Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  "I mean it, Abby. I love you, and don't you dare stop looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. The world needs more people like you, and if I live"—his voice shook in the wind; she could hear his fear—"I'll spend the rest of my life making up for all the stupid lies and those dumb articles about you."

  Abby yelped. "Hunter—"

  The limb cracked completely in two and gave way. Hunter yelled as he careened toward the ground.

  * * *

  As Hunter flew through the air, his life flashed in front of him. The headlines would read: Idiot Man Afraid of Heights Dies by Falling out of Tree while Proposing. He could see the photo of his body flat on the dirt, the roving grizzlies nibbling at him like bear meat. Or if he did survive the fall, his lungs and throat would start bleeding from altitude sickness. Or worse, he might smash his skull and end up brain-dead or paralyzed.

  He just wished he could hear Abby say she loved him one time before he died.

  Determined to fight for his life, he gripped the parachute ropes and tried to bend his knees, remembering the tips the guide had offered so he wouldn't break a leg in the landing. But the tips were meant for a parachute soaring in, not for a man attached to half a tree traveling straight down at full speed. Wind stung his face and nausea rolled through him, but he had to tell Abby one more time that he loved her before he died.

  "I love you. Marry me!" The wind caught his words, the echo bouncing off the mountain and repeating itself. Love you, marry me... love you, marry me... love you, marry me...

  Then his body collided with the ground, his head hit a rock, and blackness swirled in front of his eyes. One moment of heaven flashed in front of him in the form of Abby's face before his vision faded. Abby lifted his head in her lap and brushed his hair back so tenderly, tears pricked his eyes.

  Or maybe it was blood trickling over his face.

  "Did you mean it, Hunter?"

  "Yes, marry me, Abby...."

  Abby pressed her lips to his and whispered yes just before he faded into the darkness.

  * * *

  Later that night, Abby and Hunter lay curled together on a blanket under the stars, the moon gleaming like candlelight across the valley below. He had sprinkled the wilted, crushed flower petals all around her in the shape of a heart.

  "I was trying to be romantic, Abby. I wanted to make love to you on a bed of rose petals."

  "You are romantic, Hunter. You jumped out of a plane for me." Abby stroked the bandage on Hunter's head. "Are you sure you're all right? We can still get them to airlift you to a hospital."

  Hunter shot her a crazed look. "No, no, I'm fine. But I think I'm finished with flying for a while."

  Abby chuckled, her laughter dying when Hunter reached up and pulled at her shirt, slowly unbuttoning the top button. "I'm sorry I lied to you, Abby."

  Abby bit down on her lip, emotions clogging her throat. "I told a few of my own."

  "But I understand your reasons now." He quirked his head sideways. "I have something for you."

  She arched a delicate brow, her breath hitching when he handed her the article. "Hunter, it doesn't matter—"

  "Yes, it does." He pressed his finger to her lips. "Read it."

  She nodded, unfolded the paper, and read the beginning of the article.

  You can't judge a book by its cover. I learned that lesson when I went undercover to get the dirt on Dr. Jensen. Instead of a scandalous author with loose morals, interested only in self-promotion, I found a woman with strong values and a lot of love in her heart—a woman who possesses all the best characteristics of a traditional American wife and mother, while maintaining her identity as a modern sexual woman. In short, Abby Jensen has it all.

  Abby blinked back tears. "It's beautiful."

  "That's how I feel about you, Abby." He handed her an envelope—the pictures Lenny had taken.

  "I didn't look at them," he said, reading the question in her eyes.

  Her other eyebrow rose.

  "Well, maybe a glance." He chuckled. "But we're burning them, baby, 'cause the only pictures of you naked that I want around will be ones I take."

  A smile tugged at Abby's mouth. "Oh, so are you into kinky sex?"

  He shrugged. "I'm into pleasing you."

  "I like the sound of that." Abby laughed. "Maybe that should be the title of my sequel."

  "Only if I get to help you research it."

  Abby slid her leg between his, rubbing the hard muscles of his calf with her foot. "Or I could write one on unusual proposals. I think you parachuting from a plane and proposing while dangling from a tree would make a catchy opening."

