Second Nature: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“Time’s fickle,” he commented. “When you need it, there’s too little of it. Then you wake up at three o’clock in the morning, and there’s too much of it. It’s usually better to take it than to anticipate it. You might try that,” he said, looking down at her again. “It might help your nerves.”

Her brows drew together. “There’s nothing wrong with my nerves.”

“Some people can thrive on nervous energy for weeks at a time, then they have to find that little valve that lets the steam escape.” For the first time, he touched her, just fingertips to the ends of her hair. But she felt it, experienced it, as hard and strong as if his hand had closed firmly over hers. “What do you do to let the steam escape, Lenore?”

She didn’t stiffen, or casually nudge his hand away as she would have done at any other time. Instead, she stood still, toying with a sensation she couldn’t remember ever experiencing before. Thunder and lightning, she thought. There was thunder and lightning in this man, deep under the strangely aloof, oddly open exterior. She wasn’t about to be caught in the storm.

“I work,” she said easily, but her fingers had tightened on the handle of her briefcase. “I don’t need any other escape valve.” She didn’t step back, but let the haughtiness that had always protected her enter her tone. “No one calls me Lenore.”

“No?” He nearly smiled. It was this look, she realized, the secret amusement the onlooker could only guess at rather than see, that most intrigued. She thought he probably knew that. “But it suits you. Feminine, elegant, a little distant. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore’! Yes.” He let his fingertips linger a moment longer on her hair. “I think Poe would’ve found you very apt.”

Before she could prevent it, before she could anticipate it, her knees were weak. She’d felt the sound of her own name feather over her skin. “Who are you?” Lee found herself demanding. Was it possible to be so deeply affected by someone without even knowing his name? She stepped forward in what seemed to be a challenge. “Just who are you?”

He smiled again, with the oddly gentle charm that shouldn’t have suited his eyes yet somehow did. “Strange, you never asked before. You’d better go in,” he told her as people began to gravitate toward the open doors of the Canyon Room. “You’ll want a good seat.”

“Yes.” She drew back, a bit shaken by the ferocity of the desire she felt to learn more about him. With a last look over her shoulder, Lee walked in and settled in the front row. It was time to get her mind back on the business she’d come for, and the business was Hunter Brown. Distractions like incomprehensible men who drove Jeeps for a living would have to be put aside.

From her briefcase, Lee took a fresh notebook and two pencils, slipping one behind her ear. Within a few moments, she’d be able to see and study the mysterious Hunter Brown. She’d be able to listen and take notes with perfect freedom. After his lecture, she’d be able to question him, and if she had her way, she’d arrange some kind of one-on-one for later.

Lee had given the ethics of the situation careful thought. She didn’t feel it would be necessary to tell Brown she was a reporter. She was there as an aspiring writer and had the fledgling manuscript to prove it. Anyone there was free to try to write and sell an article on the conference and its participants. Only if Brown used the words off the record would she be bound to silence. Without that, anything he said was public property.

This story could be her next step up the ladder. Would be, Lee corrected. The first documented, authentically researched story on Hunter Brown could push her beyond Celebrity’s scope. It would be controversial, colorful and, most important, exclusive. With this under her belt, even her quietly critical family would be impressed. With this under her belt, Lee thought, she’d be that much closer to the top rung, where her sights were always set.

Once she was there, all the hard work, the long hours, the obsessive dedication, would be worth it. Because once she was there, she was there to stay. At the top, Lee thought almost fiercely. As high as she could reach.

On the other side of the doors, on the other side of the corridor, Hunter stood with his editor, half listening to her comments on an interview she’d had with an aspiring writer. He caught the gist, that she was excited about the writer’s potential. It was a talent of his to be able to conduct a perfectly lucid conversation when his mind was on something entirely different. It was something he roused himself to do only when the mood was on him. So he spoke to his editor and thought of Lee Radcliffe.

Yes, he was definitely going to use her in his next book. True, the plot was only a vague notion in his head, but he already knew she’d be the core of it. He needed to dig a bit deeper before he’d be satisfied, but he didn’t foresee any problem there. If he’d gauged her correctly, she’d be confused when he walked to the podium, then stunned, then furious. If she wanted to talk to him as badly as she’d indicated, she’d swallow her temper.

