Looking for Love (Boxed set)

by Rita Herron

  "It wasn't a mistake, Abby," he said gently. "And I wasn't acting."

  "Harry, please don't." She fidgeted, pulling at her black satiny skirt.

  He placed his hands over hers to still them. "I can't help it, Abby. The more I'm with you, the more I want to be with you." He traced a finger over her cheek, his heart racing. "We could play out that fantasy in the limo."

  "I... I can't do a one-night stand. That's just not me."

  He brushed a kiss over her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of strawberries. "I'm not asking for a one-night stand."

  She clutched his hand, squeezing his fingers. "Look, you're an actor, and you're just starting your career." Her voice quavered. "And I can't do a relationship right now. Not with... with everything in my life the way it is."

  Not with her husband still missing.

  He understood and knew she was right. But it didn't stop him from wanting her. Somehow he had to convince her that all men weren't like her bastard husband.

  * * *

  Abby paced the green room, her mind racing. The crew hadn't been too fussy: the makeup artist had covered the dark circles under her eyes and fluffed her hair, the sound guy had attached the mike to her clothes—after reassuring her it wasn't turned on yet—and then they had left her to prepare mentally for the show. But all she could think about was Harry. Why had Harry been so sweet in the limo? Was he serious about wanting a relationship with her?

  If so, should she pursue it?

  She certainly liked Harry a lot. She admired the way he handled and loved his daughter. Although his taste in dogs was atrocious, he did have good intentions in adopting a stray animal. And he must have a kind heart to take in a creature like Snarts.

  He was sexy and strong, too, and he'd defended her with those pond-scum reporters. And his touch did feel heavenly. His lovemaking would probably send her over the top in seconds.

  No. A relationship would never work. Once his acting career took off, he'd move to LA or be traveling and... once this whole mess with Lenny was resolved, she'd return to her practice.

  "Abby?"

  She halted in front of the makeup chair. "Is it time?"

  "No, we have a few minutes." Harry shifted on the balls of his feet. "Can I talk to you for a second before we go onstage?"

  Abby nodded and he led her to a partitioned area filled with extra camera equipment. A canopy of curtains obliterated the harsh overhead lights and cocooned them in a cloak of darkness.

  Harry's masculine scent filled the small space, making her dizzy.

  "I want you to know I meant what I said in the limo on the way over."

  "What—you want to play out a fantasy by making love in the limo?"

  "No." He chuckled and moved closer to her, his knee brushing her thigh in the small space. "Well, yeah, I wouldn't mind doing that, too." He cupped her face with his hands. His breath bathed her face as he whispered in the dark, "I want us to really get to know each other."

  Abby's heart slammed against her ribs. "Harry—"

  "No, listen, I know you've been hurt before, and so have I, but we have a strong connection. I can feel it when you look at me, when I hear your soft, sultry voice, when I touch you."

  His voice played along her nerve endings, winding them into taut strings of desire.

  "I want you, Abby."

  Did he have to sound so sincere?

  He threaded his fingers through her hair and drew her face so close to him, she saw the pulse at the base of his throat beating, felt the whisper of his breath as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  "I'm falling for you, Abby."

  The softly spoken words severed her cords of resistance, and she melted into his arms again, the heat from the night before that had simmered between them erupting into flames.

  His mouth tasted, feasted on, devoured her. She gave him the same, playing with his tongue in a teasing game of passion that surpassed her own fantasies. His hands covered her breasts, stroking and teasing through her silk blouse until she tossed the jacket aside and silently willed him to undress her. His gaze took in her sleek camisole, and he lowered his mouth to taste her, suckling her through the flimsy undergarment. Then he pushed that up, opened her bra, and filled his hands with her breasts, sucking and pulling her nipples until liquid heat pooled in Abby's womb.

  "Oh, God, Harry." She moaned and tossed her head back, giving in to wild abandon as he slid his hand up her skirt and found her moist essence. With a low growl, he lifted the skirt to her waist, then pushed her panties aside and feathered his fingers over her sex tenderly. She sank her hands into his hair, flung her head back, and moaned.

  "Harry, we have to stop—"

  "Not now, baby. You feel like heaven."

  Which was exactly where he took her.

