by Rita Herron
Harry's head came up and he studied her again with that long, steady, intensely unsettling look. That look that reached deep into her soul and ripped apart the protective walls she was trying to erect.
Abby jerked her gaze away, afraid he would see the need and desire in her eyes. She couldn't get involved, even remotely, with another man. Not now. Her pain was too new. Too raw. Too fresh.
But Harry didn't seem to hear her silent battle. He brushed her chin up with the pad of his thumb, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her. Not the passionate I have-to-have-you kind or the earth-shattering I-love-you kind.
The much gentler kind that said, I really like you and I want to get to know you better. The kind that said he wanted more than a one-night stand, that he might become a long-term lover.
The kind that was much more intimate and scary.
Chapter 17
The Masterful Massage
Hunter deepened the kiss, sinking his entire body into it as he tasted the sweetness of Abby's mouth. The little hitch in her breath when she'd realized his intention had drummed up more sexual energy inside him than the best issue of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. She tasted both innocent and sultry, an odd combination that stirred protective feelings and made his adrenaline pump fast and hard.
Something was happening to him. Changing.
He was growing hard all over. But soft inside.
Losing his objectivity.
Her hands framed his face as his tongue absorbed the honeyed passion of her kiss. He had to pull away or he wouldn't be able to stop. Because he wanted to make every one of her senses come alive. To touch her without clothes, with no barriers between them.
But there were so many lies.
His. Hers.
His chest aching with the effort, he slowly ended the kiss and dropped his forehead against hers, giving them both time to steady their breathing and thoughts.
"Harry, I can't—"
He brought his finger to her lips to silence her. "Shh. I know."
She swallowed, her eyes melting puddles of need and confusion. Their gazes caught and held, his heart thundering, her mixed emotions mirroring his own.
The situation was impossible.
He couldn't allow himself to lose his objectivity like this or he'd never be a successful reporter.
"I have to go," she whispered on a ragged sigh.
"I'll drive you."
"I have my car."
"Then I'll follow you."
She pressed a gentle hand on his chest. "Harry..."
He clasped his hand over hers and helped her stand. "I don't have to come in, Abby. I just want to make sure that PI isn't lurking in your bushes again."
His reminder put a fear in her eyes that he didn't like. But she nodded and agreed, and he walked her to her car and said good-night. He wouldn't even get out of his car when they arrived at her house, he told himself. He'd just make sure Mo Jo Brown wasn't there to harass her.
* * *
Abby pulled her into her driveway, grateful Harry had followed her home, but her sense of security vanished the minute she spotted her father sitting on her porch.
Granted, she had always been the caretaker of the family, but this was getting ridiculous. First Uncle Wilbur, then her mother. Now her father, who still wore the stamp of prison life on his pale, drawn skin.
She let the engine die, took a deep breath, and exited her car, not surprised that Harry pulled in behind her and climbed out, a frown marring his forehead as his gaze landed on her father. She tried to look at him as a stranger would—he was a scruffy old man puffing an unfiltered cigarette, blowing smoke circles into the dark sky, his face pale, age lines framing his mouth.
"My father," Abby said before Harry could ask.
His brows straightened into a line of concern. "Do you want me to stay?"
"No, he looks rough, but he's harmless." Except where your money's concerned. One thing he has in common with Lenny.
Boy, she sure could pick the men.
Of course, she hadn't chosen her father, but she still had to deal with him.
Her father rose from the steps and stared at them, his frail body and worn clothes a testament to his neediness. Abby silently willed him to stay put. She had no intention of introducing the two men and having to explain her situation or her relationship with either man to the other.
"Thanks for seeing me home, Harry. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
He nodded, obviously reluctant to leave, but finally reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card with a phone number on it. "Call me if you need anything."
Abby took the card with a small nod, waved good-bye, and hurried up the steps. "Dad."
"Hey, sugar."
She unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter, her throat tight. A glance at her answering machine told her she had several calls to return.
"How're you doing, baby?"
Like he really cared. "Fine. I heard you were paroled." Abby folded her arms across her chest. "I'm really tired, Dad. What is it?"
"Can't an old man drop by to see his little girl without a reason?"
She shrugged. "It's never happened before."
He took a long drag on his cigarette and studied her, the age lines around his eyes crinkling. How long had it been since she'd seen or heard from him? Five or six years at least.
"I know I haven't always been there for you, Abby, but I'd like to start over."
She simply folded her arms and waited for the inevitable. "How much do you need to start over this time?"
A sheepish smile tugged at his weathered mouth. She'd ached for that smile so many times when she was growing up, at her graduation from high school, then college. But he hadn't been to any of the major events in her life. "A couple thousand, just till I get back on my feet."
Abby's heart sank. Why did she keep hoping he would change? That one day he would be the parent and she the child?
"I can spare a couple hundred right now, but that's all," Abby said, too tired to deal with him.
"But I thought your book—"
"I don't receive royalties right away, Dad." She jerked open her purse, scribbled a check to him, and held it out. "Here, use this to get cleaned up and to get a place to stay. Maybe I can help more later, but right now I'm strapped myself." Because the man I thought was my husband maxed out my credit cards and left me with a pile of bills.
