Lee wrote in her journal:
On the eighth day of this odd on-again off-again interview, I know more about Hunter and understand less. By turns, he’s friendly, then distant. There’s an aloof streak in him, bound so tightly around his private life that I’ve found no way through it. When I ask about his preference in books, he can go on indefinitely—apparently he has no real preference except for the written word itself. When I ask about his family, he just smiles and changes the subject or gives me one of those intense stares and says nothing. In either case, he keeps a cloak of mystery around his privacy.
He’s possibly the most efficient man I’ve ever met. There’s no waste of time, no extra movements and, infuriating to me, never a mistake, when it comes to starting a campfire or cooking a meal—such as they are. Yet, he’s content to do absolutely nothing for hours at a time.
He’s fastidious—the camp looks as if we’ve been here no more than a half hour rather than a week—yet he hasn’t shaved in that amount of time. The beard should look scruffy, but somehow it looks so natural I find myself wondering if he didn’t always have one.
Always, I’ve been able to find a category to slip an assignment into. An acquaintance into. Not with Hunter. In all this time, I’ve found no easy file for him.
Last night we had a heated discussion on Sylvia Plath, and this morning I found him paging through a comic book over coffee. When I questioned him on it, his answer was that he respected all forms of literature. I believed him. One of the problems I’m having on this assignment is that I find myself believing everything he says, no matter how contradictory the statement might be to another he makes. Can a total lack of consistency make someone consistent?
He’s the most complex, frustrating, fascinating man I’ve ever known. I’ve yet to find a way of controlling the attraction he holds for me, or even the proper label for it. Is it physical? Hunter’s very compelling physically. Is it intellectual? His mind has such odd twists and turns, it takes all my effort to follow them.
Either of these I believe I could handle successfully enough. Over the years, I’ve had to deal professionally with attractive, intelligent, charismatic men. It’s a challenge, certainly, but here I have the uncomfortable feeling that I’m caught in the middle of a silent chess game and have already lost my queen.
My greatest fear at this moment is that I’m going to find myself emotionally involved.
Since the first day we walked up the canyon, he hasn’t touched me. I can still remember exactly how I felt, exactly what the air smelled like at that moment. It’s foolish, overly romantic and absolutely true.
Each night we sleep together in the same tent, so close I can feel his breath. Each morning I wake alone. I should be grateful that he isn’t making this assignment any more difficult than it already is, and yet I find myself waiting to be held by him.
For over a week I’ve thought of little else but him. The more I learn, the more I want to know—for myself. Too much for myself.
Twice, I’ve woken in the middle of the night, aching, and nearly turned to him. Now, I wonder what would happen if I did. If I believed in the spells and forces Hunter writes of, I’d think one was on me. No one’s ever made me want so much, feel so much. Fear so much. Every night, I wonder.
Sometimes Lee wrote of the scenery and her feelings about it. Sometimes, she wrote a play-by-play description of the day. But most of the time, more of the time, she wrote of Hunter. What she put down in her journal had nothing to do with her organized, precisely written notes for the article. She wouldn’t permit it. What she didn’t understand, and what she wouldn’t write down in either space, was that she was losing sleep. And she was having fun.
Though he was cannily evasive on personal details, she was gathering information. Even now, barely halfway through the allotted time, Lee had enough for a solid, successful article—more, she knew, than she’d expected to gather. But she wanted even more, for her readers and, undeniably, for herself.
“I don’t see how any self-respecting fish could be fooled by something like this.” Lee fiddled with the small rubbery fly Hunter attached to her line.
“Myopic,” Hunter countered, bending to choose his own lure. “Fish are notoriously nearsighted.”
“I don’t believe you.” Clumsily, she cast off. “But this time I’m going to catch one.”
“You’ll need to get your fly in the water first.” He glanced down at the line tangled on the bank of the creek before expertly casting his own.
He wouldn’t even offer to help. After a week in his company, Lee had learned not to expect it. She’d also learned that if she wanted to compete with him in this, or in a discussion of eighteenth-century English literature, she had to get into the spirit of things.
It wasn’t simple and it wasn’t quick, but kneeling, Lee worked on the tangles until she was back to square one. She shot a look at Hunter, who appeared much too engrossed with the surface of the creek to notice her progress. By now, Lee knew better. He saw everything that went on around him, whether he looked or not.
