Under the Covers (8 page)

"Do you want to press charges?" Victoria asked. "We could sue him—"

"But he doesn't have any money." Another foolish thing she'd done—paid his way while he was screwing Milano. Had he helped Milano steal from others, too? "Or if he does, he earned it illegally and kept it from me."

The jukebox kicked on, the old country song, "Your Cheatin' Heart" blaring out.

"There's a classic for you." The women exchanged tense looks.

"Amen." Chelsea bit into another chip, smiling at a young blond waiter who walked by. "One reason I'm sworn to singlehood."

"I know it's not much comfort, but at least you don't have to suffer through a messy divorce," Victoria offered. "And I'm glad no kids are involved. That makes everything even easier."

Yes, except she had wanted children. "I know you're right. Things are complicated enough right now," Abby said. "Today one of those nosy reporters asked about my husband. What in the world will I do if they keep hounding me about him?"

"You could tell them the truth," Chelsea suggested. "It's not your fault Lenny's gay. And they can't blame you for what he did."

Victoria coughed. "Unfortunately, that's not true. I can cite at least a dozen cases in which innocent people have been wrongfully accused of crimes, and the trial has almost destroyed their lives."

Abby gave her a withering look. "My publicist went ballistic when I mentioned it, too. She definitely doesn't want me to reveal the details. I still can't believe Lenny did this to me."

Victoria shrugged. "I hate it, sis, but you can't let that slime ruin your success. Believe me, I've seen too many men do that, just when the woman they love starts making it big—" She cut herself off, obviously realizing her cynicism was coming through.

"Yeah, wait till things settle down," Chelsea advised.

Abby sipped her wine. Her sisters actually agreed—now she knew the world had flipped on its axis. "I wish I'd published this book under a pseudonym. Rainey said they actually have one author who's so shy they hired an actress to pose as her for publicity purposes."

"I wonder who it is?" Chelsea mused.

"I didn't ask," Abby said. "I figured if the woman wanted her privacy that much, she deserved it. And we all know how vicious reporters can be."

"Yeah, we've all been there, done that, got the T-shirt," Victoria noted wryly.

"Rainey even suggested I hire someone to play my husband. Can you believe that?"

A wicked grin lit Chelsea's green eyes. "Hey, that's not a bad idea."

Abby twisted her mouth sideways. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not." Chelsea tapped her fingernails like a drumroll. "Listen, I can hire one of the actors from the arts center to play Lenny. And no one will ever know but the three of us."

Chapter 4

Body Language

Abby Jensen was going to hire someone from her sister's arts center to play her husband?

Hunter's ears perked up. He had taken the table directly behind Abby's with his back to her back so he could hear her conversation, and oh, what a conversation she was having with the other two women. A tall, potted ficus separated the space between them just enough to shield him, although he'd ditched his woman's outfit in the car. He angled his chair so he could see all three women out of the corner of his eye. One was a voluptuous blonde, much more his type than Abby Jensen, the other sophisticated with dark hair pulled so tightly into a bun her cheekbones almost poked through her skin.

Although the three of them looked nothing alike, judging from their close comradeship, they were either best friends or sisters. The blonde and the brunette faintly resembled the girls in the newspaper picture he'd seen of Dr. Jensen at age twelve, but he couldn't be sure.

Judging from Abby's tone, something was wrong.

She sounded stricken. As if she'd just been delivered some very bad news.

He fought the sympathy that welled inside him. And the other part of him that swelled at the sight of those angelic eyes and those luscious lips.

Angelic dark eyes that held secrets and luscious lips that might be telling lies.

Besides, she was a married woman. Attached. Unavailable to his lusting libido.

"I can't deceive everyone like that," Abby Jensen whispered in a strained voice.

"But it's perfect," the blonde argued. "I'm sure I won't have any trouble finding someone. Just leave it all up to me."

"No," Abby said in a hiss. "I'll just have to find another way to address the reporters' questions."

The blonde jiggled her silver hoop earrings. "What about Lenny?"

"I don't know," Abby said, a note of despair in her voice. "But I'm not ready to reveal the sordid details of my private life."

Hunter scooted his chair back farther, fighting ficus leaves that clawed at his head as he jammed himself closer to Abby's table, then leaned backward in the chair, tilting it on two legs. The waitress across the way spied him and frowned, but he merely waved and cocked his head to the side to listen for more.

"I'll check with that friend of mine from the police force and see if I can find out any more information on Lenny," the dark-haired woman said.

Hunter's eyebrows arched.

"Shh, keep your voices down," Abby whispered. "The last thing I want is for all of this to get out. Those nosy reporters would ruin me. What if one of them followed me here?" She glanced around the restaurant, and Hunter jerked his head into his hand, then yanked the menu up to cover his eyes.

Suddenly a beefy face appeared on the opposite side of the opening. Hunter froze, trying to formulate an explanation. "What are you doing, sir?"

"I... uh, lost my sunglasses."

The man circled the plant to glare at him. "They're on your head, sir."

"Oh, yes." What was wrong with him? Had he lost his investigative skills?

The man eyed him suspiciously.

Not wanting Abby Jensen to spot him or make a scene, he pivoted and stood to leave, but the back of the chair caught the plant and sent it careening. The waiter tried to grab it, but the ficus soared sideways, and its leafy top landed in the middle of Abby Jensen's table.

* * *

Abby and her sisters shrieked and jumped up all at once, drinks and food crashing to the gray patterned carpet. Victoria cursed and swiped at her silk pantsuit while Chelsea laughed and picked salsa from her black capris. Abby scooped the chips from her lap, snagged one from the cleavage of her shell, and dropped them back onto the white table.

The waiter and bald maitre d' ran over, frantic. "Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry, ladies." The maitre d' tried to brush scattered chips from Abby's jacket.

