Looking for Love (Boxed set)

by Rita Herron

  Moments later she stood in the hall outside Victoria's office, her stomach already flip-flopping back and forth, that little demon of insecurity that dogged her whenever she was in Victoria's presence whispering all kinds of nasty things in her ear. Like the fact that she shouldn't have worn the bumblebee costume. But she'd had little choice. She was on break from her commercial shoot and hadn't had time to change in and out of her costume, and still make it to Victoria's office and back in an hour.

  She hugged her jacket around her, hoping to conceal most of the costume. To heck with what Victoria thought about her outfit anyway; this talk was not about her; it was about Abby. Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she tapped on the door to Victoria's office and pasted on her sugary smile. Victoria had to agree to her plan.

  And if not, well, she'd do something on her own—whatever it took to help Abby.

  * * *

  Abby stared through the double glass doors, her hand trembling. Although at least a hundred people stood in line waiting to purchase her book, she had never felt more alone.

  She also felt like a fraud.

  What if someone had discovered the truth and revealed it any second? Like that nasty reporter Hunter Stone. Maybe in a few days or weeks when the pain wasn't quite so sharp, she could confess.

  "It looks like we have a good turnout." The bookseller, a tall, attractive redhead named Katrina Blake, gestured toward the people waiting outside. "We'll probably sell all the books here and take orders for more. Can I get you anything before we start, Dr. Jensen?"

  Thank heavens she'd used her maiden name on her book.

  "A glass of water would be great." Abby fanned herself. Although a double scotch would be nice. The mall air conditioner must be on the blink just like half the units in the town. If she'd worn panty hose, they'd be melted to her legs like plastic wrap.

  The bookseller set a cup of water on the table, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she headed to greet the eager customers. As soon as the glass doors slid open, the crowd rushed in, and Katrina ushered them into a line, having roped off the area into lanes in advance.

  Excited chatter and laughter mixed with the soft piped-in music from the store. Men and women of all ages, sizes, and nationalities waited eagerly for an autographed copy.

  Abby's hand trembled as she signed the first book. One person at a time, she told herself. She could do this.

  "I'm so excited to meet you, Dr. Jensen," a young woman holding a baby on her hip approached. "I'm Tammy."

  "Nice to meet you, Tammy." Abby jiggled the child's chubby hand. "What an adorable little girl. What's her name?"

  "Lisa Sue. Her daddy and I think she's pretty cute, too." Tammy nuzzled her daughter's fuzzy head to her own cheek and Abby's heart squeezed. She had wanted a baby, had planned to talk to Lenny about it soon....

  "Dr. Jensen, I need to ask you something. Randy and I are doing okay, marriage-wise, but nursing takes a lot out of me, and I've been tired and Randy's a morning person, if you know what I mean, and I'm not. I need my coffee in an IV, especially after being up all night with the baby. I just fall back into bed smelling like sour milk and can't get in the mood. And we never go out anymore. Do you have any advice?"

  Abby scribbled a note in the book. As much as she might like to, she couldn't give individual counseling sessions today or they'd never finish. Maybe she should pass out business cards, offer a free session with every book.

  No, she was here only to sign enough books to please her publicist. Besides, she had her hands full now with everything else. She couldn't possibly take on more clients.

  "You might try a baby-sitter," Abby suggested. "Plan a date night once a week. When the baby gets used to that, take a romantic weekend together—just you and your husband."

  The woman brightened and thanked her. A tall, broad-shouldered woman wearing a floppy hat and bright orange sunglasses towered over several people in line, scrutinizing Abby. She shifted, uncomfortable with the woman's pointed stare, and she couldn't help but notice the lady's broad hands. She also had the hairiest arms Abby had ever seen on a female. She squinted to see more clearly—the woman's jaw was broad and covered in stubble.

  Good grief, the woman in the flowery dress was a man.

  A cross-dresser—or a transvestite?

