Midnight-blue silk. Lee took a great deal of time and gave a great deal of thought to choosing the right dress for her evening with Hunter. It was business.
The deep-blue silk shot through with thin silver threads appealed to her because of its clean, elegant lines and lack of ornamentation. Lee would, on the occasions when she shopped, spend as much time choosing the right scarf as she would researching a subject. It was all business.
Now, after a thorough debate, she slipped into the silk. It coolly skimmed her skin; it draped subtly over curves. Her own reflection satisfied her. The unsmiling woman who looked back at her presented precisely the sort of image she wanted to project—elegant, sophisticated and a bit remote. If nothing else, this soothed her bruised ego.
As Lee looked back over her life, concentrating on her career, she could remember no incident where she’d found herself bested. Her mouth became grim as she ran a brush through her hair. It wasn’t going to happen now.
Hunter Brown was going to get back some of his own, if for no other reason than that half-amused smile of his. No one laughed at her and got away with it, Lee told herself as she slapped the brush back on the dresser smartly enough to make the bottles jump. Whatever game she had to play to get what she wanted, she’d play. When the article on Hunter Brown hit the stands, she’d have won. She’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d helped her. In the final analysis, Lee mused, there was no substitute for winning.
When the knock sounded at her door, she glanced at her watch. Prompt. She’d have to make a note of it. Her mood was smug as, after picking up her slim evening bag, she went to answer.
Inherently casual in dress, but not sloppy, she noted, filing the information away as she glanced at the open-collared shirt under his dark jacket. Some men could wear black tie and not look as elegant as Hunter Brown looked in jeans. That was something that might interest her readers. By the end of the evening, Lee reminded herself, she’d know all she possibly could about him.
“Good evening.” She started to step across the threshold, but he took her hand, holding her motionless as he studied her.
“Very lovely,” Hunter declared. Her hand was very soft and very cool, though her eyes were still hot with annoyance. He liked the contrast. “You wear silk and a very alluring scent but manage to maintain that aura of untouchability. It’s quite a talent.”
“I’m not interested in being analyzed.”
“The curse or blessing of the writer,” he countered. “Depending on your viewpoint. Being one yourself, you should understand. Where’s your manuscript?”
She’d thought he’d forget—she’d hoped he would. Now, she was back to the disadvantage of stammering. “It, ah, it isn’t…”
“Bring it along,” Hunter ordered. “I want to take a look at it.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Every writer wants his words read.”
She didn’t. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. Without a doubt, the last person she wanted to allow a glimpse of her inner thoughts was Hunter. But he was standing, watching, with those dark eyes already seeing beyond the outer layers. Trapped, Lee turned back into the room and slipped the folder from her briefcase. If she could keep him busy enough, she thought, there wouldn’t be time for him to look at it anyway.
“It’ll be difficult for you to read anything in a restaurant,” she pointed out as she closed the door behind her.
“That’s why we’re having dinner in my suite.”
When she stopped, he simply took her hand and continued on to the elevators as if he hadn’t noticed. “Perhaps I’ve given you the wrong impression,” she began coldly.
“I don’t think so.” He turned, still holding her hand. His palm wasn’t as smooth as she’d expected a writer’s to be. The palm was as wide as a concert pianist’s, but it was ridged with calluses. It made, Lee discovered, a very intriguing and uncomfortable combination. “My imagination hasn’t gone very deeply into the prospect of seducing you, Lenore.” Though he felt her stiffen in outrage, he drew her into the elevator. “The point is, I don’t care for restaurants and I care less for crowds and interruptions.” The elevator hummed quietly on the short ascent. “Have you found the conference worthwhile?”
“I’m going to get what I came for.” She stepped through the doors as they slid open.
“And what’s that?”
“What did you come for?” she countered. “You don’t exactly make it a habit to attend conferences, and this one is certainly small and off the beaten path.”
“Occasionally I enjoy the contact with other writers.” Unlocking the door, he gestured her inside.
“This conference certainly isn’t bulging with authors who’ve attained your degree of success.”
“Success has nothing to do with writing.”
She set her purse and folder aside and faced him straight on. “Easy to say when you have it.”
“Is it?” As if amused, he shrugged, then gestured toward the window. “You should drink in as much of the view as you can. You won’t see anything like this through any window in Los Angeles.”
“You don’t care for L.A.” If she was careful and clever, she should be able to pin him down on where he lived and why he lived there.
“L.A. has its points. Would you like some wine?”
“Yes.” She wandered over to the window. The vastness still had the power to stun her and almost…almost frighten. Once you were beyond the city limits, you might wander for miles without seeing another face, hearing another voice. The isolation, she thought, or perhaps just the space itself, would overwhelm. “Have you been there often?” she asked, deliberately turning her back to the window.
