by Rita Herron
"Ma'am, we have to have a credit card number with the check." A small shrug lifted his thin shoulders, making the words Band Babe wiggle on his shirt.
Groaning, Abby headed to the ATM, vowing to get a check-card this week, but the boy cleared his throat, his nasal voice halting her. "If you take the dog out of here without paying for it, I'll have to call the cops. It's shoplifting, ma'am."
Shoplifting a dog? Mortified, Abby deposited the puppy back in his arms and ran to the ATM machine. She tugged the Braves cap over her head, praying no one recognized her.
* * *
Hunter had been headed toward the bookstore when he had seen Abby dart into the pet store. Curious, he'd paused and glanced in the window. Hiding behind a stack of doggie crates, he had seen her credit cards being rejected. Brown had said that Lenny owed his boss money.
Had he depleted Abby's bank accounts as well?
The pieces of the puzzle slipped into place. Missing husband. Missing money.
Sounded like the man she was protecting was a crook.
Sympathy tugged at him as he watched her finally hand over her cash and take the little white cotton ball in her arms.
Abby Jensen was obviously in trouble.
He glanced at the other end of the mall and saw the picket line in front of the bookstore. Dammit. He was getting closer to the truth every day. He had to phone Ralph and ask him for a few more days.
This story was going to be bigger than he'd imagined.
* * *
Practice what you preach.
The old sentiment rang in Abby's ears the entire way home. Well, it tried to. Actually, the puppy's crying rang in her ears, almost obliterating the nagging voice of distress and despair.
She had been had.
Totally, unequivocally had.
By a man she had trusted and loved—a man with whom she had promised to spend the rest of her life.
She had based her book, her advice, her career, her life on her belief in monogamous relationships. And now she wasn't sure what to think. Maybe Harry, Victoria, Chelsea, and her mother were all right: maybe marriage was an outdated institution, hopeless in today's society.
Tears sprang to her eyes, leaked out, and dripped down to her chin. The puppy rested its front paws on her chest and licked at them, then jumped back down and rubbed its butt up against her leg, yipping and squirming, apparently traumatized by its release from a cage the size of a small television.
Something was wrong with this picture.
The precious creature had been imprisoned and apparently preferred its captivity to the freedom she offered.
Leaning sideways, she reached into a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups, nabbed a handful of the miniature treats, and peeled one open, then popped it into her mouth. The puppy chose that moment to leap from her lap into the bag.
Making a madcap attempt to rescue the candy, she jerked up the bag, but the puppy took it as a sign to play and tore at the plastic with sharp teeth. Valiantly trying to keep her eyes and her car on the road, Abby stuffed the package behind her back, but the dog dove for the treats again.
She yelped.
Her scream frightened the Maltese, and it clambered over the seat, scrambling and slipping. A car swerved in front of her, and she steered sideways to avoid hitting it. Her tires hit the curb. She could see the headlines now: Lady wrecks car fighting with puppy over bag of candy.
But hadn't she heard that chocolate was bad for dogs? The sharp turn caught the puppy off guard and practically flew into the back floorboard. By the time she righted the car, the puppy had lapsed into a pitiful whimper.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Abby crooned. "But chocolate will make you sick. And I can't reach you back there."
The puppy yelped and cried while she raced to her house. When she finally reached her drive, she scooped it up and hugged it to her. "I'm sorry, sugar. That was some ride home, huh?"
A few minutes later, she crawled into bed with the puppy beside her. Tomorrow she would have to give him a name. Tonight she was just satisfied the day had ended.
* * *
By the time Hunter reached the bookstore, chaos had broken out. Apparently the bookstore had received a limited number of copies of Abby's book and people were fighting over the dwindling stack. Picketers in front of the store ranged from those protesting the fact that the store had no right to limit the sales to one copy per person to a few who wanted the book banned and sold only in adult bookstores. A small group of crystal-toting New Agers traded barbs with a Bible Belt retreat group who thought the book encouraged adultery.
