Under the Covers (12 page)

Panty Passions

Shaken from the interview, Abby drove toward home, storm clouds brewing above, the interlude with that actor Harry Henderson playing over and over in her head. Had she said too much? Given away too much? Would he keep her secret or would she get caught in her lies?

She had to extricate that man from her mind.

He had been sexy and powerful and too damn charismatic for her. Just as Lenny had been in the beginning. Only even more so...

But she'd remedied what little chemistry she and Lenny might have had, she thought with a rueful shake of her head. She'd been so stunning in bed, he had preferred
men.

Tears threatening, she flipped on the radio to try to calm herself; then the sky darkened to a fever pitch and rain clouds burst open. She cursed and turned on her wipers, and let the tears fall. Tears for the lies she'd told today. For the fool she'd been.

For ever thinking she'd fallen in love with Lenny.

For feeling an insane attraction to an actor her banana-sister had hired to play the husband who'd deserted her.

Traffic crawled to a stop; an emergency vehicle raced by with its lights flashing. The cars in front of her braked to a dead halt. Obviously there was an accident ahead. Traffic would probably be at a standstill for an hour or two while the police cleared it.

Realizing she was stuck, she decided to pull into the local superdiscount store to pick up some supplies. Tonight she would throw herself the mother of all pity parties and kiss her dreams of happily-ever-after good-bye.

Because once again, it was Saturday night and she was single and alone.

* * *

Hunter finished his latte with a grin. He knew exactly what Abby Jensen was thinking as she left the shop: she would never see him again.

A low chuckle rumbled from him as he tugged her thong from his pocket and gazed at the skimpy, silky fabric. But this time the good doctor would not have her way.

He would find out exactly why Chelsea had hired him to play Abby's husband.

He just couldn't let her get to him in the process. And for a minute she had....

Then he'd realized she was simply flirting with him because he was privy to part of her secret and she wanted to make certain he kept it. Which proved his original theory about her being manipulative, not the family-oriented martyr type she portrayed herself to be.

The scent of her delicate perfume lingered on his clothes as he left the coffee shop; he'd have to ditch these clothes so he could vanquish it. Just as he had to banish his memory of that erotic orgasmic kiss.

Dammit.
The woman was married.

Even if he wasn't working on a story and detested the marriage therapist, he did not, had not, would not ever mess around with a married woman. Not only did he value his own life too much to chance being murdered by an irate jealous husband, he did have some scruples.

Hunter peeled off the mustache and wig—okay, maybe not stringent scruples, but he had a bona fide reason for deceiving the woman, and the end justified the means. Cursing, he scrubbed his hands through his hair to spike the matted mess as he cranked his Explorer and wove through the heavy traffic and rain. Still, Abby Jensen remained a puzzle to solve.

One minute she was spouting off suggestions to improve intimacy and talking about passionate positions and orgasmic kisses, and the next she was blushing like a virgin.

And that story she'd invented about her husband—what kind of baloney was that?

She had actually looked vulnerable for a moment, sad, as if she were really concerned about the man. Had he been detained on business somewhere? Was he in trouble with the law?

She'd said she didn't want to endanger him. Could he be the victim of one of those business kidnappings he'd heard so much about in South America?

Hmm.
That might explain why she wanted to keep his disappearance quiet. And why she was worried about his safety.

Or had something else caused her sadness? Something more personal...? The obvious answer reared its ugly head.

Had her husband had an affair? Had he left her for another woman?

Rain splashed his windows, thunder rumbling overhead, cars slowing to a dead stop. He flipped on the radio to check the traffic reports.

"Folks, we have a nine-car pileup on Peachtree Street, no fatalities or serious injuries reported, but traffic will remain gridlocked for at least an hour while the police clear the scene. And now for the weather".

"The storm is passing through, folks. Believe it or not, it's headed south and will be gone in a couple of hours."

Hell.
He contemplated another route, but up ahead he spotted Abby's Toyota pulling into the big shopping complex. Maybe he'd follow the doctor, see what she was up to. He could pick up some supplies while he was here, maybe drop by Lizzie's later and see if she wanted to go camping, spend some quality time alone with her. If they headed north, they'd drive out of the bad weather.

