by Rita Herron
"I love you, Sophie with all my heart, now, tomorrow, and always."
Tears burned the backs of Sophie's eyelids, but she blinked them away. "Lance, I dreamed of having a home when I grew up, a Victorian house full of antiques with a walk-in closet, a white picket fence, a gazebo in my backyard, and a pond. But I never dreamed I would find someone as wonderful as you.
"You gave me all those things I'd dreamed about in my house, but when I thought I'd lost you, I realized that a house was just four walls with things that didn't really matter. It wasn't a home until you added the loving touches with your own hands, until you stood inside with me." She kissed his fingers as he had hers.
"When I first met you, I sensed we were soul mates. Then I got to know you, and I knew I was meant to love you. I give you my heart, today and forevermore."
They exchanged rings and the minister offered a simple prayer; then it was time to kiss the bride.
Lance swept Sophie into his arms and claimed her mouth in a kiss so tender and erotic that Sophie felt faint when she pulled away. Maddie was crying and blowing her nose, but rushed to congratulate them. Lucy and Deseree hugged and squealed, then embraced her and Lance.
"You will be good to my sister, won't you?" Lucy asked.
Lance grinned. "Yes, of course I will. And I'll be your big brother if you let me."
Lucy twisted her mouth in thought. "As long as you don't boss me around too much."
Sophie and Lance laughed, while Peter came forward to congratulate them both. Chase pounded Lance on the back, and Reid looked oddly emotional. Then the party and celebration began. Everyone enjoyed the appetizers and champagne and wedding cake, then danced.
Lance dragged Sophie into his arms. "Were you really thinking about going back to Vegas to perform?"
Sophie nuzzled his neck. "No. Why, do you want me to dance?"
"Maybe later, for me. In private."
"I think that can be arranged."
Lance kissed her. "I hope so, Sophie. And if you want to take that job in L.A.—"
"We're not moving," Sophie said. "I love the show I'm doing now, Lance. I love Savannah and Maddie and you and our house. I don't need anything else."
Lance pressed her hands to his heart. "How about a family... someday?"
Sophie smiled. "Well, yes, I would like that."
"Do you think Lucy's really okay with us getting married?"
"I think so, but your brother looked kind of upset. Maybe we should check on them." Hand in hand, they maneuvered through the crowd.
"Where are they?" Sophie asked.
"I don't know. I hope they're not off arguing somewhere." He pulled her inside, and they searched the house. They were just about to give up when Lance heard a squeaking sound from the attic.
"Is there a ghost up there?"
"No." Sophie darted up the stairs and they tiptoed into the room to find Reid and Lucy kissing. "Oh, my gosh," Sophie whispered, grateful they were still dressed.
"Reid?" Lance stammered.
Lucy and Reid pulled away, their faces flushed, hair tangled, clothes disheveled.
"Lucy, I thought he was the most infuriating, exasperating, sexist pig you'd ever met," Sophie said.
Lucy grinned, her arms still looped around Reid's neck. "He is."
Lance quirked a brow. "And I thought she was a kook?"
Reid shrugged and tightened his hands around her back. "She is."
"Did you cast a spell on him?" Sophie asked.
Lucy shook her head, curls bouncing.
"It doesn't matter," Reid said in a goofy voice. "Because I think I love Lucy."
"Ahhh..." Lucy threaded her fingers through his hair. "I think I love you, too."
* * *
As soon as the guests left, Sophie and Lance raced up the steps to change. Seconds later Sophie emerged in a black G-string and pasties made of chocolate drops.
Lance's throat went dry. He'd thought the Virginal Vampiress was sexy; Sophie in this amazing getup was an orgasm waiting to happen.
"What exactly is that thing called?" he said in a thick voice as she began to slowly gyrate to the jazz music floating through the room.
"Item number sixty-nine from Lucy's Sleepover catalog. Chocolate kisses, the edible wonders." Sophie wiggled her fanny and dipped her shoulder so the chocolate kisses covering her nipples swayed. "Now, honey, you can have dessert."
Lance licked his lips and went to make his wife happy, something he intended to do the rest of his life. As he took the first bite, he feathered his fingers along Sophie's thighs. "Maybe your sister should hold on to that business," he whispered. "After all, we have anniversaries to come, and Valentine's Day..."
Sophie threw her head back and groaned. "Honey, I'll make sure we get a lifetime supply."
The End
Page forward for more from Rita Herron
Other Books by Rita Herron
If you liked SLEEPLESS IN SAVANNAH, 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!
UNDER THE COVERS
A famous marriage counselor hires a man to play her husband when her real one leaves her for a 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
Under The Covers
by
Rita Herron
Chapter 1
The Faker
"No more faking orgasms, ladies and gentlemen," the newscaster's voice boomed from the television. "Not if you and your partner take advice from leading sex therapist Dr. Abigail Jensen in her new sex manual, Under the Covers. Just let me read you a short excerpt."
"It's not a sex guide and I'm not a sex therapist!" Abby waved a hand toward the announcer. "The book is for marriage therapy!"
Abby's twenty-one-year-old sister Chelsea rubbed her hands together in gleeful anticipation and plopped down on the sofa. "I can't wait to hear this."