  She bit her lip not to laugh, then ducked her head, blinking to focus on her handwriting, but her right contact lens slipped, irritating her eyelid. Acting on instinct, she rubbed her eye. It was the wrong thing to do. The contact flipped out and the room blurred in front of her. She scanned the table, patting the books and her lap, her legs, her chest, but didn't see the darn thing anywhere.

  An elderly woman leaning on a cane grunted as if her legs were about to give way. Abby blinked and tried to focus, hurriedly sweeping her hands over the books one more time, even leaning close to the surface to inspect them for the contact, but the table wobbled, and she realized the woman had clutched it for balance. Poor thing.

  To make matters worse, a baby in the back started crying, and two people complained that they had appointments to make. Refusing to cause a scene and have everyone search for the lost lens, Abby decided to plow through the signing without it. The idea of holding up the line any longer than necessary was too horrible to contemplate. She'd just have to deal with blinking and squinting through the rest of this publicity nightmare.

  After the spindly little lady wobbled off with her copy in hand, a divorced military woman in her sixties enlightened her on the singles club she'd joined and some man with a bulldozer tattooed on his arm who had swept her off her feet. The eighty-year-old man behind her had just gotten married for the sixth time and wanted this marriage to last longer than the others.

  A grungy man with a beer belly stepped forward and wagged a finger in her face. "My wife read this and now she says I'm not a good lover—"

  Abby drew back, stunned at the man's vehemence.

  "She was always satisfied before, lady." The robust man slammed his fist on the table, rocking the stack of books. "You have to talk to her."

  The bookseller approached and spoke in a hushed voice to the man.

  "I'm sorry you're having problems, sir," Abby said calmly, although his tone frightened her and added to the headache forming behind her eyes from not being able to see.

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "I think you'd better leave, mister."

  The cross-dresser stepped forward, took the man's beefy arm, and hauled him away. Abby reminded herself to check the parking lot before she went to her car.

  Seconds later, the cross-dresser came back inside, broad shoulders stretching the flowery dress, feet thudding loudly as he/she stalked back to join the line. Abby's right eye twitched as she tried to distinguish his/her face.

  * * *

  Abby Jensen had been flirting with him—rather, with his female counterpart—Hunter realized as he returned from carting off the obnoxious redneck. She'd been winking and blinking and giving him that slit-eyed look she talked about in her book. What did she title it—the lusty look?

  Was she a lesbian?

  Could that be the secret Abby Jensen was hiding?

  Whew-eeee, what a story that would make.

  Or maybe she liked to ride both sides of the sexual seesaw. Well, he would not fall for the lusty look.

  He had a job to do and he'd do it. Landing bigger assignments might make the difference in his getting more time off to spend with Lizzie. Frustrated memories of their last hasty good-bye pushed to the forefront of his mind.

  When he'd dropped Lizzie off after dinner the day before, Shelly had announced that she and Daryl planned to take Lizzie to Bermuda for two weeks in the winter. With his ex-wife's money and the shrink's, they'd be bribing the child with their gifts and trips and he'd never see her.

  He couldn't let that happen.

  Scattered applause brought him back to the present. The bookseller came over to shake his hand and thank him. Abby Jensen
winked at him again, beaming an appreciative smile as bright and warm as the summer sunshine. Damn. The last thing he'd needed was to bring more attention to himself while incognito. Besides, if her fans knew he'd come here in disguise to desecrate their female icon, they wouldn't be clapping or thanking him.

  The crowd parted, allowing him to move forward to her table. This was his opening.

  "Thank you for getting rid of that man," Dr. Jensen said.

  Something hot and surprising flamed inside him at the sound of her husky voice, but he banished the heat and thrust his copy of Under the Covers toward her. For the briefest of moments their fingers touched, an electrical charge zipping through Hunter that sent a shudder coursing through him. What the hell...?

  Fighting the sudden chemistry, he cleared his throat and raised his voice in his best imitation of a feminine pitch. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Jensen."

  "You, too." She winked again and his libido stirred to life, strong and steady.

  He forced himself to ignore the traitorous beast. Mousy, brown-haired Abby Jensen was not even his type.

