by Rita Herron
Before she could finish her sentence, her mother breezed in, bringing the scent of gardenias with her, her long, gauzy skirt billowing around her petite frame. A dozen brightly colored beads clinked as she waved, the tie-dyed sleeves of her blouse flapping merrily. "Hey, honey."
"Mom, this is a surprise."
As usual her mother wasted no time. "I'm so happy your book is doing great. I'm proud of you, sweetheart."
Abby shrugged, praying her sisters hadn't filled her mother in on her debacle of a marriage. She was not up for an "I told you marriage is worthless" lecture. Instead, she directed the conversation to a safer topic. "That ad you did and the free pillowcases really boosted sales."
Her mother fluttered ringed fingers through her long, frizzy hair. The one thing Abby had inherited—curls. "I'm glad I could help."
Not that Abby had wanted her help.
"I hate to do this, honey, and I know you're busy, but I need your help."
Support for another venture, Abby supposed. The first one, the candle shop, had lasted six months. "What is it now, Mom?"
"Well, there's the neatest little shop in downtown Chattanooga. I want to turn it into a coffee shop, a place for local musicians and singers and poets to hang out."
Probably not a bad investment, Abby thought. Although she couldn't see her mother baking homemade muffins and cookies for the shop. And she'd hoped her mother had found an outlet for her creativity that might turn into a career at the advertising agency with her latest boyfriend.
"What about the job with Norm, Mom? I thought you enjoyed helping him with that ad for my book."
Her mother wrinkled her dainty nose. "I did, honey, but he was on last month's menu. You know I get bored easily."
A mild understatement if she'd ever heard one. Abby remembered the credit card problem she'd had the day before. "Mom, I'll have to check my finances and get back to you."
Confident Abby would loan her the money, her mother pecked her on the cheek and vanished out the door. Abby grabbed the puppy from the box and headed to the AJC to confront her worst enemy—Hunter Stone. She'd put him in the hotspot for a change and see how he liked it.
* * *
"Great job, Stone." Emerson braced his elbows on his desk, wiped Twinkie cream from his shirt, and nodded in approval at the article Hunter had written about Abby.
"Yeah, you really picked that broad apart," Jimmy, one of the copyeditors, added.
Hunter shrugged, a knot in his stomach.
"You got anything good on her yet?"
"I'm working on it," Hunter said, grateful to be on his boss's good side for a change.
"Well, let me know as soon as you get it."
Hunter nodded and strode from the office, his instincts humming. His research the night before had definitely proven helpful. He'd discovered a couple of interesting things about Abby's husband. First, he had been thrown out of UCLA for cheating. Next, he had an alias. Last, he had two arrests, which had been swept under the rug.
He wondered if Abby had a clue.
The details were fuzzy about why Gulliver had used an alias, and what the cops had taken him in for. Hunter grabbed a pen and notepad and hurried toward the door. He had a meeting with a cop buddy of his to see if he could find out the scoop on Gulliver. He didn't want to miss it.
* * *
Abby tucked the puppy beneath her arm and strode into the downtown offices of the paper, her hair curling and spiraling out of control from the sweltering heat. Air-conditioning immediately sent goose bumps cascading up her arms. A cold place for a cold group of people, she thought, reliving the painful memories of childhood. Seeing her father's face plastered all over the paper, his arms and legs bound in thick chains. Having reporters push their microphones into her and her sister's faces, asking them how it felt to have a crook for a daddy. Chelsea's wild antics later, Victoria's harsh reaction.
Granted, Hunter Stone hadn't been so obvious, and some of the other stories about her book hadn't been so flattering, but so far none of them had accused her of actually breaking up marriages to make a buck.
How low could one man go?
The man obviously had a heart of stone to match his last name.
The puppy whimpered and she rubbed its pudgy head.
"Shh, baby, it's okay. This won't take long." Determination filling her, she found out where to locate the despicable reporter, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and stopped at the receptionist's desk.
"I'm here to see Mr. Stone."
