Under the Covers Read online

  Under The Covers

  by

  Rita Herron

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2002, 2011 by Rita Herron

  Formerly published by: Dorchester Publishing/Lovespell, June 2002

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  To Kate:

  A great editor and friend;

  thanks for everything

  Chapter 1

  The Faker

  "No more faking orgasms, ladies and gentlemen," the newscaster's voice boomed from the television. "Not if you and your partner take advice from leading sex therapist Dr. Abigail Jensen in her new sex manual, Under the Covers. Just let me read you a short excerpt."

  "It's not a sex guide and I'm not a sex therapist!" Abby waved a hand toward the announcer. "The book is for marriage therapy!"

  Abby's twenty-one-year-old sister Chelsea rubbed her hands together in gleeful anticipation and plopped down on the sofa. "I can't wait to hear this."

  "Dr. Jensen gives this advice in her chapter on erotic foreplay: Slowly massage his inner thigh with your finger. Trace a long, sensual path from the curve of his toe up his calf, then circle around to tease the thick muscle—"

  Abby pressed her hands over her ears, her face burning as the reporter quoted several more passages out of context. "With chapter titles like 'The Orgasmic Kiss,' 'Fantastic Fantasies,' 'Most Passionate Positions,' and 'Naughty Seduction Games,' it's no wonder this book is flying off the shelves," the young newscaster continued. "In addition, this commercial has been running during daytime soap operas."

  The picture changed to show a scantily clad, voluptuous redhead reclining on a bed of satin sheets with a copy of Abby's book resting between her parted knees. A brawny man with jet-black hair dressed in red silk boxers kissed his way from the woman's toes up to her knees, where he knocked the book aside with his head before engulfing the woman in a steamy kiss. Dubbed-in oohs and aahs echoed around the rocking couple.

  "Oh, my God," Abby whispered.

  Chelsea flicked up the volume on the remote, her charm bracelet jingling. "Cool, Mom's new boyfriend really came through for you with that ad, sis."

  Yeah, it was a little over the top, just like her mother.

  "With each purchase of Under the Covers, customers receive a free set of satin pillowcases to stimulate their own sensual pillow talk," the announcer explained. "And it certainly looks like Dr. Jensen's suggestions are working for this couple. They're hotter than the record temperatures outside."

  "Man, I have to find out how to do that orgasmic kiss thing, Ab. Can I take a copy of the book home tonight?"

  Abby rolled her eyes, grabbed a miniature Reese's peanut butter cup from the bag, and popped it into her mouth. The last thing her little sister needed was advice on sex; words of wisdom regarding a lasting relationship would be more pertinent.

  Under the Covers had been out only two days, and Abby was grateful that it was selling. She hoped that couples would benefit from her years of experience as a marriage counselor, and the extra money she would earn from book sales couldn't hurt. She seemed to have an inordinate number of needy relatives who often turned to her for "loans."

  But she hated the media attention. Reporters were always looking for the most scandalous, juiciest story, and they would exaggerate, embellish, even lie in their quest for sensational headlines. She'd learned that painful reality as a child. She grabbed another candy and devoured it—the chocolate treat was both her nemesis and her salvation. "You don't need to read my work. You're not married."

  "You mean it's only for married couples?"

  "Well, no, not exactly. It's supposed to help all couples improve intimacy in their relationships." Abby paced in front of the bay window, feeling exposed after the latest spotlight on her book, and even more so when she realized anyone on the street could see through her front window. She added curtains to the list of items she had to pick up for her new house.

  "Then give me a copy, Abby. I have a new boyfriend."

  Abby groaned in disbelief. "Boyfriend? You never see a guy more than twice."

  Chelsea scratched her blond head in thought. "I went out with that carpenter three times."

  "Great."

  "Nah, he was kind of boring. But he did have a big tool—"

  "Chelsea," Abby warned.

  "...belt." Chelsea's green eyes twinkled. "Especially his hammer."

  Abby threw up her hands. "You are incorrigible!"

  Chelsea reached for the blender. "And you're awfully uptight for someone who wrote a sex guide."

  "It is not a sex guide." Abby stopped abruptly, nearly tripping over the cluster of boxes in the corner. What in the world was she going to do with her baby sister?

  Even worse, what if the press discovered the truth: that she'd been following her own advice and it hadn't been working? That she had faked a few orgasms herself?

  And a lot of other things...

  * * *

  Hunter Stone situated himself in a metal chair in his boss's office and glared at the junior reporter, Addleton, the ass kisser, leaning against their boss's cluttered desk. Files, unedited copy, layouts, dirty coffee cups, and Twinkie wrappers covered the once shiny black-lacquered surface. Shelves overflowed with old copies of the AJC—Atlanta Journal and Constitution—and the faded white walls held framed evidence of Emerson's writing credentials. Ralph Emerson, the chief editor of the Journal and Constitution, had nothing in common with the legendary Ralph Waldo Emerson, except that they both had male genes and two legs.

