Under the Covers (18 page)

He smiled as if he could relate.

"I was walking along the train when I noticed this man taking pictures of me."

"Really?"

"Yes." Heat crept up her neck. "He told me he had his own photography business, that he entered his work in shows, and suggested I'd make a good subject."

"You didn't think it was a line?"

She laughed. "Actually I did at first. But since we were in a public place and all he suggested was a few poses in front of the train station, I didn't see any harm."

What a fool.
She'd been so flattered.

"Did you pose for him later, too?"

Abby's fingers tightened around her glass. She'd never told anyone about her honeymoon. "Why do you ask?"

"He was a photographer, seems natural. Especially since you were married."

Abby didn't intend to discuss her private secrets. "I think you know enough to play the part, Harry."

He sipped his wine, his gaze never leaving her, as if he knew he'd breached the line, but he would continue to push until he severed it. "No, Abby," he said softly. "I don't know anything yet. How long did you date before you married?"

Not long enough.
"About three months."

"Where did he propose?"

She envisioned the day in her mind as if it were yesterday, only now she heard the falseness in his words. "He rented a boat on Lake Lanier and we took a midnight ride."

"Romantic guy."

She bit her lip. "Yes, he seemed to be." Only it had all been an act.

"Did we—I mean, did you get married in a church?"

She shook her head, pain knifing through her.

"Did your families attend?"

"We sort of eloped." She'd missed her sisters and Granny Pearl that day. But Lenny had been in such a rush they hadn't had time to plan things properly. Now she understood his reasons.

"How about the honeymoon?"

"I'm not telling you the details of my honeymoon, Harry."

"Did you take a cruise? Fly to Europe? Go for a beach getaway?"

She traced a finger around the stem of her glass. "We rented a cottage in the mountains. It was... very secluded." And a flop of a night. Literally.

Anger warred with mortification. Any normal, sane woman would have recognized they had a problem then. But no, she'd been understanding. She had even tried to smooth over the awkward moment and make him feel better.

"I see." His husky voice wrapped around her again, intense.

"I suppose we made love before the wedding." He chuckled. "I mean you and your husband made love before the wedding."

A soft gasp escaped Abby. "I don't think anyone will ask us that."

"Your book is all about sex. People will expect you to be open and honest."

Honest? No, they really didn't want to hear the truth. "But people won't ask that."

"They
will
ask, Abby. You need to be prepared."

She stood, poured them both another glass of wine, and paced across the room. "That doesn't mean I have to answer them."

"So you want me to ad lib?"

Abby nodded. "Yes, that's fine."

"Great." He set down his drink, closed the distance between them, and brushed a kiss across her cheek. "Then I'll tell them we had the hottest, rawest, wildest sex two people could have."

"Because if
we
did make love, Abby," he continued in a low voice, causing a thousand delicious sensations to ripple through her as he caressed her cheek with blunt fingers, "that's exactly how it would be."

Chapter 11

The Flirting Game

The minute Hunter murmured the sentiment, he regretted it. Abby's eyes flickered with unease, and something else that shook him to the core—desire.

For a brief second, she'd thought about what he'd said and it had turned her on.

Damn, he did not want to be attracted to this woman. And he sure as hell didn't want to get involved with her.

Except to get his story.

Why didn't she put those little glasses back on and throw him out the door?

"You're very seductive, Harry. You have the voice of a lover," Abby said in a measured tone. Her reluctance made him want to reach out and reassure her. Made him want to cross the line he'd drawn for himself. "But let's keep our relationship professional."

Exactly what he wanted. Didn't he? "Sure. I was simply practicing my part."

"Oh." Embarrassment tinged her voice. "I... Of course."

Now he felt like a heel.

"It's all right to flirt, Abby. Even if you are married."

"No, it's not." That haunted look returned to her eyes. "I took—take my vows seriously."

He arched a brow, his instincts roaring at her slip of the tongue.

Releasing a troubled sigh, she dropped her head forward and rubbed at her neck, her soft breath filling the darkness. Her hair fell across her face in a seductive curtain. The moonlight from the window outlined the delicate column of her neck, the shadows of fatigue evident in her posture. "I'm really tired. Maybe you should go."

He nodded, his throat tight. "You sure you're okay alone? You're not anxious about that PI coming back?"

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "Do you think he will?"

"Probably not tonight." Brown wouldn't give up, though. He would show up again; Hunter was sure of it. "I could stay here, if you'd feel better. On your sofa, I mean."

A sharp little laugh escaped her. "No, thanks, Harry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

Only she didn't know what she was up against: Mo Jo Brown.

And him.

And the other masses of reporters who would dog her once they sensed her marriage had gone awry. It seemed obvious, now that he thought about it. Pictures of her sisters sat on a small sofa table, as well as a photo of an older lady whom he guessed to be her grandmother. But there were no pictures of her husband anywhere. No wedding photo on the wall. No picture of the boat where he'd proposed, or the cottage they'd rented in the mountains for their honeymoon. No young lovers embraced.

His hand brushed his pocket where he kept his wallet and the photo of Lizzie.

She gestured toward the foyer. "I'll fax you the schedule and see you later in the week."

Hunter relented and walked to the door. "Right. Abby, can you tell me one more thing?"

She hesitated, then slowly met his gaze. "What?"

"Why do you hate reporters so much?"

A soft sigh escaped her; then she hugged her arms around her middle as if to protect herself. "It goes back a long way, Harry. Back to when my dad got arrested years ago. I was only a kid. The newspapers and tabloids were filled with humiliating pictures of my whole family."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We all have ghosts in our closets."