The sleek African-American woman smiled, her slender fingers complete with nail art clicking away at her keyboard. "Is he expecting you?"
"No, but I believe he'll see me."
"Your name?"
"Abigail Jensen."
"Dr. Jensen?"
Abby blushed as the puppy licked her chin. "Yes."
"Shamara Loussard. I just loved your book." The young woman stepped around the circular desk and shook Abby's hand, nearly knocking off a glass paperweight in her haste. "I can't tell you how much my husband and I have enjoyed those exercises."
"Thank you." Abby glanced pointedly at the cubicles visible through the glass doorway. "But I'm afraid everyone doesn't agree with you."
Shamara's cheeks blushed rosy on top of coffee-colored skin. "Well, you know anything good creates controversy." She leaned in as if they were co-conspirators. "A few of the reporters here are really solid and just want to print the facts, but some of them are so hungry to see their bylines, they'd sell their own mother for a story. Sometimes they scratch and fight for the next scoop like nanny roosters hunting feed."
Abby laughed, immediately liking the woman.
"So you're here to knock some sense into Hunter Stone?" Shamara led her through a set of double glass doors, where Abby looked out over a room buzzing with people frantically typing at their computers yelling at one another, and snapping into phones. The hubbub of news, personal stories, and the trading of information filled the room.
"I already e-mailed him and told him what I thought," Shamara said.
Abby hesitated, imagining what Hunter Stone would look like—he was probably short and stout, balding on top with a paunch around his middle, a Danny DeVito look-alike. Except his eyes would be much beadier.
He probably suffered from short man's syndrome and had to make up for his small size by seeking attention in a big way in the paper. Normally she simply felt sorry for people like him, those who stole pleasure at the expense of innocent people.
Retreat and withdraw.
The words silently spoke to her. If she confronted Stone and made a scene, she would only feed the proverbial gossip vine. A distinct memory rose to taunt her—her mother had tried to talk to the press after her father's arrest, but they'd twisted her words until her mother had sounded like a conspirator in his crimes. In fact, if Abby made a scene at the paper, she would be hanging herself out to dry with the dirty linen.
After all, what difference did Hunter Stone's asinine article make anyway? Everyone was entitled to his or her opinion. Half the people in Atlanta probably hadn't even read his comments. Anyone with an ounce of sense read the news and sports pages, then skimmed the others, chuckled over the stories, and used the newsprint to line their birdcages.
As a matter of fact, she would use Hunter Stone's articles to settle her puppy in his new crate. In no uncertain terms, her little friend would tell Hunter Stone exactly what he thought of his journalism.
* * *
Hunter had just exited the bathroom when he realized he'd left his cell phone at his desk. Heading back in that direction he came to an abrupt halt when he spotted Abby Jensen talking to the receptionist. Geez. What the hell was Abby doing here?
The article.
Of course. She'd read the article, had remembered he'd phoned for an interview, and had come to do what? Tell him off? Offer him an exclusive?
Probably the first.
Her expression revealed simmering anger. She and Shamara seemed ch
ummy, though. Abby laughed, a soft, musical sound that he'd never heard. Shamara pointed to the cubicle where he had been sitting only minutes ago. Minutes that had spared his undercover stint as her actor husband.
A call too close for comfort.
He ducked behind the awning of the doors and stumbled backward. She and Shamara turned and strode right toward him. Afraid he was about to be caught, he searched for an escape, but the closest hiding spot was the women's rest room. Brenda Davis had just gone in there. He couldn't.
Panicked, he dove beneath Shamara's desk, crawling on his knees, his back bent unmercifully. Seconds later, Abby and Shamara paused on the other side of Shamara's desk. He froze, praying the receptionist didn't decide to sit back down. Not yet.
"Dr. Jensen," Shamara said in a hushed tone. "I have a little question, if you don't mind."
"Sure."
He peeked through the cracks in the metal desk and glimpsed Abby's slender leg stretched out in front of him. His eyes zeroed in on her soft skin. He could almost taste the smooth texture.