Even Hunter thought that one was a stretch.
Nowhere in Abby's book had she mentioned sex outside of monogamy. But the religious right pitted against the liberal left served as perfect fodder for his article.
Back at home, he outlined the arguments on both sides, then titled the article with the question plaguing him: "Under the Covers—Will It Make or Break Your Marriage?"
Feeling slightly ill at ease about the piece, he reminded himself that he was simply reporting the facts. If he didn't write the article, someone else would. Still, shades of guilt riddled him. Maybe he could write the story and help Abby. But he had to know the truth first.
He accessed the Internet and tried to hack his way into the police system to find out all he could on Abby's husband, Lenny Gulliver.
* * *
Abby rolled over, her body burning with memories of that hot kiss with Harry Henderson. She had reacted like a naive young virgin, moaning and surrendering to his passion while he had simply been putting on a show for the audience.
Some sex shrink she'd turned out to be.
You are not a sex shrink, Abby Jensen. You're a serious-minded marriage therapist who just happens to be a fool when it comes to men in your own life.
Still, she was a liar and a fake.
Two things she'd never thought anyone could truthfully call her.
Her morning brightened when she opened her eyes and found her new best friend licking her cheek. She stroked his furry head, and his stumpy tail flapped wildly. But as she moved to snuggle into him, she felt a wet spot. Puppy training had a long way to go.
Groaning, she climbed from bed, threw on a robe, and stumbled to the front door. She had just set the puppy down when she spotted the morning paper on her stoop. Determined to give the dog time to romp and do his business, she slumped down on the steps and thumbed through the paper, her pulse leaping when she discovered another article about her.
Written by that insufferable Hunter Stone.
The story described the commotion at the bookstore that she had staunchly avoided the night before. But she sensed Stone's personal distaste for her book underlying the question in the title and his last sentence.
Do people really benefit from Abby Jensen's advice or is she doling out sex advice just to make a buck?
Old memories rose to haunt her. The articles they'd written about her father's arrest when she was little still stung. And her mother's numerous boyfriends had caused quite a stir. She could still hear the children laughing, the neighbors gossiping, the church members ostracizing them.
Reporting hadn't changed over the years at all. The sleazeballs didn't care about the people they wrote about or the lives they destroyed in their quest for a byline. She had a good mind to confront Hunter Stone and tell him so, too.
She scrunched the newspaper in her fist, wrapped her robe around her, and grabbed the puppy. Maybe she would stop by the AJC on her lunch hour....
Chapter 15
Stoking the Fire
She should have bought the puppy a crate to stay in during the day while she was at work, Abby realized. But she hadn't, so today the little butterball was sleeping in a box beside her desk. She couldn't continue this. He'd cried so much she'd had to hold him during her first session. The couple had been distracted, the puppy had peed on her pants, and she'd had to endure the next session with a stain and its accompanying smell. She would pick u
p a crate today at lunch—right after she visited Huner Stone's office and gave him a piece of her mind.
If she'd wanted to be featured in the paper, she would have answered his phone request for an interview. Lord only knew the man had pestered the daylights out of her for days. Only he hadn't called lately. Hmm. That was odd. Maybe he'd been out of town. Too bad he hadn't stayed there.
Still, refusing his interview didn't give him free rein to fabricate whatever he wanted about her.
She had one more appointment to get through first; then she would be on her way. She ripped open a few bills that had piled up, her stomach plummeting at the charges racked up on both her Visa and American Express accounts. Hotels, restaurants, gifts, charges were scattered across the southeast.
Except for the airline ticket to Brazil.
Damn Lenny. He had flown the coop with her money and left her to clean up the mess. Was he involved with Tony Milano's fraudulent ways? Should she turn this latest information over to the police?
She phoned Victoria immediately to ask her advice, but her sister was in court, so she left a message. Next she phoned the credit card companies and requested a hold on any more charges until she could figure out how to handle her finances.