  Hunter traced his finger over the sensitive skin behind her ear. "That sounds like blackmail."

  "Well, maybe if you promise to get naked, I'll keep it out of print."

  Hunter laughed. "The price a man has to pay."

  She kissed his forehead. "We might be able to work out a trade-off if you really don't like the terms."

  "I love you, Abby. Don't you know by now I'd do anything for you?"

  "Anything?"

  "Anything."

  She quirked her head sideways. "Okay, there is this one fantasy I have...."

  He opened the rest of the buttons on her blouse, then cupped her breasts in his hands. "I promise to make all your fantasies come true, Doc."

  Abby pulled at his shirt; then she slid her finger down his chest, cupped his already hard sex, then unzipped his jeans. "Are you sure you're up to this with your injuries?"

  Hunter licked the tip of her nipple, moved his hand to the back of her neck, then pulled her forward. "Oh, yeah. But we might have to stay under the covers a lot when we get back, so I can recuperate and get this pillow-talk thing right."

  "I think we can manage that," Abby whispered.

  With a growl of delight, he rolled her over, stripped her clothes, and slid his hands to her rear. "You know I'm an ass man, right?"

  Abby giggled. Now she knew he loved her, that he was her soul mate for life.

  Then she whispered her fantasy and he fulfilled it. He made love to her in the tall grass, with wildflowers dotting the mountainside, the moon spilling its golden light across her supple body, and nothing but the wind to hear her cry his name in ecstasy.

  And this time when she cried out, the echo of her saying his real name instead of Harry boomeranged across the mountain.

  The End

  Page forward for more from Rita Herron

  Other Books by Rita Herron

  If you liked UNDER THE COVERS, then please write a review on Amazon! You can also contact Rita at www.ritaherron.com and follow her on facebook and twitter @ritaherron!

  You also might like Rita's other sexy romantic comedies:

  MARRY ME, MADDIE

  A woman gives her boyfriend an ultimatum on a talk show — Marry Me or Move on! Then her brothers' best friend steps in and the battle for her hand begins!

  SLEEPLESS IN SAVANNAH

  A dating game switch leaves a man sleepless when the woman he wants ends up with another man!

  HUSBAND HUNTING 101

  A woman takes a class to find a husband!

  HERE COMES THE BRIDE

  A twin switch, a fake fiancé — a real wedding?

  SINGLE AND SEARCHING

  A woman places an ad to find a date, but the man who answers is an undercover cop who thinks she's a thief!

  Excerpt from

  Single & Searching

  by

  Rita Herron

  Chapter 1

  Casey McIntyre had the voice of an angel. But judging from her personal ad, she was probably a lunatic, an obsessive-compulsive, or worse: a thief.

  Gabe Thornton had purposefully chosen her ad because of its possible correlation to the ABC robberies, hoping to get two stories in one: the end to the personal ad dating story he'd been assigned and possibly a lead to the recent crime wave hitting Atlanta. He checked the mailbox address again and pulled into the driveway, suddenly attacked by
a feeling of impending doom as his gaze zoomed in on Casey's ad.

  Antiques, bluebells, cinnamon, daffodils, ebony, fireplaces, grapes, hugs, ice cream, jogging, kaleidoscope, laughter, movies, neverending, olives, pasta, quilts, rabbits, silk, teddies, unusual, violet, writing, x's,x's,x's, yellow, zinnias.

  Hell's bells. The woman hadn't written one personal thing about herself, just an alphabetical listing of random words. The list made no sense.

  As he read the other ads, all lonely pleas for companionship, a snort of disgust rumbled from deep in his throat. Just when he'd contemplated looking for a serious relationship with a woman, his boss, Hank had ordered him to write this silly piece. This was the fifth ad he'd responded to. And he hoped to God, the last. Then he could concentrate all his efforts on finding the elusive ABC robber before his competitor from the Sun outscooped him.

  "Blast it, Gabe, you're letting the cases get to you," Hank had told him. "Take a lighter assignment. Have a little fun." Hogwash!

