by Rita Herron
"So there's no touching yet?" Harry asked.
The audience laughed.
"Not physically, but there's touching with the heart. With the eyes, with the soul. When you tune in to another person's needs and become more giving, the other person automatically does the same." Abby's soft voice quieted the crowd. "Next, I ask each client to tell their partner the things they admire or like. The things they want. The places that crave the other's touch."
"Show us," Kay Lin suggested.
Abby glanced at the host, then back at Harry. He nodded, his mouth twitching into a smile that twisted mischievously at his broad jaw.
"All right. In the beginning, I ask couples to remain dressed when they do this. But later on I suggest they remove their clothes and do the same exercise with the lights dimmed. Obviously we can't take our clothes off on TV."
A few people in the audience called out, "Why not?" while others chuckled. Harry Henderson had the nerve to wink. As if on cue, the TV crew dimmed the lighting to a soft glow.
"Sometimes I ask couples to sit in the dark with only a single candle lit." She took the actor's hands, her heart pounding at the electricity that zinged through her. Since she didn't know Harry very well, she focused first on her physical responses to him. "I like the sound of your voice when you say my name in the dark, Har—"
He made eyes at her.
"Lenny. And I appreciate the way you stand by me no matter what I ask of you."
His dark eyebrow arched. "Your eyes hypnotize me, Abby. And your voice reminds me of an old blues song, soft and husky, like a kiss in the night."
Abby swallowed. Wow, he was good. "Your hands feel so strong and warm that just touching them sends desire surging through me. And when I look into your eyes, I see love and strength. I see a man I want to be with."
"Can we touch now?" Harry asked, his voice gruff.
The audience laughed again.
"Not yet," she murmured. "Tell me how you want to touch me."
He coughed, an odd look on his face. "My hands itch to caress you, Abby. To thread themselves in your hair." His fingers tightened around hers. The crowd grew still. "To pull the pins from your hair and let it fall around your shoulders. To sift my hands through those long, wild curls." His eyes became hooded. "To tear that shirt off of you and press my lips to the soft skin at your neck. To suckle your—"
"Well, I believe you have the idea," Abby said, abruptly cutting him off.
She turned to the audience, ignoring the heat rising between her and Harry. Releasing the breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding, she gasped when the front clasp of her bra snapped open. Drat. Her breasts spilled over the cups inside her shirt. If she moved the wrong way...
She pressed her arms tightly by her sides to keep the underwire pads from slipping into her armpits, and smiled tightly at Harry. Damn, the man had her all shaken up. Her nipples were hard as rocks. And he had only been acting.
Hadn't he?
* * *
A few minutes later, Hunter gripped the producer's hand and bade him good-bye, willing his body back to normalcy. He'd made a fool out of himself over Abby Jensen.
Granted, everyone thought he was playing a part, but he'd meant every damn word he'd said.
What the hell was happening to him?
Stress over too much work? Over not being with Lizzie enough?
Being attracted to a sexy woman wasn't a crime, he reminded himself. And although at first he'd thought the woman wasn't his type, now he could see he'd been wrong.
Oh, he'd been dead wrong.
Because Abby Jensen was one sexy lady.
She might not be his type for a long-term relationship, but she had definitely awakened his sex drive—a sex drive that had been sleeping since Shelly had divorced him a year ago. And although he normally was a boob man, her ass looked great and tempting.
Arguments warred in his head. Maybe she was his type all the way around. She claimed she wanted marriage and a family. The same things he'd wanted since Lizzie came into his life.
But her methods were unorthodox. She had no right to stir up trouble with her book, making women think they weren't happy with their men. And he wouldn't be suckered in by those haunting angelic eyes or that sultry, seductive voice.
Besides, she claimed honesty was one of the three most important factors in keeping a relationship strong while she was lying to everyone, including him.
And she still had a freaking husband!
He was so lost in turmoil, he didn't realize she'd moved up beside him. They walked together through the backstage, past the other sound rooms, and out into the night. Stars glittered from a moonlit sky, a breeze stirred the surrounding trees, and the whisper of her exotic perfume wafted toward him. He tried to focus on the city lights ahead, the beauty of the Atlanta skyline, the buzz of people and traffic.
She turned to him amidst the hum of it all, a cool, detached look in place.
Obviously she hadn't meant what she'd said about wanting to be with him.
"Thanks, Harry. You did a great job."
"You're not such a bad actress yourself." She winced and he realized his bitterness had rung through.
"I don't like lying like this, Harry." She stood awkwardly, her arms pressed to her sides like a tin soldier.
"Why don't you tell me what's going on, Abby? Maybe I can help."
"I... I can't."
He steeled himself against the vulnerable look in her eyes. "I guess it's just a job for both of us then. But you want to continue the charade?" He'd given her the opening. He waited with bated breath, hoping she'd tell him the truth.
Not for the story now, but for him.
She didn't comment, simply gnawed on that bottom lip, and tightened her arms as if she thought he might grab her any second. Damn, it was tempting.
The skin on her bottom lip turned red with her bite marks. He found himself wanting to touch it. To kiss away the pain. To hear her husky voice murmur those words she'd whispered during their exercise. Except this time she would mean them.