Standing a few feet away, Lee tried again. This time, her lure landed with a quiet plop.
Hunter saw the rare, quick grin break out, but said nothing. She was, he’d learned, a woman who generally took herself too seriously. Yet he saw the sweetness beneath, and the warmth Lee tried to be so frugal with.
She had a low, smoky laugh she didn’t use often enough. It only made him want to urge it out of her.
The past week hadn’t been easy for her. Hunter hadn’t intended it to be. You learned more about people by observing them in difficult situations than at a catered cocktail party. He was adding to the layers of the first impression he’d had, at the airport in Flagstaff. But he had layers still to go.
She could, unlike most people he knew, be comfortable with long spells of silence. It appealed to him. The more careless he became in his attire and appearance, the more meticulous she became in hers. It amused him to see her go off every morning and return with her makeup perfected and her hair carefully groomed. Hunter made sure they’d been mussed a bit by the end of the day.
Hiking, fishing. Hunter had seen to it that her jeans and boots were thoroughly broken in. Often, in the evening, he’d caught her rubbing her tired feet. When she was back in Los Angeles, sitting in her cozy office, she wouldn’t forget the two weeks she’d spent in Oak Creek Canyon.
Now, Lee stood near the edge of the creek, a fishing rod held in both hands, a look of smug concentration on her face. He liked her for it—for her innate need to compete and for the vulnerability beneath the confidence. She’d stand there, holding the rod, until he called a halt to the venture. Back in camp, he knew she’d rub her hands with cream and they would smell lightly of jasmine and stay temptingly soft.
Since it was her turn to cook, she’d do it, though she still fumbled a bit with the utensils and managed to singe almost anything she put on the fire. He liked her for that, too—for the fact that she never gave up on anything.
Her curiosity remained unflagging. She’d question him, and he’d evade or answer as he chose. Then she’d grant him silence to read, while she wrote. Comfortable. Hunter found that she was an unusually comfortable woman in the quiet light of a campfire. Whether she knew it or not, she relaxed then, writing in the journal, which intrigued him, or going over her daily notes for the article, which didn’t.
He’d expected to learn about her during the two weeks together, knowing he’d have to give some information on himself in return. That, he considered, was an even enough exchange. But he hadn’t expected to enjoy her companionship.
The sun was strong, the air almost still, with an early-morning taste to it. But the sky wasn’t clear. Hunter wondered if she’d noticed the bank of clouds to the east and if she realized there’d be a storm by nightfall. The clouds held lightning. He simply sat cross-legged on the ground. It’d be more interesting if Lee found out for herself.
The morning passed in silence, but for the occasional voice from around them or the rustle of leaves. Twice Hunter pulled a trout out of the creek, throwing the second back because of size. He said nothing. Lee said nothing, but barely prevented herself from grinding her teeth. On every jaunt, he’d gone back to camp with fish. She’d gone back with a sore neck.
“I begin to wonder,” she said, at length, “if you’ve put something on that lure that chases fish away.”
He’d been smoking lazily and now he stirred himself to crush out the cigarette. “Want to change rods?”
She slanted him a look, taking in the slight amusement in his arresting face. When her muscles quivered, Lee stiffened them. Would she never become completely accustomed to the way her body reacted when they looked at each other? “No,” she said coolly. “I’ll keep this one. You’re rather good at this sort of thing, for a boy who didn’t go fishing.”
“I’ve always been a quick study.”
“What did your father do in L.A.?” Lee asked, knowing he would either answer in the most offhand way or evade completely.
“He sold shoes.”
It took a moment, as she’d been expecting the latter. “Sold shoes?”
“That’s right. In the shoe department of a moderately successful department store downtown. My mother sold stationery on the third floor.” He didn’t have to look at her to know she was frowning, her brows drawn together. “Surprised?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “A bit. I suppose I imagined you’d been influenced by your parents to some extent and that they’d had some unusual career or interests.”
Hunter cast off again with an agile flick of his wrist. “Before my father sold shoes, he sold tickets at the local theater; before that, it was linoleum, I think.” His shoulders moved slightly before he turned to her. “He was a man trapped by financial circumstances into working, when he’d been born to dream. If he’d been born into affluence, he might’ve been a painter or a poet. As it was, he sold things and regularly lost his job because he wasn’t suited to selling anything, not even himself.”