"It's about the retreat and withdrawal technique in your book."
"Yes?"
A yelp sounded and Abby jiggled the white fluff in her arms. So she'd brought that mop of a dog with her. What did she think it would do—protect her?
"I tried to explain it to Carlos, but he doesn't quite get it." Shamara shocked him by picking up a nearly empty toilet paper tube from her desk. Apparently she'd been out of tissues and had grabbed a roll to help with her allergies. "Would you mind demonstrating?"
Abby's face reddened, but she glanced around, then placed her finger in the center. "It's all about stoking the fire, moving and feeling," she said softly. "We also use the withdraw and retreat technique when we're dating. It's that push-pull: you start to get a little close; then you back off. Call it foreplay for the next stage. People use the same technique with their tongues when they kiss."
"I see," Shamara cooed.
"You may be frantic for fulfillment," Abby continued in a silky whisper, "and sometimes it's okay to go ahead and grab a quickie for release. But it's much more erotic to go fast, then pull back slowly and change your rhythm. It's that game of tease and torture."
"Tease and torture," Shamara mimicked. "Ooh, I like that."
"If he's on top, he can move slowly around in circular motions, then penetrate you deeply and withdraw gradually. If you're on top, move yourself slowly round and round, then lift off of him and impale him deliberately. Close your eyes and feel him deep inside you, penetrating you, filling you until you can't breathe, you're so full of him."
Hunter felt himself grow aroused by her husky voice. Excitement bordering on pain held him a prisoner as erotic sensations built.
Shamara circled the desk and bumped her chair, which sent it rolling over one of his hands. He bit his cheek to keep from screaming in pain and tried to move his finger, but the roller held it hostage.
"I think I've got it." Shamara leaned against the chair, digging the metal feet harder into his fingers. "Thanks, Dr. Jensen. It's all clear in my head now."
Abby tossed the toilet paper tube on the cherry desktop, tucked the dog back under her arm, and hugged Shamara. Her movement hit the chair again and it rolled off him, releasing his hand. He pressed his fist to his mouth to keep from gasping in relief.
"And don't you worry about that Hunter Stone, Dr. Jensen," Shamara said with a laugh. "He doesn't know what he's talking about anyway." She made a tsking sound. "No wonder he's divorced; the man probably doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."
Hunter snarled silently as humiliation stung him. Shelly had made the same comment.
But it wasn't true—was it?
"I guess you're right," Abby said. "Thanks, Shamara."
"Anytime. I'll be looking for a sequel to your book."
Abby said good-bye, and Hunter watched her shoes disappear from the front of the desk, then heard them clicking on the floor as she hurried to the elevator.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hunter?"
He winced and glanced up at Shamara's curious face peering down at him. On top of his mental and physical injuries, now he had to face the wrath of Shamara.
Chapter 16
The Long-term Lover
"Listen, Bobby," Hunter said. "I'd appreciate anything you can find out about this guy Lenny Gulliver."
Bobby, a rookie cop he'd met when he'd written a story on careers for a special kids' segment, threw back his beer mug and took a hefty swig, studying Hunter. "What's he to you?"
"Nothing, really. Just research for a story."
Bobby cracked a peanut shell with his teeth, sucked out the peanut, and tossed the shell onto the floor. "Something personal?"
Hunter shifted, drumming his fingers on the table. "No. He was married to one of the women I'm investigating for an article."
"Investigating women—sounds like reporting is right up your alley, bud."
Hunter sipped his beer, remembering his hot reaction to Abby's voice when he'd been hiding under the receptionist's desk. Disgusting. She certainly hadn't been talking to him or trying to seduce him. She hadn't even known he was there.
"Gulliver's got an alias: Larry Lombardi. Went to UCLA, but he got kicked out. A couple of arrests, but they've been polished over."
Bobby arched a brow. "Is this a criminal story you're working on?"
"Could be tied to one. I think he ran off on his wife and robbed her blind. Not sure what else he's involved in, but I want the scoop. I'll owe you one."
