Under the Covers (6 page)

He had to figure out what she was hiding.

The familiar adrenaline rush of an impending breakthrough zigzagged through him, and he contemplated going incognito to her scheduled book signing. If Abby Jensen even suspected he was the reporter who'd been hounding her, she'd run like crazy.

But how could he disguise himself so he wouldn't be recognized later on when he zeroed in for the kill?

His gaze scanned the room and he spotted the video of
Tootsie
he and Lizzie had rented the other night, and a sly grin curved his mouth. He'd dress like a woman. After all, he'd disguised himself as a bag lady once to investigate a thug in Chicago. Dr. Jensen might warm up to a female at the signing and spill a few tidbits about herself. Things her publicist had been careful not to reveal when he'd questioned her earlier.

He scavenged through Lizzie's dress-up trunk, wincing at his image in the mirror as he yanked on white tights and a humongous, old-fashioned flowery dress that had belonged to her former nanny, a plus-size woman with bad taste. The dress had dragged the floor when Lizzie put it on, swallowing her whole, but it hung midcalf on him, and with a little padding it almost fit. Except for the bust area, of course. A little stuffing helped fill that out nicely. A curly red wig came next, then bright orange sunglasses with rhinestones and a floppy hat that covered most of his face. Perfect.

Finally he stuffed the book beneath his arm, suppressing the fact that Abby's words had aroused him the night before. Luckily she wasn't his type.

Nope, he preferred busty blondes and redheads, not pale-faced, frizzy-haired brunettes who dressed like school-marms. Even if they did have sinfully seductive voices.

Besides, who would want to be caught dead in such a getup in front of a woman he wanted to impress? He painted his lips red and blotted powder on his face to cover his beard stubble.

Sheesh.
The things he did for his career...

* * *

Chelsea Jensen would do anything for her sisters.

Oh, she knew she was a screw-up. At least according to her oldest sister, Victoria. But Abby had always cut her a break, and now Abby was the one in trouble, and she had to do something.

For God's sake poor Abby, had almost hyperventilated in the dressing room of Egor's, the most expensive and only exclusive shop Chelsea bothered to drop her plastic in.

Now, if
she
were going to hyperventilate it would be over that sexy tie-dyed bikini she'd seen in the window, or a pair of fuck-me shoes with rhinestones and feathers, not a man.

Especially one who was gay.

Damn Lenny Gulliver.

If she found him, she would tie his dick in a knot with her curling iron and pluck his lying tongue right from his mouth with her tweezers.

She teetered on her new hot pink heels, strutting toward the elevator to Victoria's office, smiling and waving her acrylic nails at the stuffy suits and dressed-for-success nine-to-livers running to and fro. The women had no fashion sense whatsoever. Never had Chelsea seen so many plain black pumps in one place. And the men all had navy and red striped ties that screamed conservative and wore their cell phones attached to their leather belts like a second penis. God, no wonder Victoria stayed home and did her laundry on Saturday night; her pickin's weren't just slim; they were practically nonexistent.

The elevator whizzed up eleven floors, the mixture of expensive perfumes and colognes of the inhabitants sending her into a tizzy to name the different fragrances, a little game she'd enjoyed playing since second grade. The elevator jolted to a stop, and a tall dark-headed man with a woodsy smell—Stetson, she guessed—elbowed his way out as if his life depended on a ten-second exit.

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?