A strong woman, Hunter decided. A will of iron and skin like cream. Vulnerable eyes and a damn-the-devil chin. A character was nothing without contrasts, strengths and weaknesses. And secrets, he thought, already certain he’d discover hers. He had another day and a half to explore Lenore Radcliffe. Hunter figured that was enough.

The corridor was full of laughter and complaints and enthusiasm as people loitered or filed through into the adjoining room. He knew what it was to feel enthusiastic about being a writer. If the pleasure went out of it, he’d still write. He was compelled to. But it would show in his work. Emotions always showed. He never allowed his feeling and thoughts to pour into his work—they would have done so regardless of his permission.

Hunter considered it a fair trade-off. His emotions, his thoughts, were there for anyone who cared to read them. His life was completely and without exception his own.

The woman beside him had his affection and his respect. He’d argued with her over motivation and sentence structure, losing as often as winning. He’d shouted at her, laughed with her and given her emotional support through her recent divorce. He knew her age, her favorite drink and her weakness for cashews. She’d been his editor for three years, which is as close to a marriage as many people come. Yet she had no idea he had a ten-year-old daughter named Sarah who liked to bake cookies and play soccer.

Hunter took a last drag on his cigarette as the president of the small writers’ group approached. The man was a slick, imaginative science fiction writer whom Hunter had read and enjoyed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be there, about to make one of his rare appearances in the writing community.

“Mr. Brown, I don’t need to tell you again how honored we are to have you here.”

“No—” Hunter gave him the easy half smile “—you don’t.”

“There’s liable to be quite a commotion when I announce you. After your lecture, I’ll do everything I can to keep the thundering horde back.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”

The man nodded, never doubting it. “I’m having a small reception in my suite this evening, if you’d like to join us.”

“I appreciate it, but I have a dinner engagement.”

Though he didn’t know quite what to make of the smile, the organization’s president was too intelligent to press his luck when he was about to pull off a coup. “If you’re ready then, I’ll announce you.”

“Any time.”

Hunter followed him into the Canyon Room, then loitered just inside the doors. The room was already buzzing with anticipation and curiosity. The podium was set on a small stage in front of two hundred chairs that were nearly all filled. Talk died down when the president approached the stage, but continued in pockets of murmurs even after he’d begun to speak. Hunter heard one of the men nearest him whisper to a companion that he had three publishing houses competing for his manuscript. Hunter skimmed over the crowd, barely listening to the beginning of his introduction. Then his gaze rested again on Lee.

She was watching the speaker with a small, polite smile on her lips, but her eyes gave her away. They were dark and eager. Hunter let his gaze roam down until it rested in her lap. There, her hand opened and closed on the pencil. A bundle of nerves and energy wrapped in a very thin layer of confidence, he thought.

For the second time Lee felt his eyes on her, and for the second time she turned so that their gazes locked. The faint line marred her brow again as she wondered what he was doing inside the conference room. Unperturbed, leaning easily against the wall, Hunter stared back at her.

“His career’s risen steadily since the publication of his first book, only five years ago. Since the first, The Devil’s Due, he’s given us the pleasure of being scared out of our socks every time we pick up his work.” At the mention of the title, the murmurs increased and heads began to swivel. Hunter continued to stare at Lee, and she back at him, frowning. “His latest, Silent Scream, is already solid in the number-one spot on the bestseller list. We’re honored and privileged to welcome to Flag staff—Hunter Brown.”

The effusive applause competed with the growing murmurs of two hundred people in a closed room. Casually, Hunter straightened from the wall and walked to the stage. He saw the pencil fall out of Lee’s hand and roll to the floor. Without breaking rhythm, he stooped and picked it up.

“Better hold on to this,” he advised, looking into her astonished eyes. As he handed it back, he watched astonishment flare into fury.

