Looking for Love (Boxed set)

by Rita Herron

  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.

  Chelsea chewed her lip, wondering how she could follow such an act. Her stomach spasmed as the music died and the announcer introduced her show. Dressed in a gold ensemble with the wig of blond hair brushing her butt, she strutted onstage and began to gyrate to the music. Her years of dance lessons saved her. The song, "I Want to Be Loved by You," blared out of the speakers, and she wrapped herself around the pole dramatically, then flung her head back and let her hair touch the floor. She was just about to drop her top when a loud voice rent the air, overpowering the music.

  "How dare you try to steal my act!"

  Before Chelsea realized what had happened, an Amazon woman with implants the size of cantaloupes and fingernails as sharp and long as Ginsu knives attacked her. Chelsea jumped back and tried to run, but the woman reared her arm back, grabbed Chelsea's wig, and flung it into the crowd. The men applauded, believing the catfight was part of the show. Chelsea saw the woman bear her teeth, though, and she knew the Amazon was out for blood. She turned to run, but the woman balled her hand into a fist, reached back, and punched her in the eye.

  Chelsea screamed and fell backward, then saw black stars swirling amidst the pink strobe lights just before Enrique jumped onstage and dragged her off.

  Chapter 23

  Real Sex, Take One

  Abby had to end it with Harry. She could not continue flirting with one man while another still haunted her like a dog-eared demon. Taking care of Lenny and those evil pictures would be the first step. Calling the police would be the second.

  Then the public would have to learn the truth.

  What if Harry discovered her sordid story before she could tell him?

  You're worrying about nothing, she reminded herself. Harry is a hired actor playing a part. And he was a talented actor—so good he'd convinced her he actually cared about her.

  Didn't all actors seduce their costars? A different woman with every part they played? A knock sounded at the door and she jumped, pulling her silk robe around herself like a coveted shield. Instantly her insides quaked as she imagined Lenny lurking on the other side, more nude photographs of her in his hands. On the heels of that image, Abby imagined a red-horned reporter named Stone ready to snatch them from his hands.

  Gathering her courage, her knees knocking, she crept to the door. "Who is it?"

  "It's me, Harry." His voice sounded oddly gruff. "Can I come in, Abby?"

  The interlude behind the curtain burned fresh in her brain, sending a wave of embarrassment and renewed tingling through her. Still, the memory of Lenny's leering lingered like a bad odor clinging to her. "It's late, and I'm tired. Can't we talk tomorrow?"

  "It's only nine o'clock, Abby." He paused, his breath gushing out loudly. "Please. I need to see you."

  The hand that reached for the doorknob was amazingly steady considering the rapid beating of her heart. She slowly opened the door, his magnificent size immediately overpowering her. His shoulders looked even broader tonight, his eyes darker, his expression more sensual and seductive.

  Maybe he just seemed larger than life to her because she knew the power of the pleasure he'd given her, and the fact that he'd asked nothing in return. She didn't realize they made men like that anymore. Ones who enjoyed pleasing a woman yet had no ulterior motives.

  His unselfish loving made him ten times as sexy and a hundred times harder to deny.

  As he stared at her, his hungry eyes raked over the contours of her body encased in nothing but silk, and she imagined dropping to her knees, unleashing his sex, and giving him the same incredible pleasure he had given her earlier. Her nipples hardened and strained against the fabric of her thin gown, her body quivering from the image of him gloriously naked in front of her. He would be impressive....

  "Abby, if you don't stop looking at me like that, we're going to do a whole lot more than talk."

  His voice woke up her brain. Thank God. "I'm sorry. I... wasn't—"

  "The hell you weren't." He pushed his way inside the room, his long steps purposeful and determined, but he stopped at the sofa in the suite, poured himself a scotch from the bar, and turned to her, his gaze penetrating. "Not that I'm complaining, but we do have to talk first."

  She swallowed, his refusal to deny the obvious chemistry between them as titillating as if he'd touched her with his fingers.

  "You know we're going to make love, Abby. It's just a matter of time."

  She opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her. "It's going to be the best sex you've ever had." His voice was thick with heat. "And it's not going to happen just once either."

  Her pulse clamored. He stalked toward her until his face was mere inches away from hers, his erotic masculine scent suffusing her with images of lusty nights, his body on top of hers, pumping and grinding, filling her with his love.

  So this was the reason women liked to be dominated. She finally understood.

  "What... what did you want to talk about?"

  He caressed her cheek with one thumb, the rough texture singing along her nerves. "The man who upset you at the studio."

  He couldn't have spoiled the mood any faster had he told her he was gay.

  She backed up, poured herself a glass of Chablis, and sank onto the sofa, weary. She wanted desperately to deny Lenny had upset her, but Harry had obviously seen her reaction. He had come to know her pretty well. He was very observant. She supposed watching and listening to people closely was a necessary skill for an actor.

  "What did he say to you, Abby?"

  She clenched her fingers in her lap. "He's my problem, Harry, not yours."

  He was beside her in a flash, his jaw tight. "What if I told you your problems were mine?"

  How could that possibly be? He didn't even know her problems. She stared into the wine, swirling it in her g
lass, wishing the pale liquid held answers. "But they're not, Harry."

  "Maybe they are, more than you know."

  His softly spoken words clawed at her self-control. "No, Harry, you're just an actor and we're playing roles—"

  "We're more than that, Abby, and you know it."

  Did she? Silence stretched between them, full of questions and hope and the kind of sexual tension Abby had only written about in her book.

  "I want you, Abby." He took her glass from her and set it on the table alongside his, then gripped her arms and forced her to face him. "And I think you want me, too."

  She gazed into his eyes, the fire of desire burning like a brightly lit flame. It flickered and grew, just as the embers of her own hunger for him surged within her.

  "I do, Harry, but—"

  "Right now there are no buts. Just trust me, Abby; talk to me."

  His husky whisper shattered the last remnants of reason. She suddenly ached to trust him, to have someone strong to lean on. To touch him and make him burn in her hands and mouth the way he had done to her.

  He must have sensed her surrender.

  Releasing a soft groan, he dragged her closer, traced a finger over her lips, then met her mouth with his, his tongue plunging inside to taste her. Abby sank into his arms, the power of his assault so tender, yet so passionate that breathing no longer mattered. She clutched at his shirt, stroking his jaw and angling her face to take him deeper into her mouth. He tasted like scotch and man, a combination that intoxicated her.

  Warmth spread through her like honey, and she tore at his shirt, sending buttons flying. Her hands swept over his chest, stroking and soaking up the heat from his torso, the coarse, dark hairs on his chest caressing her hands like a lover themselves. His hands played along her back and spine as his lips left hers to lave her neck, the sensitive shell of her ear, then lower until he parted her robe and his hands and mouth trailed inside, loving her through the silky nightgown.

  She wanted more. She wanted nothing between them but sweat and bare skin.

  A low, guttural groan escaped his throat, and he suckled her until she thought she would come apart from the exquisite torture.