“Hmm?”
“To Los Angeles?”
“No.” He crossed to her and offered a glass of pale-gold wine.
“You prefer the East to the West?”
He smiled and lifted his glass. “I make it a point to prefer where I am.”
He was very adept at evasions, she thought, and turned away to wander the room. It seemed he was also very adept at making her uneasy. Unless she missed her guess, he did both on purpose. “Do you travel often?”
“Only when it’s necessary.”
Tipping back her glass, Lee decided to try a more direct approach. “Why are you so secretive about yourself? Most people in your position would make the most of the promotion and publicity that’s available.”
“I don’t consider myself secretive, nor do I consider myself most people.”
“You don’t even have a bio or a photo on your book covers.”
“My face and my background have nothing to do with the stories I tell. Does the wine suit you?”
“It’s very good.” Though she’d barely tasted it. “Don’t you feel it’s part of your profession to satisfy the readers’ curiosity when it comes to the person who creates a story that interests them?”
“No. My profession is words—putting words together so that someone who reads them is entertained, intrigued and satisfied with a tale. And tales spring from imagination rather than hard fact.” He sipped wine himself and approved it. “The teller of the tale is nothing compared to the tale itself.”
“Modesty?” Lee asked with a trace of scorn she couldn’t prevent.
The scorn seemed to amuse him. “Not at all. It’s a matter of priorities, not humility. If you knew me better, you’d understand I have very few virtues.” He smiled, but Lee told herself she’d imagined that brief predatory flash in his eyes. Imagined, she told herself again and shuddered. Annoyed at her own reaction, she held out her wineglass for a refill.
“Have you any virtues?”
He liked the fact that she struck back even when her nerves were racing. “Some say vices are more interesting and certainly more entertaining than virtues.” He filled her glass to just under the rim. “Would you agree?”
“More interesting, perhaps more entertaining.” She refused to let her eyes falter from his as she drank. “Certainly more demanding.”
He mulled this over, enjoying her quick response and her clean, direct thought-patterns. “You have an interesting mind, Lenore; you keep it exercised.”
“A woman who doesn’t finds herself watching other people climb to the top while she fills water glasses and makes the coffee.” She could have cursed in frustration the moment she’d spoken. It wasn’t her habit to speak that freely. The point was, she was here to interview him, Lee reminded herself, not the other way around.
“An interesting analogy,” Hunter murmured. Ambition. Yes, he’d sensed that about her from the beginning. But what was it she wanted to achieve? Whatever it was, he mused, she wouldn’t be above stepping over a few people to get it. He found he could respect that, could almost admire it. “Tell me, do you ever relax?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your hands are rarely still, though you appear to have a great deal of control otherwise.” He noted that at his words her fingers stopped toying with the stem of her glass. “Since you’ve come into this room, you haven’t stayed in one spot more than a few seconds. Do I make you nervous?”
Sending him a cool look, she sat on the plush sofa and crossed her legs. “No.” But her pulse thudded a bit when he sat down beside her.
“What does?”
“Small loud dogs.”
He laughed, pleased with the moment and with her. “You’re a very entertaining woman.” He took her hand lightly in his. “I should tell you that’s my highest compliment.”
“You set a great store by entertainment.”
“The world’s a grim place—worse, often tedious.” Her hand was delicate, and delicacy drew him. Her eyes held secrets, and there was little that intrigued him more. “If we can’t be entertained, there’re only two places to go. Back to the cave, or on to oblivion.”
“So you entertain with terror.” She wanted to shift farther away from him, but his fingers had tightened almost imperceptibly on her hand. And his eyes were searching for her thoughts.
“If you’re worried about the unspeakable terror lurking outside your bedroom window, would you worry about your next dentist appointment or the fact that your washer overflowed?”
“Escape?”
He reached up to touch her hair. It seemed a very casual, very natural gesture to him. Lee’s eyes flew open as if she’d been pinched. “I don’t care for the word escape.”
She was a difficult combination to resist, Hunter thought, as he let his fingertips skim down the side of her throat. The fiery hair, the vulnerable eyes, the cool gloss of breeding, the bubbling nerves. She’d make a fascinating character and, he realized, a fascinating lover. He’d already decided to have her for the first; now, as he toyed with the ends of her hair, he decided to have her for the second.
She sensed something when his gaze locked on hers again. Decision, determination, desire. Her mouth went dry. It wasn’t often that she felt she could be outmatched by another. It was rarer still when anyone or anything truly frightened her. Though he said nothing, though he moved no closer, she found herself fighting back fear—and the knowledge that whatever game she challenged him to, she would lose because he would look into her eyes and know each move before she made it.