Her buzzer sounded. "Yes, Janice?"
"Your eleven o'clock canceled. But there's someone else here to see you."
Good heavens, who now?
"She says she's your mother."
Abby dropped her head forward and sighed. She should have known she would show up sometime. "Tell her to come—"
Before she could finish her sentence, her mother breezed in, bringing the scent of gardenias with her, her long, gauzy skirt billowing around her petite frame. A dozen brightly colored beads clinked as she waved, the tie-dyed sleeves of her blouse flapping merrily. "Hey, honey."
"Mom, this is a surprise."
As usual her mother wasted no time. "I'm so happy your book is doing great. I'm proud of you, sweetheart."
Abby shrugged, praying her sisters hadn't filled her mother in on her debacle of a marriage. She was not up for an "I told you marriage is worthless" lecture. Instead, she directed the conversation to a safer topic. "That ad you did and the free pillowcases really boosted sales."
Her mother fluttered ringed fingers through her long, frizzy hair. The one thing Abby had inherited—curls. "I'm glad I could help."
Not that Abby had wanted her help.
"I hate to do this, honey, and I know you're busy, but I need your help."
Support for another venture, Abby supposed. The first one, the candle shop, had lasted six months. "What is it now, Mom?"
"Well, there's the neatest little shop in downtown Chattanooga. I want to turn it into a coffee shop, a place for local musicians and singers and poets to hang out."
Probably not a bad investment, Abby thought. Although she couldn't see her mother baking homemade muffins and cookies for the shop. And she'd hoped her mother had found an outlet for her creativity that might turn into a career at the advertising agency with her latest boyfriend.
"What about the job with Norm, Mom? I thought you enjoyed helping him with that ad for my book."
Her mother wrinkled her dainty nose. "I did, honey, but he was on last month's menu. You know I get bored easily."
A mild understatement if she'd ever heard one. Abby remembered the credit card problem she'd had the day before. "Mom, I'll have to check my finances and get back to you."
Confident Abby would loan her the money, her mother pecked her on the cheek and vanished out the door. Abby grabbed the puppy from the box and headed to the AJC to confront her worst enemy—Hunter Stone. She'd put him in the hotspot for a change and see how he liked it.
* * *
"Great job, Stone." Emerson braced his elbows on his desk, wiped Twinkie cream from his shirt, and nodded in approval at the article Hunter had written about Abby.
"Yeah, you really picked that broad apart," Jimmy, one of the copyeditors, added.
Hunter shrugged, a knot in his stomach.
"You got anything good on her yet?"
"I'm working on it," Hunter said, grateful to be on his boss's good side for a change.
"Well, let me know as soon as you get it."
Hunter nodded and strode from the office, his instincts humming. His research the night before had definitely proven helpful. He'd discovered a couple of interesting things about Abby's husband. First, he had been thrown out of UCLA for cheating. Next, he had an alias. Last, he had two arrests, which had been swept under the rug.
He wondered if Abby had a clue.
The details were fuzzy about why Gulliver had used an alias, and what the cops had taken him in for. Hunter grabbed a pen and notepad and hurried toward the door. He had a meeting with a cop buddy of his to see if he could find out the scoop on Gulliver. He didn't want to miss it.
* * *
Abby tucked the puppy beneath her arm and strode into the downtown offices of the paper, her hair curling and spiraling out of control from the sweltering heat. Air-conditioning immediately sent goose bumps cascading up her arms. A cold place for a cold group of people, she thought, reliving the painful memories of childhood. Seeing her father's face plastered all over the paper, his arms and legs bound in thick chains. Having reporters push their microphones into her and her sister's faces, asking them how it felt to have a crook for a daddy. Chelsea's wild antics later, Victoria's harsh reaction.
