Summer Pleasures Page 5

“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 imperceptively 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 of 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 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.

  Chapter 4

  Anger. Perhaps what Lee felt was simple anger without other eddies and currents of emotion, but she wasn’t certain whom she felt angry with.

  What had happened the evening before could have been avoided—should have been, she corrected as she stepped out of the shower. Because she’d allowed Hunter to set the pace and the tone, she’d put herself in a vulnerable position and she’d wasted a valuable opportunity. If Lee had learned anything in her years as a reporter, it was that a wasted opportunity was the most destructive mistake in the business.

  How much did she know of Hunter Brown that could be used in a concise, informative article? Enough for a paragraph, Lee thought in disgust. A very short paragraph.

  She might have only one chance to make up for lost time. Time lost because she’d let herself feel like a woman instead of thinking like a reporter. He’d led her along on a leash, she admitted bitterly, rubbing a towel over her dripping hair while the heat lamp in the ceiling warmed her skin. Instead of balking, she’d gone obediently where he’d taken her. And had missed the most important interview of her career. Lee tossed down the towel and stalked out of the steamy bathroom.

  Telling herself she felt nothing but annoyance for him and for herself, Lee pulled on a robe before she sat down at the small writing desk. She still had some time before room service would deliver her first cup of coffee, but there wasn’t any more time to waste. Business first… and last. She pulled out a pad and pencil.

  HUNTER BROWN. Lee headed the top of the pad in bold letters and underlined the name. The problem had been, she admitted, that she hadn’t approached Hunter—the assignment—logically, systematically. She could correct that now with a basic outline. She had, after all, seen him, spoken to him, asked him a few elementary questions. As far as she knew, no other reporter could make such a claim. It was time to stop berating herself for not tying everything up neatly in a matter of hours and make the slim advantage she still had work for her. She began to write in a decisive hand.

  APPEARANCE. Not typical. Now there was a positive statement, she thought with a frown. In three bold strokes, she crossed out the words. Dark; lean, rangy build, she wrote. Like a long-distance runner, a cross-country skier. Her eyes narrowed as she brought his face to the foreground of her memory. Rugged face, offset by an air of intelligence. Most outstanding feature—eyes. Very dark, very direct, very… unnerving.

  Was that editorializing? she asked herself. Would those long, quiet stares disturb everyone? Shrugging the question away, Lee continued to write. Tall, perhaps six-one, approximately a hundred sixty pounds. Very confident. Musician’s hands, poet’s mouth.

  A bit surprised by her own description, Lee went o
n to her next category.

  PERSONALITY. Enigmatic. Not enough, she decided, huffing slightly. Arrogant, self-absorbed, rude. Definitely editorializing. She set down her pen and took a deep breath, then picked it up again. A skilled, mesmerizing speaker, she admitted in print. Perceptive, cool, taciturn and open by turns, physical.

  The last word had been a mistake, Lee discovered, as it brought back the memory of that long, soft, draining kiss, the gentleness of the mouth, the firmness of his hands. No, that wasn’t for publication, nor would she need notes to bring back all the details, all the sensations. She would, however, be wise to remember that he was a man who moved quickly when he chose, a man who apparently took precisely what he wanted.

  Humor? Yes, under the intensity there was humor in him. She didn’t like recalling how he’d laughed at her, but when she had such a dearth of material, she needed every detail, uncomfortable or not.

  She remembered every word he’d said on his philosophy of writing. But how could she translate something so intangible into a few clean, pragmatic sentences? She could say he thought of his work as an obligation. A vocation. It just wasn’t enough, she thought in frustration. She needed his own words here, not a translation of his meaning. The simple truth was, she had to speak to him again.

  Dragging a hand through her hair, she read over her orderly notes. She should have held the reins of the conversation from the very beginning. If she was an expert on anything, it was on channeling and steering talk along the lines she wanted. She’d interviewed subjects more closemouthed than Hunter, more hostile, but she couldn’t remember any more frustrating. Absently, she began to tap the end of her pencil against the table. It wasn’t her job to be frustrated, but to be productive. It wasn’t her job, she added, to allow herself to be so utterly seduced by an assignment.

  She could have prevented the kiss. It still wasn’t clear to Lee why she hadn’t. She could have controlled her response to it. She didn’t want to dwell on why she hadn’t. It was much too easy to remember that long, strangely intense moment and in remembering, to feel it all again. If she was going to prevent herself from doing that, and remember instead all the reasons she’d come to Flagstaff, she had to put Hunter Brown firmly in the category of assignment and keep him there. For now, her biggest problem was how she was going to manage to see him again.