Second Nature

by Nora Roberts

  “Did you hear Jeffries is here again trying to peddle that manuscript about the virgin with acrophobia and telekinesis? I can’t believe he won’t let it die a quiet death. When’s your next murder coming out?”

  “In August. It’s poison.”

  “Darling, that’s no way to talk about your work.”

  As they passed by her, Lee caught the variety of tones, some muted, some sophisticated, some flamboyant. Gestures and conversations followed the same wide range. Amazed, she watched one man swoop by in a long, dramatic black cape.

  Definitely an odd group, Lee thought, but she warmed to them. It was true she confined her skill to articles and profiles, but at heart she was a storyteller. Her position on the magazine had been hard-earned, and she’d built her world around it. For all her ambition, she had a firm fear of rejection that kept her own manuscript unfinished, buried in a drawer for weeks and sometimes months at a time. At the magazine, she had prestige, security and room for advancement. The weekly paycheck put the roof over her head, the clothes on her back and the food on her table.

  If it hadn’t been so important that she prove she could do all this for herself, she might have taken the chance of sending those first hundred pages to a publishing house. But then… Shaking her head, Lee watched the people mill through the registration area, all types, all sizes, all ages. Clothes varied from trim professional suits to jeans to flamboyant caftans and smocks. Apparently style was a matter of taste and taste a matter of individuality. She wondered if she’d see quite the same variety anywhere else. Absently, she glanced at the partial manuscript she’d tucked into her briefcase. Just for cover, she reminded herself. That was all.

  No, she didn’t believe she had it in her to be a great writer, but she knew she had the skill for great reporting. She’d never, never settle for being second-rate at anything.

  Still, while she was here, it wouldn’t hurt to sit in on one or two of the seminars. She might pick up some pointers. More important, she told herself as she rose, she might be able to stretch this trip into another story on the ins and outs of a writers’ conference. Who attended, why, what they did, what they hoped for. Yes, it could make quite an interesting little piece. The job, after all, came first.

  An hour later, a bit more enthusiastic than she wanted to be after her first workshop, she wandered into the coffee shop. She’d take a short break, assimilate the notes she’d written, then go back and make certain she had the best seat in the house for Hunter Brown’s lecture.

  Hunter glanced up from his paper and watched her enter the coffee shop. Lee Radcliffe, he mused, finding her of more interest than the local news he’d been scanning. He’d enjoyed his conversation with her the day before, and as often as not, he found conversations tedious. She had a quality about her—an innate frankness glossed with sophistication—that he found intriguing enough to hold his interest. An obsessive writer who believed that the characters themselves were the plot of any book, Hunter always looked for the unique and the individual. Instinct told him Lee Radcliffe was quite an individual.

  Unobserved, he watched her. From the way she looked absently around the room it was obvious she was preoccupied. The suit she wore was very simple but showed both style and taste in the color and cut. She was a woman who could wear the simple, he decided, because she was a woman who’d been born with style. If he wasn’t very much mistaken, she’d been born into wealth as well. There was always a subtle difference between those who were accustomed to money and those who’d spent years earning it.

  So where did the nerves come from? he wondered. Curious, he decided it would be worth an hour of his time to try to find out.

  Setting his paper aside, Hunter lit a cigarette and continued to stare at her, knowing there was no quicker way to catch someone’s eye.

  Lee, thinking more about the story she was going to write than the coffee she’d come for, felt an odd tingle run up her spine. It was real enough to give her an urge to turn around and walk out again when she glanced over and found herself staring back at the man she’d met at the airport.

  It was his eyes, she decided, at first not thinking of him as a man or the hotel driver from the previous day. It was his eyes. Dark, almost the color of jet, they’d draw you in and draw you in until you were caught, and every secret you’d ever had would be secret no longer. It was frightening. It was…irresistible.

  Amazed that such a fanciful thought had crept into her own practical, organized mind, Lee approached him. He was just a man, she told herself, a man who worked for his living like any other man. There was certainly nothing to be frightened of.

  “Ms. Radcliffe.” With the same unsmiling stare, he gestured to the chair across from him. “Buy you a cup of coffee?”

  Normally she would’ve refused, politely enough. But now, for some intangible reason, Lee felt as though she had a point to prove. For the same intangible reason, she felt she had to prove it to him as much as to herself. “Thank you.” The moment she sat down, a waitress was there, pouring coffee.

  “Enjoying the conference?”

  “Yes.” Lee poured cream into the cup, stirring it around and around until a tiny whirlpool formed in the center. “As disorganized as everything seems to be, there was an amazing amount of information generated at the workshop I went to this morning.”

  A smile touched his lips, so lightly that it was barely there at all. “You prefer organization?”

  “It’s more productive.” Though he was dressed more formally than he’d been the day before, the pleated slacks and open-necked shirt were still casual. She wondered why he wasn’t required to wear a uniform. But then, she thought, you could put him in one of those nifty white jackets and neat ties and his eyes would simply defy them.