Granted, Hunter Stone hadn't been so obvious, and some of the other stories about her book hadn't been so flattering, but so far none of them had accused her of actually breaking up marriages to make a buck.
How low could one man go?
The man obviously had a heart of stone to match his last name.
The puppy whimpered and she rubbed its pudgy head.
"Shh, baby, it's okay. This won't take long." Determination filling her, she found out where to locate the despicable reporter, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and stopped at the receptionist's desk.
"I'm here to see Mr. Stone."
The sleek African-American woman smiled, her slender fingers complete with nail art clicking away at her keyboard. "Is he expecting you?"
"No, but I believe he'll see me."
"Your name?"
"Abigail Jensen."
"Dr. Jensen?"
Abby blushed as the puppy licked her chin. "Yes."
"Shamara Loussard. I just loved your book." The young woman stepped around the circular desk and shook Abby's hand, nearly knocking off a glass paperweight in her haste. "I can't tell you how much my husband and I have enjoyed those exercises."
"Thank you." Abby glanced pointedly at the cubicles visible through the glass doorway. "But I'm afraid everyone doesn't agree with you."
Shamara's cheeks blushed rosy on top of coffee-colored skin. "Well, you know anything good creates controversy." She leaned in as if they were co-conspirators. "A few of the reporters here are really solid and just want to print the facts, but some of them are so hungry to see their bylines, they'd sell their own mother for a story. Sometimes they scratch and fight for the next scoop like nanny roosters hunting feed."
Abby laughed, immediately liking the woman.
"So you're here to knock some sense into Hunter Stone?" Shamara led her through a set of double glass doors, where Abby looked out over a room buzzing with people frantically typing at their computers yelling at one another, and snapping into phones. The hubbub of news, personal stories, and the trading of information filled the room.
"I already e-mailed him and told him what I thought," Shamara said.
Abby hesitated, imagining what Hunter Stone would look like—he was probably short and stout, balding on top with a paunch around his middle, a Danny DeVito look-alike. Except his eyes would be much beadier.
He probably suffered from short man's syndrome and had to make up for his small size by seeking attention in a big way in the paper. Normally she simply felt sorry for people like him
, those who stole pleasure at the expense of innocent people.
Retreat and withdraw.
The words silently spoke to her. If she confronted Stone and made a scene, she would only feed the proverbial gossip vine. A distinct memory rose to taunt her—her mother had tried to talk to the press after her father's arrest, but they'd twisted her words until her mother had sounded like a conspirator in his crimes. In fact, if Abby made a scene at the paper, she would be hanging herself out to dry with the dirty linen.
After all, what difference did Hunter Stone's asinine article make anyway? Everyone was entitled to his or her opinion. Half the people in Atlanta probably hadn't even read his comments. Anyone with an ounce of sense read the news and sports pages, then skimmed the others, chuckled over the stories, and used the newsprint to line their birdcages.
As a matter of fact, she would use Hunter Stone's articles to settle her puppy in his new crate. In no uncertain terms, her little friend would tell Hunter Stone exactly what he thought of his journalism.
* * *
Hunter had just exited the bathroom when he realized he'd left his cell phone at his desk. Heading back in that direction he came to an abrupt halt when he spotted Abby Jensen talking to the receptionist. Geez. What the hell was Abby doing here?
The article.
Of course. She'd read the article, had remembered he'd phoned for an interview, and had come to do what? Tell him off? Offer him an exclusive?
Probably the first.
Her expression revealed simmering anger. She and Shamara seemed chummy, though. Abby laughed, a soft, musical sound that he'd never heard. Shamara pointed to the cubicle where he had been sitting only minutes ago. Minutes that had spared his undercover stint as her actor husband.
A call too close for comfort.
He ducked behind the awning of the doors and stumbled backward. She and Shamara turned and strode right toward him. Afraid he was about to be caught, he searched for an escape, but the closest hiding spot was the women's rest room. Brenda Davis had just gone in there. He couldn't.