Though he spoke casually, Lee had to struggle to distance herself emotionally. “You speak as though he’s not living.”
“I’ve always believed my mother died from overwork, and my father from lack of interest in life without her.”
Sympathy welled up in her throat. She couldn’t swallow at all. “When did you lose them?”
“I was eighteen. They died within six months of each other.”
“Too old for the state to care for you,” she murmured, “too young to be alone.”
Touched, Hunter studied her profile. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Lenore. I managed very well.”
“But you weren’t a man yet.” No, she mused, perhaps he had been. “You had college to face.”
“I had some help, and I waited tables for a while.”
Lee remembered the wallet full of credit cards she’d carried through college. Anything she’d wanted had always been at her fingertips. “It couldn’t have been easy.”
“It didn’t have to be.” He lit a cigarette, watching the clouds move slowly closer. “By the time I was finished with college, I knew I was a writer.”
“What happened from the time you graduated from college to when your first book was published?”
He smiled through the smoke that drifted between them. “I lived, I wrote, I went fishing when I could.”
She wasn’t about to be put off so easily. Hardly realizing she did it, Lee sat down on the ground beside him. “You must’ve worked.”
“Writing, though many disagree, is work.” He had a talent for making the sharpest sarcasm sound mildly droll.
Another time, she might have smiled. “You know that’s not what I mean. You had to have an income, and your first book wasn’t published until nearly six years ago.”
“I wasn’t starving in a garret, Lenore.” He ran a finger down the hand she held on the rod and felt a flash of pleasure at the quick skip of her pulse. “You’d just have been starting at Celebrity when The Devil’s Due hit the stands. One might say our stars were on the rise at the same time.”
“I suppose.” She turned from him to look back at the surface of the creek again.
“You’re happy there?”
Unconsciously, she lifted her chin. “I’ve worked my way up from gofer to staff reporter in five years.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Neither are most of yours,” she mumbled.
“True enough. What’re you looking for there?”
“Success,” she said immediately. “Security.”
“One doesn’t always equal the other.”
Her voice was as defiant as the look she aimed at him. “You have both.”
“A writer’s never secure,” Hunter disagreed. “Only a foolish one expects to be. I’ve read all of the manuscript you brought.”
Lee said nothing. She’d known he’d bring it up before the two weeks were over, but she’d hoped to put it off a bit longer. The faintest of breezes played with the ends of her hair while she sat, staring at the moving waters of the creek. Some of the pebbles looked like gems. Such were illusions.
“You know you have to finish it,” he told her calmly. “You can’t make me believe you’re content to leave your characters in limbo, when you’ve drawn them so carefully. Your story’s two-thirds told, Lenore.”
“I don’t have time,” she began.
“Not good enough.”
Frustrated, she turned to him again. “Easy for you to say from your little pinnacle of fame. I have a demanding full-time job. If I give it my time and my talent, there’s no place I can go but up at Celebrity.”
“Your novel needs your time and talent.”
She didn’t like the way he said it—as if she had no real choice. “Hunter, I didn’t come here to discuss my work, but you and yours. I’m flattered that you think my novel has some merit, but I have a job to do.”
“Flattered?” he countered. The deep, black gaze pinned her again, and his hand closed over hers. “No, you’re not. You wish I’d never seen your novel and you don’t want to discuss it. Even if you were convinced it was worthwhile, you’d still be afraid to put it all on the line.”
The truth grated on her nerves and on her temper. “My job is my first priority. Whether that suits you or not doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business.”
“No, perhaps not,” he said slowly, watching her. “You’ve got a fish on your line.”
“I don’t want you to—” Eyes narrowing, she broke off. “What?”
“There’s a fish on your line,” he repeated. “You’d better reel it in.”
“I’ve got one?” Stunned, Lee felt the rod jerk in her hands. “I’ve got one! Oh, God.” She gripped the rod in both hands again and watched the line jiggle. “I’ve really caught one. What do I do now?”
“Reel it in,” Hunter suggested again, leaning back on the grass.
“Aren’t you going to help?” Her hands felt foolishly clumsy as she started to crank the reel. Hoping leverage would give her some advantage, she scrambled to her feet. “Hunter, I don’t know what I’m doing. I might lose it.”