"I have to keep up pretenses right now," she whispered. "Until I find Lenny."
"Right."
He shifted, his shoes still squeaking with water in the silence.
"What happened earlier, Harry? Were you hungover when you came in?"
"Hungover?" Anger splintered through him. Anger that she wouldn't be honest. That she thought he might be irresponsible enough to show up drunk. Anger at the whole situation.
"No, Abby. For your information, I just came from a harrowing day at the fair with my daughter. I rode the Dragon seven times with her and nearly broke my neck on this ride called Drop Dead, Fred." He shuddered, remembering the feeling of being dropped through the air upside down with nothing but that flimsy rope tied around him. "God, I hate heights, and that one dropped me into a pool of water."
Abby suddenly chuckled, and he realized what he'd just admitted. The fact that she'd driven him to confess his phobia only infuriated him more. And now she was driving the knife deeper into his wounded pride by laughing out loud at him.
"Did you tell your little girl about your acting role?"
Right. Like he'd confess that to a five-year-old. "My daughter is too young to know about your book or sex."
Abby's mouth gaped. "You make me sound like a pervert. I'm not suggesting you read my book to her."
"I didn't mean that, but she's only five."
"Well, granted, that's too young for a full explanation, but insinuating that sex is something dirty isn't healthy either."
"I didn't say it was dirty. I just avoid the subject." He rubbed a hand over his face, and his mustache came off in his hands.
"Don't you want her to grow up to be a normal, healthy, sexual woman?"
"No. Hell, no." Panic seized him at the thought. "I hope she doesn't find out about sex until she's at least forty."
"That's a tad archaic, Harry."
Archaic? "Look, Dr. Jensen, I don't believe in all th
is hogwash in your book. And if you want to know about archaic, I'll show you. This is archaic." His temper boiling, he dragged her into his arms, lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his, releasing all the pent-up frustration and fire in his body and his loins into the kiss.
* * *
Abby struggled not to succumb to the dangerous passion brewing between her and this actor, but his hands yanked her into the vee of his thighs, his corded muscles bulged against her legs, and her knees buckled. Surrendering was not an option. He was plundering at will.
She had never been kissed like this.
Not by a man who exuded such potent desire for her.
The feeling was drastically unsettling and titillating at the same time. He was like a caveman, barbaric and forceful. His hands cupped her face as he drove his lips over hers and ravaged her mouth with his tongue. The rasp of his labored breath ripped another layer of fight from her, and she clung helplessly to him, her nails digging into the strong muscles of his arms. His hands slowly dropped, brushed across her shoulder blades, stroked her arms, cupped her bottom and pulled her closer—so close his sex hardened and throbbed against her own burning heat.
Then his hands were everywhere, stroking and rubbing. His lips traced a path down her neck, nipping and suckling until she moaned and leaned into him. Tortured by his mouth, she could only gasp for breath as his hands found her waist and his fingers danced up to her breasts. Then suddenly he pulled away, a perplexed look on his face. "What the hell?" Laughter followed.
Abby's cheeks burned as she glanced down and saw the pads of her bra floating up around her shoulders.
Chapter 14
Strange Bedfellows
"Maybe you should just give up on the underwear altogether," Hunter murmured.
Abby closed her eyes for a nanosecond, humiliation scorching her face. When she opened them, he could see her struggling for dignity. "You... the clasp came undone. And I was going to go to the rest room to fix it before we left, but the producer didn't give us time."
"Uh-huh." He gestured toward the pads. "You don't really need those, Abby."
Her lips pressed into a tight line. "I have to go. Good night, Mr. Henderson."
She suddenly swung loose from him and headed to her car, stuffing the pads back down into the thin white camisole below her jacket. His hands ached to help her with the task.
He sprinted to follow her, but a rustle in the bushes nearby captured his attention and he halted instead. Anger sparked as quickly as his desire had when he'd touched Abby. He stalked to the shrubbery, reached in, and yanked out Mo Jo Brown.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"My job," Brown said, brushing leaves from his ill-fitting leisure suit.
Hunter noticed the small camera poking from the PI's pocket and grabbed it. Mo Jo fought like a chicken, spindly arms clawing. "You can't take that; it's personal property."
"Right now it's community property." Hunter flipped the back open, removed the film, and pocketed it. "I told you to leave Abby Jensen alone."
"But her old man owes my boss—"
"Tell him to find her husband then, because Abby Jensen is not paying his debts."
Without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving the weasel scrambling after him. Hunter searched for Abby's car, then laughed when he noticed she was tearing across the parking lot in the vehicle, heading straight toward the PI.
* * *
Abby didn't see the skinny man until she'd almost run over him.
Dear God. She threw on her brakes, screeched to a stop, and closed her eyes, praying she wouldn't find blood and guts splattered all over her windshield when she opened them. And that the next time she saw herself on the news she wasn't wearing shackles and chains for murdering a man with her car.
Shaking with adrenaline and worry, she slowly peeked through her eyelids and gasped when she recognized the man—the slimy private investigator who'd been snooping through her garbage.
She should have run over him!