  This Ralph Emerson scratched his protruding stomach, a copy of the morning edition in his hand, smoke stains yellowing his teeth. "Great story, Addleton. That piece on the bombing near the Fox Theater came in just in time for the front page. And it's spiked our website ratings."

  Hunter frowned. So far Addleton, number one kiss-up reporter, had outscooped him on everything. But only because Hunter had a black streak on his file from his previous job, and Ralph hadn't unleashed him from the repercussions of it yet.

  He'd been at the Chicago Tribune before the AJC, and one lousy error of judgment had flagged him as a man who would do anything for a story, including the unethical. Just because he had hidden in the senator's private bathroom and overheard confidential details about his affairs...

  Well, when he'd moved to Atlanta his reputation had preceded him, and though he had managed to get a job at the AJC, he'd been given only piddly stories. After a month, he was damned tired of covering crappy pieces like the recent Maltese pageant and the pancake-eating contest at the local elementary school. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the pancakes...

  "Hey, great piece on the hog-hollering contest in Gwinnett County," Addleton said as he loped past him, a cocky grin pasted on his conceited face.

  Hunter glared at him,
but ignored the barb. After all, the boss was watching.

  As soon as Addleton cleared the door awning, Emerson handed him a list of assignments. Hunter thumbed through them in disgust. The local soup kitchen, the daisy festival... He'd missed his dinner with Lizzie twice last week covering some of the same kinds of stuff.

  "Look, Ralph, you know I can handle bigger pieces than this. Why don't you give me a chance?"

  Emerson opened a peppermint and popped it in his mouth, his concession to a nonsmoking office. "You dig up something on your own time, I'll take a look."

  Hunter nearly fell off the chair with relief.

  But Emerson jabbed a stubby finger toward him. "Only I don't want any trouble, you hear me?"

  Hunter nodded, thanked him, and strode back to his cubicle. He'd knock out these easy stories, then look for something bigger. Not a criminal piece yet, but something timely that would draw a lot of attention. Anxious for a lead or at least a topic, he dropped into his chair, logged on to the Internet, and searched various bulletin boards, looking for anything that might make big news.

  An ad for a new sex-talk book, one of those self-help things, called Under the Covers drew his eye. The author was none other than Dr. Abigail Jensen, who'd made landmark sales with her new release.

  Holy hell. Abigail Jensen—the psychologist who'd toured the country offering seminars on marriage. The woman who'd planted seeds of doubt in his ex-wife's head about their marriage.

  Oh, yeah, Abby Jensen had wreaked havoc in his personal life with her theories.

  He ran a hand through his hair, reading further. So far the woman had avoided interviews, refusing requests.

  Why?

  Did she have some secrets she didn't want to share?

  He shut down his computer, snatched up his cell phone, and strode from the noisy den of reporters hacking away at their computers, his adrenaline pumping. Somehow he would get an interview with Abby Jensen. After all, she owed him one after the way she had interfered in his life.

  She was not the know-all, do-good counselor she portrayed herself to be. He knew firsthand. And he would take great pleasure in writing all about her.

  And if he dug up some dirt on her, the story might convince Ralph to let him do some criminal investigative reporting, and make his career.

  Of course, it might ruin hers, but that would simply be the icing on the cake.

  * * *

  "Oh, my gosh. Look!" Chelsea pointed to the TV, where the camera zoomed to the bedding section in a nearby shopping mall holding several cardboard dump displays of Abby's book, along with free sets of gift-wrapped pillowcases.

  Abby gaped.

  People literally grabbed the books from the display and rushed to the counter to pay for them. Another camera focused on a bookstore where a long line of people wound outside the door, anxiously waiting for their copy. The report quickly switched to a mob of customers in a local discount store who were actually pushing and shoving to get the last few copies remaining on the store's shelf. An elderly woman in an orange jogging suit wrestled with an overweight bald man for the last book.

  "Well, I never." Abby sat in shock while her sister poured margarita mix into a blender, added tequila and crushed ice, and punched the button. The sound of grinding ice filled the silence.

  "You hit on something big, sis. I wish I could come up with a get-rich-quick scheme."

  "Under the Covers was not meant as a get-rich-quick scheme," Abby said. "I hate the downward spiral in marriage statistics today and want couples to realize the sacred value of their union. Once they've committed, they should give marriage their best shot."

  "You're such an idealist, Abby. Marriage is archaic. It doesn't fit with contemporary couples; you know, Sex and the City—"

  "Sex in the suburbs is not exactly dead, you know."

  Chelsea harrumphed.

  "Family and marriage should be appreciated more, treasured and coveted, not just the sex part but the love and commitment."

  "Hey, I'm committed"—Chelsea raised her eyebrows—"to staying single."

  Abby shook her head and laughed in spite of her difference of opinion. Everything about her and Chelsea was different from their homes to their hairstyles. Chelsea, with her long blond hair and big boobs, rented a loft above the arts theater where she worked; her apartment was completely art deco, her wardrobe trendy.

