Free Under the Covers by Rita Herron Page B

Abby and the bedroom.
    Several minutes later, after she'd been ushered through makeup, had her hair spritzed and woven into a sleek chignon, and her panty hose replaced—thank heavens for female staff, since she'd ripped her stockings when she'd climbed out of the car—she approached the set with trepidation.
    Francine, the director, a distinguished woman with ebony skin and glossy hair, escorted her backstage. "We film before a live audience."
    Abby froze. "I thought this was a taped interview. Just me and the anchorperson."
    "Oh, no. We want audience participation."
    Abby teetered sideways. A poster-sized copy of her cover sat in the middle of two wingback chairs. Bright spotlights glared at her. Through the resulting darkness, a sea of people swam before her frightened eyes.
    "We have about five minutes; then we'll call you on." Francine left to speak to the cameraman, and Abby watched, trying to calm her nerves, when suddenly Chelsea attacked her from behind.
    "I'm so glad I made it in time."
    Abby hugged her, her eyes widening at Chelsea's banana costume: yellow face makeup, yellow tights, yellow everything.
    "I'm auditioning for a commercial for a new fruity kids' cereal after this. I thought dressing the part might help me land the job." Chelsea said automatically. "But I couldn't miss your show."
    "Thanks, sis, I need all the moral support..." Her words died at the sight of the man beside Chelsea. Light blue eyes the color of a summer sky gazed down at her from a broad, tanned face.
    He had a body to match. Six-feet-plus of hard planes, muscles, and sinewy strength, dark hair that looked rumpled, as if he'd just jumped out of a mattress mambo himself, a thick mustache that curled up when he smiled, and a powerful presence that exuded the scent of a lover.
    Raw and carnal and primitive.
    Her own husband had never affected her like this.
    On second thought, the man's hair looked fake. And so did the mustache. But his overwhelming size could not be padded. Underneath he was still as dangerously potent as homemade sin.
    Something about him seemed familiar. Who did he remind her of?
    No, if she'd met this man before she wouldn't have forgotten him. He had charisma, sex appeal, and the most intense hungry look in his eyes.
    He must be Chelsea's latest boyfriend. They came and went faster than race cars at the tracks. She was just about to ask for an introduction when the director waved her on-air.
    The voice of the anchorman, Eric Segoda, sprang from the microphone. "Dr. Abigail Jensen is here to visit us today and talk about her new book, Under the Covers." He paused for emphasis. "Welcome Dr. Jensen onstage, folks! She's the Dear Abby of the bedroom."
    Abby staggered backward as if she might bolt. Applause suddenly rang out and people started chanting her name.
    "Abby, Abby, Abby...?"
    Chelsea shoved her from behind and she tottered forward.
    Abby was thankful the first questions were easy: the idea for the book, her professional expertise, her work ethics, and her beliefs about marriage and monogamy.
    "Your workshops, Women First..." Segoda paused and Abby nodded in confirmation. "They advocate putting a woman's desires and pleasures before a man's?"
    Abby frowned. "Not at all. By nature, women are caregivers. I simply encourage them to consider their own needs and try to communicate them to their husbands."
    "So you aren't suggesting women assume a dominant role?"
    Abby shrugged. "I'm not advocating either sex take a dominant role. Each relationship is different; it depends on the couple."
    "But you find women dominating men sexually stimulating?"
    Abby fought the urge to squirm. "As I said, it can be or it might not be, depending on the couple involved, their likes and dislikes, their needs, their preferences."
    "About your chapter on sexual positions – do you think women should be on top there?"
    Abby blushed. Sometimes she liked to be on top, sometimes she liked a powerful man over her. "Again, it depends on the