snooping through her garbage, her underwear wrapped around his hands.
He rubbed her arms. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"
She frowned. He was watching her, his blue eyes hooded, his powerful presence as unsettling sexually as it had been comforting a few minutes earlier.
"Residual shock waves, I suppose."
"Tell me what I can do to help."
Hold me. Touch me. Make the pain go away.
She closed her eyes and inhaled his musky scent. Leather. Sex. Manly scents that pulled at her womb.
He gently removed her glasses and laid them on the counter. "Don't worry about that moron, Abby. I'll take care of him if he comes back."
Abby froze as reality intervened. Her book. The PI. Lenny.
Harry.
He was an actor playing a part, and she was a fool falling into his fickle hands.
She opened her eyes and saw the sultry invitation in his.
Her stomach knotted. How would a woman ever know the truth about a man who acted for a living? How would she recognize real desire from a one-man show? He probably seduced women all day long and bragged to his friends about it.
And she had worked too long and hard to earn her reputation to allow herself to be fooled by another man.
Especially one she was paying to pretend to be her husband.
"The only thing you can do for me is to play Lenny." She forced a coolness to her voice that she didn't feel. "And keep what we're doing confidential so no one finds out."
* * *
Hunter had played cards too many times in his life not to know when he'd lost a hand. He folded gracefully, though heat thrummed through his body like a brushfire out of control. "All right. I'll do my job." He lowered his hand, brushing her hip and thigh with the barest of touches before he jammed it in his pocket. The fact that she looked all sexy in a pair of white shorts and that slinky tank top didn't help. Her breasts might not be large, but they certainly had felt heavenly against him. "But if you need to talk sometime, I'll be glad to listen."
