by Rita Herron
Without asking, he poured two short glasses of bourbon, handed one to Brown, then turned to face him. Brown's eyes narrowed as if he hadn't expected him to be so cordial.
"So who are you working for and what are you after?" Hunter asked, cutting to the chase.
Brown nearly choked on the bourbon. He coughed, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Hunter grimaced, remembering the man had had his hands in garbage an hour earlier.
"You talk first. Tell me what kind of story you're doing under cover?"
Hunter shrugged. "Why don't you kiss my ass?"
Brown downed his drink in one swallow, a laugh bubbling out as he removed a pair of Abby Jensen's white lace underwear and wound it around his finger. "No, thanks, I prefer a sweet little tush like the doctor's."
Anger tightened Hunter's jaw. "Somehow I don't think you're her type. And you certainly didn't win any points pawing through her garbage."
"You'd be surprised how much you learn about someone from their trash."
Hunter waited, jiggling his glass and watching the amber liquid swirl around inside. Rookie mistake. Didn't Abby own a shredder? "So what did you learn?"
"Why do you suppose a sex therapist would throw away brand-new lingerie? Some of those things I found still had the tags on them."
Hunter shrugged. "Maybe they didn't fit."
"The thongs are one-size-fits-all."
"Maybe she stopped wearing underwear at all."
Brown laughed. "We could both fantasize about that."
Hunter refused to go there with this man. "Maybe she put them in a bag for the needy, and they got mixed up with the trash."
Brown shook his head. "You don't believe that any more than I do."
Hunter leaned against his counter and studied the PI. "Then you tell me."
"I think she was mad at the person who gave them to her. So mad that she wanted to get rid of them and everything associated with the person."
Hunter's chest felt tight. He knew where this was going. He just didn't know why Brown would care. "So she and the hubby had a little spat? Why would you be interested?"
"Because the person who hired me to check up on her wants to find Abigail Jensen's husband. Do you know where he is?"
"Nope. I was assigned to do a fluff piece about her and her book, that's all."
Brown twisted his mouth in thought, debating whether to believe him.
"Are you working for Vinelli?"
Brown set his glass down and turned toward the door. "You can't connect me with him."
Hunter saw the truth in his eyes. Brown was working for the mob, but he was too afraid to admit it. "Does this Lenny guy owe your boss some money?"
Brown nodded. "A bundle. Do you know where he is?"
"No." Hunter gave him a warning look. "And I don't believe Abby Jensen does, although I'm looking into it. Now, stay away from her."
"Only if you let me know when you find him."
Like hell. "Sure. You keep me posted and I'll do the same."
* * *
Anxious about the possibility of more interviews and playing wife to Harry Henderson, Abby jotted down her thoughts in her journal.
Have lowered self to despicable demonic behavior. Paid man to act like husband. Worse, have turned into type of woman always despised—fickle female. Husband been gone less than two weeks and had foolish reaction to actor. No more drinking wine with man. Too dangerous.
Must check self for possible early onset of bipolar disorder.
Bad influence on Granny Pearl, who went to Buckhead sex-toy shop with church friends. Gives new meaning to church friendship circle. Wrote article, "Sex for Seniors." Will send to agent tomorrow.
Must take charge and get life back to normal. Will see patients. Will not flirt with strange actor husband. Will not indulge in corrupting sweet grannies. Will talk Rainey out of needing husband for interview. Must take control of life. Forget Lenny.
Forget Harry Henderson.
Chapter 12
Sex in the Suburbs
The next afternoon, Abby dragged herself back into the office after lunch, grateful for the air-conditioning. The summer heat had been oppressive all day, magnifying her dismal mood. Chelsea and Victoria followed her inside, each of them dropping dozens of packages on the floor of Abby's office. When Abby had found out her itinerary for the week, she'd called her sisters in a panic. They had met for lunch to discuss Abby's situation, and Chelsea, who believed any problem could be solved with a new pair of shoes, had insisted they take advantage of a sale at Shoe Caravan.
