by Rita Herron
She sipped her spritzer and watched the players make their moves, the meat market slightly off balance with more men than women. Two Hispanic men danced around each other while a female couple played hip-tango to the music. She thumped her foot up and down, ignoring the inquisitive eye of a drag queen weaving her way through the crowd. Tall, with a crew cut and leather pants that hugged her butt, she stalked toward Chelsea.
Chelsea squirmed in her seat. The other night, she'd avoided getting hit on by not making eye contact, but this time it didn't work.
"Hey, cutie. My name's Honey, what's yours?"
Chelsea nearly spilled her drink. "Uh, Chelsea."
"What's wrong? First time?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Don't worry, it gets easier." Honey unfolded a wad of bills from a money clip and ordered a scotch. "Can I get you another?"
"No, no, this is fine." God, she sounded like a blithering idiot. Remember you're an actress. So act.
The music heated up along with the dance floor, and she automatically began tapping her foot to the beat.
"You wanna dance?" Honey asked.
"No, I... actually I was looking for someone."
Honey twisted her mouth sideways, muscles flexing in her calves as she propped a black-heeled boot on the stool beside her. "You mean you were waiting on someone?"
"No, nothing like that."
"Good." An appreciative gaze shot down to Chelsea's shoes.
Oh, shit. "I mean I'm looking for a guy."
A look of disdain replaced Honey's smile. "You're in here looking for a guy?" Her gaze cut across the room. "I think you got the wrong place, baby."
"No, it's not like that. You see, this guy is gay but he was married to my sister." Now she sounded like a total nutcase.
"You're into swinging both ways then?"
Honey looked as if she were considering the possibility. Lord help her.
"No. He did, though. At least he pretended to. Oh, hell, he just came out of the... the..." What did they call it? Honey had her so rattled she couldn't think. "The garage."
Honey chuckled. "You mean he just came out of the closet."
Chelsea snapped her fingers. "Yes, that's it. Thank you." Whew, she would be fine now. "His name is Lenny Gulliver. Maybe you heard of him?"
"Hmm, Gulliver." The drag queen leaned forward and spoke to the bartender, then slumped onto the bar stool beside Chelsea. "Yeah, Gulliver used to hang in here occasionally. But Tank there hasn't seen him in about a month."
So she'd reached another dead end. "Well, thanks so much."
Without realizing it, she'd flopped her hand down on top of the Honey's.
Honey curled her fingers around Chelsea's. Releasing a panicked laugh, Chelsea bolted off the seat and ran, wobbling on her heels toward the exit. Next time, she'd better leave her fuck-me shoes behind. They might have been just a tad too much.
* * *
Hunter forced his mind off work and Abigail Jensen as he approached his ex-wife's mansion. A knot tightened in his stomach as he surveyed the opulent surroundings, the stately English Tudor, the immaculate gardens full of exotic roses and other flowers he couldn't begin to name, the backyard swimming pool, the silver Mercedes parked in the driveway.
All things he couldn't give his daughter.
Material things didn't matter, he reminded himself. He and Lizzie had fun together. She liked to camp and pal around with him. Just as he had with his own father when he was young.
The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, and the weatherman reported that the storm had bypassed north Georgia. Figuring his ex-wife and her new hubby had gone out on one of their customary romantic evenings, and Lizzie would stay home with the nanny they kept around the clock, he brushed off his wet, wrinkled clothes, climbed from his Explorer, and headed up the winding driveway.
Just as he neared the front, the door sprang open and Lizzie bounded outside clutching her Angelica doll, his ex and her new husband close behind. They were all dressed to the nines, even his darling little daughter.
"Daddy!" Lizzie yelled. "I didn't know you was comin'."
He shrugged and grabbed her as she flew into his arms. "Hey, pumpkin." She felt like an angel. "I thought I'd surprise you."
"It's not your weekend, Hunter," Shelly said curtly.
