by Rita Herron
Some of the same stuff Daryl Jeffries—aka the bastard Shelly had married—had babbled when they'd first met the shrink. Hunter yawned and flipped a few pages. Hmm, exercises to try with your lover. This must be the gritty part that had everyone in such a spin. Skeptical, he took another sip of beer and began to read.
The Seductive Whisper
There are several stages of seduction, moving from that first moment of contact to the culmination of the sexual act. Men rely heavily on their physical and visual senses for arousal, while women are aroused through all their senses and emotions....
It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure that out. He skipped to the next section.
Exercise one: Getting in the mood. From the moment you walk into the room, or meet your man, offer him a look that tells him he's special. Attractive. Desired.
During dinner, a walk together, a ride in the car, whisper in his ear how much you want him. Lower your voice to that intimate level you associate with privacy, the one you save for the dark.
The intimate voice of a vamp.
Like the voice Abby Jensen had used on the phone. He skimmed forward some more and found a section on exercises to set the mood.
For the man: Play soft music in the background. Dance with her in your arms.
Hell, he'd danced with Shelly. Once or twice. And they'd watched movies. Lots of James Bond flicks; those were his favorites. All the Die Hard and Rocky sequels, too. And Star Wars. God, he loved sci-fi movies. And he had taken her to that horror festival.
Satisfied, he read on.
Gently trace your finger, then your mouth over her fingers, her knuckles, down to the sensitive skin of her palm. Cradle her hand in yours, press it to your thigh, your chest. Let her feel the way your heart pounds when she's near. Whisper in her ear the naughty things you'd like to do to her. The ways you want to touch her. The ways you want to make her writhe with pleasure.
This was ridiculous. He swiped at another bead of sweat and unfastened another button. No real man talked like that. Did they?
Stroke the side of her cheek with your thumb. Touch her hair. Wind a strand around your fingertip. Kiss the soft ends and brush them against your rough jaw. Watch the hunger grow in her eyes. Feel her desire in her heated breath.
Now, close your eyes and imagine her performing a slow strip tease for you. Murmur what you see, the things you like about her. Not just the physical aspects. The way she smiles. The way her eyes light up when it's raining outside. The way she caresses her own body. The soft, heady sound of her laughter.
He groaned. Did women really want to hear that garbage?
He was burning up, he realized. The damn air conditioner must be on the fritz. He'd have to call and report it. He shucked his shirt completely and stared at the next paragraph.
Describe the strip tease. Her removing one item of clothing after another. Dropping them to the floor. Think about what you want to do to her and tell her in that bedroom voice. Whisper how her mouth would feel beneath yours, how her ripe, warm breasts will spill into your hands, how her breath will feel touching your own male hardness, how you'll fit inside her, how you'll pleasure her, how her voice will sound whispering your name in the throes of ecstasy.
Wet your lips with your tongue. Say her name, letting desire echo in your voice. Tease her neck with soft gentle kisses.
Trace a finger over her lips. Gently stroke her mouth with your thumb. Let her take your finger into her mouth and lick the tip, suckle the end. Imagine her doing this to your sex.
Listen for her breath to hitch. Watch her breasts rise and fall, her nipples pucker for your touch. Brush the barest of kisses across her forehead. Her nose. Down her cheek. Into her hair. Her neck. The sensitive skin of her earlobe. Along her shoulder blade. Down her arm. Over her hardened buds. Near her heat. Bring your hand away before you touch her. Slowly move back to her mouth.
Gently. A little more pressure now. Let her feel the urgency building.
Cradle her jaw with your hands. Lower your mouth. Tease her lips apart with your tongue. Nibble at her lower lip. Then close your lips slowly over hers. And taste a slice of heaven.
Hunter shifted restlessly on the sofa, momentarily envisioning Abby Jensen's mouth coming toward him. Her lips touching his. Her tongue...
He slammed the book onto the coffee table. He would not let that woman's writing affect him. Hell, he was a journalist—he knew firsthand the power of the written word. He made his own damn living by twisting it and turning it every which way.
