by Rita Herron
Abby nodded and mentally took notes; then a dark-haired man in the back row caught her attention. "I want my woman to take control, put me in handcuffs."
"I just want to please my wife," Harry said. "Giving her pleasure is a turn-on to me."
But Abby didn't respond because she couldn't drag her gaze from the man in the back row. He was wearing a Dodgers baseball cap, a black jacket, a cream colored polo shirt, and khakis.
And he looked exactly like her real husband, or rather, the man she thought she had married—Lenny Gulliver.
Chapter 22
Menage a trios
Hunter had no idea what had upset Abby, but during the last five minutes of the show, her porcelain complexion had turned completely ashen. She had stared out into the blinding sea of lights and the enthusiastic crowd, and fixated on one point. And she'd never completely regained her composure.
Or had she fixated on one person? A man?
Jealousy snaked inside him like a slithering, poisonous reptile.
He had no right to be jealous of Abby.
Regardless, now that the show had ended, he had to force himself to focus on the host as he jabbered on and on about women, his own fantasies, and how his partner had misunderstood when he'd asked her to play sex games. How did Abby tolerate listening to people whine about their problems all day? She must be a saint.
He shifted, shoved his hands into his pockets, and reminded himself he was an actor, so he had to act interested—when he really wanted nothing more than to drag Abby outside and force her to tell him what had upset her.
But she'd disappeared offstage, and it was killing him not knowing where she'd gone.
"You're so lucky, man, to have a woman who will give in to your whims," one of the stagehands said. "Tell me the darkest fantasy you and your wife have acted out."
What was this guy, some kind of pervert? Did he think their entire marriage consisted of nothing but wild sex?
Hunter froze as the realization that he'd been thinking of his and Abby's marriage as real hit him. "A gentleman never tells," he said quietly, looking the man in the eye. "And besides, if I told you, it wouldn't be a private fantasy anymore. That's what makes fantasies exciting, isn't it? The secrecy?"
He didn't bother to wait for a reply. He hurried backstage to find Abby.
* * *
"I can't believe you're actually here." Abby stared in shock at her former husband, or the man she'd thought had been her husband, as he ducked into an unoccupied room in the back of the studio.
"You look great, Abby. I loved the show." Lenny rubbed his finger along his upper lip where his mustache used to be. The clean-shaven lip wasn't the only thing about him that had changed. He'd died his hair strawberry blond, wore green contact lenses, and must be wearing lifts in his shoes, because he was at least two inches taller than she remembered.
But his smile still radiated false charm, smooth as honey and sickeningly sweet.
And now, behind the charm, she saw the con man, the evil that he'd disguised so well. Why hadn't she seen it before?
Because she wore rose-tinted glasses. She was trusting and caring; she always looked for the good in people, not the bad. She had to wake up and not be so naive....
Folding her arms across her chest, she ignored the fresh wave of pain assaulting her. "What do you want, Lenny?"
"What? No kiss for your husband?"
She glared at him. "We're not married, remember? So technically you aren't my husband or anything else." Except a living nightmare.
Lenny's shifty eyes traveled over her body from head to toe. "I heard you doing the actor guy before the show."
She wanted to kill him.
"I have to say I'm surprised, Ab. I didn't know you had it in you."
"To have sex with another man, or to get over you so quickly?"
He made a clicking sound with his teeth. "Both. And that guy... you really think he looks like me?"
"No, he's much more handsome."
That wiped the smug smile off his face.
"You changed your appearance."
His finger rubbed his bare lip again. "Yeah, well, that had to be done."
"So the police wouldn't find you." Abby sighed, her irritation mounting. "Aren't you afraid they'll look for you here, Lenny? Are you sure they're not watching me, waiting for you to contact me?"
He shrugged, drawing the black sport coat up his narrow waist. "I figure if you'd ratted on me, I'd have seen it in the papers. Instead, I've been reading how well your book's doing."
A bad premonition engulfed Abby.
"I bet you're pulling in a nice hunk of change."
