Under the Covers Read Free

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