  Except she wasn't mousy, brown, or plain. The candy apple-red suit she wore dipped low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, not the schoolmarm outfit he'd expected, and the color contrasted well with her dark hair and those vibrant dark eyes....

  The lady beside him coughed into her hand and glared at him, and he remembered he was supposed to be acting like a woman, not ogling or flirting with the doctor.

  Another wink; then she narrowed her eyes. He was thankful the sunglasses hid the heat simmering in his own. "Who do I sign it to, Ms....?"

  He was contemplating a fake name when a commotion erupted behind them. Two men, a woman in a yellow suit, and a young, skinny guy wielding a camera on his shoulder strode in, scanning the crowd and pointing. "There she is, fellows."

  Three or four others followed. The press.

  "Start rolling," a seedy-looking guy all in black ordered.

  Panic flitted onto Abby Jensen's face the moment the camera zoomed in on her.

  Protective instincts arose, along with Hunter's curiosity. Just why was Dr. Jensen so nervous?

  * * *

  Victoria Jensen gave her client, Marcus Baldwin, an encouraging smile. Normally she tended to lobby on the side of the female in custody issues, but she wasn't stupid. This man had been unjustifiably hurt and deprived of seeing his children by a vindictive, conniving, spiteful woman who did not have a heart. The poor man had been shuffled from one lawyer to the next to no avail and had actually been arrested for knocking on the door to see his children. His story was heart-wrenching, his love for and devotion to his children obvious.

  If only her own father had loved her and their sisters half as much.

  "I promise I'll do whatever it takes to get your boys back."

  He stood, shoulders rigid, his heartache in his eyes.

  "Thank you, Ms. Jensen. I appreciate this."

  She rose to escort him out, promising to start action immediately, when the door swung open and Chelsea waved.

  "Oh, hi, sorry. I didn't realize you had a client."

  Her secretary must be at lunch.

  Mr. Baldwin smiled gravely and headed to the door, the weight of his pain obvious in his slow gait. As soon as he left the outer office, she turned to her sister.

  "What is it, Chelsea?"

  Her sister launched forward, her jacket flapping open to reveal a yellow-and-black bumblebee outfit. Victoria rolled her eyes, wondering what Chelsea had up her sleeve—well, her costume—this time.

  Chelsea leaned against Victoria's desk, a mass of bobbing insect. "I'm worried about Abby."

  Victoria's heart skipped a beat. "What's wrong with Abby? Is she sick?"

  "Not exactly, although I thought she was going to pass out at Egor's today."

  "Egor's? Who is Egor, and why did Abby almost pass out?"

  "It's a long story."

  It usually was with Chelsea. "Maybe I'd better sit down."

  "Maybe you could pour us a drink."

  "Chelsea, it's too early for alcohol. Besides, I have to meet another client later."

  Chelsea winced and Victoria realized she'd sounded like a prude. "Okay, okay. I was only joking about the drinks."

  Victoria frowned at her sister, Marcus Baldwin's case fresh on her mind. "Listen, if you're in trouble and need something—"

  "No, no, it's not me. Not this time." Chelsea chewed on her lip. "It's Abby."

  "What about Abby?"

  "She didn't want you to know...."

  "Know what, Chelsea? For heaven's sake, if this is some of your dramatics—"

  "It's not." Chelsea swallowed. "Lenny sent her a Dear John letter and left her for a man."

  Victoria fell back into her chair as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her. "What?"

  Chelsea spent the next ten minutes detailing the letter and the story about the fraudulent marriage.

  Victoria pressed her fingers to her head, a migraine beginning to shoot pinpoints of pain behind her eyes. "Dear God, we have to do something."

  Chelsea grinned. "My thoughts exactly. For once, sis, we agree on something."

  Now, that was a scary thought. "What do you have in mind?" Victoria asked suspiciously.

  "You tell me your plan first."

  A diversionary tactic if she'd ever heard one. But she'd play along. Only, she had to think for a minute. "Well, I suppose I could see what I could find out about Lenny. I do have a friend on the police force." At least there was one guy who'd been asking her out. Mostly she had avoided his calls.