The feeling grew stronger. "Is that why you're here? You expect me to give you money? Didn't you steal enough from me and those people you and Tony Milano scammed?"
"A guy can always use more cash," Lenny said. "Or I could walk out there and introduce myself to the host of the show. I'm sure he wouldn't mind doing a follow-up episode with your real husband."
Except we're not married. Abby's temper flared. "And risk getting caught? I doubt you'll do that, Lenny."
Lenny threw his head back and laughed—a dirty laugh that crawled up Abby's spine like spiders in the dark. "Oh, Abby, you underestimate me."
The spiders picked at the back of her neck.
"I don't plan to expose myself." He held up an envelope and pulled out a photograph. "But I have a feeling everyone would be interested in these."
Abby legs wobbled as she realized what he held in his hand: the nude photos he'd taken of her on their honeymoon.
* * *
Hunter scoured the entire back area of the studio, the green room, and the curtained area where he and Abby had enjoyed their little romp earlier, but couldn't find Abby.
"Have you seen Dr. Jensen?" he asked the makeup artist.
"No. Maybe she's playing hide-and-seek with you."
Hunter mentally groaned and strode back down the hall to check the vacant studio rooms; then he saw Abby emerge from the back, a stricken look on her face. The overhead light caught her expression as she pivoted to say good-bye to the man she'd obviously been hiding out with, and he saw fury etched on her face as well as shock.
Relief that she hadn't been kidnapped by some maniac ballooned in his chest.
The man bent to kiss her cheek, and Abby stepped backward, her gaze lethal.
What the hell was going on?
Was the man a cop looking for her husband? Another tabloid reporter or PI?
No, a cop or reporter or PI wouldn't try to kiss her. Could it possibly be her husband? Had the real Lenny Gulliver resurfaced? And if so, what did he want?
Realizing Abby wouldn't appreciate his spying on her, he ducked back down the hall and into the green room to wait for her. The clicking of her shoes told him when she approached. A few seconds later she entered, her arms tight by her sides, her expression blank.
"I need to do some errands this afternoon," she said in a barely controlled voice. "You take the limo and I'll grab a cab."
He moved forward, worry pressing like a brick on his chest. "I'll go with you."
"No."
Hunter recognized the finality of her answer in her tone, and her panic-stricken look alarmed him. "What's wrong, Abby?"
He tried to take her hands in his, but she squared her shoulders and pulled away. "Nothing. I just have some things to do. And I need to do them alone."
He didn't like it one damn bit, but he nodded. "All right. I'll take the cab."
She barely spared him a glance as she headed toward the exit. "Just keep the receipt and we'll reimburse you when you're paid at the end of the week."
And just like that, she'd demoted him from the man who'd given her a behind-the-scenes orgasm to the hired help.
Because she was going to meet her real husband?
* * *
While the driver circled the interstate, Abby vented her fury on her fingernails, nearly ripping them to the quick. Unfortunately now she
was getting carsick.
She'd thought Lenny couldn't get any lower on the food chain, but he had slunk down to the lowest form of life. A rat. No, a mole. No, a boll weevil.
Hell, she didn't technically know what the lowest form of life was, but she had a new name for it.
Lenny Gulliver.
The rat fink wanted money for the pictures. Money to keep his silence, to keep them from the tabloids and the television shows and her family. And the Internet.
That had been the clincher.
She didn't much care what her father thought, and her mother would probably just laugh about the pictures, but Granny Pearl... granted, her grandmother was a modern granny, but seeing erotic photos of her granddaughter plastered all over the tabloids and Internet might even push her limits. And what about her clients? And her sisters? Chelsea would weather it all right, but Victoria would be humiliated in front of her coworkers. She'd already worked hard enough to overcome the stigma of their father; she didn't deserve any more strife.
Harry's concerned face flashed into her mind, and she fisted her hands. What would Harry think? He was a father, for heaven's sake. And God forbid his little girl saw the pictures.
She buried her head in her hands. What was she going to do?
