Hunter (4 page)

He put the luggage into the back of his sedan and opened the passenger door for her. He had excellent manners, she thought, and wondered if his mother had taught him the social graces or if he'd learned them in the service. So many questions she wanted to ask, but she knew he'd just ignore them, the way he ignored any questions he didn't want to answer.

He drove the way he did everything else, with confidence and poise. Near collisions, bottlenecks, slow traffic, nothing seemed to disturb him. He eased the car in and out of lanes with no trouble at all, and soon they were at the airport.

She noticed that he didn't request seats together. But the ticket agent apparently decided that they wanted them, to her secret delight, and put them in adjoining seats. That was when she realized how lovesick she was, hungry for just the accidental brush of his arm or leg. She had to get a grip on herself!

He sat completely at ease in his seat while she ground her teeth together and tried to remember all the statistics on how safe air travel really was.

“Now what's wrong?” he murmured, glancing darkly down at her as the flight attendants moved into place to demonstrate emergency procedures.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Then why do you have a death-grip on the arms of your seat?” he asked politely.

“So that I won't get separated from it when we crash,” she replied, closing her eyes tight.

He chuckled softly. “I never took you for a coward,” he said. “Are you the same woman who helped me set up enemy agents only a few weeks ago?”

“That was different,” she protested. She lifted her blue eyes to his dark ones and her gaze was trapped. Her breath sighed out, and she wondered which was really the more dangerous, the plane or Hunter.

He couldn't seem to drag his eyes from hers, and he found that irritating. At close quarters, she was beautiful. Dynamite. All soft curves and a sexy voice and a mouth that he wanted very much to kiss. But that way lay disaster. He couldn't afford to forget the danger of involvement. He had a life-style that he couldn't easily share with any woman, but most especially with a white woman. All the same, she smelled sweet and floral, and she looked so beautifully cool. He wanted to dishevel her.

He averted his face to watch the flight attendants go through the drill that preceded every flight, grateful for the interruption. He had to stop looking at Jennifer like that.

They were airborne before either of them spoke again.

“These people that you think are following us,” she said softly, “is it the same group that broke into my apartment?”

“More than likely,” he said. “You have to remember that strategic metals tend to fluctuate on the world market according to the old law of supply and demand. When a new use is found for a strategic metal, it becomes immediately more valuable.”

“And an increase in one industry can cause it, too,” she replied.

He nodded. She was quick. He liked her brain as much as her body, but he wasn't going to let her know that. “We didn't pick up the ringleader, you remember. He got away,” he added with a cold glare at her.

She flushed. She didn't like being reminded of how helpless she'd felt. “I didn't ask you to stop to see about me,” she defended.

He knew that. The memory of seeing her lying inert on the floor still haunted him. That was when he'd first realized he was vulnerable. Now he seemed to spend all his time trying to forget that night. The agents, his job to protect Jenny and the company, had all been momentarily forgotten when the agent knocked her down in his haste to get away. Hunter had been too shaken by Jennifer's prone position to run after the man. And that was what made him so angry. Not the fact that the agent had gotten away, but the fact that his concern for Jennifer had outweighed his dedication to his work. That was a first in his life.

“We're transferring to another flight in Phoenix, under different names,” he said, lowering his voice. “With luck, the agents will pursue us on to California before they realize we're gone.”

“How are we going to give them the slip? Are they on the plane?”

He smiled without looking at her. “Yes, they're about five rows behind us. We're going to get off supposedly to stretch our legs before the plane goes on to Tucson. We transfer to another airline, though, instead of coming back.”

“What if they follow us?”

“I'd see them,” he murmured dryly. “The rule of thumb in tracking someone is to never let your presence be discovered. Lose the subject first. This isn't the first time I've played cat and mouse with these people. I know them.”

That said it all, she supposed, but she was glad she could leave all the details to him. Her job was field geology, not espionage. She glanced up at him, allowing herself a few precious seconds of adoration before she jerked her eyes back down and pretended to read a magazine.

She didn't fool Hunter. He'd felt that shy appraisal and it worried him more than the agents did. Being alone with Jennifer on the desert was asking for trouble. He was going to make sure that he was occupied tonight, and that they wouldn't set out until tomorrow. Maybe in that length of time, he could explain the situation to his body and keep it from doing something stupid.

It was a short trip, as flights went. They'd just finished breakfast when they were circling to land at the Tucson airport.

Hunter had everything arranged. Motel reservations, a rental car, the whole works. And it all worked to perfection until they got to the motel desk and the desk clerk handed them two keys, to rooms on different floors.

“No, that won't do,” Hunter replied with a straight face, and without looking at Jennifer. “We're honeymooners,” he said. “We want a double room.

“Oh! I'm sorry, sir. Congratulations,” the clerk said with a pleasant smile.

Dreams came true, Jenny thought, picturing all sorts of delicious complications during that night together. The desk clerk handed him a key after he signed them in—as Mr. and Mrs. Camp. Nice of Hunter to tell her their married name, she thought with faint amusement. But it was typical of him to keep everything to himself.

He unlocked the door, waited for the bellboy to put their luggage and equipment in the room, and tipped the man.

They were alone. He closed the door and turned to her, his dark eyes assessing as he saw the faint unease on her face. “Don't start panicking,” he said curtly. “I won't assault you. This is the best way to keep up the masquerade, that's all.”

She colored. “I didn't say a word,” she reminded him.

He wandered around the room with some strange electronic gadget in one hand and checked curtains and lamps. “No bugs,” he said eventually. “But that doesn't mean much. I'm pretty sure we're being observed. Don't leave the room unless I'm with you, and don't mention anything about why we're here. Is that clear?”

“Why don't we just go out into the desert and camp?”

“We 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.