"All right." Bobby swallowed some more beer, then backhanded his mouth to wipe off the foam. "Just remember me if you stumble on something in the alley while you're looking."
Hunter nodded. This guy probably wanted to make detective. "You know Mo Jo Brown?"
"Hell, everyone knows that creep."
"He's snooping around looking for the man, too. Seems Gulliver owes his boss Eddy Vinelli some money."
Bobby rocked his chair back on two legs. "Well, now you've really got my interest."
Hunter had known the mention of Brown would do it. "Good, I want to find Gulliver before he does."
Bobby glanced around the bar. The happy-hour crowd started to arrive with a riot of noise. A group of ladies who obviously worked out at the gym next door threaded in, dropping workout bags on the floor. A trio from the nail salon followed, flipping their hair and giggling as they ordered martinis. "Deal. Now, here's to bachelor life."
Hunter laughed and toasted, although his heart wasn't in it.
Once upon a time it had been, though. But now...
Now his heart lay in being a father to Lizzie.
The clock on the bare wood wall behind the bar struck five, and he tossed a few bills on the scarred wood counter. It was time to turn himself into Harry Henderson for the night—and probe further into Abby's secrets.
* * *
Abby ignored her attraction toward Harry when he arrived. For now, the only man in her life was going to be the four-legged kind. Her dog couldn't deceive her, run off with her money, or cheat on her. And if he was gay, it didn't matter.
She realized she was being cynical, suffering through the stages of anger and rejection that she had counseled so many scorned lovers through, but she couldn't control her reaction or her feelings.
This, too, would pass.
She counseled her clients to let the feelings come, to work through them, then to move on. She simply wasn't ready to move on yet.
"Dr. Jensen, the radio show will be live," the deejay explained. "It's a question-and-answer session. You two have a few minutes to talk until then."
Abby nodded. Great, she had private time with Harry. She could torture herself by looking at a sexy man she couldn't have.
Harry took his place beside her. "Hi, how was your day?"
Abby frowned. He sounded like a husband. "Rotten. My new puppy peed in my bed, this moron reporter named Stone wrote another slanderous article about me in the morning paper, and my credit car
ds are maxed because someone borrowed them and decided to treat themselves."
She had no idea why she'd unloaded all that baggage, except that she needed to vent, and Harry Henderson already knew she was lying and was sworn to secrecy, and his husbandly tone had reminded her that she had no husband.
"I'm sorry, Abby."
His quiet apology surprised her. And so did the odd expression on his face. He looked uncomfortable, as if he'd swallowed the proverbial canary and was about to sing.
Heck, she was hallucinating. There was no reason this man would care so much. He was acting, for crying out loud.
"You know, it wouldn't hurt so much," she said, needing to vent some more, "if the article were true. But I have to believe my therapy helps people or I wouldn't continue my work. I can't imagine this Stone guy believing that I actually break up marriages." She hesitated, her breathing quick. "My book, my advice, my therapy, I don't make or break marriages, Harry. Only the people involved can do that."
Harry stared at her long and hard, an intensity in his eyes that she would never have imagined. Maybe she was thinking in clichés, not being fair. He seemed to actually be studying her, looking to see inside her.
She had exposed too much.
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the deejay waved that they were ready to start. Abby clamped her mouth shut. She'd been ready to spill everything. Why, she didn't know, except that for a moment she'd felt some sort of deep soul connection with Harry.
God, she was losing it.
The producer walked toward them.
No time now, Abby thought. Besides, what was she thinking? What did she really know about Harry Henderson except that he was an actor? An actor who was virtually a stranger. He could very well run off and sell her story to the tabloids. That would be even worse than that Neanderthal Stone getting wind of it.
"Ready?" the producer asked.
Abby nodded. No, she wasn't. But she hadn't been ready for any of this other stuff either. She would just have to deal with her problems alone.
"If this goes well, Dr. Jensen," the producer said, "we're hoping to turn this hour into a daily talk show."