She hit the button and rolled down her window, inhaling the fresh air, although heat seared her face. Not knowing what to do, she phoned Victoria.
"Steedleman, Warscheiner, and Boles," the receptionist chirped. "How can I help you?"
"May I speak to Victoria Jensen?"
"I don't think she's taking calls right now. She's in a meeting."
Damn. "Tell her it's her sister, Abby, that it's an emergency."
"Well," the woman said in a nasally voice, "all right."
Seconds later her sister's voice echoed over the line. "Abby, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Is it Chelsea?"
"No, no, I'm sorry, it's nothing like that."
"Then what is it? I'm in the middle of a meeting—"
"It's Lenny. He's here."
"What?"
Tears flooded Abby's eyes. "I'm sorry, I'll call—"
"No, wait." Victoria's voice softened. "Just give me a minute, okay? I have to give my client some good news. Now don't hang up."
"I won't." In spite of her strong resolve, Abby felt the emotional strain wear on her, and the tears began to fall. Her hands jerked around the phone.
A minute later, Victoria returned.
Abby had tried to collect herself. "I'm glad someone got good news."
"Yes, I told you I had a father who was being denied his rights."
"That man Marcus, the one who called me for counseling recommendations?"
"Yes, well, his ex is in jail for contempt of court and he finally got to see his kids." She paused. "Now, where is that cockroach, Gulliver?"
"He's... here."
"Tell me where you are, Abby."
"In New York, the TV station." She sniffed, feeling miserable. "He showed up in the audience."
"That asshole's got some nerve," Victoria said angrily. "You should sic the police on him."
"I know. I'm going to tell them he's back in the States, but there's something I have to do first."
"I hope it involves maiming certain body parts."
A laugh escaped between her sobs. "Victoria, he has these pictures of me. Nude pictures he took on our honeymoon. I don't know why I let him—"
"You don't have to explain or justify letting a man you thought was your husband photograph you, Abby," Victoria said softly. "I'm not as big a prude as you think."
Abby exhaled, trying to control her tears. "But he's going to give them to the tabloids. And Gran and Chelsea, and Harry and Lizzie—"
"Who's Lizzie?"
"Harry's little girl." An ache clutched at her chest. "She's only five and I don't want her to think I'm a hussy."
Victoria chuckled. "You're not a hussy, sis. But why is she so important?"
"Because she's Harry's little girl."
"Isn't Harry that actor who's playing Lenny?"
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, mercy," Victoria said. "Are you involved with him?"
Victoria obviously hadn't seen the interview yet. "That's not important. Can you go with me to withdraw the money to buy the pictures from Lenny? I could use some moral support."
"You're not actually going to pay him, are you?"
Mortification swept over Abby at the alternative. "I have to. But just as soon as I get my hands on the negatives, I'll turn him over to the cops."
"Just let me know when you're ready, sis. I have a friend; he'll help us."
"Suarez, that cute Latino guy?"
"Yes," Victoria said, her voice carrying an odd ring to it.
"Is there something going on between you two?"
Her sister's silence said it all. Thank God one of the Jensen sisters had a decent romance on the horizon.
She hung up, her mind a jumbled mess. To hell with the charade and the book. She had let Lenny screw her once.
She didn't intend to let him do it again.
* * *
Abby might want time alone, but something was wrong and Hunter couldn't ignore the situation. The redheaded man who had upset Abby sat in a rental car outside the station, so he stripped off his mustache and fake hair and followed him to a local bar. The Flamingo Club had been decorated for its namesake with pink flamingo birds painted on the walls, island greenery motifs decorating the tables, and hot-pink strobe lights flickering around the room in a dizzying motion. Heavy perfumes and colognes mingled with the scents of sweat, cigarette smoke, and liquor.
The place was a living sea of colors, nationalities, and ages sporting a dance floor that showcased strippers, both male and female. And a small group of patrons dressed oddly, as if they might be gender-confused. He wove his way through the smoky den, careful to keep his distance, and ordered a beer. The man stopped at a booth in the corner, embraced a dark-haired man, then scooted in beside him. A tall woman with executive written all over her followed him into the curve of the booth.