Hating to expose Lizzie to another confrontation between them, Hunter bit his lip to keep from saying something he would regret. "I know. I was just in the neighborhood—"
She arched a brow and he grimaced. Ok, so he never came to this neighborhood. "I came on a whim." He settled Lizzie back down, brushing her blond braid back in place. "You obviously have plans."
"Mom and Daryl are takin' me and Angelica shoppin'."
"Really?"
"Yeah, and they're gettin' me a mankin."
"A what?"
"A mankin."
"A manicure," Shelly corrected.
Hunter nodded. Lizzie stuck out her fingernails. "I'm getting pretty pink, Daddy."
"Great." Definitely more of a girl's thing than camping.
"Then we're goin' dancin'."
"To the ballet," Daryl interjected smugly.
"I wanna dance, too." Lizzie twirled around, letting her fluffy yellow dress billow out, and Hunter laughed.
"We need to go." Shelly gave Hunter a pointed stare. "Please call next time. We do have an agreement, Hunter."
" 'Bye, Daddy."
Hunter blew Lizzie a kiss, his chest aching as he watched his daughter climb into the Mercedes with his ex-wife and his ex-shrink. They quickly drove off, leaving him standing in the driveway of their mansion, the ornate Tudor home standing like a fortress that divided him from his child.
Tomorrow's headline about Abby's heroic delivery in the Wal-Mart parking lot mocked him—she might have played the hero today, but she was not a hero to him. She had given Shelly the first brick to lay in building that wall against him. And he could never forgive her for that.
Chapter 8
The Art of Seduction
Hunter was so agitated when he left his ex-wife's house that he parked his Explorer at his apartment, typed up his article, and faxed it to the office for the morning edition, then threw a duffel bag on the back of his Harley and rode as far as he could make it into north Georgia. His leather jacket's sleeves flapped in the wind, the sound of the motor and the wheels meeting pavement a welcome retreat from the voice in his head: the voice of Shelly telling him it wasn't his weekend to see his daughter. To call first.
The mountain air smelled like fresh rain and cut grass, not like a vixen named Abby who was trying to tempt him away from a story that could help shape his career—a career he needed to advance so he could have more time with his daughter. Lizzie was the only thing that meant a damn to him.
The minute he'd laid eyes on his six-pound baby girl, those little blond ringlets, those chubby toes and stubby little fingers, he had fallen in love. And he'd traded his freedom for her in seconds.
But now Shelly had the nanny. And Lizzie.
And he had no one.
Even worse, he was losing Lizzie.
Which wasn't fair, since Shelly had been the one to want her freedom. She'd claimed she felt suffocated and needed wide-open spaces. Space enough to spread her wings and fly to greener pastures.
A man with more money.
He had been a fool. The one who'd stayed up with his baby at night and fed and rocked her. The one who'd changed diapers when Shelly had turned up her nose at the smell. The one who'd arranged his work at the paper around his daughter's needs.
Yet he'd gotten screwed in the divorce decree and was still getting screwed.
His throat felt thick as the motorcycle spun in the gravel on a hill, and he choked back his emotions. Realizing it was past midnight and there were no camping grounds nearby, he pulled into a deserted wooded area on top of Red Bud Mountain. Exhausted, he sprawled on the ground and stared at the distant stars, wishing his daughter were with him.
Memories
of his own childhood echoed with the rustling of the trees. The times he'd camped with his friends to escape his parents' arguments. The strict military stance his father took with him, demanding perfection, offering little affection.
He'd sworn to be different with Lizzie. To try to make things work with Shelly for his daughter's sake. But he'd failed. Then his wife had found the ritzy shrink.
And he'd known he couldn't force Lizzie to live in a house where nightly fights and bickering had replaced the loving atmosphere with tension.
He couldn't sleep, so he pulled out a flashlight and Abby Jensen's book and began to read the chapter "The Art of Seduction," hoping to find something he could use against her. A tiny seed of guilt sprouted at his plan, but he quickly buried it. Abby had started the wheels of discontent rolling in his wife's head, feelings of dissatisfaction that had ultimately led to his divorce. If she hadn't, he wouldn't be in the position of having to compete for Lizzie in the first place.