“Your fish,” he pointed out. Grinning, he watched her. Would she look any more exuberant if she’d been given an interview with the president? Somehow, Hunter didn’t think so, though he was sure Lee would disagree. But then, she couldn’t see herself at that moment, hair mussed, cheeks glowing, eyes wide and her tongue caught firmly between her teeth. The late-morning sunlight did exquisite things to her skin, and the quick laugh she gave when she pulled the struggling fish from the water ran over the back of his neck like soft fingers.
Desire moved lazily through him as he took his gaze up the long length of leg flattered by brief shorts, then over the subtle curves accented by the shifting of muscle under her shirt as she continued to fight with the fish, to her face, still flushed with surprise.
“Hunter!” She laughed as she held the still-wriggling fish high over the grass. “I did it.”
It was nearly as big as the largest one he’d caught that week. He pursed his lips as he sized it up. It was tempting to compliment her, but he decided she looked smug enough already. “Gotta get it off the hook,” he reminded her, shifting only slightly on his elbows.
“Off the hook?” Lee shot him an astonished look. “I don’t want to touch it.”
“You have to touch it to take it off the hook.”
Lee lifted a brow. “I’ll just toss it back in.”
With a shrug, Hunter shut his eyes and enjoyed the faint breeze. The hell she would. “Your fish, not mine.”
Torn between an abhorrence of touching the still-flopping fish and pride at having caught it, Lee stared down at Hunter. He wasn’t going to help; that was painfully obvious. If she threw the fish back into the water, he’d smirk at her for the rest of the evening. Intolerable. And, she reasoned logically, wouldn’t she still have to touch it to get rid of it? Setting her teeth, Lee reached out a hand for the catch of the day.
It was wet, slippery and cold. She pulled her hand back. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hunter grinning up at her. Holding her breath, Lee took the trout firmly in one hand and wiggled the hook out with the other. If he hadn’t been looking at her, challenging her, she never would’ve managed it. With the haughtiest air at her disposal, she dropped the trout into the small cooler Hunter brought along on fishing trips.
“Very good.” He closed the lid on the cooler before he reeled in his line. “That looks like enough for tonight’s dinner. You caught a good-sized one, Lenore.”
“Thank you.” The words were icily polite and self-satisfied.
“It’ll nearly be enough for both of us, even after you’ve cleaned it.”
“It’s as big as…” He was already walking back toward camp, so that she had to run to catch up with him and his statement. “I clean it?”
“Rule is, you catch, you clean.”
She planted her feet, but he wasn’t paying attention. “I’m not cleaning any fish.”
“Then you don’t eat any fish.” His words were as offhand and careless as a shrug.
Abandoning pride, Lee caught at his arm. “Hunter, you’ll have to change the rule.” She sighed, but convinced herself she wouldn’t choke on the word. At least not very much. “Please.”
He stopped, considering. “If I clean it, you’ve got to balance the scales—” the smile flickered over his face “—no pun intended, by doing me a favor.”
“I can cook two nights in a row.”
“I said a favor.”
Her head turned sharply, but one look at his face had her laughing. “All right, what’s the deal?”
“Why don’t we leave it open-ended?” he suggested. “I don’t have anything in mind at the moment.”
This time, she considered. “It’ll be negotiable?”
“Naturally.”
“Deal.” Turning her palms up, Lee wrinkled her nose. “Now I’m going to wash my hands.”
She hadn’t realized she could get such a kick out of catching a fish or out of cooking it herself over an open fire. There were other things Lee hadn’t realized. She hadn’t looked at the trim gold watch on her wrist in days. If she hadn’t kept a journal, she probably wouldn’t know what day it was. It was true that her muscles still revolted after a night in the tent and the shower facilities were an inconvenience at best, purgatory at worst, but despite herself she was relaxing.
For the first time in her memory, her day wasn’t regimented, by herself or by anyone else. She got up when she woke, slept when she was tired and ate when she was hungry. For the moment, the word deadline didn’t exist. That was something she hadn’t allowed herself since the day she’d walked out of her parents’ home in Palm Springs.
No matter how rapid Hunter could make her pulse by one of those unexpected looks, or how much desire for him simmered under the surface, she found him comfortable to be with. Because it was so unlikely, Lee didn’t try to find the reasons. On this late afternoon, in the hour before dusk, she was content to sit by the fire and tend supper.
