Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  Hunter had never felt lower in his entire life.

  He ached to go after Abby, but he'd spotted Lenny Gulliver lurking behind the scenes and he had to catch him. He couldn't let the jerk get away after the way he'd hurt Abby. Maybe turning him over to the police would be the first step in proving to Abby that he really cared about her.

  The pain in her eyes when she'd discovered his deception had been excruciating. He didn't know if she could forgive him, even if he wrote the most complimentary story about her imaginable, but he had to try.

  His heart pounded like a runaway freight train as he pushed Gulliver against the wall. Mo Jo Brown slunk in behind him, arms crossed, waiting his turn.

  Hunter adopted an intimidating stance. "Okay, Gulliver, the game is up."

  "Not yet." A cynical sneer lifted the comers of the red-haired man's mouth. "I have something I think you'll be interested in seeing."

  He doubted it, but he'd play along. "What is it?"

  Gulliver removed a manila envelope from a briefcase and offered it to him. Hunter took the bait, his instincts telling him he wasn't going to like the contents of the envelope. Slowly he peeled open the top and reached inside. His hand contacted slick photo paper, and he pulled out several photos of Abby.

  Nude shots of her in erotic poses.

  "Got those on my honeymoon," Gulliver bragged.

  Brown inched forward to sneak a look, but Hunter shoved the pictures back into the envelope, his fury mounting. Dammit, he didn't want Brown or anyone else to see them. "Does Abby know about these?"

  Gulliver laughed, a smarmy sound that sickened Hunter.

  "Yeah, she was supposed to bring me some cash today for them, but that tabloid chick ruined the show." His smile faded. "Now I figure you might pay more. Some Internet sites would get a kick out of these."

  Gulliver had been blackmailing Abby. No wonder she hadn't told him everything.

  Fury boiled through him. He crumpled the photos in his fist. He was going to kill the man with his bare hands.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Gulliver asked.

  Hunter grabbed him by the throat, making sure his first punch connected with the man's nose. "That one's for Abby." Bones crunched, a mild sense of satisfaction filling Hunter at Gulliver's babylike yelp.

  "Let me go!"

  "And this one's for me." He had just pulled his arm back to hit him a second time when Mo Jo Brown stepped forward.

  "Let me have him, Stone."

  "What for?"

  "I know someone who's looking for him. And when this guy gets done, his face won't be the only thing smashed."

  The mob. So Hunter had been right. Vinelli would take care of him. Tempting...

  But two officers raced in, saving Hunter from having to choose between his conscience and his need for vengeance. "Thanks for nabbing him, guys, but this is a police matter now."

  "What?" Gulliver whined.

  "Yes, Dr. Jensen phoned us yesterday, Gulliver." The male Latino reached for his handcuffs. "You're busted, you scum."

  Brown sputtered an argument, but Hunter tossed Gulliver toward the cops like the sack of garbage he was. Then he stuffed the envelope of photos under his arm and strode from the room, determined to talk to Abby.

  * * *

  Her love life was over, her career was over, her life as she knew it was over.

  Over.

  Blinded by tears, her body racked with sobs, Abby hailed a taxi home, well aware the cabby thought she was a lunatic.

  It was a far nicer word than the one most Atlanta residents would be calling her once they witnessed her debacle. If she ever wrote another book, she'd title it, Most Embarrassing Moments. She could fill the pages with her own experiences.

  The cabdriver dropped her in front of her house, and she tossed him some cash, then ran up the steps. Inside, Butterball was sleeping, so she locked the door, turned off the message machine, then headed to the bedroom. She couldn't wait to throw herself on her bed and cry until she passed out. Maybe she'd sleep for the next month. Or at least as long as it took for most of the gossip to die down.

  But the sheets where she and Hunter had lain this morning, where they had made love—no, where they'd had sex—still lay rumpled on the floor.

  He had trashed her in the paper. Lied to her. Used her. And done it all for a lousy story! He'd probably earned a promotion or a big raise out of her humiliation.