A father-daughter camping trip, complete with a sleeping bag on the hard, uncomfortable ground, would be the perfect way to help him forget Abby Jensen and her nonsense about bedroom talk between the sheets.

And the fact that even though she wasn't his type, he wouldn't mind crawling under the covers into a nice, warm bed with her—naked, hot, and willing.

* * *

Abby fought with the umbrella, cursing in frustration as the wind sucked it upside down, lifted it from her hands, and flung it into the air. She jogged after it, but a runaway grocery cart full of disposable diapers suddenly flew out of nowhere and whacked into her stomach. Abby yelped, stumbled, fell against a Ford pickup, and broke the heel of one shoe.

A pregnant woman ran after the cart, her big belly leading. "I'm so sorry," the woman screeched over the downpour as she grabbed the cart.

"No problem." Abby pushed the buggy toward her, staggering on her broken shoe, then realized the woman was driving the pickup, so she moved away.

"Thanks." Rain splattered the woman's pale face, and she suddenly clutched her stomach in pain. "Oh, my God."

Abby froze. Was the lady going into labor?

"Get in," Abby said. "I'll put your things in the truck for you."

The woman offered a weak smile. "Thank you. I don't feel so good."

Abby's heart raced. "Can you drive yourself?"

The woman fought with the door against the wind, but eventually climbed inside the cab awkwardly. "I only have a block to go."

And where was her husband when she needed him?

Cursing men in general, Abby stuffed the diapers into the other side of the truck, slammed the passenger door, and waved. But suddenly the woman clutched the steering wheel, doubled over, rested her head on top of it, and let out a loud screech.

Abby shivered and ran around to the driver's side.
Dear heavens.
The woman was having her baby right here in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot.

"Help!" The woman turned a panicked look Abby's way, then pointed to her stomach. "It's coming!"

Abby swallowed, momentarily paralyzed. She didn't know anything about delivering a baby, but the woman swung open the truck door, bellowed again, and clawed at Abby's arm, jerking her out of her stupor. She jumped on the lower step of the cab and tried to calm the woman. "Are you sure?"

"My water just broke."

Abby glanced down at the seat and saw the evidence. "I'll get an ambulance."

"Don't leave me!" The young girl flopped backward, grabbed her belly, and howled. "I have to push!"

Sweet Jesus, no. Not yet.
Didn't deliveries take time, long hours of waiting at the hospital?

"Just hold on," Abby said. "I'm sure you've got—"

"It hurts!" The woman panted and heaved. "I feel the head!"

Abby grabbed her cell phone, punched in 911, and grimaced when the woman screamed again, scooted backward on the seat, and began shoving at her clothes. Abby told the dispatch officer where to come, then hung up and tried to think.

"I've got to push!"

She couldn't have the baby on the seat of the truck!

Frantic, Abby searched the woman's bags for something sterile to place under her. She certainly couldn't boil water! Toothpaste, cosmetics, a toilet brush, rubber gloves—she tore open the plastic gloves and pulled them onto her hands.

The lady bucked up off the seat with a yowl, grabbed the steering wheel, and hit the horn. It blared along with her howl.

"Hang on, honey; the ambulance is on its way," Abby murmured. She ripped open the diapers and spread them on the seat for a makeshift blanket just as the baby's head made its appearance.

* * *

Hunter stared in amazement as an ambulance rolled to a stop in the downpour and the paramedics jumped out and rushed to a pickup truck. Abby Jensen had climbed into the truck only minutes earlier with a very young, very pregnant woman. To do what?

Deliver her baby?

An 11-Alive truck screeched in next and a camera crew jumped out, a newscaster fumbling with her rain hat as they ran to the scene. Seconds later, he gaped as the paramedics loaded a woman and a newborn onto a gurney and transferred them to the ambulance. The woman clung to Abby Jensen's hand. Abby looked shaken but relieved.

The newscaster shoved a microphone toward the good doctor. Hunter couldn't hear, but he suspected the reporter had just gotten the scoop on a Wal-Mart delivery by Abby Jensen.

