Under the Covers

by Rita Herron

  Chapter 14

  Strange Bedfellows

  "Maybe you should just give up on the underwear altogether," Hunter murmured.

  Abby closed her eyes for a nanosecond, humiliation scorching her face. When she opened them, he could see her struggling for dignity. "You... the clasp came undone. And I was going to go to the rest room to fix it before we left, but the producer didn't give us time."

  "Uh-huh." He gestured toward the pads. "You don't really need those, Abby."

  Her lips pressed into a tight line. "I have to go. Good night, Mr. Henderson."

  She suddenly swung loose from him and headed to her car, stuffing the pads back down into the thin white camisole below her jacket. His hands ached to help her with the task.

  He sprinted to follow her, but a rustle in the bushes nearby captured his attention and he halted instead. Anger sparked as quickly as his desire had when he'd touched Abby. He stalked to the shrubbery, reached in, and yanked out Mo Jo Brown.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "My job," Brown said, brushing leaves from his ill-fitting leisure suit.

  Hunter noticed the small camera poking from the PI's pocket and grabbed it. Mo Jo fought like a chicken, spindly arms clawing. "You can't take that; it's personal property."

  "Right now it's community property." Hunter flipped the back open, removed the film, and pocketed it. "I told you to leave Abby Jensen alone."

  "But her old man owes my boss—"

  "Tell him to find her husband then, because Abby Jensen is not paying his debts."

  Without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving the weasel scrambling after him. Hunter searched for Abby's car, then laughed when he noticed she was tearing across the parking lot in the vehicle, heading straight toward the PI.

  * * *

  Abby didn't see the skinny man until she'd almost run over him.

  Dear God. She threw on her brakes, screeched to a stop, and closed her eyes, praying she wouldn't find blood and guts splattered all over her windshield when she opened them. And that the next time she saw herself on the news she wasn't wearing shackles and chains for murdering a man with her car.

  Shaking with adrenaline and worry, she slowly peeked through her eyelids and gasped when she recognized the man—the slimy private investigator who'd been snooping through her garbage.

  She should have run over him!

  Hands clenched, she opened the car door, counted to ten, and glared at him. "If you come near me again, mister, I'm filing a restraining order."

  His bony body shook in his oversize clothes. "I need to talk to you about your husband."

  "Leave me alone." Her heart still racing, she climbed into her car and took off the other way. But when she glanced in her mirror, she noticed the man watching her. Harry Henderson stalked toward him. As Harry grew nearer, the nosy man's eyes widened and he turned and ran like a jackrabbit.

  * * *

  Hunter held the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He hated the fear he'd seen in Abby's eyes when that weasel Brown had asked about her husband.

  He had to find out the truth about the real Lenny Gulliver.

  His cell phone chirped before he could make it home to his computer. "Stone here."

  "Hey." Ralph Emerson's voice boomed in his ear. "There's some picketers over at the mall bookstore, stirring up more excitement over that Jensen broad's book. Can you cover it? Addleton's got the freakin' flu."

  Probably caught a bug kissing all those asses. "I'll be right there." Hunter wheeled the Explorer in the opposite direction. After all, how could he refuse? The story would be a great lead-in for the bigger one he planned to write.

  The beginning of the end for Dr. Jensen.

  Just what he'd wanted. He'd finally gotten a break. He should be happy.

  Then why did he feel so damn rotten?

  * * *

  "I am finished with men," Abby muttered to herself as she drove toward home. "I finally understand how all these women feel who come in to me and complain." She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror and groaned in horror.

  She had never looked worse.

  She'd been so angry when she'd left that PI she'd clawed her hands through her hair and torn it from its fancy chignon. Her makeup was smeared from the floodwaters that had opened up, and she had dark circles under her eyes.

  Feeling lonely and frustrated and dreading going home to her empty house, she swerved into the mall. She had always been levelheaded and thought things through, but her head had been spinning for days, and she couldn't think at all. A haircut and facial would do her wonders.

  She climbed from her car and teetered inside the mall. A commotion at one end trapped her momentarily, until she realized people were picketing outside the bookstore.

  The last place she wanted to be.

  She didn't know what was going on, but there were too many people crowding around. Someone might recognize her. She went back outside and circled around to a different entrance—one on the opposite side of the mall. An hour later she emerged from one of the local salons with a new look—a few layers to her shoulder-length style, and cleansed pores. If only she had been able to cleanse herself of her problems.

  Not yet ready to go home, but still afraid of being recognized—the crowd outside the bookstore had brought back memories of her first stressful signing there—Abby scooted into a nearby hat store. The Braves cap didn't exactly match her outfit, but who cared? Smiling ruefully at the fact that she was about to ruin her new do, Abby pulled the hat low on her forehead. Confident that she was suitably incognito she tried to relax, using her cash to purchase another pair of shoes she didn't need—this time hot-pink sandals.

  Now she needed a hot-pink outfit to match. Something that didn't look like the conservative Abigail Jensen. But a big sale sign at the pet store caught her eye, and she wandered over to take a peek. She had always wanted a dog when she was little, but her parents had moved around like gypsies, and most of their apartments had not allowed pets.

  She had her own house now.

  And she had envisioned a small dog there along with a child.

  She no longer had a husband to argue with over the matter either. After all, Lenny had wanted a cat.

  Pet stores were generally more expensive, she'd heard, than buying an animal from a breeder, and she could always go to the Humane Society. She should wait. An adorable little white Maltese pawed at the glass window in front of her, big eyes pleading with her for a home, and her heart melted.

  She would just go in and look.

  The puppy angled its tiny face and whimpered. Nine hundred dollars. Whew. A lot of money for a little spit of a dog. She roamed down the aisle and looked at the beagles, an adorable cocker puppy, a pudgy boxer, a yelping yellow Lab. But the white, fluffy-eared Maltese was still clinging to the window, its nose pressed to the glass, tongue hanging out, begging to be held.

  The puppy would keep her company now she was alone. It would cuddle and sleep with her at night.

  "You want to hold it, ma'am?"

  Abby nodded and accepted the wiggling bundle into her arms. The puppy licked at her face, wagged its stubby tail, white hair flopping over its eyes. It seemed so small and vulnerable, lost and lonely and desperately in need of a stable home.

  Just like she felt.

  Puppies made great friends. Playmates. Bedfellows. He would keep her warm at night. Forget men. She didn't need one.

  "I'll take it."

  Several minutes later, she stood at the cash register with a host of puppy supplies, waiting on the pimple-faced teenage boy to ring up her purchases. He ran her credit card through the machine. Abby stroked the Maltese's furry head, smiling as it nuzzled her palm.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this card won't work."

  "What?" Abby frowned and examined her Visa. She'd kept it paid off monthly. "I don't understand."

  "I tried it twice." He leaned against the counter with an impatient sigh. "Do you have another
form of payment?"

  "Well..." Abby fumbled in her wallet and dug out her American Express.

  He slid it through and shook his head.

  Nerves twitched in Abby's stomach. How could it be?

  Lenny. The dirty scumbag had maxed out her credit cards. She just knew it.

  Why hadn't she thought to check the cards and statements earlier?

  Because she was a trusting idiot.

  "Let me write you a check." Lenny hadn't had access to her personal account. Thank God she hadn't been that stupid.

  "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 gra
bbed 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 up 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—"