  Hatred, mixed with anger and hurt, mushroomed inside her. She ripped off the sheets, grabbed a pair of scissors and shredded them, then shoved them into a garbage bag. Next went her comforter. Then the pillow that reeked of his scent. Feathers flew everywhere, dotting the floor with white, but a stretch of solid black peeked from her bed like a scorpion. Hunter's boxers.

  She grabbed them and ripped them with her bare hands until they were nothing but strands of broken thread. Feeling marginally better, she brushed at the tears streaming down her face, picked up her journal, and let it all out.

  Hate men. Lenny Gulliver is pond scum. Hunter Stone is cockroach pond scum.

  Career in jeopardy.

  May move to mountains. Become recluse. Take up cross-stitch or basket weaving. Maybe pottery...

  * * *

  Hunter barely escaped the wrath of Abby's sisters. Chelsea and Victoria chased him to his car.

  "You freakin' creep..." Chelsea broke into a litany of vulgar names and threw her clunky shoes at him. They hit him in the butt and bounced off.

  Victoria jabbed a finger at him. "You print anything to disparage my sister and I'll bury you with a lawsuit you'll never be able to crawl out from under."

  His backside and ears burning, Hunter jumped in his Explorer and drove like a maniac toward Abby's house.

  Talk about the awkward morning after—this had been the awkward morning after from hell.

  Figuring his boss would hear about the fiasco and want the scoop, Hunter phoned him and relayed the story.

  "Great work in catching Milano's accomplice and getting the dirt on the sex therapist," Emerson bellowed.

  Yeah, he was thrilled about it.

  "Listen, if you want that criminal investigative-reporting position, it's yours."

  Hunter told him he'd call him back, then hung up, a bittersweetness assaulting him. He'd finally achieved his career goals, but he'd lost everything in his life that mattered.

  No, he hadn't lost Lizzie yet. But if he took the job...

  The fifteen-mile ride turned into a nightmare while he struggled with his thoughts. He blasted his horn at the early morning traffic, cursed a woman putting on her mascara in front of him, flicked a bird at a man on his cell phone who wove into his lane, and banged the steering wheel with his fist when a fender bender up ahead brought traffic to a grinding halt.

  Desperate, he swerved over into the HOV lane, checking his mirror to make sure a cop wasn't watching, then sped past the line of stopped cars, but suddenly a siren burst through the agonizing silence in the car and blue lights swirled behind him.

  Muttering an obscenity, he kept driving until he could find a shoulder to pull off, onto then parked and tapped his foot impatiently. Hunter read his name tag; Officer Suarez.

  The cop adjusted his Ray-Bans and stared down at Hunter condescendingly. "You realize you were in the HOV lane?"

  "Yes." He'd be an idiot if he didn't.

  "And you know there's a hefty fine if you're driving in it illegally."

  "Yes." Who cared about money when his whole future was at stake?

  "You do know that the HOV lane is limited to cars with two or more people."

  "Yes. I'm not a moron." Everyone in Atlanta knew that.

  The cop's eyebrows climbed his face. Attaching a glare to his intimidating stance, he leaned his hands on his knees and peered into the car. Hunter recognized him as one of the cops who'd arrested Lenny. "I don't see a second person in there."

  "Look, Officer," Hunter said. "There's not a second person in here. I'm just in a hurry because I need to see
this woman—"

  "You're driving in the HOV lane because you're going to see a lady?"

  "She's not just any woman; she's Abby Jensen."

  "Don't you think you've hurt that woman enough?"

  Jesus, of course he would take Abby's side. "I want to make things right—"

  "You tricked her to get that story about her. And you invaded her privacy."

  "Well, yes, but that's my job." He wasn't going to declare his love for Abby to this cop. "Listen, if you're going to give me a ticket, go ahead, so I can move on. I have to talk to her."

  "Going to harass her again."

  "I'm not harassing her."

  "Victoria Jensen is a friend of mine."

  Oh, dear God.

  "I think you'd better step out of the car, mister."

  "But you can't arrest me."

  "Resisting arrest?"

  "No."

  "Then step out of the car."

  Hunter opened the door, fuming. "Really, Officer, what will it take to just settle this?"

  "That sounds like a bribe."

  "No, but if it would work..."

  "It would not."

  "Well, you can't blame a guy for trying."

