by Rita Herron
"Hey, Daddy."
"Hey, pudding."
"You'll have her back by bedtime, won't you?" Shelly wiped a speck of dust from the door of her silver Mercedes sports car.
Hunter nodded tightly and ruffled Lizzie's blond curls as he buckled her into the front seat of his Explorer. "We're just going to dinner, Shelly."
"Good. Daryl says it's better for children to stick to a schedule."
Hunter circled around to his side of the car, his jaw aching from clenching it. For the past fifteen minutes his ex had lectured him on Daryl's idea of parenting. As if Hunter intended to take advice from the wife stealer on how to raise his own child.
Besides, a routine schedule was a sore subject between him and his ex. During their marriage he'd encouraged her to put Lizzie on a schedule when she was a baby, but Shelly's version of a schedule meant whatever tickled her fancy at the moment.
Or whatever sale hit the malls.
Maybe she'd changed. After all, she actually seemed concerned about Lizzie's diet. Yet he couldn't help but think Shelly had gone to the extreme the other way.
"Oh, and make sure she eats properly." Shelly pointed to the tofu-and-bean-sprout cafe beside them. Apparently her new husband was also a health fanatic, or maybe Shelly had taken up an alfalfa-sprout-and-seaweed diet. She'd always jumped from one diet to another. Flitted from one man to another, even after they were married... only he'd been too foolish to know it. She'd been young and beautiful and charming and had a great pair of legs....
And he'd been a fool for following after those legs and not looking to see if the woman had a brain on top of that body.
Shelly huffed. "Are you listening to me at all, Hunter?"
"I'll make sure she eats," he said, refusing to argue in front of Lizzie.
Shelly briefly touched Lizzie's forehead with a manicured hand. " 'Bye, sweetie. Have fun."
Hunter frowned and watched her climb into her car, adjusting her outfit to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in her linen skirt. He wondered if she ever hugged their daughter, ever cuddled or played with Lizzie.
"Daddy, what's this?"
His ex's Mercedes screeched as she peeled from the parking lot.
Hunter swung his gaze toward Lizzie and mentally groaned. "It's a book, honey."
Dr. Jensen's book. He'd finally gotten a copy at the fourth store he'd visited. Of course, he had a few scratches to show for it.
"What's the name of it?"
He climbed into his seat, took the book from her, then tossed it onto the backseat. "Uh... Under the Covers."
Lizzie's big brown eyes looked up at him innocently. "Is it a bedtime story?"
"Sort of. For adults, I guess."
"Oh, I've seen it afore." Lizzie patted Angelica's head. "It's that sex book Mommy gots."
"What?"
"That sex book. Mommy readed it to Daryl."
"Really? What did she say about it?"
"She talked about doing the mattress mambo."
Mattress mambo? He made a mental note to warn Shelly that Lizzie's ears were bigger than she might realize.
"What's mattress mambo, Daddy?"
"Uh, it's complicated, honey." Sweat dribbled down Hunter's neck. "Daddy's supposed to interview the author of the book and write a story about her for the paper."
He had to change the subject. "I heard your tummy growl. What do you want for dinner?"
Lizzie licked her lips. "French fries."
He laughed, then steered the car across the street to the nearest fast-food burger place and parked. "All right, but you have to eat some hamburger, too."
Lizzie frowned. "Icky Micky said hamburger comes from dead cows."
"Who's Icky Micky?"
"This boy at school that gots cooties. He throws dead bugs at the girls on the playground." She undid her seatbelt and crawled into his lap. "Do hamburgers really come from dead cows?"
Hunter swung her from the SUV onto the sidewalk. "Afraid so."
"Icky Micky said they grinded up their guts to make 'em."
"Well—"
"Are we're eatin' bloody guts and stomachs, Daddy?"
"Well..."
She clapped her hands over her ears. "Angelica and I don't want to eat bloody cow guts and ears, do we, Angelica?" Lizzie wiggled the doll's head back and forth as if it were saying no.
"You don't have to, honey. Let's have chicken fingers instead."