Her sentences were written by an expert in manipulation—the words were meant to be titillating. She wasn't saying them to him. And he hadn't been fantasizing about her.
Muttering a loud curse, he headed to the bathroom to take a cold shower and forget the nonsense in the book—and the fact that as he'd read, he'd heard her seductive voice purring out every word.
* * *
Anger suddenly churned through Abby. She needed to be angry, she realized. Anger was better than hurt. "How dare Lenny Gulliver use me." Tears blinded her vision, but she blinked them away, fighting the heartache of her lost marriage. All she'd ever wanted was a nice, quiet, happy life: a fulfilling career, a stable family. The type of stable family she'd never had. The loving marriage...
And I thought I had it all, but this past year's been a total lie.
The beautiful rooms she'd wanted to decorate, to raise her kids in, closed around her, hot, stifling. She pressed the cold glass against her face, willing her heart to mend itself.
"Lenny made a mockery out of our marriage because he was too chicken to admit he was gay. How could I have been so naive?"
Chelsea refilled their drinks. "You want Victoria to sue him?"
Abby shook her head. "For what? Humiliating me?" Tension hummed between them as Abby paced the room. She stared out the big picture window, replaying the last three weeks in her head. When she'd bought the house, she'd thought it would be a new beginning for her and Lenny. The flowers had been blooming, the grass green and lush. But the heat wave and drought this past week had parched the brilliant colors and turned everything brown. Left everything looking desolate.
Just like she felt inside.
Seconds later the phone trilled, sending her nerves into a dozen pieces. Both their gazes swung to the machine.
"I can't deal with anything else today. If it's Victoria, please don't tell her yet. And if it's that reporter again..."
"Why won't you give them an interview?" Chelsea asked. "In spite of what Lenny's done, you're a star, Ab."
Abby hesitated. "Because I'm not comfortable with the slant they're giving the book. And you know how I feel about reporters."
Chelsea nodded as if she too was remembering the embarrassing spread the local press had written about their mother's affair years ago. And then their father when he'd been arrested...
The phone trilled again, and Chelsea checked the caller ID. "It's a New York number."
Panic slammed into Abby. Rainey, her publicist.
"Relax," Chelsea said. "They can't know about Lenny yet."
Abby nodded, took a deep breath, and reached for the phone. Her sister was right. She had to calm down. Not give Lenny the power to destroy her.
"Abby, hello, it's Rainey," her publicist said in a sharp New York accent. "I have good news."
She could certainly use some of that.
"Do you have any idea how well your book is doing?"
"Pretty well, I think. I know some of the stores around here are selling out."
"They're selling out everywhere! Congratulations! And that satin pillow idea was ingenious."
Thanks to her mother's latest lover. Her mom who used to play two-bit parts in commercials as vegetables. She'd been a stalk of celery once, broccoli, a carrot....
"We've decided to send you on a publicity tour," Rainey continued. "We'll have you visit bookstores, TV stations, a few radio shows. The way things are going Under the Covers will hit the New York Times list bef
ore week's end. We want to be ready to meet the public's demand."
Abby clutched the phone cord, twisting it in her fingers. "Listen, Rainey, a tour's not a good idea right now."
"Why not? Everyone wants to meet the genius behind this fascinating book."
Abby's mind raced for excuses. How could she go out in public and promote a book about marriage therapy when she couldn't hold her own marriage together? And how could she tell this woman and her agent and editor and the whole world her marriage had been a total sham?
Chapter 3
The Lusty Look
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this makeover." Abby stepped into the fitting room of the exclusive dress boutique Egor's where Chelsea insisted they shop, and grimaced. The Paris designs were expensive and the staff wanted to dress her with their own hands. She was thankful it was one of Chelsea's more upscale choices, not the outlandish favorite where Chelsea, a real bellwether, purchased her lime heels and leopard-skin pants.