Hands clenched, she opened the car door, counted to ten, and glared at him. "If you come near me again, mister, I'm filing a restraining order."
His bony body shook in his oversize clothes. "I need to talk to you about your husband."
"Leave me alone." Her heart still racing, she climbed into her car and took off the other way. But when she glanced in her mirror, she noticed the man watching her. Harry Henderson stalked toward him. As Harry grew nearer, the nosy man's eyes widened and he turned and ran like a jackrabbit.
* * *
Hunter held the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He hated the fear he'd seen in Abby's eyes when that weasel Brown had asked about her husband.
He had to find out the truth about the real Lenny Gulliver.
His cell phone chirped before he could make it home to his computer. "Stone here."
"Hey." Ralph Emerson's voice boomed in his ear. "There's some picketers over at the mall bookstore, stirring up more excitement over that Jensen broad's book. Can you cover it? Addleton's got the freakin' flu."
Probably caught a bug kissing all those asses. "I'll be right there." Hunter wheeled the Explorer in the opposite direction. After all, how could he refuse? The story would be a great lead-in for the bigger one he planned to write.
The beginning of the end for Dr. Jensen.
Just what he'd wanted. He'd finally gotten a break. He should be happy.
Then why did he feel so damn rotten?
* * *
"I am finished with men," Abby muttered to herself as she drove toward home. "I finally understand how all these women feel who come in to me and complain." She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror and groaned in horror.
She had never looked worse.
She'd been so angry when she'd left that PI she'd clawed her hands through her hair and torn it from its fancy chignon. Her makeup was smeared from the floodwaters that had opened up, and she had dark circles under her eyes.
Feeling lonely and frustrated and dreading going home to her empty house, she swerved into the mall. She had always been levelheaded and thought things through, but her head had been spinning for days, and she couldn't think at all. A haircut and facial would do her wonders.
She climbed from her car and teetered inside the mall. A commotion at one end trapped her momentarily, until she realized people were picketing outside the bookstore.
The last place she wanted to be.
She didn't know what was going on, but there were too many people crowding around. Someone might recognize her. She went back outside and circled around to a different entrance—one on the opposite side of the mall. An hour later she emerged from one of the local salons with a new look—a few layers to her shoulder-length style, and cleansed pores. If only she had been able to cleanse herself of her problems.
Not yet ready to go home, but still afraid of being recognized—the crowd outside the bookstore had brought back memories of her first stressful signing there—Abby scooted into a nearby hat store. The Braves cap didn't exactly match her outfit, but who cared? Smiling ruefully at the fact that she was about to ruin her new do, Abby pulled the hat low on her forehead. Confident that she was suitably incognito she tried to relax, using her cash to purchase another pair of shoes she didn't need—this time hot-pink sandals.
Now she needed a hot-pink outfit to match. Something that didn't look like the conservative Abigail Jensen. But a big sale sign at the pet store caught her eye, and she wandered over to take a peek. She had always wanted a dog when she was little, but her parents had moved around like gypsies, and most of their apartments had not allowed pets.
She had her own house now.
And she had envisioned a small dog there along with a child.
She no longer had a husband to argue with over the matter either. After all, Lenny had wanted a cat.
Pet stores were generally more expensive, she'd heard, than buying an animal from a breeder, and she could always go to the Humane S
ociety. She should wait. An adorable little white Maltese pawed at the glass window in front of her, big eyes pleading with her for a home, and her heart melted.
She would just go in and look.
The puppy angled its tiny face and whimpered. Nine hundred dollars. Whew. A lot of money for a little spit of a dog. She roamed down the aisle and looked at the beagles, an adorable cocker puppy, a pudgy boxer, a yelping yellow Lab. But the white, fluffy-eared Maltese was still clinging to the window, its nose pressed to the glass, tongue hanging out, begging to be held.
The puppy would keep her company now she was alone. It would cuddle and sleep with her at night.
"You want to hold it, ma'am?"
Abby nodded and accepted the wiggling bundle into her arms. The puppy licked at her face, wagged its stubby tail, white hair flopping over its eyes. It seemed so small and vulnerable, lost and lonely and desperately in need of a stable home.
Just like she felt.
Puppies made great friends. Playmates. Bedfellows. He would keep her warm at night. Forget men. She didn't need one.
"I'll take it."
Several minutes later, she stood at the cash register with a host of puppy supplies, waiting on the pimple-faced teenage boy to ring up her purchases. He ran her credit card through the machine. Abby stroked the Maltese's furry head, smiling as it nuzzled her palm.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this card won't work."
"What?" Abby frowned and examined her Visa. She'd kept it paid off monthly. "I don't understand."
"I tried it twice." He leaned against the counter with an impatient sigh. "Do you have another form of payment?"
"Well..." Abby fumbled in her wallet and dug out her American Express.
He slid it through and shook his head.
Nerves twitched in Abby's stomach. How could it be?
Lenny. The dirty scumbag had maxed out her credit cards. She just knew it.
Why hadn't she thought to check the cards and statements earlier?
Because she was a trusting idiot.
"Let me write you a check." Lenny hadn't had access to her personal account. Thank God she hadn't been that stupid.