"Icky Micky said they cut-off chicken toes to make chicken fingers."
Hunter wanted to strangle Icky Micky. At this rate they'd be eating nothing but nuts and berries. "We'll just have french fries then."
Lizzie exhaled a big sigh of relief. "Good."
"By the way, where does Icky Micky get all his information?"
"From his number one stepdaddy." Lizzie held up three fingers. "He gots three daddies. And his mama gots the sex lady's book, too."
Hunter gritted his teeth. The book obviously hadn't helped her stay married any more than Dr. Jensen's advice to Shelly had.
Would he wind up as a number in a long string of fill-in fathers to Lizzie someday?
* * *
"What do you mean, he left you for a man?" Chelsea snatched the letter from Abby's hands and skimmed the contents. "What a cold and impersonal note. That slimy SOB."
"That slimy gay SOB," Abby clarified.
"Bi, not gay," Chelsea corrected. "I mean, you two did have sex... um, didn't you?"
Abby clenched her hands, battling tears. "Yes, Chelsea we were married almost a year. Of course we had sex." Not mindboggling sex, but okay sex, Abby thought, remembering Lenny's reluctance to please her in certain ways. In fact, he had been just as cold and impersonal as the letter the last few weeks of their marriage.
She dropped her head in her hands, a dozen memories suffusing her. A million telltale signs... God, she'd been such a fool.
Had Lenny known Tony was a fake all along? Had everything been a lie?
She'd thought she was in love with him, especially during those first few months. And even after the initial sizzling attraction had worn off, she'd tried to make things work. Her whole world revolved around family and commitment, and she refused to become another statistic on the dismal divorce charts, so she'd pulled from all her resources to spark their romance back to life.
But Lenny had never wanted her. Had never loved her. He'd been lying to her, pretending he wanted to be married to her when all that time he'd been hiding in the closet, struggling over whether or not to open the door and step out.
She rocked herself back and forth, her insides aching.
"I figured you two were wild in bed," Chelsea said, oblivious to her turmoil. "After all, you are a sex therapist."
"I'm not a sex therapist," Abby said for what felt like the hundredth time. She swiped at her eyes. "I'm a couple's therapist. And obviously not a very good one if I couldn't tell my own husband was gay."
"Bi."
Abby sniffled. "Same difference."
"Not really." Chelsea flipped a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder. "Did you know... he swung both ways?"
"No." Abby flopped her head back on the sofa, feeling dumb and hurt. Why hadn't she known?
The unpacked boxes scattered across the hall and den glared back at her. She considered the bag of comfort candy, but her stomach protested.
"Has he been acting different lately?" Chelsea asked.
Abby chewed at a hangnail. "I didn't think about it then, but yeah. He was sort of cool and distant before his trip. And I was surprised he was going to be gone for three weeks."
"Hmm. You haven't talked to him since?"
Abby shook her head, hating to admit the truth. "Not even once. And he just left his things in the apartment and told me I could move them. But the rent's paid up through the month, so I left them there so he could sort them when he returned."
"Did he show any interest in the house, talk about the future?"
No. "Not really." But he had let her ramble on an
d on about fixing it up, making a nursery. "He gave me full rein. Told me to pick the colors I wanted." She paused and looked at her sister, realization dawning, along with all the little signs she had dismissed in her efforts not to become a nag. "He didn't even complain when I chose this striped-print design for the chair."
"A bad sign?"
Her lower lip trembled. "I thought he was just being sweet, trying to compromise." The way she had in bed.
Chelsea gave her a sympathetic look and picked at the hem of her tie-dyed T-shirt with the words, The truth will set you free emblazoned on the front in neon pink lettering.
The truth about Lenny jolted through her, fighting with reality the way the kaleidoscope of reds and oranges warred with one another on her sister's shirt. "He... he never planned to move in here. He was planning to leave with Tony all along."
"I'm really sorry, Abby." Chelsea squeezed her hand. "I know how you feel about marriage. This must be such a shock."
Abby hugged her arms around her middle, willing herself to hold back the landslide of tears pushing at her eyes. Like a damn bursting, they spilled over.