“You’re a—”

“Yes, but you’d better tell me later.” Walking the rest of the way to the stage, Hunter stepped behind the podium and waited for the applause to fade. Again he skimmed the crowd, but this time with such a quiet intensity that all sound died. For ten seconds there wasn’t even the sound of breathing. “Terror,” Hunter said into the microphone.

From the first word he had them spellbound, and held them captive for forty minutes. No one moved, no one yawned, no one slipped out for a cigarette. With her teeth clenched tight, Lee knew she despised him.

Simmering, struggling against the urge to spring up and stalk out, Lee sat stiffly and took meticulous notes. In the margin of the book she drew a perfectly recognizable caricature of Hunter with a dagger through his heart. It gave her enormous satisfaction.

When he agreed to field questions for ten minutes, Lee’s was the first hand up. Hunter looked directly at her, smiled and called on someone three rows back.

He answered professional questions professionally and evaded any personal references. She had to admire his skill, particularly since she was well aware he so seldom spoke in public. He showed no nerves, no hesitation and absolutely no inclination to call on her, though her hand was up and her eyes shot fiery little darts at him. But she was a reporter, Lee reminded herself. Reporters got nowhere if they stood on ceremony.

“Mr. Brown,” Lee began, and rose.

“Sorry.” With his slow smile, he held up a hand. “I’m afraid we’re already overtime. Best of luck to all of you.” He left the podium and the room, under a hail of applause. By the time Lee could work her way to the doors, she’d heard enough praise of Hunter Brown to turn her simmering temper to boil.

The nerve, she thought as she finally made it into the corridor. The unspeakable nerve. She didn’t mind being bested in a game of chess; she could handle having her work criticized and her opinion questioned. All in all, Lee considered herself a reasonable, low-key person with no more than her fair share of conceit. The one thing she couldn’t, wouldn’t, tolerate was being made a fool of.

Revenge sprang into her mind, nasty, petty revenge. Oh, yes, she thought as she tried to work her way through the thick crowd of Hunter Brown fans, she’d have her revenge, somehow, some way. And when she did, it would be perfect.

She turned off at the elevators, knowing she was too full of fury to deal successfully with Hunter at that moment. She needed an hour to cool off and to plan. The pencil she still held snapped between her fingers. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to make Hunter Brown squirm.

Just as she started to push the button for her floor, Hunter slipped inside the elevator. “Going up?” he asked easily, and pushed the number himself.

Lee felt the fury rise to her throat and burn. With an effort, she clamped her lips tight on the venom and stared straight ahead.

“Broke your pencil,” Hunter observed, finding himself more amused than he’d been in days. He glanced at her open notebook, spotting the meticulously drawn caricature. An appreciative grin appeared. “Well done,” he told her. “How’d you enjoy the workshop?”

Lee gave him one scathing look as the elevator doors opened. “You’re a fount of trivial information, Mr. Brown.”

“You’ve got murder in your eyes, Lenore.” He stepped into the hall with her. “It suits your hair. Your drawing makes it clear enough what you’d like to do. Why don’t you stab me while you have the chance?”

As she continued to walk, Lee told herself she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of speaking to him. She wouldn’t speak to him at all. Her head jerked up. “You’ve had a good laugh at my expense,” she grated, and dug in her briefcase for her room key.

“A quiet chuckle or two,” he corrected while she continued to simmer and search. “Lose your key?”

“No, I haven’t lost my key.” Frustrated, Lee looked up until fury met amusement. “Why don’t you go away and sit on your laurels?”

“I’ve always found that uncomfortable. Why don’t you vent your spleen, Lenore; you’d feel better.”

“Don’t call me Lenore!” she exploded as her control slipped. “You had no right to use me as the brunt of a joke. You had no right to pretend you worked for the hotel.”

“You assumed,” he corrected. “As I recall, I never pretended anything. You asked for a ride yesterday; I simply gave you one.”

“You knew I thought you were the hotel driver. You were standing there beside my luggage—”

“A classic case of mistaken identity.” He noted that her skin tinted with pale rose when she was angry. An attractive side effect, Hunter decided. “I’d come to pick up my editor, who’d missed her Phoenix connection, as it turned out. I thought the luggage was hers.”