  Hell, work gave him all the excitement he needed. And Hank called dating women through the personal ads fun? The man had been out of commission way too long. After four dates, Gabe had more than enough information to write an article. Sweet heavens, he could write a book.

  Memories of the past few evenings splintered through his mind. He tried his best to banish them. Brenda the brainy mathematician had cut her meat into exactly eight equal-sized pieces. Miserable Moreen had sobbed about her ex and spilled wine on his pants, then tried to mop his clothes with her spaghetti-stained napkin. And Sandra the tattoo artist had offered to tattoo her initials on his butt. That night he'd had nightmares of a giant-sized drill coming toward his posterior while Brenda carved his anatomy into cereal-sized portions.

  To top it all off, he'd lost an evening's sleep last night on a commuter flight tying up the loose ends of another assignment. Gabe gripped the door handle to his car with one hand and massaged his temple with the other, attempting to fight a headache. A yawn stretched across his face. He glanced at his watch. 7:00. He hoped to hell Casey was ready, so he could get this evening over with.

  Forcing himself out of his Bronco, he strode up the driveway. A reflection of his image stared back through the glass in her front door. Gabe grimaced. He looked a mess. He'd gotten tied up in a shady part of town meeting an informant who'd practically assaulted him. During the brawl, he'd torn a couple of holes in his jeans, then his car had broken down and he'd had to change his tire, so his clothes looked even more rumpled. On top of that, the five o'clock shadow of his beard gave him a grungy look.

  His poor grandmother would be ashamed if she saw him picking up a woman dressed like a bum. Casey would probably take one look at him and boot him out the door. He should have gone home and changed, but he'd run out of time and being punctual was one of his pet peeves. Maybe she'd ride with him to his house and let him shower.

  Ever since he'd spoken to Casey this morning on the telephone, he'd had a premonition that meeting her would change his life. Whether good or bad, he didn't know.

  Her southern drawl reminded him of soft lilacs, and he'd fantasized about the taste of honeysuckle as she spoke. He tried to imagine the color of her hair. Smoky brown? Fiery red? But his fantasies had been destroyed when a child's voice interrupted their conversation. The wild music blasting in the background alerted his senses, all screaming panic. This female is trouble. He might be considering a serious relationship with a woman, but a readymade family—that was something different.

  His mind strayed to the robberies as he postponed knocking on her door. Five victims so far. The hits had begun with a victim by the last name of Angus. Now the thief had worked up to the letter F. All the robberies had occurred within the vicinity of Casey's house.

  Gabe stopped on the wide plank flooring of the front porch. If a date with the alphabetically inclined Casey proved helpful to the robbery case or if Casey turned out to be the thief, then he could turn this fluff piece of journalism into a real investigative reporting article. His gaze rested on a hand-painted wooden bunny perched beside the door, and he suppressed a chuckle. Casey's wedgewood blue colonial house and the pansies lining the front lawn suggested a typical suburban home. And he had a feeling any woman hosting a big bunny and pastel-colored birdhouses on her front porch couldn't be a criminal.

  But, then again, appearances could be deceiving. After working on undercover assignments for the Atlanta paper for three years, he knew firsthand that dangerous, sinister psychos often disguised themselves as very ordinary-looking citizens.

  His fist tightened in midair, hovering above the red barn door as loud childlike music wafted through the open window. He pondered leaving. After all, he didn't know Casey. He could go home, watch T. V. and catch up on his sleep. Maybe, he could finish the article without suffering through another evening with a female who bored him beyond imagination.

  Suddenly exhausted, Gabe swiveled to leave, but his conscience scolded him, his southern upbringing freezing him in his steps. His dear sweet Grandmother Maude's voice whispered reminders about gentlemen not breaking dates. "Sometimes, Grandma, I wish I'd never been born in the south," Gabe muttered. He sucked in a harsh breath, prayed for the night to pass quickly, then raised his fist to knock.

  * * *

  Damn.

  Damn.

  Double damn.