"I'm an idiot, Chels." The tears gushed out. "I... I kept trying to make him happy while he was cheating on me with a m-man."
* * *
Three hours later, Hunter dropped Lizzie back with her mother, then hit the computer at home to research Abby Jensen's background before he approached her. This article had to be good.
No, not good. Outstanding.
He wanted to ressurrect his reputation, move up the ladder of success at the AJC, make enough money to give Lizzie everything she wanted. And maybe have more time off to spend with her. These bogus little assignments had him working day and night for nothing. If he missed time with her because of a big story and made a name for himself, at least she would be proud of him.
A half hour later, he leaned back in his desk chair and propped his booted feet on top of the scarred oak. Interesting. Dr. Jensen's family wasn't exactly the pinup poster for marriage. In fact, her parents had never married. They'd shacked up together over the years while they raised three girls.
Dr. Jensen's mother had been a real wild child of the seventies. He'd found an article about her staging a riot in college, another of her burning her bra on campus, then small bits about her in various college performances. After college, she'd played a bottle of ketchup for a TV ad and had an affair with the mustard man. She also coasted through men and careers like some women did hairstyles. Dr. Jensen's father had once been a roving artist who sculpted nudes and liked to gamble. Apparently he'd spent several years in the pokey when his daughters were in school.
An old photo clipping of Abby at age twelve drew his eye. The camera had captured her shattered look of innocence as she was herded from the courtroom. Bright sunlight highlighted her frizzy brown pigtails, freckles, and clunky glasses, as well as the big tears in her luminous dark eyes.
His stomach clenched. The other two girls had hidden behind her, the youngest a cute little blond with two braids, the older one a serious, sad-looking child with straight dark hair and an angry scowl. The picture had been taken the first time the father had been arrested.
Their father had landed himself back in the pen again a couple of years ago and was still incarcerated.
Hunter's stomach twisted again. While he'd attended church with his parents on Sunday mornings, Abby had probably visited her dad in jail. A twinge of sympathy reared its head, but he squashed it. Success came at a price. Both hers...
And his.
She'd have to give up some of her privacy for fame, and he would have to be ruthless in his quest to make a name for himself. He read further, details jumping out at him. The oldest sister, Victoria, had earned a reputation as a cutthroat divorce attorney. The youngest, Chelsea, had followed in her mother's footsteps and worked as an actress at a local arts theater. She'd actually starred in a couple of commercials—once as a mop, the other time as a bra model.
Hmm. Both girls were still single.
But Abby Jensen had turned into the rose among the thorns—the proponent of love, marriage, and happily-ever-after endings. A newlywed herself, she should celebrate her first wedding anniversary in a week.
He clawed through his hair, searching for an angle. Was her marriage as ideal as her words of wisdom implied?
A grin laced his mouth as he picked up the phone. He'd called earlier for an interview but she hadn't answered. He'd try again.
And again and again until she gave him one.
* * *
Abby blew her nose, accepted another tissue from Chelsea, and ignored the phone. It had rung a dozen times in the last half hour, but she'd staunchly ignored it.
"Here, throw another dart at Lenny's picture," Chelsea said, smiling snidely at the battered photo. "It'll make you feel better."
Abby wiped her nose and flung the dart at Lenny's face, this time slicing him between the eyes. So far she'd snagged his forehead, the tip of his nose, and both of his ears.
"Shoot for his chin this time," Chelsea said.
Abby slammed another dart toward the wall, blinking through swollen, red eyes. She missed the chin but caught him in the center of his mouth.
"That fat lip should make kissing impossible." Chelsea refilled their drinks. "Too bad we don't have a full-length one. You could nab him right where it would hurt the most."
"But he doesn't have a heart."
Chelsea tapped a finger over her lips, then pointed downward. "I was thinking lower."
A rumble of laughter burst out as Abby envisioned the picture, although she spoiled the tension-released giggle by lapsing into a wail.
Chelsea wrapped her arms around her and patted her back. "I wish I could do something like conjure up a spell like my friend Lucy does. I have one called 'Baby Come Back—'"
"I don't want him back," Abby cried. "Not now I know he's a cheat and a liar."