A knock sounded at the door, but he continued to look at her for long silent seconds before he rose. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner,” he said, so calmly that Lee wondered if she’d imagined the flare of passion she’d seen in his eyes. While he went to the door, she sat where she was, struggling to sort her own thoughts. She was imagining things, Lee told herself. He couldn’t see into her and read her thoughts. He was just a man. Since the game was hers, and only she knew the rules, she wouldn’t lose. Settled again, she rose to walk to the table.
The salmon was tender and pink. Pleased with the choice, Lee sat down at the table as the waiter closed the door behind him. So far, Lee reflected, she’d answered more questions than Hunter. It was time to change that.
“The advice you gave earlier to struggling writers about blocking out time to write every day no matter how discouraged they get—did that come from personal experience?”
Hunter sampled the salmon. “All writers face discouragement from time to time. Just as they face criticism and rejection.”
“Did you face many rejections before the sale of The Devil’s Due?”
“I suspect anything that comes too easily.” He lifted the wine bottle to fill her glass again. She had a face made for candlelight, he mused as he watched the shadow and light flicker over the cream-soft skin and delicate features. He was determined to find out what lay beneath, before the evening ended.
He never considered he was using her, though he fully intended to pick her brain for everything he could learn about her. It was a writer’s privilege.
“What made you become a writer?”
He lifted a brow as he continued to eat. “I was born a writer.”
Lee ate slowly, planning her next line of questions. She had to move carefully, avoid putting him on the defensive, maneuver around any suspicions. She never considered she was using him, though she fully intended to pick his brain for everything she could learn about him. It was a reporter’s privilege.
“Born a writer,” she repeated, flaking off another bite of salmon. “Do you think it’s that simple? Weren’t there elements in your background, circumstances, early experiences, that led you toward your career?”
“I didn’t say it was simple,” Hunter corrected. “We’re all born with a certain set of choices to make. The matter of making the right ones is anything but simple. Every novel written has to do with choices. Writing novels is what I was meant to do.”
He interested her enough that she forgot the unofficial interview and asked for herself, “So you always wanted to be a writer?”
“You’re very literal-minded,” Hunter observed. Comfortable, he leaned back and swirled the wine in his glass. “No, I didn’t. I wanted to play professional soccer.”
“Soccer?”
Her astonished disbelief made him smile. “Soccer,” he repeated. “I wanted to make a career of it and might have been successful at it, but I had to write.”
Lee was silent a moment, then decided he was telling her precisely the truth. “So you became a writer without really wanting to.”
“I made a choice,” Hunter corrected, intrigued by the orderly logic of her mind. “I believe a great many people are born writer or artist, and die without ever realizing it. Books go unwritten, paintings unpainted. The fortunate ones are those who discover what they were meant to do. I might have been an excellent soccer player; I might have been an excellent writer. If I’d tried to do both, I’d have been no more than mediocre. I chose not to be mediocre.”
“There’re several million readers who’d agree you made the right choice.” Forgetting the cool facade, she propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Why horror fiction, Hunter? Someone with your skill and your imagination could write anything. Why did you turn your talents toward that particular genre?”
He lit a cigarette so that the scent of tobacco stung the air. “Why do you read it?”
She frowned; he hadn’t turned one of her questions back on her for some time. “I don’t as a rule, except yours.”
“I’m flattered. Why mine?”
“Your first was recommended to me, and then…” She hesitated, not wanting to say she’d been hooked from the first page. Instead, she ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass and sorted through her answer. “You have a way of creating atmosphere and drawing characters that make the impossibility of your stories perfectly believable.”
He blew out a stream of smoke. “Do you think they’re impossible?”
She gave a quick laugh, a laugh he recognized as genuine from the humor that lit her eyes. It did something very special to her beauty. It made it accessible. “I hardly believe in people being possessed by demons or a house being inherently evil.”
“No?” He smiled. “No superstitions, Lenore?”
She met his gaze levelly. “None.”
“Strange, most of us have a few.”
“Do you?”
“Of course, and even the ones I don’t have fascinate me.” He took her hand, linking fingers firmly. “It’s said some people are able to sense another’s aura, or personality if the word suits you better, by a simple clasp of hands.” His palm was warm and hard as he kept his eyes fixed on hers. She could feel, cool against her hand, the twisted metal of his ring.
“I don’t believe that.” But she wasn’t so sure, not with him.
