by Rita Herron
And he'd known he couldn't force Lizzie to live in a house where nightly fights and bickering had replaced the loving atmosphere with tension.
He couldn't sleep, so he pulled out a flashlight and Abby Jensen's book and began to read the chapter "The Art of Seduction," hoping to find something he could use against her. A tiny seed of guilt sprouted at his plan, but he quickly buried it. Abby had started the wheels of discontent rolling in his wife's head, feelings of dissatisfaction that had ultimately led to his divorce. If she hadn't, he wouldn't be in the position of having to compete for Lizzie in the first place.
Seduction doesn't start when you begin removing your clothes. It starts with that first look. That first whisper of the other person's name. That hint of longing and desire that you see in your partner's eyes.
Take time to play the seduction game and you'll find yourself in erotic heaven.
Whether you are new lovers or have been together many times, slowly disrobing can be as alluring as that first touch. Watch the clothes slide seductively over your partner's body, listen to the friction of the garment against her bare neck, her collarbone, her breasts. Feel the fabric slide across her abdomen, rub against her soft inner thigh. Watch the way her breath hitches as she peels her panties down her legs and the cool air brushes her naked skin for the first time. See the chill bumps cascade up her thigh....
Hunter closed his eyes, the images Abby had described flitting through his mind, his sex stirring to life and swelling like an insatiable beast. The woman peeling her panties off, tossing that silver thong at him, was Abby herself. Her breath filtered out in short little hitches as she trailed one finger over her own swollen sex.
Then she stalked toward him, pushed him down on the ground, freed his aching erection, lowered herself on top of him, and whispered all her dirty little secrets.
Hours later, Hunter woke up in a sweat with Abby's thong tangled in his hands. He cursed himself for a fool for still carrying her unmentionables around. But he couldn't ignore the one question that had repeatedly plagued him through the night.
Just why had Abby reacted so hotly to his kiss if she was happily married?
* * *
Nightmares of Abby's disenchanted clients strangling her with a pair of granny panties drove her from bed. Even worse, in her dreams, Harry Henderson had watched, waving her thong and telling her she should have stuck with them, that they were too small to fit around her neck.
But they had fit perfectly around his hands. Those big, masculine, strong, dark hands.
Dammit. Harry should have looked apish, like the big-foot from the movie. Instead, he'd looked sexy and hot and too damn interested in that thong.
Luckily, Harry Henderson was history. As was her TV career.
She padded to the kitchen for coffee, grabbed the morning paper from her front porch, then stretched out on her sofa for a morning read. Too bad it wasn't Monday, so she could go to work and listen to someone else's problems and forget about her own. And where most people she knew now enjoyed the news from their computer, she enjoyed the feel of the paper in her hands.
The front-page story highlighted the news about a tanker that had exploded on 285. The expressway would be closed for repairs to the bridge—a nightmare for traffic. Another advantage to the fact that she often worked at home.
The arts section featured her book, with candid shots of her signing, along with an article her publicist had put together for promotional purposes. Rainey had also gathered quotes from readers, raving about how the book had helped their relationships.
She skimmed the rest of the local section, her breath catching when she spotted an article about Tony Milano. Her head pounded as she read.
Police investigating this late-breaking story report that over two hundred fake marriages were performed by a man named Tony Milano, who posed as a reverend at the Velvet Cloak Inn. Milano offered a special honeymoon package last June that drew lovers from all across the states. Every effort is being made to protect the victims' privacy while informing them of their fraudulent nuptials. Even worse, Milano conned more than half those participants into investing in a time-share supposedly being built in eastern Tennessee.
The police are working to find Milano, recoup the money lost, and reimburse the victims. Investigators also suspect that Milano had a partner. Anyone with information regarding Milano, his location, or his alleged partner, please contact the authorities immediately.
Abby rubbed her forehead. Lenny had tried to talk her into purchasing a time-share there, but she'd refused to buy without seeing the property. At least she'd used a little common sense. He had even tried to seduce her into agreeing with promises of a second honeymoon at the resort.
Had Lenny known the deal was fake then? If so, why would he have pressured her to buy? And if the police were trying to locate all the victims to notify them, were they already looking for her?
Worse, could Lenny be the partner the police were searching for?
She turned the page to look for more details on Milano, when the beginning of article by that insufferable reporter, Hunter Stone, caught her eye.
HOW KINKY IS DR. JENSEN'S ADVICE?
What secrets does Dr. Abby Jensen hold?
After being refused yet another interview, I slipped into the crowd at Dr. Jensen's recent book signing and was shocked to see her winking at one of the women in tine. Then on TV, Dr. Jensen tossed her underwear at her husband.
Just how liberal is Dr. Jensen? Does she have any real family values or is she simply acting to sell more books?
Abby gaped. She'd been right not to trust the sleazy journalist. She could just imagine how much worse the piece would have been if she'd granted him an interview. Sure, she wanted to sell books so she could help her family financially, but that dirty, rotten rat of a reporter had implied she was a lesbian! Furious, she balled up the page without even reading the rest of the article and tossed it into the trash. If she ever met that man, she would kill him with her bare hands!