  Normally, her life revolved around work, twenty-four-seven. In fact, nothing but the call of sisterhood could tear her away from her job.

  "That's a great idea. I knew you'd help, Victoria."

  Victoria folded her arms. "Now, what do you have in mind?"

  Chelsea pushed herself away from the desk and practically flew across the room. "Well, first I have to finish my shoot; then I'm going to check out the gay bars."

  * * *

  Abby's hand cramped, her eyes were bleary, and a headache had started pulsing at the base of her neck. Forget vanity—she should have worn her glasses. At least then she would have been able to find the nearest escape without blinking every two seconds.

  Her deodorant had probably worn off as well. And now a man dressed like a woman was staring at her as if he/she might be interested in her sexually. But she didn't have time to deal with the cross-dresser—she had to face the nosy reporters rushing toward her. She squinted again, wondering if that obnoxious Hunter Stone lurked in the group.

  Keep calm. Don't act suspicious. And for God's sake, don't hyperventilate again.

  She braced herself for the onslaught of questions. In a few minutes she'd be home, away from the hoopla, and in a few weeks the publicity would die down and her life would return to normal. A sexy man would never get the best of her again. Of course, first she had to fend off the reporters.

  And keep her failed marriage a secret.

  * * *

  Hunter's investigative instincts roared to life. Abby clutched the table as if she might jump up and flee the scene any second.

  Why would she panic? She was an instant success, her book the talk of the town, her career on a roll. Why wouldn't she welcome publicity?

  "Just sign it generically," he told her when she winked at him again.

  Her fingers trembled as she scribbled her name; the smile she aimed at the camera looked forced.

  He grabbed his book, moved into the thick of the group, and watched her sweat.

  Suddenly all half dozen or so of the reporters fired questions at her at once. Abby's breath seemed to hitch in her throat as she quickly signed the last of the customers' books.

  Avoiding the camera, Hunter ducked into a nearby aisle, grabbed a book off the shelf, and stuck his face in it. He had to devise a plan to get her alone and get an exclusive.

  A lanky man in a suit flashed his press
badge, indicating he worked for one of Atlanta's local magazines. "Where did you come up with the idea for your book?"

  "How do you research all your chapters?" another reporter asked.

  "You're a newlywed yourself, aren't you?"

  "Does your husband get involved in your research?"

  "What is your secret fantasy, Dr. Jensen?"

  "I..." She squirmed in her seat, dark eyes flitting toward the nearest exit. "I'm not here to discuss my personal life."

  A short, dark-haired woman jammed a microphone toward her. "But you have to give us something."

  "We're just doing our jobs," another whined.

  "And you are the news, Dr. Jensen."

  "All right, let me make a few comments." Composing herself, she folded her hands on the empty table. Hunter leaned against one of the displays and studied her in detail for the first time, deciding to hold off on his own questions until he observed her actions. She wasn't the self-assured, in-control woman who'd refused him so baldly when he'd phoned for an interview.

  This woman seemed vulnerable. Nervous.

  Almost like the little girl in the photo he'd found in her file.

  And despite the fact that he usually preferred blondes and redheads, he had to admit she was attractive. Definitely not the bitter, wrinkly, middle-aged woman he'd hoped she'd be.

  Wavy hair so dark it looked like midnight framed her heart-shaped face. She'd swept it off her shoulders into some fancy twist, but ringlets escaped and spiraled around her high cheekbones. He'd expected her pale skin to look sickly, but the porcelain white gave her an exotic look. Her lips were full and pouty, painted a delicious dark red that matched her suit. Long, slender hands curled around her book cover, reminding him of the chapters he'd read last night. And her voice rippled out, so deep and husky it made his body thrum with desire... the seductive whisper of a vamp. She'd probably perfected it.

  He shifted, irritated with himself again for succumbing to her female charm.

  "I wrote Under the Covers because I wanted to help relationships in distress. I've been counseling numerous couples for the past few years and have noticed similar patterns, which are common problem areas, lack of communication being one of the prime ones."