“You believe only in what you see or feel. Only in what can be touched with one of the five senses that you understand.” He rose, drawing her to her feet. “Everything that is can’t be understood. Everything that’s understood can’t be explained.”
“Everything has an explanation.” But she found the words, like her pulse, a bit unsteady.
She might have drawn her hand away, and he might have let her, but her statement seemed to be a direct challenge. “Can you explain why your heart beats faster when I step closer?” His face looked mysterious, his eyes like jet in the candlelight. “You said you weren’t afraid of me.”
“I’m not.”
“But your pulse throbs.” His fingertip lightly touched the hollow of her throat. “Can you explain why when we’ve yet to spend even one full day together, I want to touch you, like this?” Gently, incredibly gently, he ran the back of his hand up the side of her face.
“Don’t.” It was only a whisper.
“Can you explain this kind of attraction between two strangers?” He traced a finger over her lips, felt them tremble, wondered about their taste.
Something soft, something flowing, moved through her. “Physical attraction’s no more than chemistry.”
“Science?” He brought her hand up, pressing his lips to the center of her palm. She felt the muscles in her thighs turn to liquid. “Is there an equation for this?” Still watching her, he brushed his lips over her wrist. Her skin chilled, then heated. Her pulse jolted and scrambled. He smiled. “Does this—” he whispered a kiss at the corner of her mouth “—have to do with logic?”
“I don’t want you to touch me like this.”
“You want me to touch you,” Hunter corrected. “But you can’t explain it.” In an expected move, he thrust his hands into her hair. “Try the unexplainable,” he challenged before his lips closed over hers.
Power. It sped through her. Desire was a rush of heat. She could feel need sing through her as she stood motionless in his arms. She should have refused him. Lee was experienced in the art of refusals. There was suddenly no wit to evade, no strength to refuse.
For all his intensity, for all the force of his personality, the kiss was meltingly soft. Though his fingers were strong and firm in her hair, so firm if she’d tried to move away she’d have found herself trapped, his lips were as gentle and warm as the light that flickered on the table beside them. She didn’t know when she reached for him, but her arms were around him, bodies merging, silk rustling. The quiet, intoxicating taste of wine was on his tongue. Lee drank it in. She could smell the candle wax and her own perfume. Her ordered, disciplined mind swam first with confusion, then with sensation after alluring sensation.
Her lips were cool but warmed quickly. Her body was tense but slowly relaxed. He enjoyed both changes. She wasn’t a woman who gave herself freely or easily. He knew that just as he knew she wasn’t a woman often taken by surprise.
She seemed very small against him, very fragile. He’d always treated fragility with great care. Even as the kiss grew deeper, even as his own need grew surprisingly greater, his mouth remained gentle on hers, teasing, requesting. He believed that lovemaking, from first touch to fulfillment, was an art. He believed that art could never be rushed. So, slowly, patiently, he showed her what might be, while his hands stayed only in her hair and his mouth stayed softly on her.
He was draining her. Lee could feel her will, her strength, her thoughts, seeping out of her. And as they drained away, a flood of sensation replenished what she lost. There was no dealing with it, no…explaining. It could only be experienced.
Pleasure this fluid couldn’t be contained. Desire this strong couldn’t be guided. It was the lack of control more than the flood of feeling that frightened her most. If she lost her control, she’d lose her purpose. Then she would flounder. With a murmured protest, she pulled away but found that while he freed her lips, he still held her.
Later, he thought, at some lonely, dark hour, he’d explore his own reaction. Now he was much more interested in hers. She looked at him as though she’d been struck—face pale, eyes dark. Though her lips parted, she said nothing. Under his fingers he could feel the light tremor that coursed through her—once, then twice.
“Some things can’t be explained, even when they’re understood.” He said it softly, so softly she might have thought it a threat.
“I don’t understand you at all.” She put her hands on his forearms as if to draw him away. “I don’t think I want to anymore.”
He didn’t smile as he let his hands slide down to her shoulders. “Perhaps not. You’ll have a choice to make.”
“No.” Shaken, she stepped away and snatched up her purse. “The conference ends tomorrow and I go back to L.A.” Suddenly angry, she turned to face him. “You’ll go back to whatever hole it is you hide in.”
He inclined his head. “Perhaps.” It was best she’d put some distance between them. Very abruptly, he realized that if he’d held her a moment longer, he wouldn’t have let her go. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She didn’t question her own illogic, but shook her head. “No, we won’t talk anymore.”
He didn’t correct her when she walked to the door, and he stood where he was when the door closed behind her. There was no need to contradict her; he knew they’d talk again. Lifting his glass of wine, Hunter gathered up the manuscript she’d forgotten and settled himself in a chair.