"Look, Abby," Chelsea said, "you have to do the book signing, so you might as well look good."
"I only agreed to the book signing because Rainey refused to take no for an answer. I still think it's a bad idea."
"You told her about Lenny?"
Abby winced miserably. "Yes. She almost went into heart failure when I suggested admitting the truth and forgetting the interviews."
"So do the interviews and enjoy your fame. You'll be so fabulous no one will care whether or not you have an albatross of a man around your neck when they do find out about loser Lenny."
Like that would really happen.
Chelsea wrapped a gold chain belt around Abby's hips and adjusted it. "There."
Abby gestured toward the revealing neckline of the shell. "This outfit is just not me...."
"I know. Don't be such a prude." Chelsea laughed, hot pink lips pursed. "It's perfect. That neckline accentuates your cleavage."
"I'm not a prude; I'm modest." Abby pivoted in the mirror to study the back of the short blue skirt. She really had to lay off the Reese's cups. "Don't you think it's a little tight in the butt?"
"Honestly. God gave you assets, so use them." Chelsea shook her head, crystal earrings dangling. "If I left you on your own, you'd show up in a feed sack."
"I would not." Abby glanced at the flowing dress she'd chosen earlier. So it didn't hug her figure or show the lines of her body. That was what she intended. She'd always favored a more traditional style, especially in her clothing. It matched her conservative approach to life.
Marrying Lenny had been her one impulsive decision.
And the biggest mistake of her life.
She unzipped the skirt and dropped it to the floor. If she wore a feed sack, at least she wouldn't have to worry about her hips being too big. She could eat all the Reese's cups she wanted. "This is too short. I'm wearing the calf-length dress."
"That one with the high collar? Good grief, Abby, you'll look like a nun!"
"I will not; it's perfect, classy. If I wear that short one, every man around will be ogling my legs. Giving me that lusty look—"
"That's exactly the point."
"Well, I don't want to be ogled."
"You're hopeless." Chelsea jerked the long black dress out of reach. "This is hideous. Now try on that red silk suit with the camisole. It'll look sexy."
Abby dragged it on under duress. "My butt's too big, my ankles are too thick, and my boobs are too small to look sexy."
Abby's cell phone trilled from her purse, and she clicked it on while Chelsea stacked up her clothing finds. "Hello."
"Hi, Dr. Jensen, this is Hunter Stone from the AJC again. I realize you were busy yesterday—"
"I'm busy again today, too. How did you get my cell phone number?"
"Your publicist, Rainey Jackson."
"Rainey gave you my number?"
"Yes, she faxed me a bio and some photos, too."
Good grief, he sounded so pleased with himself. Rainey obviously didn't share Abby's distrust of reporters. "Mr. Stone, I have no interest in talking to journalists. Why, one article I read implied that I acted out my exercises with my patients."
"Maybe if you meet me, I can get the details right this time," Stone said.
Oh, wouldn't he love that? But she didn't intend to be tricked into anything. "I told you no, and I meant it."
"Listen, Dr. Jensen, the press is going to write about you, so it would be easier if you cooperated. Give me an exclusive, and I'll print the truth. I swear."
His voice sounded strong. Sincere. But Abby didn't trust him for a minute.
"We can talk about your ideas," he continued. "People want to know if your own love life inspired you, if any problems in your marriage or past played into this...."
Abby heaved a breath in and out, panic attacking her as his words faded into an echo around her.
"Dr. Jensen?"
He knew the truth. Why else would he mention problems in her marriage?
But he couldn't print the truth because it was too humiliating. Just as it had been when her father had been arrested and all her mother's lovers had been plastered across the papers. The pictures of her in the paper at age twelve flashed back in painful clarity. She imagined the new ones and the accompanying headline: Like Mother, Like Daughter, Both Forgo Traditional Wedding and Live in Sin.
Suddenly her lungs tightened, she lost her breath, and she dropped the phone. The handset banged against her leg as she heaved in and out, but she couldn't catch her breath. The room spun, her pulse raced, and her skin grew clammy. She had never had a panic attack before, but she recognized the symptoms.
