by Rita Herron
Cheers and whoops of laughter filled the stage, and the anchorman cleared his throat. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I guess you have your answer. It looks as if Dr. Jensen follows her own rules."
Abby's look of stark shock rattled Hunter. She was hot and obviously a very passionate woman, but she also seemed stunned at her own reaction. Didn't she and her real hubby have this kind of volatile heat between them?
Of course.
She was simply reacting oddly because he was a stranger and she was in shock, he reasoned. And because she was married.
She probably didn't expect an actor to turn her on.
"Mr. Jensen," the talk show host said, obviously assuming Jensen was her married name—come to think of it, Hunter hadn't checked to see for himself—"Why don't you sit down and tell us what it's like to be married to a sex goddess?"
Hunter grinned at the audience like a man well pleased, not a far stretch at the moment. Maybe Abby Jensen did know a few secrets in the bedroom.
He'd definitely have to spend more time with her to find out.
A tough story, but someone had to do it. And it would take a strong man to step up to the plate, play her soul mate, and not be knocked out by the curveballs she tossed at him. Like the seductive whisper of her voice. And the enticing, innocent look she displayed for the public.
Hell, she was as innocent as a street girl, he thought.
Abby coughed beside him, and he wondered again at her reaction. She seemed so shocked to have him appear—hadn't she told her sister to hire him? When Chelsea had sworn him to secrecy, he'd assumed Abby had instigated the charade.
Taking her hand in his, he pulled her back into her seat, surprised to find her palm sweating. "Life couldn't be better," he answered. "My wife is making all my dreams come true." After all, that wasn't exactly a lie. His dream of making a name for himself as a reporter would come true.
Just as soon as he nabbed this story. Then Ralph wouldn't care about his unorthodox methods—he'd be grateful to Hunter for being so ingenious.
Chapter 6
The Orgasmic Kiss
Abby was thankful that the man pretending to be her husband chatted with the host for several minutes, giving her a few minutes to recover from the shock of his appearance on the show.
And from that erotic kiss.
Even as the gorgeous stranger spoke, he pulled her hand into his, cradling it between his huge hands, then resting them on his thigh. Coupled with his deep, husky voice, the possessive masculine gesture awakened feminine senses left dormant for a long time. So did the scent of his maleness, the heat of his muscular leg, and the friction of his warm palm against her own.
Abby answered any questions directed her way by rote, her convictions firmly planted in her mind. But her subconscious had drifted to another plane, a higher level where her inner thoughts and her body's reaction had reached a catastrophic epiphany.
The orgasmic kiss really did exist. And so did those titillating touches.
Her lips still tingled from her pretend-husband's hot mouth, and liquid heat pooled in her belly, erupting like a brushfire caught anew each time he squeezed her hand or flexed his thigh. And she felt dizzy from his cologne—what was he wearing? Whatever it was, the fragrance enhanced his masculinity a hundred times over.
She had written about the power of the senses, about the orgasmic kiss and those titillating touches, because she'd believed the seductive play of a man's and a woman's lips together, their tongues mating, their souls seeping one into the other, could actually bring a woman to ecstasy.
Although it had never happened with her.
Before now.
Now her body tingled and shivered, her senses reeled with erotic thoughts of this stranger, and her brain had traveled to that faraway, hazy place where passion overpowered reason.
"So one year after the vows, is the honeymoon over?" Segoda asked.
"Our honeymoon will never end," her pretend-husband said in a gruff voice.
Oh, he was good, Abby thought. A wonderful actor.
But he was acting, and she could not fall for his seductive allure.
How long could a fifteen-minute interview last, anyway?
Abby glanced at the clock out of the corner of her eye, praying the director would end this maddening charade so she could go home, burrow into a cave, and hide until she found a way to crawl out of this twilight zone she'd lapsed into.
Oh, well, this one public appearance should quiet all the hoopla about her husband. Then Abby could forget about lusty looks shared with strangers and orgasms of the mind and go back to therapy.