"What happened?" Victoria asked.

"Some strange man had wedged his chair back into that plant. He looked as if he was eavesdropping on you ladies," the bald man said. "When I went to question him, he knocked the plant over as he ran off."

Abby dug her nails into the table. "Was he dressed like a woman?"

The waiter narrowed his eyes. "No, why would you think that?"

"Uh, no reason," Abby said.

"I bet it was a reporter." Chelsea craned her neck to see, as did Abby and Victoria, but only a few curious guests stared back. "They've been hounding my sister for an interview. She's famous, you know. She wrote a book on sex."

Abby glared at Chelsea, ready to throttle her.

The bald man's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes, she's
the
Dr. Jensen," Chelsea chirped. "She wrote the bestseller
Under the Covers,
hottest sex tips ever."

Suddenly the waiter and maitre d' treated them like royalty. "Let us get you to a clean table, ladies." The waiter whipped a fresh napkin from the new table, whisked it out, ushered Chelsea into a seat, and laid it on her lap.

The maitre d' coached Abby to the table. "Yes, and how about a round of drinks on the house."

Chelsea beamed and extended her hands as if to say thanks while Victoria eagerly slid into the rearmost seat of the secluded table. "I'll face the doorway so I can see if anyone else comes looking for you."

Abby claimed the chair opposite her, tension knotting her neck as she tried to forget the incident. Was the man a reporter? And if so, had he overheard their conversation?

* * *

Hunter grimaced as he entered his boss's office, still unable to believe he'd knocked a plant right on top of his target and almost gotten caught. But at least he was onto a hot story, and he had an idea how to get closer to Abby Jensen.

The scents of ink and coffee and stale doughnuts wafted up from Ralph's desk. The man grabbed a jelly doughnut, bit a hunk out of it, and stuffed a handful of notes into Hunter's hand without bothering to look up.

"Here, check out this stuff next."

Hunter glanced at the top assignment and bit back a curse—the ongoing battle between the Little League parents in Fulton County. Dads and moms fighting on the field like kids; it had become a suburban nightmare. One man had even beaten a referee with a baseball bat and sent him to the hospital.

Not that the story wasn't newsworthy, but... he had bigger fish to fry.

Only, he'd made a mess of things at the restaurant. Once that plant had gone flying, he had to disappear fast or blow his cover.

"Get those to me as soon as you can," Ralph said.

"Listen, Ralph, I think I may have a lead on that Jensen woman—"

"I'm putting Addleton on that story," Ralph said. "He thinks he can get an in-depth interview."

"Just give me a chance here." Hunter squared his shoulders and stood to his six-three height, hoping his size might add weight to his argument, but once again Ralph crammed the doughnut into his mouth and didn't bother to look up. Instead he mopped jelly from the copy he was editing.

"Listen, I'm already working on the story. I think I have a way to get close to her."

Ralph finally glanced up, his eyes narrowed in his pudgy face. "All right. You've got twenty-four hours to come up with something." He stabbed a finger at him. "But make sure whatever it is, it sticks. I want facts, not a lawsuit on my hands."

"Right. Thanks, Emerson. You won't be sorry."

Ralph poked the pencil behind his ear. "Oh, and get that Little League story, too, while you're at it."

Hunter nodded and headed to the door. He'd knock that little piece out in no time, then check to see what he could dig up on Abby's husband.

But first he'd head toward the arts center and find Abby's sister, Chelsea.

He had a feeling she would lead him to the story of a lifetime.

* * *

Victoria's questions about Lenny had needled Abby all the way home.

She literally tore apart her new house looking for evidence that her husband—no, her faux husband—might have been involved in a conspiracy with Tony Milano. Adding an arrest for impeding an investigation to her growing repertoire of mistakes would only add more madness to the mayhem. She did not want to be caught unaware if the police approached her with accusations or questions. If she found anything, she'd call Victoria.

Two hours later, she stared at the disheveled boxes and her belongings, which lay scattered helter-skelter all over the room. Clothes, books, magazines, shoes, kitchen gadgets, and small household odds and ends littered the floor. Some of the sketches that had accompanied the chapters in her book sat propped against her desk. She blushed slightly at the nude poses, tempted to put the pictures away. But she needed to remember that she was a sexual being, an appealing woman. It wasn't her fault Lenny had stopped wanting to sleep with her.

He was simply gay.

Trying to make herself believe his lack of interest in her wasn't her fault was another story, though. She had to wonder if she'd been deficient in some way....

Haunted by his lies, she riffled through her office files, studying the ones relating to their finances and investments, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

Nada.
Not one thing in her house pointed to Lenny as a criminal.

Unless she counted the fraudulent marriage.

Grateful for small favors, she pocketed her keys, headed to her trusty Toyota, and drove toward the old apartment she and Lenny had shared. The rent had been paid through the remainder of the month, and she still had a key. Had Lenny returned to retrieve his things or were they still there? And if they were, would she find evidence of his betrayal?

* * *

A sliver of guilt had attacked Hunter on the way to the arts center, so he decided to try one last time to get an upfront interview with the good doctor. He climbed the steps to her porch, a summer shower threatening, the heat beating down on him like a sledgehammer. The blue Williamsburg-style cottage looked like something out of the movies. A white picket fence. Bird feeders in the yard. A patch of impatiens in a flower bed along the front with marigolds in pots on the front porch. Nice and homey and old-fashioned. Traditional.

Not at all the type of outlandish, wild place he might have expected from the contemporary sex therapist.

Dismissing the unsettling feeling that she might not be the vixen he believed, he planned a little persuasive argument. He'd hint that he knew she was hiding something, and if she spoke with him, he'd cut her a break and write the story from her viewpoint. He'd even suck up and tell her how much he admired her work.