Of course, shopping had lifted her spirits, but it had also depleted her wallet.
"I can't believe I just bought three pairs of shoes," Abby muttered. "I don't even need gold pumps. What was I thinking?"
"Heck, I bought thirteen pairs." Chelsea stuck out her feet, her toe ring glittering beneath the fluorescent lights.
"But these flip-flops in all the different colors were too cool to pass up. Now I have a pair to match each of my bikinis."
Victoria rolled her eyes. "Just what every girl needs."
"Well, I couldn't very well go to the pool clashing." Chelsea flicked at her acrylic nail. "Or maybe I could. What do you think, Abby?"
"I think you have a shoe fetish."
"Don't they have a rehab program called Shoes Anonymous we can send her to?" Victoria asked, deadpan.
Abby laughed, but Chelsea shrugged off their good-natured teasing.
"What's wrong, Abby?" Victoria asked.
Abby's smile turned to a frown as she thumbed through her messages. "I'm losing control, and I hate it." She also despised the desperation she heard in her own voice.
Victoria propped herself on the edge of the desk. "Have you heard from Lenny?"
"No." Abby thumped her pencil down on her calendar, expecting her two o'clock any second. "Rainey has a week-long schedule all set up. Everything from signings to interviews to cutting the ribbon for a new arts center on Piedmont that plans to specialize in erotic shows for African Americans. It's called Punany."
"Punany?"
"Erotic poetry." Abby hesitated. "It's actually very sensuous—"
"I want to go to a punany show," Chelsea said. "Do you think it's true what they say about African-American men's—"
"Don't say it," Victoria warned.
Chelsea adjusted her toe ring. "I was just curious. Don't you ever think about sex, Victoria? And men and their—"
"Yes, but I'm not obsessed with it the way you are. I want a real relationship."
"I'm not obsessed. I just happen to like sex. Maybe if you tried loosening up, wore something besides those boring suits—"
"Girls," Abby cut in. "Do we have to argue about this again? I'm having a crisis here and I need some advice for a change."
"Sorry," Chelsea mumbled, looking properly chastised.
Victoria toyed with a pencil on Abby's desk. "Abby, you have to slow things down with all this publicity. I'm afraid this is going to blow up in your face."
As if she hadn't envisioned the scenario a hundred times. "I know. Rainey promised that after this week, she won't schedule anything else. Do you know I found a PI in my backyard going through my garbage last night?"
"Oh, geesh." Victoria muttered an obscenity. "Do you know his name?"
"Mo Jo Brown."
"You met a real PI?" Chelsea asked.
"He was pawing through my trash."
"Sounds like Brown," Victoria said. "He's a real seedy character."
Chelsea's eyes brightened with interest. "What did he want in your garbage?"
"I have no idea."
Victoria buttoned her suit jacket. "Word is that Brown works for this mob guy. I bet Lenny was playing the books and got into him for some cash."
Abby's feet hit the floor with a thud. "Do you think Brown wants me to pay Lenny's debt?"
"I don't know, but watch out." Victoria straightened. "If he bothers you again, sis, let me know and we'll file a restrai
ning order."
"Thanks, Victoria. I knew I could count on you."
A knock broke into their conversation and her sisters grabbed their packages. Abby hugged them both, then pasted on a smile when her two o'clock walked in. Her patient load had definitely picked up the last few weeks.
Maybe listening to these people's problems would make her forget her own.
At least she had a reprieve from Harry Henderson. Her first interview wasn't scheduled until Wednesday. Plenty of time to convince herself the man was not attractive or sexy, but a menace to her sanity.
* * *
Wednesday, Hunter drove toward the state fair, filled with excitement over seeing his daughter and dread over having to ride those godawful rides. When Lizzie had called and told him about the day-camp trip and begged him to come, then cried, saying she wouldn't be able to go on the rides without a parent, he had finally agreed.
How could he not have?
It was one thing he could give her that Daryl couldn't buy—his time.
