Hunter. Diana Palmer
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 released Jennifer abruptly with a roughness that wasn’t quite in character.
“I’m sorry,” she said when she saw the expression in his dark eyes. She winced, as if she could actually feel his pain. “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories for you.”
His expression was frightening at that moment. “What do you know about me?” he asked, his voice cutting.
She managed a wan smile and moved away from him. “I don’t know anything, Mr. Hunter. Nobody does. Your life is a locked door and there’s no key. But you looked…” She turned and glanced back at him, and her hands lifted and fell helplessly. “I don’t know. Wounded.” She averted her eyes. “I’d better get this put away.”
Her perception floored him. She was a puzzle he’d never solved, and despite his security files, he knew very little about her own private life. There were no men at the office, he knew. She was discreet, if nothing else. In fact, he thought, studying her absently with narrowed eyes as she put away her computer, he’d never heard of her dating a man in all the years she’d been with the company. He’d never seen her flirt with a man, and even those she worked with treated her as just one of the boys. That fact had never occurred to him before. She kept her distance from men as a rule. Even out in the field, where working conditions were much more relaxed, Jennifer went without makeup, in floppy shirts and loose jeans, and she kept to herself after working hours. He’d once seen her cut a man dead who was trying to make a play for her. Her eyes had gone an icy blue, her face rigid with distaste, and even though she hadn’t said much, her would-be suitor got the message in flying colors. Hunter wouldn’t admit, even to himself, how that action had damned her in his eyes. Seeing her put in the knife had made him more determined than ever not to risk his emotions with her. There were too many hard memories of his one smoldering passion for a white woman, and its humiliating result. And, even longer ago than that, his mother’s contempt for him, her desertion.
He turned away from Jennifer, busying himself with the surveillance equipment one of his cases contained. He redistributed the equipment in the case and closed it.
“Why do we have to have all that?” she queried suddenly.
He nodded toward her computer and equipment. “Why do you have to have all that?” he countered.
“It’s part of my working gear,” she said simply.
“You’ve answered your own question.” He checked his watch. “Let’s get something to eat. Then we’ll have a look at camping supplies.”
“The joy of expense accounts,” she murmured as she got her purse and put away her reading glasses. “I wonder if Eugene will mind letting me have a jungle hammock? I slept in one when I was a kid. We camped next to two streams, and they were like a lullaby in the darkness.”
“You can have a jungle hammock if you think you can find a place to hang it.”
“All we need is two trees….”
He turned, his hands on his lean hips, his dark face enigmatic. “The desert is notorious for its lack of trees. Haven’t you ever watched any Western movies?” he added, and came very close to a smile. “Remember the Indians chasing the soldiers in John Wayne movies, and the soldiers having to dive into dry washes or gulches for cover?”
She stared at him, fascinated. “Yes. I didn’t think you’d watch that kind of movie…” She colored, embarrassed.
“Because the solders won?” he mused. “That’s history. But the Apache fought them to a standstill several times. And Louis L’Amour did a story called Hondo that was made into a movie with John Wayne.” He lifted an eyebrow. “It managed to show Apaches in a good light, for once.”
“I read about Cochise when I was in school. And Mangas Coloradas and Victorio…”