Hunter's eyebrows rose. The redheaded man obviously wasn't a cop. And he didn't carry himself like any reporters Hunter knew, that was, unless he wrote for the society column, or the gay-liberation section.
The three looked awfully chummy. Had they met for a ménage a trois? And if so, how were they connected to Abby?
Former patients? Reporters?
He remembered her talk about women fantasizing about group sex. Surely Abby wasn't into a threesome? Or could she have been in the past?
Heads bowed and bodies huddled together as the trio whispered back and forth and sipped frozen drinks. He meandered through the crowd to reach a spot where he could unobtrusively listen to their hushed conversation.
"So you were married to Abby Jensen?" he heard the woman say in a thick Southern accent.
"That's right. I'm the real Lenny Gulliver. That guy onstage with her is just playing the part."
Hunter fisted his hands by his side. So this was the man who'd hurt Abby.
Only the man failed to confess to his friends that he'd run out on her.
The music piped up a notch, drowning out their voices, and Hunter swore. Just what was the man up to? And what had he said to Abby to upset her so badly? Surely she wasn't still in love with the creep, was she?
The three moved to the dance floor together and began gyrating in a triangle of arms and legs and erotic movements. He had seen enough.
He only had more questions. Maybe it was time he confronted Abby.
He grabbed a taxi back to the hotel, his mind humming with questions, his heart drumming with fear and hope. The elevator took forever, and he sucked in a deep breath as he approached the suite. His heart pounding double time, he raised his fist and knocked on the door.
Maybe if he offered her a comforting ear, she would open up and talk to him. Then all their secrets could be revealed and they could start over and really get to know each other.
"He did what? He's where?" Chelsea leaned forward in the mirror and plucked her eyebrows, one ear glued to the phone.
"Lenny showed up in New York and tried to blackmail Abby," Victoria said on the other end of the line.
"Oh, my God, I can't believe this is happening."
"I know. I hope the police catch him and he rots in jail."
"Is Abby going to pay him for the pictures?"
"Yes, just to get them back. Then she's turning him in."
"Good. What can I do?"
"Nothing except be there for Abby. She's going to need our support when all of this comes out."
Chelsea agreed and hung up, but studied her face in the mirror. She had to do more than offer her support. Not only had Abby always been there for her; she'd loaned her money over the years and never once asked for payment. And after that little episode with the police, Victoria really saw her as a screwup.
Abby would probably be broke after paying Lenny off. It was time for Chelsea to pay her sister back. Only, after buying those gold lame pants she was strapped for cash. She took the card that the man had given her at Pete's Prism from her purse. She had called once to check it out and discovered she could make a bundle if she worked just one night. They were always looking for fill-in dancers. And she was an actress; she would have to do nude scenes sooner or later. She might as well practice.
She shuffled through her costumes, grabbed a stack of clothing, and stuffed it into her bag. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she drove to the Blackhorse Club. A few minutes later, Enrique, the manager, had set her up for a show; she'd go on after the Angel of Darkness, a sultry, dark-haired vixen dressed in silver. In one of the dressing rooms she found a fabulous Lady Godiva outfit and shimmied into it. It was much better than any of the outfits she had brought. The long wig reached to midcalf—perfect. When she stripped, if she draped the hair in all the right places, it would hide most of her private parts and still tease the crowd.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she listened to the calls and whistles of the packed bar as they reacted to the Angel. She peeked through the curtain and watched the exotic dancer tear off her angel wings and hurl them into the crowd. Men cheered and tossed money at her left and right. The lights dimmed, the dark room filled with the scent of cigarette smoke, liquor, and a hazy sensuality. The Angel climbed the pole, flung her head back, and dropped her silver string top, big breasts bouncing. The men roared their approval and threw more bills at her. She strutted across the stage and stripped to a thong, and the crowd went wild. A puff of smoke enveloped her, then faded to reveal her standing with her arms held out in supplication.