“I never knew anything could smell so good.”
Hunter continued to pour a cup of coffee before he glanced over at her. “We cooked fish two days ago.”
“Your fish,” Lee pointed out, carefully turning the trout. “This one’s mine.”
He grinned, wondering if she remembered just how horrified she’d been the first time he’d suggested she pick up a rod and reel. “Beginner’s luck.”
Lee opened her mouth, ready with a biting retort, then saw the way he smiled at her. Not only did her retort vanish, but so did much of her defensive wall. She let out a long, quiet breath as she turned back to the skillet. The man became only more dangerous with familiarity. “If fishing depends on luck,” she managed, “you’ve had more than your share.”
“Everything depends on luck.” He held out two plates. Lee slipped the sizzling trout onto them, then sat back to enjoy.
“If you believe that, what about fate? You’ve said more than once that we can fight against our fate, but we can’t win.”
He lifted a brow. That consistently sharp, consistently logical mind of hers never failed to impress him. “One works with the other.” He tasted a bit of trout, noting that she’d been careful enough not to singe her own catch. “It’s your fate to be here, with me. You were lucky enough to catch a fish for dinner.”
“It sounds to me as though you twist things to your own point of view.”
“Yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“I suppose.” Lee ate, thoughtfully studying the view over his shoulder. Had anything ever tasted this wonderful? Would anything ever again? “But not everyone makes it work as well as you.” Reluctantly, she accepted some of the dried fruit he offered. He seemed to have an unending supply, but Lee had yet to grow used to the taste or texture.
“If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
Perhaps because he’d asked without preamble, perhaps because she was so unexpectedly relaxed, Lee answered without thinking. “I’d have more.”
He didn’t, as her parents had done, ask more what. Hunter only nodded. “We could say it’s your fate to want it, and your luck to have it or not.”
Nibbling on an apricot, she studied him. The lowering light and flickering fire cast his face in shadows. They suited him. The short, rough beard surrounded the poet’s mouth, making it all the more compelling. He was a man a woman would never be able to ignore, never be able to forget. Lee wondered if he knew it. Then she nearly laughed. Of course he did. He knew entirely too much.
“What about you?” She leaned forward a bit, as she did whenever the answer was important. “What would you change?”
He smiled in the way that made her blood heat. “I’d take more,” he said quietly.
She felt the shiver race up her spine, was all but certain Hunter could see it. Lee found she was compelled to remind herself of her job. “You know,” she began easily enough, “you’ve told me quite a bit over this week, more in some ways than I’d expected, but much less in others.” Steady again, she took another bite of trout. “I might understand you quite a bit better if you’d give me a run-through of a typical day.”
He ate, enjoying the tender, open-air flavor. The clouds were rolling in, the breeze picking up. He wondered if she noticed. “There’s no such thing as a typical day.”
“You’re evading again.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s my job to pin you down.”
He watched her over the rim of his coffee cup. “I like watching you do your job.”
She laughed. It seemed he could always frustrate and amuse her at the same time. “Hunter, why do I have the feeling you’re doing your best to make this difficult for me?”
“You’re very perceptive.” Setting his plate aside, he began to toy with the ends of her hair in a habit she could never take casually. “I have an image of a woman with a romantic kind of beauty and an orderly, logical mind.”
“Hunter—”
“Wait, I’m just fleshing her out. She’s ambitious, full of nerves, highly sensuous without being fully aware of it.” He could see her eyes change, growing as dark as the sky above them. “She’s caught in the middle of something she can’t explain or understand. Things happen around her and she’s finding it more and more difficult to distance herself from it. And there’s a man, a man she desires but can’t quite trust. He doesn’t offer her the logical explanations she wants, but the illogic he offers seems terrifyingly close to the truth. If she puts her trust in him, she has to turn her back on most of what she believes is fact. If she doesn’t, she’ll be alone.”
He was talking to her, about her, for her. Lee knew her throat was dry and her palms were damp, but she didn’t know if it was from his words or the light touch on the ends of her hair. “You’re trying to frighten me by weaving a plot around me.”
“I’m weaving a plot around you,” Hunter agreed. “Whether I frighten you or not depends on how successful I am with that plot. Shadows and storms are my business.” As if on cue, lightning snaked out in the sky overhead. “But all writers need a foil. Smooth, pale skin—” He stroked the back of his hand up her cheek. “Soft hair with touches of gold and fire. Against that I have darkness, wind, voices that speak from shadows. Logic against the impossible. The unspeakable against cool, polished beauty.”
She swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat and tried to speak casually. “I suppose I should be flattered, but I’m not sure I want to see myself molded into a character in a horror story.”
“That comes back to fate again, doesn’t it?” Lightning ripped through the early dusk as their eyes met again. “I need you, Lenore,” he murmured. “For the tale I have to tell—and more.”
Nerves prickled along her skin, all the more frantically because of the relaxed hours. “It’s going to rain.” But her voice wasn’t calm and even. Her senses were already swimming. When she started to rise, she found that her hand was caught in his and that he stood with her. The wind blew around her, stirring leaves, stirring desire. The light dimmed to shadow. Thunder rumbled.
What she saw in his eyes chilled her, then heated her blood so quickly she had no way to keep up with the change. The grip on her hand was light. Lee could’ve broken the hold if she’d had the will to do so. It was his look that drained the will from her. They stood there, hands touching, eyes locked, while the storm swirled like madness around them.
Perhaps life was made up of the choices Hunter had once spoken of. Perhaps luck swayed the balance. But at that moment, for hardly more than a heartbeat, Lee believed that fate ruled everything. She was meant to go to him, to give to him, with no more choice than one of the characters his imagination formed.
Then the sky opened. The rain poured out. The shock of the sudden drenching had Lee jolting back, breaking contact. Yet for several long seconds she stood still while water ran over her and lightning flashed in wicked bolts.
“Damn it!” But he knew she spoke to him, not the storm. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
Hunter smiled, barely resisting the urge to cup her face in his hands and kiss her until her legs gave way. “Head for drier land.” He continued to smile despite the rain, the wind, the lightning.
Wet, edgy and angry, Lee crawled inside the tent. He’s enjoying this, she thought, tugging on the sodden laces of her boots. There’s nothing he likes better than to see me at my worst. It would probably take a week for the boots to dry out, she thought grimly as she managed to pry the first one off.
When Hunter slipped into the tent beside her, she said nothing. Concentrating on anger seemed the best solution. The pounding of the rain on the sides of the tent made the space inside seem to shrink. She’d never been more aware of him, or of herself. Water dripped uncomfortably down her neck as she leaned forward to pull off her socks.
“I don’t suppose this’ll last long.”
Hunter pulled the sodden shirt over his head. “I wouldn’t count on it stopping much before morning.”
“Terrific.” She shivered and wondered how the hell she was supposed to get out of the wet clothes and into dry ones.
Hunter turned the lantern he’d carried in with him down to a dim glow. “Relax and listen to it. It’s different from rain in the city. There’s no swish of tires on wet asphalt, no horns, no feet running on the sidewalk.” He took a towel out of his pack and began to dry her hair.
“I can do it.” She reached up, but his hands continued to massage.
“I like to do it. Wet fire,” he murmured. “That’s what your hair looks like now.”
He was so close she could smell the rain on him. The heat from his body called subtly, temptingly, to hers. Was the rain suddenly louder, or were her senses more acute? For a moment, she thought she could hear each individual drop as it hit the tent. The light was dim, a smoky gray that held touches of unreality. Lee felt as though she’d been running away from this one isolated spot all her life. Or perhaps she’d been running toward it.
“You need to shave,” she murmured, and found that her hand was already reaching out to touch the untrimmed growth of beard on his face. “This hides too much. You’re already difficult to know.”
“Am I?” He moved the towel over her hair, soothing and arousing by turns.
“You know you are.” She didn’t want to turn away now, from the look that could infuse such warmth through her chilled, damp skin. Lightning flashed, illuminating the tent brilliantly before plunging it back into gloom. Yet, through the gloom she could see all she needed to, perhaps more than she wanted to. “It’s my job to find out more, to find out everything.”
“And my right to tell you only what I want to.”
“We just don’t look at things the same way.”
“No.”
She took the towel and, half dreaming, began to dry his hair. “We have no business being together like this.”
He hadn’t known desire with claws. If he didn’t touch her soon, he’d be ripped through. “Why?”