There was only one small problem: Hunter hated heights. And Lizzie was determined to experience the Dragon and some suicide ride called Drop Dead, Fred. The first ride whipped you around until you were so dizzy you couldn't walk; the second carried you straight up, then dropped you into a pool of water about a hundred feet below. His stomach rolled over simply thinking about the fall. Of course, Lizzie had bragged about how much Angelica enjoyed them, so he couldn't very well decline, not that he was trying to impress a doll, but... hell, if Angelica liked the rides, he had to go along or she would make fun of him to Lizzie. Not that Angelica really talked to Lizzie except in her imagination.... He just didn't need any additional obstacles between himself and his daughter—even a doll.
He exited the freeway, his mind tracking back over the details of the past two days. He'd busted his butt both Monday and Tuesday, scrambling to keep up with the piddly assignments Ralph gave him, researching several victims who had been swindled by Tony Milano, and looking for information on Abby's husband.
So far he'd learned Lenny Gulliver was a pretty boy. He looked and dressed like a model for a men's fashion magazine, had attended photography school in California, and seemed as squeaky clean as a whistle.
But something smelled fishy.
While none of the records he checked had so much as a blemish, when he'd phoned Gulliver's landlord, the one who ran the apartment complex Gulliver had lived in prior to his marriage, the owner claimed Gulliver had rented an apartment but rarely stayed in it. Gulliver had hosted a few wild parties from time to time, an assortment of what the elderly man had called eclectic types present.
"Lots of swingers, not your run-of-the-mill suburban party," the old man had said.
And he obviously didn't mean swing dancing.
Hmm. Had Abby been part of that swinger crowd?
Before he'd met her, he might have said yes. Then again, she had winked at him when she thought he was a woman.
No, he still didn't think she was a swinger. She was too damn sweet.
Sweet—when had he decided she was anything but manipulative?
Would she slip and give something away at the interview tonight?
* * *
"You know, Dr. Jensen," Wynona Crawfish said, "I've seen Sex and the City and Bridget Jones, and I want to be more like those women." Wynona pulled at her threadbare T-shirt. "But Leroy says we live in the suburbs and we're not supposed to do that kinky stuff. He says the missionary position has worked for years and why should an old dog try new tricks?"
Abby winced. She'd heard the same complaint before from men in their late forties and fifties. "Is your relationship working for you, Wynona?" Abby asked gently.
"No." Wynona shuffled on worn tennis shoes. "I'm so bored sometimes I fall asleep, and he doesn't even realize it."
"That bad, huh?"
"I'm telling you, Doc, I might as well be a sack of flour beneath him. He's so routine I can time him down to the second." She pulled her disheveled hair into a ponytail and tied it with a faded ribbon. "First the left breast. Three squeezes and a tweak. Then the right one. Same thing. Then a kiss on the cheek. A grunt. Next he starts lapping at me like a dog with his tongue." She shook her head in disgust. "I thought I'd get used to him drooling but sometimes he gives me a spit bath, and I have to wipe my face on the pillowcase when he's done."
Abby laced her fingers together, trying to squelch the image.
"Last week I closed my eyes and planned my dinner menu for the week while he finished."
"I'm sorry."
"And I read that section about foreplay." Wynona planted short, stubby hands on her plump hips. "Do you know what Leroy thinks is foreplay?"
Abby was almost afraid to ask.
"He mutes the television after the news and turns to me and grunts."
The man was hopeless.
"All I have to do is nod yes or no." She threw her hands in the air. "Most of the time I don't think it matters one way or the other to him."
"Actually men peak sexually at an earlier age than women," Abby explained. "Unfortunately while their drive is dwindling, the female is just becoming comfortable with her sexuality and ready to experiment with more exciting positions."
"I certainly need something more exciting than Leroy." She dropped into the chair and sighed. "I might as well have sex by myself."
Abby calmed Wynona, then helped her outline a plan to wake Leroy up from his sexual slumber. Feeling marginally better, she reminded herself that the pain of Lenny's desertion would ease every day. Soon the publicity of her book would die down and she could simply do her job as she wanted.