"I am going straight this time." He dragged baggy gray pants up his lean hips. His eyes grew moist, his hands shaking as he reached out and pulled her into a hug. "I swear."
Abby hugged him, sympathy for him surfacing even though she struggled not to allow herself the emotion. Then he loped out the door and out of her life—until the next time he needed cash or bail money.
The puppy yelped from the box in her bedroom, so she hurried to retrieve him, cradling him in her arms while she listened to her messages.
"Abby, honey, this is your uncle. I wondered if you'd had time to reconsider that loan. The big guns are pressing down on me, baby. Please call."
She swiped at a tear and punched the button to hear the next one. "Abby, it's Mom. I thought I might bring Shank over"—Abby frowned. Who was Shank?—"to meet you. Once you hear his ideas for the coffee shop, I'm sure you'll want to invest." Her mother paused. "We're off to get tattoos now. Talk to you soon."
Next, Granny Pearl. "Abby, honey, the ladies and I were wondering if you'd like to lead a weekend retreat for us. We enjoyed last time so much. Call me."
Rainey's voice piped in next. "Abby, it's Rainey. Listen, the radio show is definitely a go if you're interested. And the tour next week is all confirmed. You and your hubby will have a suite and car wherever you go. I'm so excited. The book is climbing the charts as we speak! I hope you're thinking of a sequel."
Oh, Lord.
She hit the button again and Chelsea's voice rang out. "Hey, sis, it's Chelsea. I was just calling to invite you to a fabulous party. Some single hunks you might
like will be there." Chelsea, the incurable romantic. "And, oh, sis, you and Harry sounded great tonight. He's adorable, isn't he?"
Abby rolled her eyes. The puppy whined, lifted its head, and cocked it sideways, as if he thought she was going to desert him again.
"I'm not going anywhere, Butterball."
One more message: "This is Victoria, Abby. You'd better be on your toes. A friend of mine at the police station said someone is asking about Lenny. If the police have any brains at all, it won't take them long to put two and two together." Concern laced her oldest sister's voice. "Call me if you need me."
Abby put the puppy back on the floor and wrapped her arms around herself, feeling as if her whole world were crashing around her. She turned on the TV, half-afraid she would see Lenny and Tony Milano being dragged off in handcuffs. But as she surfed the channels, she heard her name.
A late-night talk show host was making fun of her in his monologue.
How much worse could things get? She flicked off the TV and picked up her journal, needing to vent.
Most wonderful, sexy kiss by actor. Am afraid I'm falling for him.
Family pulling at me as if I have octopus arms. Press having field day with reputation. Butt of TV jokes. Target of obnoxious reporter.
Another screwed-up day in the life of Abby Jensen.
Tears suddenly erupted like raindrops from a thunderstorm, her body shaking with the intensity of her sobs. The puppy leaped up on the couch next to her and dragged the bag of Reese's cups across the cushions to her, then flopped down in her lap. She let out a wail and the puppy licked at her hand.
Abby sighed, blew her nose on a tissue, wadded it up, and grabbed another. "I don't think those are going to help now." Still, she dove into the bag with one hand.
What difference did it make if her thighs were thirty inches or nineteen? No one was here to see them but Butterball. And he liked her, fat hips and all.
* * *
Hunter couldn't say exactly what bothered him about seeing Abby's father on her front porch, but something about the scenario hadn't felt quite right. Before his own father died, he had shared a special father-son rapport with him. Granted, his father had been military and strict, but he'd taken care of Hunter.
He'd always thought fathers and daughters shared a unique bond, too. But Abby's father had obviously let her down.
Weary from the long night, he finished the articles on the two Milano victims he'd interviewed earlier that morning, then faxed them to the paper. One couple who had wed at the Velvet Cloak Inn had been upset over the fraudulent preacher, but they were coping. Since their families had been upset over missing their nuptials, they had decided to have a big wedding and do it right this time. The second couple decided that the fact that they weren't legally married merely saved them from the hassle of a divorce. Ironically Milano had done them a favor. He laughed at the odd way life had of turning things around.
Satisfied with the piece, he dug through the file of names and picked three more people to interview. How many people had Milano swindled who weren't on the list?
Too distracted by the memory of Abby looking lost and small beside her father to pursue the question, he started to punch in her number, but realized she might have caller ID, so he used his cell phone instead. He had it programmed not to show up on caller ID. She answered on the third ring, but a wail punctuated the silence.
The faint sound of an echoing howl followed. Her dog?
"Hel... lo?"
"Hey, Abby, it's me. Hu... Harry."
"Oh..." More wailing in the background. "Hi."
A sniffle followed, twisting Hunter's gut. God, she'd been crying. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." A short pause. "Shh, Butterball, stop that now."
She didn't sound fine. She sounded miserable. "Is your father still there?"
"No, he left a little while ago."
"Abby, what's wrong?"
She didn't answer.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" If he had, Hunter would kill him.
"No, nothing like that."