"Dr. Jensen gives this advice in her chapter on erotic foreplay: Slowly massage his inner thigh with your finger. Trace a long, sensual path from the curve of his toe up his calf, then circle around to tease the thick muscle—"
Abby pressed her hands over her ears, her face burning as the reporter quoted several more passages out of context. "With chapter titles like 'The Orgasmic Kiss,' 'Fantastic Fantasies,' 'Most Passionate Positions,' and 'Naughty Seduction Games,' it's no wonder this book is flying off the shelves," the young newscaster continued. "In addition, this commercial has been running during daytime soap operas."
The picture changed to show a scantily clad, voluptuous redhead reclining on a bed of satin sheets with a copy of Abby's book resting between her parted knees. A brawny man with jet-black hair dressed in red silk boxers kissed his way from the woman's toes up to her knees, where he knocked the book aside with his head before engulfing the woman in a steamy kiss. Dubbed-in oohs and aahs echoed around the rocking couple.
"Oh, my God," Abby whispered.
Chelsea flicked up the volume on the remote, her charm bracelet jingling. "Cool, Mom's new boyfriend really came through for you with that ad, sis."
Yeah, it was a little over the top, just like her mother.
"With each purchase of Under the Covers, customers receive a free set of satin pillowcases to stimulate their own sensual pillow talk," the announcer explained. "And it certainly looks like Dr. Jensen's suggestions are working for this couple. They're hotter than the reco
rd temperatures outside."
"Man, I have to find out how to do that orgasmic kiss thing, Ab. Can I take a copy of the book home tonight?"
Abby rolled her eyes, grabbed a miniature Reese's peanut butter cup from the bag, and popped it into her mouth. The last thing her little sister needed was advice on sex; words of wisdom regarding a lasting relationship would be more pertinent.
Under the Covers had been out only two days, and Abby was grateful that it was selling. She hoped that couples would benefit from her years of experience as a marriage counselor, and the extra money she would earn from book sales couldn't hurt. She seemed to have an inordinate number of needy relatives who often turned to her for "loans."
But she hated the media attention. Reporters were always looking for the most scandalous, juiciest story, and they would exaggerate, embellish, even lie in their quest for sensational headlines. She'd learned that painful reality as a child. She grabbed another candy and devoured it—the chocolate treat was both her nemesis and her salvation. "You don't need to read my work. You're not married."
"You mean it's only for married couples?"
"Well, no, not exactly. It's supposed to help all couples improve intimacy in their relationships." Abby paced in front of the bay window, feeling exposed after the latest spotlight on her book, and even more so when she realized anyone on the street could see through her front window. She added curtains to the list of items she had to pick up for her new house.
"Then give me a copy, Abby. I have a new boyfriend."
Abby groaned in disbelief. "Boyfriend? You never see a guy more than twice."
Chelsea scratched her blond head in thought. "I went out with that carpenter three times."
"Great."
"Nah, he was kind of boring. But he did have a big tool—"
"Chelsea," Abby warned.
"...belt." Chelsea's green eyes twinkled. "Especially his hammer."
Abby threw up her hands. "You are incorrigible!"
Chelsea reached for the blender. "And you're awfully uptight for someone who wrote a sex guide."
"It is not a sex guide." Abby stopped abruptly, nearly tripping over the cluster of boxes in the corner. What in the world was she going to do with her baby sister?
Even worse, what if the press discovered the truth: that she'd been following her own advice and it hadn't been working? That she had faked a few orgasms herself?
And a lot of other things...
* * *
Hunter Stone situated himself in a metal chair in his boss's office and glared at the junior reporter, Addleton, the ass kisser, leaning against their boss's cluttered desk. Files, unedited copy, layouts, dirty coffee cups, and Twinkie wrappers covered the once shiny black-lacquered surface. Shelves overflowed with old copies of the AJC—Atlanta Journal and Constitution—and the faded white walls held framed evidence of Emerson's writing credentials. Ralph Emerson, the chief editor of the Journal and Constitution, had nothing in common with the legendary Ralph Waldo Emerson, except that they both had male genes and two legs.
This Ralph Emerson scratched his protruding stomach, a copy of the morning edition in his hand, smoke stains yellowing his teeth. "Great story, Addleton. That piece on the bombing near the Fox Theater came in just in time for the front page. And it's spiked our website ratings."
Hunter frowned. So far Addleton, number one kiss-up reporter, had outscooped him on everything. But only because Hunter had a black streak on his file from his previous job, and Ralph hadn't unleashed him from the repercussions of it yet.
He'd been at the Chicago Tribune before the AJC, and one lousy error of judgment had flagged him as a man who would do anything for a story, including the unethical. Just because he had hidden in the senator's private bathroom and overheard confidential details about his affairs...
Well, when he'd moved to Atlanta his reputation had preceded him, and though he had managed to get a job at the AJC, he'd been given only piddly stories. After a month, he was damned tired of covering crappy pieces like the recent Maltese pageant and the pancake-eating contest at the local elementary school. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the pancakes...