To giving therapy.
Oh, hell, she might need it herself after this crazy ordeal ended.
"Dr. Jensen," Segoda asked. "Would you recommend your book to newly weds?"
"Certainly," Abby replied, thinking of the rocky beginning her own nuptials had had on her real honeymoon. "Learning to communicate is important at any stage of a relationship, but establishing a solid pattern at the beginning paves the way for a smoother marriage." After all, if Lenny had been honest and confessed he was gay, their fake marriage would have been much different; it never would have happened. Then she wouldn't be in this mess....
Segoda waved to his assistant, a petite brunette who roamed the studio audience with a microphone. "I believe we have a few questions from the audience."
Abby forced a smile and stared out into the crowd, trying desperately to ignore the fact that the man next to her had slid their joined hands toward his lap. She could have sworn she felt a slight shudder course through him when her fingers clawed for escape. And if her vision was serving her right, he had a hard-on.
* * *
Hunter knew Abby wanted him to release her hand, but he'd be damned if he would let her off the hook. He'd torture her the same way she was torturing him with those doelike eyes. After all, she had hired him.
She was not an innocent.
She was a married woman living a lie onstage and using him in the process.
But he did not want to embarrass himself, so he shifted and crossed his legs to hide his arousal. She bit down on her lower lip, and he shot her a sideways grin that promised heat and lust and that her sex tips wouldn't be lost on him.
The young assistant took her cue from the director. "Yes, sir, tell us your name and what you want to ask Dr. Abby."
A portly man with three white hairs in a comb-over grinned, his pasty complexion reddening. "I tried those ten steps in 'The Art of Seduction' chapter and they worked." He gestured toward a middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair. "Meet the future Mrs. Javarsky. We just got engaged."
"Congratulations." A smile flooded Abby's face. "I'm glad things worked out for you."
A birdlike woman in a tiger-striped dress shot up. "Is it true that your grandfather had two wives? And that your father was accused of racketeering and has mob connections at the Barely There Club on Cheshire Bridge Road?"
Abby tensed beside him. Hunter squared his shoulders, recognizing the woman as a reporter. "No, my grandfather was not a bigamist, and as far as I know none of my family members have ever been involved in mob-related activities."
"How can you advocate marriage when your parents lived together without nuptials? Do you think people should stay together even if they're miserable with each other?"
Abby shook her head. "It's true my parents never married, and no, sometimes I think couples have irreconcilable differences." She paused and glanced at Hunter, her big eyes pleading.
Silently asking him not to give her away.
He recognized the vulnerability there, and empathy plucked at heartstrings he thought had been broken a long time ago.
Her reaction to the kiss aroused his curiosity even more.
She obviously wasn't a lesbian, as he'd wondered when she'd winked at him at the bookstore. Or if she was, she liked men, too. Not that he cared. The lesbian angle would have made a nice story, though....
Several people began to debate t
he war between the sexes, the assistant jumping back and forth between two rows of guests to give them a chance to speak. "Men don't like to be criticized in bed," one man said.
"And sometimes we like for the woman to take the lead."
"After my wife read that book, she left me," a whiny guy in an outdated leisure suit cried. "She said I didn't pass the bedroom test."
"And my wife told me she wouldn't sleep with me unless I learned how to do this bedroom talk," a trucker with a big belly shouted. "She never complained before."
"If the love is there," Abby continued, "you can both work it out, gentlemen. If the feelings are real and strong, not just lust, people can better their chances of keeping a marriage together by learning to communicate both in and out of the bedroom." Her smile dazzled the crowd.
Hunter frowned. Maybe her sister had coached her in acting lessons. She certainly sounded sincere.
"After all, marriage is about compromise," she continued. "And sex with emotions is much more powerful than sex simply for physical-gratification purposes."
"I can testify to that," Hunter said, shocking himself by speaking up.
Abby grinned, obviously assuming he was playing his part.