  The cop slapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrist.

  "Hey, what are you doing?"

  "Attempted bribery is against the law." Officer Suarez pushed him toward the squad car. "And like you said earlier, Mr. Stone. I'm just doing my job."

  * * *

  Abby knew Chelsea and Victoria would come to her aid, and they had. Armed with enough Reese's peanut butter cups to feed an army, martini ingredients, and Kleenex, they had trashed Hunter Stone so badly that if he'd been psychic, his ears wouldn't have been burning—they would have rotted off.

  The fact that Hunter had not called or shown up to at least try to simulate an apology cemented the fact that he was lower than the lowest form of life. Which Abby still didn't know the name of, but she didn't need to. Regardless of what it was, the name Hunter Stone fell below it in the feeding chain.

  Of course, he and Lenny were vying for the lowest of the low.

  Not that she wanted Hunter to call or that she would believe him if he groveled.

  "But he could have at least tried to apologize," she muttered.

  "This is all my fault for hiring him," Chelsea said miserably.

  "No, it's not. He fooled me," Abby said.

  "I'm going to concoct a spell so his thing falls off," Chelsea said, slurping her martini. "That'll teach him to screw a good woman."

  "I'd like to see him rot in jail," Victoria added, showing an uncharacteristic bit of emotion. Abby didn't understand the grin that followed, but she chalked it up to the drinks.

  "I never want to see him or hear his voice or his name again." Abby kicked at the newspaper. "And I'm canceling my subscription to the paper tomorrow."

  "You want us to crash here tonight?" Victoria asked.

  "Yeah, we can have a pajama party," Chelsea offered.

  Abby hugged her sisters. "No, I'll be okay. But thanks." Abby turned to Victoria. "I appreciate Detective Suarez's help."

  "He's pretty cool," Victoria admitted.

  "Yeah, he saved our butts that night at the gay bar—"

  Chelsea stopped midsentence as if she'd revealed too much. Victoria kicked her.

  Abby tapped her foot on the floor. "What are you talking about?"

  Chelsea shrugged. "Look, Victoria, it's over now and no harm done, so—"

  "We were only trying to help," Victoria added.

  "Help? How?" Abby asked.

  Chelsea explained about their adventure, of course embellishing the story with all the details about the dinginess and stench of the inside of the holding cell. Then Victoria filled her in on the scene at the strip club.

  "Boy, that hooker sure packed a punch." Chelsea rubbed at her still-black eye.

  "I can't believe you two," Abby said. "You did all that for me?"

  Victoria curved an arm around Abby. "We'd do anything for you, sis."

  "Okay, but no more gay bars or fights or stripping."

  Chelsea laughed. "All right with me. I just wanted to help, Abby, so you and Victoria wouldn't think I'm such a screwup."

  Victoria tucked her hand in Chelsea's arm. "You're not a screwup, Chelsea. We love you just the way you are."

  Chelsea blushed and sniffled.

  Abby fought the tears but they spilled over anyway. "Come here. I love you guys so much." The three of them gathered in a group hug, vowing the bond of sisterhood would always keep them together.

  Men be damned. They had each other.

  * * *

  Hunter tossed and turned on the prison floor, unable to believe this was happening. The stench of urine and sweat and other body odors he didn't even want to think about filled the dingy cell, the absence of cots or chairs forcing all the inhabitants to sit on the floor like animals. He was convinced that at least two of the prisoners were murderers, one of the others a rapist. A hulking three-hundred-pounder with a Mohawk winked at him and he shuddered.

  When he saw his lawyer, he was going to wring his neck for being unattainable when Hunter needed most to attain him.

  He folded his arms behind his head and stared at the toilet in the middle of the cell, then at the big Bubba with the bald head and tribal tattoos covering his hairy arms. He had to piss like a crazed bovine, but he'd be damned if he'd whip out his dick and give this thug any ideas. The man looked at him and leered and Hunter forced his gaze to the ceiling. He'd count the cracks and read the obscenities etched on the dirty texture until morning. There was no way he would close his eyes inside this hellhole. No telling what some of these beefy hoodlums might do to him.

  By morning, his lawyer had damned well better get him out of here.

