Hunter. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ have to have camping gear,” he explained with mocking patience. “It’s too late to start buying it now. The morning’s over. We’ll start out later in the afternoon.”

      “All right.” She put her suitcases on the side of the room that was nearest the bathroom, hesitating.

      “Whichever bed you want is yours,” he said without inflection. He was busy watching out the window. “I can sleep anywhere.”

      And probably had, she thought, remembering some of his assignments that she’d heard about. She put her attaché case with her maps on the bed, and her laptop computer on the side table, taking time to plug its adapter into the wall socket so that it could stay charged up. It only had a few hours’ power between charges.

      “Give me that case,” he said suddenly. He took the case with the maps and opened it, hiding a newspaper he’d brought into the case and then putting it in a dresser drawer with one of his shirts over it. The maps he tucked into a pair of his jeans and left them in his suitcase.

      Jenny lifted an amused eyebrow. He had a shrewd mind. She almost said so, but it might reveal too much about her feelings if she told him. She unpacked her suitcase instead and began to hang up her clothes. She left her underthings and her long cotton gown in the suitcase, too shy of Hunter to put them in a drawer in front of him.

      The gown brought to mind a question that had only just occurred. Should she put it on tonight, or would it look like an invitation? And worse, did he sleep without clothes? Some men did. She’d watched him put his things away out of the corner of her eye, and she hadn’t seen either a robe or anything that looked like pajamas. She groaned inwardly. Wouldn’t that be a great question to ask a man like Hunter, and how would she put it? Isn’t this a keen room, Mr. Hunter, and by the way, do you sleep stark naked, because if you do, is it all right if I spend the night in the bathtub?

      She laughed under her breath. Wouldn’t that take the starch out of his socks, she thought with humor. Imagine, a woman her age and with her looks being that ignorant about a man’s body. Despite the women’s magazines she’d seen from time to time, with their graphic studies of nude men, there was a big difference in a photograph and a real, live man.

      “Is something bothering you?” he asked suddenly.

      The question startled her into blurting out the truth. “Do you wear pajamas?” she asked, and her face went scarlet.

      “Why?” he replied with a straight face. “Do you need to borrow them, or were you thinking of buying me a pair if I say no?”

      She averted her face. “Sorry. I’m not used to sharing a room with a man, that’s all.”

      No way could he believe that she’d never spent a night with a man. More than likely she was nervous of him. “We’re supposed to be honeymooners,” he said with faint sarcasm. “It would look rather odd to spend the night in separate rooms.”

      “Of course.” She just wanted to drop the whole subject. “Could we get lunch? I’m starving.”

      “I want to check with my people first,” he told her. “I’ve got a couple of operatives down here doing some investigative work on another project. I won’t be long.”

      She’d thought he meant to phone, but he went out of the room.

      Jenny sprawled on her bed, cursing her impulsive tongue. Now he’d think she was a simpleminded prude as well as a pain in the neck. Great going, Jenny, she told herself. What a super way to get off on the right foot, asking your reluctant roommate about his night wear. Fortunately he hadn’t pursued the subject.

      He was back an hour later. She’d put on her reading glasses, the ones she used for close work because she was hopelessly farsighted, and was plugging away on her laptop computer, going over detailed graphic topo maps of the area, sprawled across the bed with her back against the headboard and the computer on her lap. Not the best way to use the thing, and against the manufacturer’s specs, but it was much more comfortable than trying to use the motel’s table and chairs.

      “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he remarked, watching her.

      “You didn’t?” she asked with mock astonishment. “Why, Mr. Hunter, I was sure you’d know more about me than I know myself—don’t you have a file on all the staff in your office?”

      “Don’t be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.” He stretched out on the other bed, powerful muscles rippling in his lean body, and she had to fight not to stare. He was beautifully made from head to toe, an old maid’s dream.

      She punched in more codes and concentrated on her maps.

      “What kind of mineral are you and Eugene looking for?” he asked curiously.

      She pursed her lips and glanced at him with gleeful malice. “Make a guess,” she invited.

      She realized her mistake immediately and could have bitten her lip through. He sat up and threw his long legs off the bed, moving to her side with threatening grace. He took the laptop out of her hands and put it on the table before he got her by the wrists and pulled her up against his body. The proximity made her knees go weak. He smelled of spicy cologne and soap, and his breath had a coffee scent, as if he’d been meeting his operatives in a café. His grip was strong and exciting, and she loved the feel of his body so close to hers. Perhaps, subconsciously, this was what she’d expected when she antagonized him…

      “Little girls throw rocks at boys they like,” he said at her forehead. “Is that what you’re doing, figuratively speaking? Because if it is,” he added, and his grip on her wrists tightened even as his voice grew deeper, slower, “I’m not in the market for a torrid interlude on the job, cover girl.”

      She could have gone through the floor with shame. The worst of it was that she didn’t even have a comeback. He saw right through her. With his advantage in age and experience, that wasn’t really surprising. She knew, too, from gossip that he disliked white women. Probably they saw him as a unique experience more than a man. She didn’t feel that way, but she couldn’t admit it.

      “I’m not trying to get your attention. I’m tired and when I’m tired, I get silly,” she said too quickly, talking to his shirt as she stiffened with fear of giving herself away. Odd, the jerky way he was breathing, and the fabric was moving as if his heartbeat was very heavy. Her body was melting, this close to his. “You don’t have to warn me off. I know better than to make a play for you.”

      The remark diverted him. “Do you? Why?” he asked curtly.

      “They say you hate women,” she replied. “Especially,” she added, forcing her blue eyes up to his narrowed dark ones, “white women.”

      He nodded slowly. His gaze held hers, and then drifted down to her soft bow of a mouth with its faint peach lipstick, and further, to the firm thrust of her breasts almost but not quite touching his shirtfront. He remembered another beautiful blond, the one who’d deserted him when he’d been five years old. Her Apache child had been an embarrassment in her social circles. By then, of course, her activist phase was over, and she had her sights on one of her own people. Some years back, he’d been taken in by a socialite himself. An Apache escort had been unique, for a little while, until he’d mentioned a permanent commitment. And she’d laughed. My God, marry a man who lived on a reservation? The memories bit into him like teeth.

      He СКАЧАТЬ