Seduction doesn't start when you begin removing your clothes. It starts with that first look. That first whisper of the other person's name. That hint of longing and desire that you see in your partner's eyes.
Take time to play the seduction game and you'll find yourself in erotic heaven.
Whether you are new lovers or have been together many times, slowly disrobing can be as alluring as that first touch. Watch the clothes slide seductively over your partner's body, listen to the friction of the garment against her bare neck, her collarbone, her breasts. Feel the fabric slide across her abdomen, rub against her soft inner thigh. Watch the way her breath hitches as she peels her panties down her legs and the cool air brushes her naked skin for the first time. See the chill bumps cascade up her thigh....
Hunter closed his eyes, the images Abby had described flitting through his mind, his sex stirring to life and swelling like an insatiable beast. The woman peeling her panties off, tossing that silver thong at him, was Abby herself. Her breath filtered out in short little hitches as she trailed one finger over her own swollen sex.
Then she stalked toward him, pushed him down on the ground, freed his aching erection, lowered herself on top of him, and whispered all her dirty little secrets.
Hours later, Hunter woke up in a sweat with Abby's thong tangled in his hands. He cursed himself for a fool for still carrying her unmentionables around. But he couldn't ignore the one question that had repeatedly plagued him through the night.
Just why had Abby reacted so hotly to his kiss if she was happily married?
* * *
Nightmares of Abby's disenchanted clients strangling her with a pair of granny panties drove her from bed. Even worse, in her dreams, Harry Henderson had watched, waving her thong and telling her she should have stuck with them, that they were too small to fit around her neck.
But they had fit perfectly around his hands. Those big, masculine, strong, dark hands.
Dammit. Harry should have looked apish, like the big-foot from the movie. Instead, he'd looked sexy and hot and too damn interested in that thong.
Luckily, Harry Henderson was history. As was her TV career.
She padded to the kitchen for coffee, grabbed the morning paper from her front porch, then stretched out on her sofa for a morning read. Too bad it wasn't Monday, so she could go to work and listen to someone else's problems and forget about her own. And where most people she knew now enjoyed the news from their computer, she enjoyed the feel of the paper in her hands.
The front-page story highlighted the news about a tanker that had exploded on 285. The expressway would be closed for repairs to the bridge—a nightmare for traffic. Another advantage to the fact that she often worked at home.
The arts section featured her book, with candid shots of her signing, along with an article her publicist had put together for promotional purposes. Rainey had also gathered quotes from readers, raving about how the book had helped their relationships.
She skimmed the rest of the local section, her breath catching when she spotted an article about Tony Milano. Her head pounded as she read.
Police investigating this late-breaking story report that over two hundred fake marriages were performed by a man named Tony Milano, who posed as a reverend at the Velvet Cloak Inn. Milano offered a special honeymoon package last June that drew lovers from all across the states. Every effort is being made to protect the victims' privacy while informing them of their fraudulent nuptials. Even worse, Milano conned more than half those participants into investing in a time-share supposedly being built in eastern Tennessee.
The police are working to find Milano, recoup the money lost, and reimburse the victims. Investigators also suspect that Milano had a partner. Anyone with information regarding Milano, his location, or his alleged partner, please contact the authorities immediately.
Abby rubbed her forehead. Lenny had tried to talk her into purchasing a time-share there, but she'd refused to buy without seeing the property. At least she'd used a little common sense. He had even tried to seduce her into agreeing with promises of a second honeymoon at the resort.
Had Lenny known the deal was fake then? If so, why would he have pressured her to buy? And if the police were trying to locate all the victims to notify them, were they already looking for her?
Worse, could Lenny be the partner the police were searching for?
She turned the page to look for more details on Milano, when the beginning of article by that insufferable reporter, Hunter Stone, caught her eye.