"And now the reporters and this PI are trying to drag mine out. For the longest time after those photos were printed, Chelsea couldn't sleep. And Victoria..." A dark sadness lined her face. "She wouldn't let anyone, including relatives, take her picture, not even at Christmas. She became withdrawn, while Chelsea acted out all the time. Eventually the school counselor stepped in to help."

"I'm sorry, Abby." Hunter's heart clenched. What would he do if someone had hurt his little girl like that?

But it wasn't the reporters' fault, he reasoned. Abby's father's had broken the law and brought the publicity on the family. The reporters had simply been doing their job, reporting the news....

Still, as he said good-bye a heaviness weighed on him. Couldn't they have reported the news without exposing the children to such painful humiliation?

Heat blasted him as he headed to his bike, the dry air nearly suffocating. But he threw on his helmet and headed toward Mo Jo Brown's office. Even though it was Sunday night, he had a feeling the creep would be there. Abby's troubled face floated in his mind. She had focused on her sisters and how much the ordeal had affected them, but she hadn't mentioned her own reaction. Because she'd taken care of them, he realized.

Even though she'd been hurting herself.

* * *

Abby shivered after Harry left, silently chastising herself for being so caught up in listening to his seductive voice that she'd poured out her heart.

She wouldn't let it happen again.

He was an actor playing a part, and he played his role well. End of story.

She'd suffer through a few interviews with him, pay him off, then end this whole charade, and her life would return to normal.

No more playing the flirting game.

It was too dangerous. Her heart hadn't recovered from being broken by Lenny.

She shouldn't have shared the past with him, but... well, she was just too tired to hold everything inside. She felt like a kettle on a hot flame, bursting to release some steam.

She made a pot of tea and settled at her desk. Granny Pearl's comments about more advice for seniors needled her, and she decided to address the issue with an article entitled "Sex for Seniors."

She jotted down notes, listing common problems elderly couples experienced, everything from physical and emotional issues to the unique challenges a husband and wife who'd been together for fifty-plus years faced. Granny Pearl and Gramps Herbert came to mind. They had served as Abby's inspiration for wedded bliss since she'd been in diapers.

Unlike her own parents.

Her mom, a free spirit of the seventies, had thrived on fortune-telling and horoscopes, and hadn't believed in the institution of marriage, so she and Abby's father had never officially tied the knot, living together for years in a monogamous relationship. But one day her mother had taken a liking to the pesticide man and decided to experience free love. Frankly, Abby chalked her odd behavior up to too many incense-burning evenings. Her father had discovered the affair and tried to exterminate the man with his own can of bug spray, but her mother and the man had escaped in his roach-shaped van.

She could still hear her dad shouting, "I paid you to kill the bugs in this house, not to act like a rat."

Chelsea had been at the tender age of six and had adored their mother, loved playing in her makeup, and had grown up to be a free spirit like her. Victoria had been twelve at the time and had balked at both parents by burying her head in a book and becoming antisocial. Abby had clung to Granny Pearl's Southern values and tried to believe that in the chaos of modern times, couples could survive, even thrive within the sacred bounds of matrimony. All they needed was love.

Yeah, right.
And then there was Lenny....

And reality.

Now she had no idea if she was right or wrong about her theories. They certainly hadn't worked with the man she'd joined at the altar.

The telephone jangled and she jumped, realizing she hadn't written a single word of the article. Afraid it might be Hunter Stone—or worse, that slimy PI—she checked the caller ID. Granny Pearl. Hmm.

"Gran, hey, what is it?"

"Honey, I got a question."

She sounded so serious. "Sure, whatever I can do to help."

"Lulu wanted to stop at one of those sex-toy shops in Buckhead before we left town."

Abby groaned.

"I picked up one of those vibrator do-hickeys, but it's not working. Herbert and I have tried everything."

Abby dropped her head against the front of her desk. "Did you put batteries in it?"

"Why, mercy sakes, no!" Her grandmother hooted. "Herbert, get those C batteries out of the drawer."

Abby heard a whir in the background and shook her head.

"Thanks, honey, I gotta go," Gran chirped. "Herbert, I believe we're in business now!"

* * *

"Stefan, thank you so much for everything you did tonight." Victoria's skin was still crawling with humiliation from the ordeal at the police station as she opened her apartment door. She just prayed her coworkers at the firm didn't get wind of her interlude with the other side of the law.

"No big deal." Suarez leaned one hand on the doorjamb, his erotic scent sending shards of tension up her body.

But it was a big deal.

She entered the front hall, flicked the overhead light on, and lifted a brow to invite him in. A smile curved his mouth.

"You want to tell me what was going on?"

"Not really." A nervous laugh escaped her.

"Victoria, I don't want to push, but it would be nice if you were honest with me."

"I..." Could she break Abby's confidence and trust this man? What if she did and he used it against her sister?

He moved toward her, his tall, lean body invading her space. "You never go out, you refuse me dates, you've shown very little interest"—he paused, then lowered his voice—"and you were in a gay bar; I hate to ask this, but does that mean—"

"You think I'm... gay?" Laughter bubbled inside her chest, along with relief. But anger trotted on its heels. "Just because a woman doesn't date a lot or sleep around, it doesn't mean she's a lesbian."

"Then you're not gay?"

"No." Not that she should give him an opening.

Relief softened his eyes. "Thank God, I was worried."

A small laugh floated from her. "Maybe I'm just selective."