  “A lot of fascinating things can come out of chaos, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps.” She frowned down at the whirlpool in her cup. Why did she feel as though she was being sucked in, in just that way? And why, she thought with a sudden flash of impatience, was she sitting here having a philosophical discussion with a stranger when she should be outlining the two stories she planned to write?

  “Did you find Hunter Brown?” he asked her as he studied her over the rim of his cup. Annoyed with herself, he guessed accurately, and anxious to be off doing.

  “What?” Distracted, Lee looked back up to find those strange eyes still on her.

  “I asked if you’d run into Hunter Brown.” The whisper of a smile was on his lips again, and this time it touched his eyes as well. It didn’t make them any less intense.

  “No.” Defensive without knowing why, Lee sipped at her cooling coffee. “Why?”

  “After the things you said yesterday, I was curious what you’d think of him once you met him.” He took a drag from his cigarette and blew smoke out in a haze. “People usually have a preconceived image of someone but it rarely holds up in the flesh.”

  “It’s difficult to have any kind of an image of someone who hides away from the world.”

  His brow went up, but his voice remained mild. “Hides?”

  “It’s the word that comes to my mind,” Lee returned, again finding that she was speaking her thoughts aloud to him. “There’s no picture of him on the back of any of his books, no bio. He never grants interviews, never denies or substantiates anything written about him. Any awards he’s received have been accepted by his agent or his editor.” She ran her fingers up and down the handle of her spoon. “I’ve heard he occasionally attends affairs like this, but only if it’s a very small conference and there’s no publicity about his appearance.”

  All during her speech, Hunter kept his eyes on her, watching every nuance of expression. There were traces of frustration, he was certain, and of eagerness. The lovely cameo face was calm while her fingers moved restlessly. She’d be in his next book, he decided on the spot. He’d never met anyone with more potential for being a central character.

  Because his direct, unblinking stare made her want
to stammer, Lee gave him back the hard, uncompromising look. “Why do you stare at me like that?”

  He continued to do so without any show of discomfort. “Because you’re an interesting woman.”

  Another man might have said beautiful, still another might have said fascinating. Lee could have tossed off either one with light scorn. She picked up her spoon again, then set it down. “Why?”

  “You have a tidy mind, innate style, and you’re a bundle of nerves.” He liked the way the faint line appeared between her brows when she frowned. It meant stubbornness to him, and tenacity. He respected both. “I’ve always been intrigued by pockets,” Hunter went on. “The deeper the better. I find myself wondering just what’s in your pockets, Ms. Radcliffe.”

  She felt the tremor again, up her spine, then down. It wasn’t comfortable to sit near a man who could do that. She had a moment’s sympathy for every person she’d ever interviewed. “You have an odd way of putting things,” she muttered.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  She instructed herself to get up and leave. It didn’t make sense to sit there being disturbed by a man she could dismiss with a five-dollar tip. “What are you doing in Flagstaff?” she demanded. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d be content to drive back and forth to an airport day after day, shuttling passengers and hauling luggage.”

  “Impressions make fascinating little paintings, don’t they?” He smiled at her fully, as he had the day before when she’d tipped him. Lee wasn’t sure why she’d felt he’d been laughing at her then, any more than why she felt he was laughing at her now. Despite herself, her lips curved in response. He found the smile a pleasant and very alluring surprise.

  “You’re a very odd man.”

  “I’ve been told that, too.” His smile faded and his eyes became intense again. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  The question didn’t surprise her as much as the fact that she wanted to accept, and nearly had. “No,” she said, cautiously retreating. “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  She was surprised again. Most men would’ve pressed a bit. It was, well, expected, Lee reflected, wishing she could figure him out. “I have to get back.” She reached for her briefcase. “Do you know where the Canyon Room is?”

  With an inward chuckle, he dropped bills on the table. “Yes, I’ll show you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Lee began, rising.

  “I’ve got time.” He walked with her out of the coffee shop and into the wide, carpeted lobby. “Do you plan to do any sight-seeing while you’re here?”

  “There won’t be time.” She glanced out one of the wide windows at the towering peak of Humphrey Peak. “As soon as the conference is over I have to get back.”

  “To where?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Too many people,” Hunter said automatically. “Don’t you ever feel as though they’re using up your air?”

  She wouldn’t have put it that way, would never have thought of it, but there were times she felt a twinge of what might be called claustrophobia. Still, her home was there, and more important, her work. “No. There’s enough air, such as it is, for everyone.”

  “You’ve never stood at the south rim of the canyon and looked out, and breathed in.”

  Again, Lee shot him a look. He had a way of saying things that gave you an immediate picture. For the second time, she regretted that she wouldn’t be able to take a day or two to explore some of the vastness of Arizona. “Maybe some other time.” Shrugging, she turned with him as he headed down a corridor to the right.

  “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.