"Shh, I know. It'll be okay, Ab. I know you're hurting right now, but look on the bright side—"
"My husband just left me for a man; what bright side is there?"
"Well..." Chelsea chewed on her lip. "Now you can play the field again."
Another sob lodged in Abby's throat. "But I hate playing the field. That's the reason I got married."
The phone rang again, adding a sharp trill to her pathetic sob.
"Damn. That phone has been ringing off the hook all night." Chelsea planted her hands on her hips. "If you don't answer it, I will."
Abby swiped at her sore eyes, blew her nose, and jerked up the receiver, praying it wasn't someone phoning about Lenny. Or another nosy reporter. "Dr. Jensen speaking."
"Dr. Jensen, Hun..." Static crackled over the phone, obliterating his name. "...from the AJC—"
Abby cut him off before he could continue. "I'm not giving any interviews. Now please leave me alone."
"But wait, I just want to ask you how you got the inspiration for your book."
Abby silently cursed all men. "I really can't talk now, Mr....?"
"Stone. Hunter Stone."
The alcohol was making her head fuzzy. "Listen, Mr. Stone, if I wanted an interview I'd call you."
"Just answer that one question. What can it hurt?"
Reporters could twist anything into dirt, Abby thought. "The book is a composite of exercises I conduct with my patients. End of story."
She glanced at Lenny's picture, memories of her honeymoon flooding her.
"And have you tried these exercises yourself?"
Oh, had she! But she was way too smart to answer a question like that. "Listen, Mr. Stone, my private life is my business. Now good night." She dropped the phone in its cradle, praying the man would take a hint. The last thing she needed was a reporter adding to her humiliation by nosing into her personal life and exposing her secrets....
* * *
He would expose all of Abby Jensen's secrets, Hunter vowed, his body tingling from the sound of her seductive voice. That low, husky voice ha
d quavered, though, as if full of emotion. For a moment he'd even thought she might be crying. Had she been upset about something?
And if so, what?
He dismissed the possibility, reminding himself she was cold and calculating. She'd simply been playing a seductive little game, the way cunning women did to entice a lover. Using that breathy bedroom voice, low and sexy the way a man craved in the middle of the night with the lights turned off and nothing but the two of them between the sheets. Shit.
He stood and slammed down the phone. So the woman had a voice that could reduce a man to jelly and give him a hard-on the size of a...
His ears were still ringing from when she'd dropped the damn phone to hang up on him. To hell with what she'd said—her private life was news now; she'd opened the door to the public when she'd become an instant celebrity.
Yep, he'd find all the little details about her life that had led to her book, to her marriage, to her cockeyed belief that she could tell other people how to run their lives.
The way she had when she'd convinced Shelly he was a sorry husband.
Tomorrow he'd find out the name of Abby Jensen's publicist and see what kind of information he could weasel out of her.
He grabbed Under the Covers along with a beer, adjusted the air conditioner, undid the top button of his denim shirt, and stretched out on the sofa to dissect the book. Tonight he'd read; tomorrow he'd research her background in even more detail, see if he discovered any ghosts lurking in her closet. Then he'd figure out a way to finagle an interview. An exclusive maybe.
He lifted the back cover and studied her picture. Slender, small-boned. Serious, soulful eyes. Her lips were too full. Her hair too dark and curly.
Not his type at all.
No, he much preferred busty redheads or voluptuous blondes.
Thank God he didn't have to worry about being physically attracted to her.
She'd probably had that publicity photo retouched, too, so in person she didn't even resemble it. Photographers worked wonders with computers today, smoothing out age lines, covering up flaws.
He chuckled, took a long pull from his beer, and skimmed the introduction to her book—just as he'd expected, a lot of hogwash about wanting to improve your interpersonal skills with your partner. How to communicate. Mars-Venus theory. Making eye contact. Reflective listening. Focusing on wording your needs so they became a request, not a criticism of the other person. Don't take your problems to the bedroom.