  "You will never get Henry S.," Casey said, fighting a wave of anger. "You don't love him, Travis. All you want is his trust fund."

  The sound of Travis Satterfield's sickening sneer turned Casey's stomach. "He's my son, not yours, Casey. The courts will side with me. He's my own flesh and blood," Travis taunted.

  Casey swallowed a nasty retort. "I have legal custody, Travis. Bev gave it to me before she died and I adopted Henry S. I have papers to prove it."

  Travis snorted. "To hell with papers. I'm still his father. Haven't you watched the news lately? Blood relatives always win."

  Casey silently cursed him. "Some father you are. He's two years old and you've never even seen him. How do you think the court will look at that?"

  Travis' heavy breathing filled the line. Casey knew he was thinking about her statement—this could take all night. Travis Satterfield had the brains of a rutabaga.

  "I'll say I wanted to see him and you denied me visitation rights."

  Casey chewed her fingernail, then pulled her ear from the phone. She thought she heard a light knock at the door but Henry S.'s laughter boomed up the hall.

  "You'll be sorry if you don't cooperate with me," Travis warned in a nasty voice.

  Casey pressed the phone back to her ear. "Drop it, Travis. Henry S. is happy. Find the money to pay off your debts somewhere else." Then Casey slammed down the phone, effectively shutting off his next words.

  Henry S. squealed. Casey took off running.

  "Oh, Henry S., what have you done now?" Casey shrieked, dashing for the bathroom. "I had to call the plumber because the potty's stopped up. I hope you didn't flush...." Her words died as she peeked inside.

  Quickly, she snatched a handful of towels from the linen closet and piled them on the floor to catch the overflowing toilet water before it reached the hall carpet.

  Henry S. patted one bare foot into the river of water and wiggled his toes.

  Casey lunged for her son. "Don't step in it, buddy!"

  Henry S. giggled. "Cold."

  "Oh, Henry S.," Casey said, twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head. "What did you put in the potty?"

  Henry S. flashed a proud smile. "Ba... woons," he said, the word barely audible as he stuck his tongue out to show off a prized piece of red gum.

  "Balloons?" Casey asked. "But we don't have any balloons. I used them all for your birthday party last month."

  Henry S. pointed to a small box floating in the corner of the bathroom. Casey groaned as she recognized the package of what used to be neon green condoms. "I forgot Brick and Shelia left those in the cabinet," Casey muttered, heaving an exasperated
sigh. "I swear, Henry S., you were put on this earth to try my ability not to cuss. I'll have gray hair before I'm thirty if you don't stop all this mischief."

  Henry S. chuckled. "Mommy's hair pwetty—purple."

  Casey frowned while tugging on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. "Purple and orange thanks to you, little one. Whatever made you want to put Kool-aid in Mommy's hair while Mommy was napping? I was only asleep for ten minutes. I just hope it comes out before Mommy's date tonight."

  Henry S. giggled and pointed to Casey's mouth. "Bwue lips, Mommy."

  Casey stole a glance at herself in the mirror, rubbing frantically at her lips. "Yes, Mommy has blue lips and so do you. That jawbreaker was awful. I'll have to scrub the skin clean off my lips or put on twenty coats of lipstick to cover this up. Gabriel Thornton would probably run like a jackrabbit if he saw me right now."

  "Wabbit," Henry S. said. He waved his chubby hands above his head imitating floppy ears and dashed into the hall.

  "I want wabbit."

  Casey groaned. "Don't touch the paper-mâché rabbit on the table, Henry S. It still has to dry!" Even as she said it, she knew her pleas not to touch her newest art project were in vain. Throwing another towel on the already soaked mound, she darted after her son. Suddenly, she stopped as a loud pounding on the front door drew her attention.

  "Great jumping junipers!" Casey said. "It must be the plumber. Now, Henry S., please don't get into anything else." Casey glanced around her den at the toys and laundry littering the floor, then frowned at her tattered quilted robe.

  The pounding grew louder.

  "I can't believe I'm letting anyone see me like this," she muttered, racing toward the front door. "Even a plumber."