Chelsea took one look at her, shrieked, then pushed her into a chair and shoved a paper bag into her hand.
* * *
He had shaken Dr. Jensen, Hunter realized as he replaced the phone. So much that she'd hung up on him again. Or at least she'd dropped the phone and he'd heard some wild breathing in the background.
Or maybe she had some kind of sex game going on and he'd interrupted.
He chuckled, envisioning the scenario and a photo of it on the front page of the paper. The minute that breathy voice of hers had wavered he'd sensed he was onto something. Something about her past, her personal life... maybe even her marriage.
He had to figure out what she was hiding.
The familiar adrenaline rush of an impending breakthrough zigzagged through him, and he contemplated going incognito to her scheduled book signing. If Abby Jensen even suspected he was the reporter who'd been hounding her, she'd run like crazy.
But how could he disguise himself so he wouldn't be recognized later on when he zeroed in for the kill?
His gaze scanned the room and he spotted the video of Tootsie he and Lizzie had rented the other night, and a sly grin curved his mouth. He'd dress like a woman. After all, he'd disguised himself as a bag lady once to investigate a thug in Chicago. Dr. Jensen might warm up to a female at the signing and spill a few tidbits about herself. Things her publicist had been careful not to reveal when he'd questioned her earlier.
He scavenged through Lizzie's dress-up trunk, wincing at his image in the mirror as he yanked on white tights and a humongous, old-fashioned flowery dress that had belonged to her former nanny, a plus-size woman with bad taste. The dress had dragged the floor when Lizzie put it on, swallowing her whole, but it hung midcalf on him, and with a little padding it almost fit. Except for the bust area, of course. A little stuffing helped fill that out nicely. A curly red wig came next, then bright orange sunglasses with rhinestones and a floppy hat that covered most of his face. Perfect.
Finally he stuffed the book beneath his arm, suppressing the fact that Abby's words had aroused him the night before. Luckily she wasn't his type.
Nope, he preferred busty blondes and redheads, not pale-faced, frizzy-haired brunettes who dressed like school-marms. Even if they did have sinfully seductive voices.
Besides, who would want to be caught dead in such a getup in front of a wo
man he wanted to impress? He painted his lips red and blotted powder on his face to cover his beard stubble.
Sheesh. The things he did for his career...
* * *
Chelsea Jensen would do anything for her sisters.
Oh, she knew she was a screw-up. At least according to her oldest sister, Victoria. But Abby had always cut her a break, and now Abby was the one in trouble, and she had to do something.
For God's sake poor Abby, had almost hyperventilated in the dressing room of Egor's, the most expensive and only exclusive shop Chelsea bothered to drop her plastic in.
Now, if she were going to hyperventilate it would be over that sexy tie-dyed bikini she'd seen in the window, or a pair of fuck-me shoes with rhinestones and feathers, not a man.
Especially one who was gay.
Damn Lenny Gulliver.
If she found him, she would tie his dick in a knot with her curling iron and pluck his lying tongue right from his mouth with her tweezers.
She teetered on her new hot pink heels, strutting toward the elevator to Victoria's office, smiling and waving her acrylic nails at the stuffy suits and dressed-for-success nine-to-livers running to and fro. The women had no fashion sense whatsoever. Never had Chelsea seen so many plain black pumps in one place. And the men all had navy and red striped ties that screamed conservative and wore their cell phones attached to their leather belts like a second penis. God, no wonder Victoria stayed home and did her laundry on Saturday night; her pickin's weren't just slim; they were practically nonexistent.
The elevator whizzed up eleven floors, the mixture of expensive perfumes and colognes of the inhabitants sending her into a tizzy to name the different fragrances, a little game she'd enjoyed playing since second grade. The elevator jolted to a stop, and a tall dark-headed man with a woodsy smell—Stetson, she guessed—elbowed his way out as if his life depended on a ten-second exit.
