Sleepless in Savannah (41 page)

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.

Hunter stood, dusting off his jeans. For her mother? Right. He'd bet a hundred dollars the girl had snatched it for herself. She'd probably take it to a sleepover, and all the teenagers would hover in the basement with flashlights and highlighters getting the education of their lives. Or worse, she and her boyfriend might study the book
together,
taking tips and learning various sexual positions from the now famous Dr. Jensen. Add child corruption to Abby Jensen's list of sins.

His own five-year-old daughter's innocent face flashed into his mind. In a few years she'd be a teenager. He couldn't stand the thought. He wanted to keep her innocent forever.

He certainly didn't want her views tainted by some know-it-all sex writer who paraded as a therapist. Why, the marriage counselor he and his wife had visited when their wedded bliss hit the rocks counseled them right into divorce court, then counseled his way right into Hunter's ex-wife's bed. Hunter had not only paid the man's fees, but now was paying his ex-wife child support and having to share his little girl with the slimy shrink.

Dr. Abigail Jensen had been the catalyst for all his problems. His ex-wife had attended a lecture the cunning therapist had given in Chicago, where they'd lived at the time. After Shelly had heard the woman speak, she'd complained he wasn't romantic enough, criticized everything he said and did, including the way he made love. He couldn't help it if he'd been tired a lot and their relationship had suffered. He'd been trying to build a career, put food on the table; then Lizzie had come along and Shelly had been hormonal and obsessed with her extra pounds... Dr. Jensen's lecture had started the wheels of discontent turning in Shelly's head, and their marriage had gone for a roller-coaster ride straight to hell. Yep, Abby Jensen was a marriage
wrecker
in his book, not a therapist who helped couples stay together.

The very reason he wanted to ruin the woman.

* * *

Shaken by all the publicity, Abby switched TV channels, but a faintly familiar face flashed onto the screen—the preacher who had married her and Lenny.

For a brief second the past year flitted through her mind. The good parts.

And bad.

A year ago, Lenny had convinced her to elope at a resort in the north Georgia mountains. The special honeymoon getaway came at a steal for only five hundred ninety-nine dollars and included the reverend, marriage certificate, witnesses, organ music, champagne, and a weekend at the resort called the Velvet Cloak Inn. Smitten with the man and not wanting to grapple over wedding plans with her unorthodox parents, who would have squabbled over every detail, she'd agreed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have another late-breaking story," the reporter announced. "Rev. Tony Milano, who has been marrying couples at the famous Velvet Cloak Inn in north Georgia, was arrested today for fraud."

Chelsea refilled their glasses with fresh margaritas. "Isn't that where you got married, Abby?"

Abby nodded and turned up the volume.

"Apparently Mr. Milano is not a real man of the cloth, as he professed, and is not legally qualified to perform marriage ceremonies. Therefore"—the announcer paused, letting the tension build—"if you and your spouse were married by Mr. Milano, your marriage is not legitimate."

Abby gasped.

Chelsea slapped her hand on her thigh. "Oh, my gosh."

"I have to find Lenny," Abby whispered in a weak voice.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He left on a business trip three weeks ago and I haven't heard from him since."

Chelsea raised an eyebrow as the announcer gained speed. "Mr. Milano has also been accused of conning couples out of their retirement money by offering them vacation packages at another resort in Tennessee, a resort that sources have proven doesn't exist. Milano was released earlier on bail, but law-enforcement officials report that he has disappeared and may be headed out of the country. If you have any idea of his whereabouts, please contact your local police."

"I can't believe it," Abby whispered in shock. "Lenny and I are—"

"Living in sin," Chelsea chirped, twisting her crystal necklace between blue fingernails.

Abby's chest constricted. "We're: not married."

The doorbell rang and Abby shot off the sofa, sloshing the cold drink all over her bare thigh.

Chelsea dropped her fingers from the clear crystal. "You want me to get it?"

Tears threatening, Abby grabbed a napkin and swiped at her leg. "I... you don't suppose reporters have already found out that I was one of Milano's... his fakes?"

Chelsea shrugged. "So what if they did? You and Lenny can get married by a real preacher. Plus, it'll make great publicity."

Abby groaned in horror. "The last thing I want is more publicity about my personal life." Lenny's face dashed into her mind—had he heard the news? And if he had, what would he say?

Would he want to get remarried?

The doorbell rang again, the sound pealing through the room like fingernails on a chalkboard. Chelsea's gaze locked with hers.

"See who it is," Abby whispered.

She huddled behind her sister as they inched to the door. Chelsea peeked through the peephole. "It's a tall, skinny guy with glasses," Chelsea said as if she were suspicious. "Oh, and he's wearing a mailman's uniform."

"It is the mailman." Abby rolled her eyes and waved Chelsea aside, then opened the door.

"I have a certified letter here for Abby Jensen Gulliver." He held out an envelope and a clipboard for her to sign. "Are you the Dr. Abigail Jensen who wrote that book
Under the Covers?"

Abby nodded. "Gulliver's my married name."
Although Gullible should be.
"Jensen's my maiden name." She'd almost said her
real
name. Which it was, since she wasn't technically married.

The middle-aged postman beamed at her. "Wow, I can't believe it. My wife bought a copy of your book, and, man... it's hot."

"I hope you two enjoy some of the exercises." Abby signed for the letter.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, it's already doing wonders. My wife never would... Well, she didn't like to try different things until she read your advice. She especially liked that chapter on oral—"

"Great." Abby cut off what she thought might have been a long-winded personal confession, which didn't seem appropriate on her front porch. "Have a nice day and tell your wife hello for me."

She thanked the postman, then closed the door, but a bad premonition engulfed her as she walked back to the den. What if the letter was some form of notification from the police about her illegal marriage? Would they question all of the people involved with Tony Milano? Subpoena them to testify against him?

Chelsea sat cross-legged on the sofa with her drink, her gaze fastened on the TV. "They said that preacher married over a hundred couples last year. He made a killing off those phony resort investments."

"And I just happen to be one of the lucky ones who only fell for his romantic honeymoon haven." She narrowed her eyes, surprised there was no return address. "This is odd."

"What?"

"It's from Lenny. Why would he send me a certified letter?"

Chelsea shrugged. "Maybe he found out about the fake marriage and he's proposing again?"

Yeah, right.
He hadn't been so formal the first time. Her fingers trembled as she tore open the envelope and removed the plain white sheet of paper.

Dear Abby,

You have probably seen the news by now and know that our marriage was a sham.

When we married, Abby, I thought I needed a wife. I wasn't ready to admit a lot of things to myself, much less to the world. But time and circumstances have changed things. Since the police have found out about Tony, he has to leave the country.

I can't continue this farce of a marriage, not when I finally have the chance to be with Tony, the love of my life.

Good-bye, Abby.

Abby swayed and sank to the sofa in shock as the words swam in front of her eyes. "What is it, sis?"