  Then he had to talk to Shelly about Lizzie and convince her to forget this stupid custody hearing. Of course, his arrest wasn't going to help.

  Damn.

  He would do it though. He'd settle into a nice, quiet job, and buy a little house somewhere so Lizzie could have her own room. Hell, he'd give Angelica her own room if he had to in order to get Lizzie to stay over.

  And somehow, once he accomplished all that, he would achieve the impossible and convince Abby to forgive him. To give him another chance.

  He had to make her see that he really loved her.

  Chapter 26

  Sexless and Single

  Abby rolled over and ducked under the covers at the sound of the telephone, but the message machine kicked on. Damn her sisters must have turned it back on when they left.

  Rainey's excited voice piped up.

  Excited? Hadn't she heard about the disastrous Good Day, Atlanta show?

  "Abby, this is Rainey. You won't believe it; a number of news broadcasts aired clips of your interview from the Good Day Atlanta show, and you were wonderful! Everyone who hadn't already bought a book ran out yesterday and bought one—Under the Covers hit the New York Times bestseller list!"

  Abby groaned. Unbelievable.

  "We have to get that sequel under contract. Why don't you call the next one Between the Sheets? Well, I'm off to celebrate. Call me."

  No sooner had the machine clicked off than the doorbell dinged. She dragged the quilt higher, praying whoever it was would leave. She just wanted to be alone.

  The bell dinged again, ding, ding, ding. Whoever it was certainly was insistent. Probably Chelsea or Victoria checking in on her.

  The phone rang and the machine clicked on again. "Abby, this is your mother. I saw you yesterday and I'm so sorry about that reporter. But look at the bright side: I heard your book made the New York Times bestseller list." A pause followed. "About that loan..."

  A car horn blasted from the driveway and Abby punched the covers. Who in the world?

  Pushing her tousled hair from her eyes, she loped to the front door in her T-shirt and boxers, then peered outside. If this was her father or Uncle Wilbur wanting money, she was going to s
cream.

  Maybe Hunter...

  No, she didn't want to see that creep.

  She looked through the peephole but didn't see anyone. The doorbell dinged again, however, followed by the blast of a car horn. Abby scanned her porch one more time. Finally she glanced down and spotted her visitor.

  Lizzie. She was clutching Angelica, wearing an oversize Harry Potter T-shirt, pink shorts, and sandals, her hair tousled, her eyes puffy and red.

  She reached for the doorbell again. Snarts wobbled in her little arms, a taxi was sitting in the drive—the source of the horn. Was Hunter here? Had he put his little girl up to ringing the bell?

  Anger hit her, but she searched the front lawn and cab and didn't see anyone but an irritated-looking driver. Worry immediately slammed into her. What was Lizzie doing here alone?

  "Dr. Abby, please be home!" Lizzie wailed.

  A sob punctuated the air as she opened the door. "Lizzie, honey, what is it? Did you take that taxi all by yourself?"

  The driver saw her and waved, then sped off. Lizzie collapsed against her legs, the dog flopping onto Abby's feet with a whack. "Yeah, I gots the number off the 'frigerator. Me and Angelica and Nanny takes the taxi all the times." She backhanded a tear that dribbled out. "I gots to talk to you."

  "Well, of course, honey." Abby ushered her and Snarts inside. "Let's give the puppy some water, and we'll put him in the backyard with Butterball."

  Lizzie sniffed and nodded, clutching Abby's leg with one arm and Angelica with the other as she walked inside. Snarts trudged behind them at a snail's pace, tail wagging, sniffing everything in sight. Finally Abby put him outside, where he and Butterball faced the water bowl at a standoff. The dogs would have to work out their problems; she needed to tend to Lizzie.

  Abby took the patio chair, then lifted the weepy little girl into her lap. "Honey, tell me what's wrong. Does your mom know you're here?"

  Lizzie shook her head, her crooked blond ponytail swinging, more tears flooding her cheeks. "No, and you can't tells her."

  She had to, Abby thought, but she'd get to the bottom of the situation first. "Suppose you tell me what's going on."

  "You saided people comes to you if they gots problems."

  "Yes, that's right."