"Then tell me what's wrong or I'm coming over there."
"Harry, you're not getting paid to listen to my personal problems."
His jaw tightened. "I'm not asking to be paid. I'm just trying to be your friend."
"Well..."
"You do have friends, don't you?"
"Yes. My sisters mostly."
"Now you have me."
Her soft sigh lingered in the air between them. Hunter stretched out on his bed with a beer and relaxed. "Now talk to me, Abby."
As she began to talk, Hunter closed his eyes and listened to her husky voice. And he silently vowed that tomorrow he would change the slant of his story about her.
He no longer wanted revenge or to hurt Abby; he would be satisfied to print the truth. It was about time someone took care of Abby instead of the other way around.
* * *
"I'm sorry, Harry," Abby murmured, "I guess I'm just overwhelmed with things. My life seems to have gone crazy lately. I feel completely out of control."
"You like control?"
"I didn't say that. I said I don't like being out of control."
"That's an odd comment for a sex therapist."
"I'm not a sex therapist. I'm a marriage counselor," Abby said in a hiss. "And this isn't about my book or sex."
"Okay, then what is it about?"
The concern in his voice sounded so sincere, Abby felt a new wave of tears rushing to the surface. "First, this book getting so much attention. I never intended that. I only wanted to help people."
"Go on," he said softly.
"I grew up in a very nontraditional family, and I always dreamed that I'd have the perfect marriage and home when I grew up. That as long as I gave it my heart and soul, my life would be just as I planned."
"Yeah," Harry said. "Life sometimes gives you a curveball and you strike out right when you think you're ready to hit a homer."
"I know I encourage great sexual relations, Harry, but I'm actually pretty private myself."
"Private is good."
His voice wrapped around her, intoxicating in its softness. "And my family. Normally I don't mind taking care of everyone, but right now..."
"Now, what?"
"Right now I don't have the energy."
"They should understand that." Was that anger in his voice?
She heard the sound of movement, as if he had stretched out on his bed, and heat stirred within her. Was he getting undressed?
"What are you doing now, Abby?"
"I'm in bed." Although she knew he couldn't see her, a blush heated her cheeks.
"So am I."
Was he naked? Or maybe he was wearing a pair of those minibriefs. Or maybe he was a boxer man? Abby stared at her unpainted toenails beneath her oversize T-shirt. Thank goodness he couldn't see her unsexy attire.
"Maybe someone should take care of you for a while."
Abby glanced at the snoring puppy. "I have Butterball here."
"I was talking about more than a dog." His breath feathered out. "Why don't you lie back and relax?"
"I don't know, Harry."
"Come on, Abby. It's just you and me right now. Friends having a little conversation. Late at night." His whisper was so soothing. "We can talk each other to sleep."
Or something else. Abby shoved the mounds of tissue off the bed with her foot, her misery waning as the lull of his voice washed over her. "All right."
"Pretend I'm lying beside you."
"Okay." She could see his dark eyes studying her, raking over her body.
"You're naked, lying under the cool sheet."
Abby slipped off her T-shirt and crawled beneath the sheets. "I am now."
His breathing rasped out. "I'm pouring massage oil into my hand. Close your eyes and smell the scent of jasmine."
A love scent.
"Now, feel my hands as they slowly stroke your neck. I'm brushing away that gorgeous hair of yours,
closing my hands around the indentation of your shoulders. You hunch them when you're tense, don't you, Abby?"
God, his voice was deep. "Yes."
"But I'm rubbing the tension away. Kneading the muscles until you're so relaxed your limbs feel languid. Now stretch your arms above you. I'm crawling over you so I can sit astride you." His voice softened another decibel. "Now I'm reaching my hands up to massage your arms. I start with your palms and move up to your shoulders. Now my hands are moving lower. Rubbing your back, caressing. Now my hands are stroking lower. I can feel your body start to warm beneath me...."
Warm? Her body was on fire.
Harry's handsome face flashed into her mind. There was no way she could get involved with Harry Henderson. She should hang up now. Tell him to stop.
But he did have a wonderful, sultry voice. And he gave a great phone massage.
A little more bedtime conversation wouldn't hurt anything, would it? She just couldn't let it go too far....
* * *
Hunter had no idea how it had happened. One minute he and Abby had been simply talking and he had been worried about her, so he'd tried to lull her into relaxing by envisioning a massage. The next minute he had stripped off his clothes, and they were whispering erotic words and massaging each other with mental images that seemed completely real.
He had never indulged in anything so sensual in his life.
He might have to try it again—just to make sure he'd done it right the first time, of course. Knowing he had helped her relax had spiked a fever in his body that had only begun to be quenched. He wanted Abby in the flesh.
But that was impossible.
"Abby?"
Her response was so low he could barely discern it.
"Do you think you can sleep now?"
"Hmm. Definitely."
"Well, good night. Call me if you wake up in the night and want to talk, okay?"
"Thanks. I will, Harry."
He hesitated, wishing he could say more. That he could be honest with her. Then again, she was lying to him. She was still married. He cleared his throat. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Good night, Harry."