HOW KINKY IS DR. JENSEN'S ADVICE?
What secrets does Dr. Abby Jensen hold?
After being refused yet another interview, I slipped into the crowd at Dr. Jensen's recent book signing and was shocked to see her winking at one of the women in tine. Then on TV, Dr. Jensen tossed her underwear at her husband.
Just how liberal is Dr. Jensen? Does she have any real family values or is she simply acting to sell more books?
Abby gaped. She'd been right not to trust the sleazy journalist. She could just imagine how much worse the piece would have been if she'd granted him an interview. Sure, she wanted to sell books so she could help her family financially, but that dirty, rotten rat of a reporter had implied she was a lesbian! Furious, she balled up the page without even reading the rest of the article and tossed it into the trash. If she ever met that man, she would kill him with her bare hands!
She sank back onto the sofa, trembling with anger and disgust. But if Stone found out about her husband's involvement with Milano, he would kill her career. Knowing him, he'd incriminate her as Milano's accomplice on the front page. Good Lord, her worst fear was coming true—she was turning into her mother.
What was she going to do?
* * *
Hunter had to take a leak so badly he thought he would explode, but he needed to find a place without poison ivy. Grimacing at the fact that he'd slept ten feet away from a live plant and did not want a rash on his privates, he scoured the wooded area and finally sauntered back to the dirt road. It was the only safe place.
Seconds later, sweet relief surged through him. Resolved to focus on work today, he climbed on his Harley and drove down the mountain. He hated heights, had a phobia of them, but he fought his demons, keeping the bike as far away from the ledge as possible.
Breakfast at a little mountain cafe gave him time to read the morning paper. He smiled, proud of his article, and wondered what Abby Jensen's reaction to it had been. But his smile died when he noticed Addleton, the ass kisser, had written a piece on the Milano investigation. Apparently the police had discovered hundreds had been married illegally by the fake minister.
Even more had been scammed.
Hmm. The Velvet Cloak Inn was located in north Georgia, not too far from where he'd spent the night. It wouldn't hurt to check it out while he was here. Even if he didn't get to cover the investigation into the fraud cases, he could spark his editor's interest with some personal stories of the couples who'd been swindled into thinking they'd been mar
ried. The victims might offer an idea of where Milano was hiding. And if luck was with him, he might even discover Milano's partner. It would be the perfect way for him to showcase his skills and land himself an assignment as a criminal reporter.
He tossed a few bills onto the table to cover his meal and set off to find the Velvet Cloak Inn. The investigation would also help keep his mind off the seductive powers of Abby Jensen.
At least for a few hours.
* * *
Abby had to do something to get her life back to normal.
She would start by putting her place in order. First she moved boxes from room to room, sorting them into those she would unpack right away and those she could store for later. Arranging her clothes took the entire morning. Not that she was a clotheshorse, but she dumped everything that reminded her of Lenny. All the designer, have-sex-with-me, colorful shoes, the tiger-striped bra, the red leather pants.
She should have realized he was gay when he'd chosen those outlandish things for her to wear.
In fact, he'd been more excited about their shopping excursions than about their sexual exploits. She'd thought at the time that he simply liked buying her sexy clothes, the kinds of things she'd never buy for herself. Especially the lingerie.
He'd probably wanted to borrow them for his lover.
Or maybe he'd secretly worn the leather and lace behind her back. Come to think of it, several pairs of her expensive nylons had been missing lately. And that black garter...
Disturbed by the extent of his deception and her own gullibility, she shoved every item Lenny had purchased for her into a large plastic bag and carried it out to the trash can beside the house. Next she organized her office, putting all her files about the book away and setting up her computer. Finally she took a break for lunch, then sorted through her kitchen, organizing the cabinets, then reorganizing them when she realized she'd actually alphabetized her canned goods the way Lenny would have. Still running on adrenaline, she scooted the box containing her tea set collection to the corner hutch and carefully unwrapped each set, wiping the delicate china pieces with a cloth before placing them on display.