"Hey, great piece on the hog-hollering contest in Gwinnett County," Addleton said as he loped past him, a cocky grin pasted on his conceited face.
Hunter glared at him, but ignored the barb. After all, the boss was watching.
As soon as Addleton cleared the door awning, Emerson handed him a list of assignments. Hunter thumbed through them in disgust. The local soup kitchen, the daisy festival... He'd missed his dinner with Lizzie twice last week covering some of the same kinds of stuff.
"Look, Ralph, you know I can handle bigger pieces than this. Why don't you give me a chance?"
Emerson opened a peppermint and popped it in his mouth, his concession to a nonsmoking office. "You dig up something on your own time, I'll take a look."
Hunter nearly fell off the chair with relief.
But Emerson jabbed a stubby finger toward him. "Only I don't want any trouble, you hear me?"
Hunter nodded, thanked him, and strode back to his cubicle. He'd knock out these easy stories, then look for something bigger. Not a criminal piece yet, but something timely that would draw a lot of attention. Anxious for a lead or at least a topic, he dropped into his chair, logged on to the Internet, and searched various bulletin boards, looking for anything that might make big news.
An ad for a new sex-talk book, one of those self-help things, called Under the Covers drew his eye. The author was none other than Dr. Abigail Jensen, who'd made landmark sales with her new release.
Holy hell. Abigail Jensen—the psychologist who'd toured the country offering seminars on marriage. The woman who'd planted seeds of doubt in his ex-wife's head about their marriage.
Oh, yeah, Abby Jensen had wreaked havoc in his personal life with her theories.
He ran a hand through his hair, reading further. So far the woman had avoided interviews, refusing requests.
Why?
Did she have some secrets she didn't want to share?
He shut down his computer, snatched up his cell phone, and strode from the noisy den of reporters hacking away at their computers, his adrenaline pumping. Somehow he would get an interview with Abby Jensen. After all, she owed him one after the way she had interfered in his life.
She was not the know-all, do-good counselor she portrayed herself to be. He knew firsthand. And he would take great pleasure in writing all about her.
And if he dug up some dirt on her, the story might convince Ralph to let him do some criminal investigative reporting, and make his career.
Of course, it might ruin hers, but that would simply be the icing on the cake.
* * *
"Oh, my gosh. Look!" Chelsea pointed to the TV, where the camera zoomed to the bedding section in a nearby shopping mall holding several cardboard dump displays of Abby's book, along with free sets of gift-wrapped pillowcases.
Abby gaped.
People literally grabbed the books from the display and rushed to the counter to pay for them. Another camera focused on a bookstore where a long line of people wound outside the door, anxiously waiting for their copy. The report quickly switched to a mob of customers in a local discount store who were actually pushing and shoving to get the last few copies remaining on the store's shelf. An elderly woman in an orange jogging suit wrestled with an overweight bald man for the last book.
"Well, I never." Abby sat in shock while her sister poured margarita mix into a blender, added tequila and crushed ice, and punched the button. The sound of grinding ice filled the silence.
"You hit on something big, sis. I wish I could come up with a get-rich-quick scheme."
"Under the Covers was not meant as a get-rich-quick scheme," Abby said. "I hate the downward spiral in marriage statistics today and want couples to realize the sacred value of their union. Once they've committed, they should give marriage their best shot."
"You're such an idealist
, Abby. Marriage is archaic. It doesn't fit with contemporary couples; you know, Sex and the City—"
"Sex in the suburbs is not exactly dead, you know."
Chelsea harrumphed.
"Family and marriage should be appreciated more, treasured and coveted, not just the sex part but the love and commitment."
"Hey, I'm committed"—Chelsea raised her eyebrows—"to staying single."
Abby shook her head and laughed in spite of her difference of opinion. Everything about her and Chelsea was different from their homes to their hairstyles. Chelsea, with her long blond hair and big boobs, rented a loft above the arts theater where she worked; her apartment was completely art deco, her wardrobe trendy.
Abby, with her mousy brown bob, on the other hand, had bought a nice little cottage house, furnished it in a homey country style, and wore a middle-class wardrobe that screamed not to be noticed.
"Face it, sis, most marriages are doomed from the start," Chelsea continued. "Just ask our oldest sister."
"Victoria is a divorce attorney. Of course her views are skewed." Abby sighed; she worried so about Victoria. Whereas Chelsea jumped from man to man, Victoria never dated or paused from her busy work schedule to give a man a chance at being decent. Her apartment in Buckhead, an eclectic mix of styles, her wardrobe, Anne Klein, her sophisticated raven chignon shouting "Hands off."
"Victoria's dealing with reality." Chelsea dipped the rims of the glasses in salt, waving a bejeweled finger as she spoke. "But don't get me wrong; I think it's great you're such an optimist, especially in light of our parents' history. And I'm envious you're making money doing something you really want to do."
Abby shook her head. She could use the money; not a month went by that Chelsea or her mom or another relative didn't turn to her for a loan. And it didn't escape her that Chelsea had sided with Victoria—the only thing her sisters agreed on was their doom and gloom view of marriage. Growing up, Abby had often played referee between her sisters and also between her parents, who'd never actually tied the knot into respectable parenthood.