  Abby, with her mousy brown bob, on the other hand, had bought a nice little cottage house, furnished it in a homey country style, and wore a middle-class wardrobe that screamed not to be noticed.

  "Face it, sis, most marriages are doomed from the start," Chelsea continued. "Just ask our oldest sister."

  "Victoria is a divorce attorney. Of course her views are skewed." Abby sighed; she worried so about Victoria. Whereas Chelsea jumped from man to man, Victoria never dated or paused from her busy work schedule to give a man a chance at being decent. Her apartment in Buckhead, an eclectic mix of styles, her wardrobe, Anne Klein, her sophisticated raven chignon shouting "Hands off."

  "Victoria's dealing with reality." Chelsea dipped the rims of the glasses in salt, waving a bejeweled finger as she spoke. "But don't get me wrong; I think it's great you're such an optimist, especially in light of our parents' history. And I'm envious you're making money doing something you really want to do."

  Abby shook her head. She could use the money; not a month went by that Chelsea or her mom or another relative didn't turn to her for a loan. And it didn't escape her that Chelsea had sided with Victoria—the only thing her sisters agreed on was their doom and gloom view of marriage. Growing up, Abby had often played referee between her sisters and also between her parents, who'd never actually tied the knot into respectable parenthood.

  No wonder she'd turned out to be a marriage therapist. "Don't you like your job, Chels?"

  "Sure, the theater's fun, but the money's sporadic, and then there's the inconsistency of jobs." She wiggled her eyebrows. "The guys are pretty hot though."

  Abby laughed.

  Chelsea poured the drinks into two tall, frosted glasses and handed one to Abby. "Did Lenny help you research your book?"

  Grateful for the quick buzz of alcohol, Abby sipped her drink. "What?" Her husband, the man she'd fallen for and married within three months of meeting him, the man who hadn't had the least bit of interest in sex lately. Or in her.

  Chelsea licked salt from the rim of her glass, eyes glowing. "Well, did he?"

  Abby's stomach twisted. As an advocate for marriage, how could she confess that her own had been void of titillating touches lately? "You know I don't talk about my personal sex life, sis."

  "Oh, rats. I wanted some juicy stuff. Victoria acts like a nun, and you're so secretive it's pathetic." Chelsea winked. "Guess I'll have to read the danged book."

  Abby's gaze raced back to the TV. She'd kept a journal of the various exercises she'd had couples try over the last three years. One of her associates had persuaded her to submit the journal entries as a book, and she'd done so on a whim, sincerely wanting to help her patients and share her expertise with other therapists.

  She'd never dreamed the book would be advertised as a sex guide.

  Or that people might associate the contents with her own personal life. What if people began asking questions...?

  * * *

  Hunter was going to get a copy of that book or die trying.

  He braced himself for a fall as the crowd lunged forward, dozens of hands groping for the last copy of Dr. Abigail Jensen's new release, Under the Covers. A white-haired lady wearing three-inch-wide clunky heels plowed her foot on top of his, but he wedged himself into the second row. He was six-three, his arms a foot longer than hers, so he reached above her head and snagged the binding with the tips of his fingers. Someone poked him in the side and he fought the urge to push back. The heat wave was making everyone crazy these days; that was the only logical explanation. Otherwise, why would normally sane people be fighting over a book?

  Dammit
. At least he had an excuse. He needed the copy today because of work. If not, he wouldn't be buying it at all.

  His hand tightened around the spine, but a female hand swatted at him. "No, it's mine."

  "I was here first but I had to go to the bathroom," a pregnant woman said.

  "Your small bladder is not my problem," a thin man snapped.

  "Good grief," Hunter muttered.

  A middle-aged woman glared at him, then patted the pregnant woman's hand. "It'll get better once you have the baby, hon."

  "My husband has a bladder problem," an elderly woman announced.

  The gray-haired man beside her coughed, and Hunter offered him a sympathetic look. "Verna, you don't have to tell everything."

  "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Henry. Lots of people have bladder-control problems, especially when they cough or sneeze. My aunt Wilma worked for a urologist...." She launched into a litany of surgery techniques to repair bladder disorders, which sent a combination of embarrassed giggles and irritated looks through the crowd.

  Hunter ignored them and tugged at the book, feeling sweet success at his fingertips.

  But a set of red acrylic nails pierced Hunter's skin, clawing at his hand. Someone slammed a purse into his head, and the old lady with the three-inch shoes kicked his shin. He yelped and released the book to ward off another blow when two more sets of hands grappled for the copy. The cardboard dump collapsed, the paperback hit the floor with a thump, and people dropped to their knees scrambling to retrieve it. A sweaty man nearly fell on him. Hunter dodged him and dropped to the floor too, feeling like a fool.

  Seconds later, someone shrieked, "Look, she got it!"

  Everyone turned on hands and knees to see a teenager with a nose ring, trotting toward the counter with the book tucked firmly beneath her arm, her dozens of colorful bracelets jangling. "I'm buying it for my mother," she yelled. "It's her birthday."

  Several people huffed and grumbled.