  "Oh, Harry, don't stop!" She clutched at his arms, her legs buckled, and she almost fell backward, but grabbed a lighting pole to steady herself. He drove her wild with his fingers, playing with the fire inside her, igniting it to a burning flame that threatened to consume her. Screeching his name, she rocked sideways and the pole rocked with her, back and forth, back and forth, until Hunter plunged two fingers deep inside her. The shock of the intimacy jerked her body into a wanton frenzy, and she dropped the pole. A loud crash reverberated through the tiny space, but a thousand sensations burst within her, and she couldn't catch the pole or stop the echo of metal boomeranging throughout the backstage area. Just as the height of pleasure reached a crescendo, applause broke out from the set up front.

  Too late, she realized the host of the show was calling her name.

  * * *

  Hunter heard the announcer calling Abby's name and groaned. What the hell had come over him?

  "Oh, my God!" Abby hurriedly tried to fasten her clothes, her hands shaking. Her normally pale complexion had metamorphosed into a bright crimson, her hair was tousled, and his beard stubble had left red scrapes on her face.

  He smoothed down her skirt while she fumbled with her bra. But her hands were trembling so much, she couldn't work the clasp, so he took over the task. She closed her eyes, her breathing still labored, mortification mingling with panic.

  "It'll be all right," Hunter whispered in a soothing voice. "Just relax. Take a deep breath."

  The one she released sounded shaky and torn from her lungs. "I can't believe I forgot where we were and that people were waiting, and—Oh, heavens—"

  "Shh." He handed her her jacket, brushed at a makeup smear gently, and kissed her forehead. "You're going to be dynamite. In fact, you were dynamite."

  Her face brightened more. "What if they know what we were doing?"

  "Don't be silly; how could anyone know?"

  * * *

  As soon as Abby and Hunter neared the stage, Abby caught a grin from two of the cameramen. The lady from the green room raced over, fluffed her hair, and reapplied lipstick, then brushed powder across her cheeks, all the while humming, "How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You."

  Abby's stomach curled.

  They knew. She had no idea how, but she had a gut instinct that the backstage hands had heard them. Probably when she'd dropped that pole and it had crashed.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our new late-night talk show, Male Talk. Here's Dr. Jensen to discuss what men want." The crowd roared, and the announcer waited several seconds while they settled, then added with a wink, "although I think Dr. Jensen and her newlywed husband just demonstrated to us what men want."

  Abby's eyes widened as the handsome African-American man pointed to her microphone. Oh, God, oh, God, she silently cried. Harry must have accidentally tripped her microphone on. She swung her gaze to the audience. The snickers and grins told her they had definitely overheard the escapade behind the curtain.

  Including her orgasm.

  She was never, ever, going to be able to show her face in public again.

  What if Granny Pearl saw this episode? No, surely Granny wouldn't be watching a late-night men's show.

 
Harry suddenly squeezed her hand. "That's right, Chuck. Abby decided to act out a little scene offstage to introduce the subject for today's show. She wanted everyone to realize how hot it can be to slip away and make love on the spur of the moment." His fingers squeezed hers almost painfully, as if he were coaching her to play along. "Right, darling?"

  Abby nodded like a marionette. "Right. What do men want?" She licked her lips, but her heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode. "They want sex anywhere, everywhere, and any time of the day."

  The crowed applauded again, several men in the audience pumping their arms in a signal of masculine agreement. Harry and the host confirmed the male's exuberance, launching the show into an entirely different direction than Abby had expected. Suddenly Abby wasn't talking about men wanting to screw a woman without emotions or commitment, but rather how many ways and places a man could take a woman to be his lover. Finally the host decided to poll the audience, which consisted mostly of men.

  "But why did she keep yelling, 'Harry'?" an elderly man asked. "Was she fantasizing about someone else?"

  "She likes my hairy chest." Harry patted his chest for emphasis and the crowd laughed.

  "My fantasy—fast and hard and whenever the mood strikes," one man said.

  "Mine," a middle-aged man in a business suit said, "is to take her under the boardroom table with all my partners watching."

  "I'd like to video her doing a striptease for me," a young college coed stated.

  A bearded man in jeans and a flannel shirt stood up. "Two women at once."

  "I want my woman to go down on me more," a black man said, flexing his muscles when the other men agreed.

  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 ch
eek, 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.