The audience chuckled.
Hunter lifted Abby's hand against his mouth and dropped featherlight kisses along her fingers. "Let's face it, guys. We can be better lovers if we listen to what our ladies want."
"Ahh, what women want," the host commented with a grin. "The million-dollar question."
The camera jumped back to the audience. "The big mystery, you mean," another man commented.
A brunette in her twenties jumped up. "We want men who care."
"And men who take care of us."
"And men who make us scream with pleasure."
"I pleased my woman." A young black man threw up his hand. "See, I wrote crib notes from the book right here to help me out."
"I did, too," a yuppie-looking guy with wire-rimmed glasses added. "We had sex for twenty-four hours straight."
"What about what we want?" a bodybuilder-type man asked.
"Yeah, what about our needs?"
Abby cut in smoothly. "The book addresses both sexes' needs and the fact that each partner needs to listen to the other."
"That's right." Hunter leaned sideways. "Just let your girl whisper in your ear what she wants. You take care of her"—he pulled their clasped hands to his chest—"she'll take care of you."
"I'm afraid we have to close on that note," Segoda said. "But we'd love to have you come back, Dr. Jensen, and talk with us again."
She stood to shake the host's hand, and Hunter followed suit. But just as she extended her arm, a pair of her panties slid from beneath the cuff of her jacket. Hunter grabbed them just before they fell into Segoda's hands.
Pasting a shit-eating grin on his face, he twirled them around his hand. "See, ladies and gentlemen, how can the honeymoon be over when your wife tosses her panties at you everywhere you go?" He nuzzled her neck for emphasis.
Abby's mouth dropped open, the crowd roared, and he covered her reaction with another kiss. Her mouth felt hot, her small gasp of surprise another kick to his libido as he tasted the inner recesses of her mouth. Reminding himself he was still onstage, he slowly pulled away, laced his fingers with hers, turned and waved the panties in the air, then led her offstage.
* * *
"That was great!" Chelsea jumped up and down, her banana suit bobbing.
"Great?" Abby whispered between clenched teeth. "It was horrible."
"Nonsense, you were wonderful. I can't believe you pulled that clever trick with the panties."
"That was an accident," Abby screeched. "They must have gotten stuck to my blouse in the dryer."
"Good show, you two." The producer pumped their hands. "Nice touch with that underwear trick."
Several crew members joined in the congratulations.
Chelsea's cheeks glowed pink beneath her yellow makeup as she embraced the actor. "And you were fabulous. I loved the thong."
Abby blushed to the roots of her hair. The man still had the panties wrapped around his hands!
Staff and more camera crew flocked around them, asking for autographs. Abby spent the next few minutes trying to be gracious, accepting praise for what she considered a fiasco and they considered a stroke of TV brilliance. The actor who'd played her husband stood in the shadows and watched her, his eyes gleaming with emotions she couldn't read. Curiosity. Enjoyment over her discomfort.
Lust.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Chelsea's wave good-bye. She gestured toward the banana suit. "Got to run for the commercial. I can't keep the fruity flakes waiting."
Abby glared at her, but Chelsea ignored her and dashed out the back. Desperate to escape the show set as soon as possible, Abby thanked the producer and host and turned to leave. As soon as they got out of earshot, she'd find out this actor's name, pay him whatever salary Chelsea had offered him, and say good-bye to him.
And to her TV days.
* * *
"Where do we go from here?" Hunter asked as they stepped outside together. The late-afternoon breeze stirred Abby's perfume toward him like an aphrodisiac, sucking him into its seductive lair. They stood under the awning of the building, the parking lot stretched out before them, traffic moving slowly by in the distance.
Abby's startled gaze swung to him. "We don't go anywhere, Mr...." She threw up her hands. "Good grief, I don't even know your name. Or what Chelsea told you about today."