“All you had to do was say that at the time.”

“You never asked,” he pointed out. “And you did tell me to get the luggage.”

“Oh, you’re infuriating.” Clamping her teeth shut, she began to fumble in her briefcase again.

“But brilliant. You mentioned that yourself.”

“Being able to string words together is an admirable talent, Mr. Brown.” Hauteur was one of her most practiced skills. Lee used it to the fullest. “It doesn’t make you an admirable person.”

“No, I wouldn’t say I was, particularly.” While he waited for her to find her key, Hunter leaned comfortably against the wall.

“You carried my luggage to my room,” she continued, infuriated. “I gave you a five-dollar tip.”

“Very generous.”

She let out a huff of breath, grateful that her hands were busy. She didn’t know how else she could have prevented herself from slapping his calm, self-satisfied face. “You’ve had your joke,” she said, finding her key at last. “Now I’d like you to do me the courtesy of never speaking to me again.”

“I don’t know where you got the impression I was courteous.” Before she could unlock the door, he’d put his hand over hers on the key. She felt the little tingle of power and cursed him for it even as she met his calmly amused look. “You did mention, however, that you’d like to speak to me. We can talk over dinner tonight.”

She stared at him. Why should she have thought he wouldn’t be able to surprise her again? “You have the most incredible nerve.”

“You mentioned that already. Seven o’clock?”

She wanted to tell him she wouldn’t have dinner with him even if he groveled. She wanted to tell him that and all manner of other unpleasant things. Temper fought with practicality. There was a job she’d come to do, one she’d been working on unsuccessfully for three months. Success was more important than pride. He was offering her the perfect way to do what she’d come to do, and to do it more extensively than she could’ve hoped for. And perhaps, just perhaps, he was opening the door himself for her revenge. It would make it all the sweeter.

Though it was a large lump, Lee swallowed her pride.

“That’s fine,” she agreed, but he noticed she didn’t look too pleased. “Where should I meet you?”

He never trusted easy agreement. But then Hunter trusted very little. She was going to beach challenge, he felt. “I’ll pick you up here.” His fingers ran casually up to her wrist before here leased her. “You might bring your manuscript along. I’m curious to see your work.”

She smiled and thought of the article she was going to write. “I very much want you to see my work.” Lee stepped into her room and gave herself the small satisfaction of slamming the door in his face.

Chapter Three

Midnight-blue silk. Lee took a great deal of time and gave a great deal of thought to choosing the right dress for her evening with Hunter. It was business.

The deep-blue silk shot through with thin silver threads appealed to her because of its clean, elegant lines and lack of ornamentation. Lee would, on the occasions when she shopped, spend as much time choosing the right scarf as she would researching a subject. It was all business.

Now, after a thorough debate, she slipped into the silk. It coolly skimmed her skin; it draped subtly over curves. Her own reflection satisfied her. The unsmiling woman who looked back at her presented precisely the sort of image she wanted to project—elegant, sophisticated and a bit remote. If nothing else, this soothed her bruised ego.

As Lee looked back over her life, concentrating on her career, she could remember no incident where she’d found herself bested. Her mouth became grim as she ran a brush through her hair. It wasn’t going to happen now.

Hunter Brown was going to get back some of his own, if for no other reason than that half-amused smile of his. No one laughed at her and got away with it, Lee told herself as she slapped the brush back on the dresser smartly enough to make the bottles jump. Whatever game she had to play to get what she wanted, she’d play. When the article on Hunter Brown hit the stands, she’d have won. She’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d helped her. In the final analysis, Lee mused, there was no substitute for winning.

When the knock sounded at her door, she glanced at her watch. Prompt. She’d have to make a note of it. Her mood was smug as, after picking up her slim evening bag, she went to answer.

Inherently casual in dress, but not sloppy, she noted, filing the information away as she glanced at the open-collared shirt under his dark jacket. Some men could wear black tie and not look as elegant as Hunter Brown looked in jeans. That was something that might interest her readers. By the end of the evening, Lee reminded herself, she’d know all she possibly could about him.