She sank back onto the sofa, trembling with anger and disgust. But if Stone found out about her husband's involvement with Milano, he would kill her career. Knowing him, he'd incriminate her as Milano's accomplice on the front page. Good Lord, her worst fear was coming true—she was turning into her mother.
What was she going to do?
* * *
Hunter had to take a leak so badly he thought he would explode, but he needed to find a place without poison ivy. Grimacing at the fact that he'd slept ten feet away from a live plant and did not want a rash on his privates, he scoured the wooded area and finally sauntered back to the dirt road. It was the only safe place.
Seconds later, sweet relief surged through him. Resolved to focus on work today, he climbed on his Harley and drove down the mountain. He hated heights, had a phobia of them, but he fought his demons, keeping the bike as far away from the ledge as possible.
Breakfast at a little mountain cafe gave him time to read the morning paper. He smiled, proud of his article, and wondered what Abby Jensen's reaction to it had been. But his smile died when he noticed Addleton, the ass kisser, had written a piece on the Milano investigation. Apparently the police had discovered hundreds had been married illegally by the fake minister.
Even more had been scammed.
Hmm. The Velvet Cloak Inn was located in north Georgia, not too far from where he'd spent the night. It wouldn't hurt to check it out while he was here. Even if he didn't get to cover the investigation into the fraud cases, he could spark his editor's interest with some personal stories of the couples who'd been swindled into thinking they'd been married. The victims might offer an idea of where Milano was hiding. And if luck was with him, he might even discover Milano's partner. It would be the perfect way for him to showcase his skills and land himself an assignment as a criminal reporter.
He tossed a few bills onto the table to cover his meal and set off to find the Velvet Cloak Inn. The investigation would also help keep his mind off t
he seductive powers of Abby Jensen.
At least for a few hours.
* * *
Abby had to do something to get her life back to normal.
She would start by putting her place in order. First she moved boxes from room to room, sorting them into those she would unpack right away and those she could store for later. Arranging her clothes took the entire morning. Not that she was a clotheshorse, but she dumped everything that reminded her of Lenny. All the designer, have-sex-with-me, colorful shoes, the tiger-striped bra, the red leather pants.
She should have realized he was gay when he'd chosen those outlandish things for her to wear.
In fact, he'd been more excited about their shopping excursions than about their sexual exploits. She'd thought at the time that he simply liked buying her sexy clothes, the kinds of things she'd never buy for herself. Especially the lingerie.
He'd probably wanted to borrow them for his lover.
Or maybe he'd secretly worn the leather and lace behind her back. Come to think of it, several pairs of her expensive nylons had been missing lately. And that black garter...
Disturbed by the extent of his deception and her own gullibility, she shoved every item Lenny had purchased for her into a large plastic bag and carried it out to the trash can beside the house. Next she organized her office, putting all her files about the book away and setting up her computer. Finally she took a break for lunch, then sorted through her kitchen, organizing the cabinets, then reorganizing them when she realized she'd actually alphabetized her canned goods the way Lenny would have. Still running on adrenaline, she scooted the box containing her tea set collection to the corner hutch and carefully unwrapped each set, wiping the delicate china pieces with a cloth before placing them on display.
Collecting the miniature teapots might seem frivolous and impractical, but they represented happy childhood days of tea parties with her sisters and Gran. A time before her father had begun his criminal career and she and her sisters' faces had been plastered all over the local papers. A time when she had been naive, not scarred by derogatory tabloid headlines and the realization that people could be cruel.
She'd wanted to share tea parties with her own child someday. Had dreamed of doing so right here in this cozy little kitchen.
Except her marriage had been a hoax.
Her hand went to her flat belly and she remembered the one false scare she'd had right after she'd married Lenny. She supposed it was a blessing she hadn't been pregnant. How would she have explained to a baby that his father was a liar and a crook?
And how would she ever trust a man again? Or give one her heart?
Tears threatened and she blinked them away, adjusting her glasses and grimacing at the sound of the doorbell.
Praying it was one of her sisters and not a nosy reporter, she checked the front-door peephole before she opened it. Shock bolted through her when she found her uncle Wilbur bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, his chunky face sweating profusely in the heat.
He raised his fist to knock again and Abby opened the door.
"Uncle Wilbur, this is a surprise."
"I need a favor."
Abby tightened her fingers around the doorknob as he thrust his burly frame through the door and swiped a hand across his freckled bald head. He seemed agitated. "What is it? Is something wrong with Dad?"
"No, he's holding his own." In the pokey.
Abby nodded. "So what is it?"
His breath wheezed out, the sound of an overweight smoker. "The damn cops think the Barely There Club is a front for some kind of mob activity. I need to borrow some money."
Abby frowned. "Money? For what?"
"They canceled my liquor license temporarily." Another loud wheeze. "Without liquor, the business can't make it. I need cash to keep it afloat until I can get the police off my back. At least a few grand."
Abby chewed her bottom lip. Rumors that Uncle Wilbur's business might not be legitimate had circulated through the family for years. All she needed to top off her mounting disaster of a life was to get involved in something illegal. Hunter Stone and the other reporters would love yet another angle to add to their burgeoning gossip vine....