A hero story if he'd ever heard one.

Hunter gripped the steering wheel.
Dammit.
Here he was sitting on a great story and he couldn't move forward and interview Abby himself or he'd blow his cover. Although her heroic act didn't quite fit the angle he had planned....

* * *

Abby hobbled toward the store, her hair plastered to her head, her clothes soaked, her emotions riding a rocky roller coaster. After that delivery, she should just go home, but she was here anyway and the traffic still wasn't moving, so she might as well stock up. Besides, what did she have to go home to? Nothing but an empty house... no loving husband waiting for her. No baby to rock or feed or cuddle. Not even a dog or the proverbial single girl's cat.

Of course, Lenny had wanted the cat. Another sign that he wasn't the man for her. She was definitely a dog person.

Her heart squeezed as she grabbed a cart and trudged inside. All the hopes and dreams she'd had when she'd bought the house rose like a tidal wave, clogging her throat with tears. The minute she'd seen the little blue cottage with the white picket fence she'd fallen in love with the property. She'd imagined painting the spare bedroom with rocking horses for a nursery, bringing her own baby home there one day, building a backyard sandbox and swing set, Christmases with Santa Claus and stockings over the fireplace.

Having the perfect stable family for which she'd always longed.

The air conditioner blasted her, sending chill bumps up her drenched body, along with the realization that her dreams had died along with Lenny.
Damn him.

She used a handiwipe to clean her hands and dabbed at her wet face with a tattered tissue, grimacing at the telltale marks of mascara and makeup. She could just imagine her raccoon eyes. She didn't care what she looked like, she reminded herself as she pushed her cart down an aisle. No one in the store would recognize her anyway. Not unless they'd seen the TV camera crew outside. She'd cut that interview short and sweet by turning the attention to the brave young woman on the gurney.

Geez, for someone who hated publicity, lately she felt a magnet drawing her to the camera's watchful eye.

Thoroughly depressed and well into her pity-party mood, she filled her cart with three tearjerker movies, new tapes for her minirecorder, five bags of miniature Reese's cups, and a twenty-four-pack of toilet paper, then saw the sale sign above the tampons—
Buy one, get one free
—and grabbed four boxes. Next went in salsa, chips, three kinds of cookies, a bag of popcorn, a pair of fluffy bedroom shoes, and a baby blue pajama set with pictures of cows all over them. What else? Underwear.

No more embarrassing thongs.

Comfortable, practical underwear that didn't crawl into nether regions and suggest that she might be having sex.

Still shivering, she rushed toward the clothing section, exhausted and weary from the day's ordeal. The choices seemed endless. Elastic waist. Cotton. Satin. Bikini. Control-top. Colored. White. She debated over the control-top panties or the plain white granny panties, then thought, What
the heck,
and tossed in three packages of each.

Oblivious to her surroundings, she swung her cart around to head toward the cash register when she crashed into a man's back. Tall, with massive shoulders, he turned, narrowing mesmerizing blue eyes at her.

Even without the wig and mustache, she recognized him immediately.

Harry Henderson.

* * *

Hunter's hands tightened around his shopping cart. Even wet and bedraggled, with her mascara and makeup smeared, drenched to the bone, and a non-blonde, Abby Jensen still stirred his sex to life.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

M-a-r-r-i-e-d—he purposely spelled out the word silently, giving himself time to recover.

She glanced at his cart, her brows arching in surprise at the camping gear and child-size folding chair inside. His gut tightened, though, when he noticed her raccoon eyes. Had she been crying?

Ignoring the fact that her puffy red eyes disturbed him, a smile gripped him at the sight of the granny panties, junk food, toilet paper, and feminine supplies. At the coffee shop, she had flirted with him so he would keep her secret. He'd use the same tactic on her now to get what he wanted—the real story on Abby Jensen. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon," he murmured.

"I... didn't expect to see you either," she stammered, her voice quavering, as if she thought he'd suggested
she'd
followed
him.
"The traffic..."

"Was deadlocked," Hunter finished. "Figured I might as well take advantage of it."