“Good evening.” She started to step across the threshold, but he took her hand, holding her motionless as he studied her.

“Very lovely,” Hunter declared. Her hand was very soft and very cool, though her eyes were still hot with annoyance. He liked the contrast. “You wear silk and a very alluring scent but manage to maintain that aura of untouchability. It’s quite a talent.”

“I’m not interested in being analyzed.”

“The curse or blessing of the writer,” he countered. “Depending on your viewpoint. Being one yourself, you should understand. Where’s your manuscript?”

She’d thought he’d forget—she’d hoped he would. Now, she was back to the disadvantage of stammering. “It, ah, it isn’t…”

“Bring it along,” Hunter ordered. “I want to take a look at it.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Every writer wants his words read.”

She didn’t. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. Without a doubt, the last person she wanted to allow a glimpse of her inner thoughts was Hunter. But he was standing, watching, with those dark eyes already seeing beyond the outer layers. Trapped, Lee turned back into the room and slipped the folder from her briefcase. If she could keep him busy enough, she thought, there wouldn’t be time for him to look at it anyway.

“It’ll be difficult for you to read anything in a restaurant,” she pointed out as she closed the door behind her.

“That’s why we’re having dinner in my suite.”

When she stopped, he simply took her hand and continued on to the elevators as if he hadn’t noticed. “Perhaps I’ve given you the wrong impression,” she began coldly.

“I don’t think so.” He turned, still holding her hand. His palm wasn’t as smooth as she’d expected a writer’s to be. The palm was as wide as a concert pianist’s, but it was ridged with calluses. It made, Lee discovered, a very intriguing and uncomfortable combination. “My imagination hasn’t gone very deeply into the prospect of seducing you, Lenore.” Though he felt her stiffen in outrage, he drew her into the elevator. “The point is, I don’t care for restaurants and I care less for crowds and interruptions.” The elevator hummed quietly on the short ascent. “Have you found the conference worthwhile?”

“I’m going to get what I came for.” She stepped through the doors as they slid open.

“And what’s that?”

“What did you come for?” she countered. “You don’t exactly make it a habit to attend conferences, and this one is certainly small and off the beaten path.”

“Occasionally I enjoy the contact with other writers.” Unlocking the door, he gestured her inside.

“This conference certainly isn’t bulging with authors who’ve attained your degree of success.”

“Success has nothing to do with writing.”

She set her purse and folder aside and faced him straight on. “Easy to say when you have it.”

“Is it?” As if amused, he shrugged, then gestured toward the window. “You should drink in as much of the view as you can. You won’t see anything like this through any window in Los Angeles.”

“You don’t care for L.A.” If she was careful and clever, she should be able to pin him down on where he lived and why he lived there.

“L.A. has its points. Would you like some wine?”

“Yes.” She wandered over to the window. The vastness still had the power to stun her and almost…almost frighten. Once you were beyond the city limits, you might wander for miles without seeing another face, hearing another voice. The isolation, she thought, or perhaps just the space itself, would overwhelm. “Have you been there often?” she asked, deliberately turning her back to the window.

“Hmm?”

“To Los Angeles?”

“No.” He crossed to her and offered a glass of pale-gold wine.

“You prefer the East to the West?”

He smiled and lifted his glass. “I make it a point to prefer where I am.”

He was very adept at evasions, she thought, and turned away to wander the room. It seemed he was also very adept at making her uneasy. Unless she missed her guess, he did both on purpose. “Do you travel often?”

“Only when it’s necessary.”

Tipping back her glass, Lee decided to try a more direct approach. “Why are you so secretive about yourself? Most people in your position would make the most of the promotion and publicity that’s available.”

“I don’t consider myself secretive, nor do I consider myself most people.”

“You don’t even have a bio or a photo on your book covers.”

“My face and my background have nothing to do with the stories I tell. Does the wine suit you?”

“It’s very good.” Though she’d barely tasted it. “Don’t you feel it’s part of your profession to satisfy the readers’ curiosity when it comes to the person who creates a story that interests them?”