* * *
Hunter had been listening to the owner of the Velvet Cloak Inn wail for an hour.
"They've shut us down; I don't know what we're going to do." Edna, a chubby woman in her forties who reminded Hunter of Ethel on the old sitcom I Love Lucy, gestured toward the deserted parking lot. More specifically to the police tape on the ground that had once marked the area as a crime scene. "They think we were in cahoots with that preacher."
"You didn't receive any revenue from the weddings or the time-share investments?"
Edna dabbed a tissue at her puffy raccoon eyes. "No, I told"—her words cracked as she broke for breath—"the police... all this."
"But you did advertise the place as a honeymoon hot-spot?"
She nodded, looking even more miserable. "That Mr. Milano, he was so nice... and he was a... man of the... cloth." She paused and blew her nose so loud it sounded as if a freight train had careened through the room. "And I thought he just wanted to make couples happy." She lapsed into another long-winded wail that pierced Hunter's ears.
"Do you have a list of the people he married?"
Edna nodded miserably. "I gave it to the police along with a list of all the guests."
"Would you mind giving me copies of both lists?"
Edna frowned, sobs racking her beefy body. "I can't do that. It's against the law to release the guests' names."
As if that were the worst of her problems. "Ma'am, I want to write a human-interest piece on the people who were swindled. You know, do something to help them out."
"I don't know."
"Listen, Ethel—I mean Edna—if the tabloids get ahold of this, they'll destroy these folks." He patted her back to calm her. "And you know they'll get their hands on it. Isn't it better if a legitimate reporter gets the information first?"
She seemed to stew over the idea. "You'll stir up enough interest that the people swindled might get their money back?"
Hunter nodded. "I'll do my best."
"And you'll make me look good so I don't have to go to jail?"
He nodded again. This woman was an emotional wreck, but he doubted she'd been involved in anything illegal.
Edna twirled a curly strand of hair around one finger, her fake diamonds glittering. "Well, I suppose it would be okay. It's not like we're still open. And the police are gonna talk to the people anyway."
She reached inside the desk, pulled out a file, and handed it to him. "I'm not sure it's complete," Edna said. "But so far, it's all I've found."
He glanced at the list. Only about thirty names—had there been more? "I appreciate this."
"Oh, and Mr. Stone."
"Yes?"
"When you find him, get my money back for me."
"You invested in the time-shares?"
"Yes." Her chin quivered. "And I'd been saving that money for a boob job."
Hunter glanced down at her already generous chest and hightailed it out the door.
* * *
Abby couldn't help her uncle. One Jensen in the clinker was enough. "I don't have that kind of money, Uncle Wilbur."
He coughed, his cheeks billowing out. "I've seen how well your book's doing, sugar. You know this family always helps each other when we need it."
She certainly helped them. Abby explained that she hadn't started to receive her royalties yet. "So you see, I won't receive most of my money until the royalty checks arrive." Even then, she wouldn't loan it to him unless she knew his business was legitimate.
He dropped into a chair and folded his hands on his knees, wheezing. Fearing he might have a heart attack, she retrieved a glass of water for him, then quickly shoved it into his hand. The telephone trilled behind her, and Abby glanced at the caller ID box. Her publicist.
Good heavens, what now? "Hello?"
> "Abby, this is Rainey. Turn on the news. CNN."
Abby's stomach clenched as she surfed the channels. Rainey's voice had sounded odd. Either something was very good or very, very bad.
She paused on CNN, where the picture showed a reporter standing in front of a downtown church. "Today, members of the community have stood up to voice their opinions about Preacher Don McLure's decision to use Dr. Abby Jensen's book Under the Covers in his marriage counseling."
Abby gasped as the camera focused on a group of members who shouted and picketed, thrusting homemade signs into the air.
"It's the best thing for our marriage," a woman boomed.
"It's blasphemy," another shouted.
"It showed me how to love my woman," a fortyish man said with a grin.
"Pornography," a heavyset woman yelled.
"As you can see, this book has raised quite a stir," the CNN reporter continued. "Members here are divided, some insisting the book was a godsend, others calling it Satan's work."
"Oh, my God." Abby sank onto the sofa, her stomach in her throat.
"No, this is great," Rainey chirped. "Even bad publicity is good." Her light laughter tinkled over the line. "You'd better get ready, Abby. As of tomorrow, you're going to be more famous than ever. I've had a million calls at home today and I have you booked for a celebrity tour. You're going to hit the New York Times list by the end of the week."
"No, Rainey, I can't—"
"Shh, now, don't argue. And bring that charming husband along, too—"
"But Rainey, you know he wasn't"—she lowered her voice at her uncle's watchful eyes—"really Lenny."
"It doesn't matter. You said Lenny's out of the country, and this guy you hired was fabulous. Everyone saw the tape you two did and just loved him."
* * *
Hunter barely heard his cell phone jangling over the roar of his motorcycle engine. On the slim chance it might be Lizzie calling to chat or ask to see him, even though it wasn't his weekend to have her, he pulled over to the shoulder of the road and flipped it open.