"Harry." Hunter extended his hand, grinning when she simply stared at his offering as if he were a bloodsucking slug that had crawled from beneath a rock and would latch onto her any second. Then again, the handshake formality did seem ludicrous in light of their earlier kiss. "Harry Henderson."
A short bubble of laughter erupted from her. "Stage name, right?"
He nodded. "Definitely."
She rolled her eyes, irking him, and he dropped his hand. It wasn't as if she were being completely honest here herself.
"And your sister hired me to play your husband for a day. What else was there to tell me?"
Abby studied him, her eyes narrowed, her suspicions brewing. "Nothing."
Hunter nodded, deciding not to push just yet. "What other shows or interviews do you need me for?"
That telltale blush stained her cheeks again. "Um..." She shifted to her other foot, squinting through the fading afternoon sunshine. Her dainty chin wobbled as she tried to collect her thoughts. "None, thankfully. Today was the beginning and the end of my TV career."
"You don't have other interviews lined up?"
"No." She shrugged. "I hate all this publicity."
"Really?" He cupped her elbow with his hand. "Then you won't be needing a husband—"
"Shh." Her gaze darted around nervously, although the parking area seemed deserted. "Can we go someplace and get a cup of coffee? I'd like to finish our business in private."
His eyebrows arched involuntarily. "Lead the way, honey."
She glared at him. "I'll meet you at Third Cup. It's right around the corner."
He nodded and watched her rush to her Toyota. Maybe over coffee Abigail Jensen would let her defenses slip and spill the beans about her marriage.
And he would move in for the kill, rake them right into the palm of his hand, and make himself a double-tall latte with the grounds. Then he could sip the fruits of his labor while he lay back and watched his name climb the ladder of success.
* * *
Abby settled into a corner with her decaf mocha, her nerves on edge as Harry Henderson seated himself across from her. Something about the man seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. It was almost as if she'd met him before. His eyes... they were so blue. Where had she seen eyes like that before?
The cross-dresser who'd rescued her at the book signing that day? She tilted her head, studying him. No, she hadn't seen the woman's eyes because of those funky orange sun
glasses. And this man was too masculine, too macho ever to dress as a woman, Even in acting a part. Besides, she hadn't actually seen the woman/man very clearly that day.
She pulled out her checkbook, determined to make this short and sweet. Then again, she'd better play nice and find out just how much he knew about her situation. Had Chelsea opened up a whole can of worms or what? Forcing herself to relax, she offered him a smile. "So, Mr. Henderson, how did you fall into today's part?"
One dark eyebrow rose as he leaned back casually in his chair, his big body oozing masculine testosterone. "I stopped by the arts center to find out if they held general auditions and as luck would have it Chelsea said she might have just the job for me." He raised his coffee, his thick fingers wrapped around the cup. "Apparently they hadn't advertised very well for this part. I was the only male, so I lucked out."
Yes, well, Chelsea hadn't exactly advertised that Abby needed a husband. Had she?
Because if she had, those worms might escape the can.... "Have you done a lot of acting?"
"A little." His big shoulders lifted and fell, drawing attention to the way his blue shirt matched his eyes.
Good heavens, she was not supposed to be looking at his eyes. "Where else have you acted?"
"Oh, small-time jobs. Nothing you would have heard of."
She nodded. Not a man of words, was he? Then again, maybe she sounded as if she were interrogating him. "And Chelsea just said you needed to play my husband for a day?"
He sipped his drink, his dark gaze locking with hers. Heat emanated from his blue eyes, from every cell in his body. "Yes. I have to admit I was curious as to the reason." He leaned closer, his mouth just a hairbreath away. She remembered his lips, the feel of them on hers, and swallowed. "Where is the real superstud husband?"
Abby squeezed her cup so hard, coffee sloshed out. She grabbed a napkin, wiping the whipped cream from her fingers. "I thought Chelsea probably explained."
His gaze trapped hers. "She said he was out of the country. So unless there's trouble in paradise, why didn't you just tell the director the truth?"