And when she saw Harry Henderson tonight, his sexy swagger wouldn't even faze her.
* * *
Round and round and round and round...
Hunter gripped the metal brace of the sky buckets, trying desperately to keep his head from being jerked off by the ride. His stomach was already doing backflips.
Beside him, Lizzie screamed. "This is so much fun, Daddy! Angelica loves it, too!"
Hunter forced his aching face into a smile and nodded, wincing when Lizzie let loose a bloodcurdling scream. Her laughter followed, the excitement in her eyes measuring a high point on the Richter scale of fun that equaled his distaste for the torture devices. He hadn't liked the rides as a kid and he hated them thirty times more now.
He couldn't admit the truth to Lizzie, though. Not when she'd think him a big wimp if he chickened out. And not when she'd hugged him fiercely at the end of each ride, her eyes, shining up at him as though he'd hung the moon.
Round and round and round and round...
"Wheeeeeeeeee!" Lizzie threw her hands in the air, not bothering to hold on as the bucket slung her into his side. The other kids' screams pierced his consciousness, the dizzying motion blurring his vision.
He was about to lose his lunch right on his own shoes.
He swallowed and prayed for miracles.
Finally, the sinister metal contraption screeched to a stop. Lizzie jumped out, eyes wide, hair standing on ends, and tugged his hand. "Come on, Daddy! Now let's ride Drop Dead, Fred. Hurry before the line gets too long!"
The sacrifices a father had to make. She dragged him along the line, and finally the attendant snapped a set of ropes around his waist, fastening Lizzie in front of him before he could open his mouth. Within a nanosecond, he was being strung up like a side of beef and dropped like the peach in downtown Atlanta on New Year's Eve, heading straight toward the ground at a record-breaking speed of fifty miles an hour. He tightened his grip on Lizzie, forgot he was a grown man, and screamed. The pool of water rushed toward him like quicksand ready to suck him under.
* * *
An hour later, after cotton candy and hot dogs, and a ride on something called the Sky Coaster that had turned him upside down and scared the cotton candy out of him, he dropped Lizzie at his ex-wife's house.
Lizze hugged his neck tight. "That was the bestest day, Daddy."
<
br /> Hunter nodded, fighting nausea. He'd hated every minute of the rides. But he'd loved every minute with his little girl. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, pumpkin." He picked her up and nuzzled her neck. "I'll see you this weekend, okay?"
" 'Kay." She planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek, tucking Angelica under her arm to grab his hand. "Where you going now?"
He hesitated, not knowing how to explain his assignment. "I... I'm working on an interview."
"With that sex lady?"
He chewed the inside of his cheek. "What do you know about sex, Lizzie?"
"It's when people kiss yucky with their tongues."
His baby shouldn't know all this stuff. She was too young.
The lights flickered on from the top balcony of the house and Shelly opened the French doors to come out. He did not want a confrontation with her. "I'll see you Friday night." He kissed Lizzie's cheek, then watched her go inside, his heart clenching when the big marble door closed behind her.
His stomach still churning, he drove to the TV station to meet Abby Jensen. He grimaced as he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw his pasty white skin. How was he supposed to play her sexy husband when he felt like hell and looked like he'd been run over by a Mack truck?
Maybe he should skip this interview tonight.
No, Abby Jensen was the person who'd put all those crazy ideas in his ex-wife's head in the first place. She had cost him his marriage and his daughter, and he couldn't forget it.
Lizzie's face flashed into his mind, her powdery baby-doll scent lingering on his clothes. Yes, he had to go through with it.
He would do anything to move up at work, so he would have more time to spend with Lizzie and to make her proud of him.
* * *
Abby studied the television program's set, impressed with the professional staff of HotAtlanta, a new cable show that featured locals, highlighting their talents and achievements. The host, an exotic Asian woman named Kay Lin, had sung praises about Abby's book when she'd arrived and had instantly put Abby at ease with her calm demeanor.