“We’re too different. You look for the unexplainable, I look for the logical.” But his mouth was so near hers, and his eyes held such power. “Hunter…” She knew what was going to happen, recognized the impossibility of it and the pain that was bound to follow. “I don’t want this to happen.”
He didn’t touch her, though he was certain he’d soon be mad from the lack of it. “You have a choice.”
“No.” It was said quietly, almost on a sigh. “I don’t think I do.” She let the towel fall. She saw the flicker of lightning and waited, six long heartbeats, for the answering thunder. “Maybe neither one of us has a choice.”
Her breath was already unsteady as she let her hands curl over his bare shoulders. There was strength there. She wanted to feel it, but had been afraid to. His eyes never left hers as she touched him. Though the force of need curled tight in his stomach, he’d let her set the pace this first time, this most important time.
Her fingers were long and smooth on his skin, cool, not so much hesitant as cautious. They ran down his arms, moving slowly over his chest and back until desire was taut as a bow poised for firing. The sound of the rain drummed in his head. Her face was pale and elegant in the gloomy light. The tent was suddenly too big. He wanted her in a space that was too small to move in unless they moved together.
She could hardly believe she could touch him this way, freely, openly, so that his skin quivered under the trace of her fingers. All the while, he watched her with a passion so fierce it would have terrified her if she hadn’t been so dazed with her own need. Carefully, afraid to make the wrong move and break the mood for both of them, she touched her mouth to his.
The rough brush of beard was a stunning contrast to the softness of his lips. He gave back to her such feelings, such warmth, with no pressure. She’d never known anyone who could give without taking. This generosity was, to her, the ultimate seduction. In that moment, any reserve she’d clung to was washed away. Her arms went around his neck, her cheek pressed to his.
“Make love to me, Hunter.”
He drew her away, only far enough so that they could see each other again. Wet hair curled around her face. Her eyes were as the sky had been an hour before. Dusky and clouded. “With.”
Her lips curved. Her heart opened. He poured inside. “Make love with me.”
Then his hands were framing her face, and the kiss was so gentle it drugged every cell of her body. She felt him tug the wet shirt from her, and shivered once before he warmed her. His body felt so strong against hers, so solid, yet his hands played over her with the care of a jeweler polishing a rare gem. He sighed when she touched him, so she touched once again, wanting to give pleasure as it was given to her.
She’d thought the panic would return, or at least the need to rush. But they’d been given all the time in the world. The rain could fall, the thunder bellow. It didn’t involve them. She tasted hunger on his lips, but he held it in check. He’d sup slowly. Pleasure bubbled up inside her and came softly through her lips.
His mouth on her breast had the need leaping up to the next plane. Yet he didn’t hurry, even when she arched against him. His tongue flicked, his teeth nibbled, until he could feel the crazed desire vibrating through her. She thought only of him now, Hunter knew it even as he struggled to hold the reins of his own passion. She’d have more. She’d take all. And so, by God, would he.
When she struggled with the snap of his jeans, he let her have her way. He wanted to be flesh-to-flesh with her, body-to-body, without barriers. In his mind, he’d already had her bare, like this, a dozen times. Her hair was cool and wet, her skin smooth and fragrant. Spring flowers and summer rain. The scents raced through him as her hands became more urgent.
Her breathing was ragged as she tugged the wet denim down his legs. She recognized strength, power and control. It was only the last she needed to break so that she could have what she ached for.
Wherever she could reach, she touched, she tasted, wallowing in pleasure each time she heard his breath tremble. Her shorts were drawn slowly down her body by strong, clever hands, until she wore nothing but the lacy triangle riding low on her hips. With his lips, he journeyed down, down her body, slowly, so that the bristle of beard awakened every pore. His tongue slid under the lace, making her gasp. Then, as abruptly as the storm had broken, Lee was lost in a morass of sensation too dark, too deep, to understand.
He felt her explode, and the power sang through him. He heard her call his name, and the greed to hear it again almost overwhelmed him. Bracing himself over her, Hunter held back that final, desperate need until she opened her eyes. She’d look at him when they came together. He’d promised himself that.
Dazed, trembling, frenzied, Lee stared at him. He looked invincible. “What do you want from me?”
His mouth swooped down on hers, and for the first time the kiss was hard, urgent, almost brutal with the force of passion finally unleashed. “Everything.” He plunged into her, catapulting them both closer to the crest. “Everything.”