Second Nature

by Nora Roberts

  “What did your father do in L.A.?” Lee asked, knowing he would either answer in the most offhand way or evade completely.

  “He sold shoes.”

  It took a moment, as she’d been expecting the latter. “Sold shoes?”

  “That’s right. In the shoe department of a moderately successful department store downtown. My mother sold stationery on the third floor.” He didn’t have to look at her to know she was frowning, her brows drawn together. “Surprised?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “A bit. I suppose I imagined you’d been influenced by your parents to some extent and that they’d had some unusual career or interests.”

  Hunter cast off again with an agile flick of his wrist. “Before my father sold shoes, he sold tickets at the local theater; before that, it was linoleum, I think.” His shoulders moved slightly before he turned to her. “He was a man trapped by financial circumstances into working, when he’d been born to dream. If he’d been born into affluence, he might’ve been a painter or a poet. As it was, he sold things and regularly lost his job because he wasn’t suited to selling anything, not even himself.”

  Though he spoke casually, Lee had to struggle to distance herself emotionally. “You speak as though he’s not living.”

  “I’ve always believed my mother died from overwork, and my father from lack of interest in life without her.”

  Sympathy welled up in her throat. She couldn’t swallow at all. “When did you lose them?”

  “I was eighteen. They died within six months of each other.”

  “Too old for the state to care for you,” she murmured, “too young to be alone.”

  Touched, Hunter studied her profile. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Lenore. I managed very well.”

  “But you weren’t a man yet.” No, she mused, perhaps he had been. “You had college to face.”

  “I had some help, and I waited tables for a while.”

  Lee remembered the wallet full of credit cards she’d carried through college. Anything she’d wanted had always been at her fingertips. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

  “It didn’t have to be.” He lit a cigarette, watching the clouds move slowly closer. “By the time I was finished with college, I knew I was a writer.”

  “What happened from the time you graduated from college to when your first book was published?”

  He smiled through the smoke that drifted between them. “I lived, I wrote, I went fishing when I could.”

  She wasn’t about to be put off so easily. Hardly realizing she did it, Lee sat down on the ground beside him. “You must’ve worked.”

  “Writing, though many disagree, is work.” He had a talent for making the sharpest sarcasm sound mildly droll.

  Another time, she might have smiled. “You know that’s not what I mean. You had to have an income, and your first book wasn’t published until nearly six years ago.”

  “I wasn’t starving in a garret, Lenore.” He ran a finger down the hand she held on the rod and felt a flash of pleasure at the quick skip of her pulse. “You’d just have been starting at Celebrity when The Devil’s Due hit the stands. One might say our stars were on the rise at the same time.”

  “I suppose.” She turned from him to look back at the surface of the creek again.

  “You’re happy there?”

  Unconsciously, she lifted her chin. “I’ve worked my way up from gofer to staff reporter in five years.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Neither are most of yours,” she mumbled.

  “True enough. What’re you looking for there?”

  “Success,” she said immediately. “Security.”

  “One doesn’t always equal the other.”

  Her voice was as defiant as the look she aimed at him. “You have both.”

  “A writer’s never secure,” Hunter disagreed. “Only a foolish one expects to be. I’ve read all of the manuscript you brought.”

  Lee said nothing. She’d known he’d bring it up before the two weeks were over, but she’d hoped to put it off a bit longer. The faintest of breezes played with the ends of her hair while she sat, staring at the moving waters of the creek. Some of the pebbles looked like gems. Such were illusions.

  “You know you have to finish it,” he told her calmly. “You can’t make me believe you’re content to leave your characters in limbo, when you’ve drawn them so carefully. Your story’s two-thirds told, Lenore.”

  “I don’t have time,” she began.

  “Not good enough.”

  Frustrated, she turned to him again. “Easy for you to say from your little pinnacle of fame. I have a demanding full-time job. If I give it my time and my talent, there’s no place I can go but up at Celebrity.”

  “Your novel needs your time and talent.”

  She didn’t like the way he said it—as if she had no real choice. “Hunter, I didn’t come here to discuss my work, but you and yours. I’m flattered that you think my novel has some merit, but I have a job to do.”

  “Flattered?” he countered. The deep, black gaze pinned her again, and his hand closed over hers. “No, you’re not. You wish I’d never seen your novel and you don’t want to discuss it. Even if you were convinced it was worthwhile, you’d still be afraid to put it all on the line.”

  The truth grated on her nerves and on her temper. “My job is my first priority. Whether that suits you or not doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business.”

  “No, perhaps not,” he said slowly, watching her. “You’ve got a fish on your line.”

  “I don’t want you to—” Eyes narrowing, she broke off. “What?”

  “There’s a fish on your line,” he repeated. “You’d better reel it in.”

  “I’ve got one?” Stunned, Lee felt the rod jerk in her hands. “I’ve got one! Oh, God.” She gripped the rod in both hands again and watched the line jiggle. “I’ve really caught one. What do I do now?”

  “Reel it in,” Hunter suggested again, leaning back on the grass.

  “Aren’t you going to help?” Her hands felt foolishly clumsy as she started to crank the reel. Hoping leverage would give her some advantage, she scrambled to her feet. “Hunter, I don’t know what I’m doing. I might lose it.”

  “Your fish,” he pointed out. Grinning, he watched her. Would she look any more exuberant if she’d been given an interview with the president? Somehow, Hunter didn’t think so, though he was sure Lee would disagree. But then, she couldn’t see herself at that moment, hair mussed, cheeks glowing, eyes wide and her tongue caught firmly between her teeth. The late-morning sunlight did exquisite things to her skin, and the quick laugh she gave when she pulled the struggling fish from the water ran over the back of his neck like soft fingers.

  Desire moved lazily through him as he took his gaze up the long length of leg flattered by brief shorts, then over the subtle curves accented by the shifting of muscle under her shirt as she continued to fight with the fish, to her face, still flushed with surprise.

  “Hunter!” She laughed as she held the still-wriggling fish high over the grass. “I did it.”

  It was nearly as big as the largest one he’d caught that week. He pursed his lips as he sized it up. It was tempting to compliment her, but he decided she looked smug enough already. “Gotta get it off the hook,” he reminded her, shifting only slightly on his elbows.

  “Off the hook?” Lee shot him an astonished look. “I don’t want to touch it.”

  “You have to touch it to take it off the hook.”

  Lee lifted a brow. “I’ll just toss it back in.”

  With a shrug, Hunter shut his eyes and enjoyed the faint breeze. The hell she would. “Your fish, not mine.”

  Torn between an abhorrence of touching the still-flopping fish and pride at having caught it, Lee stared down at Hunter. He wasn’t going to help; that was painfully obvious. If she threw the fish back into the water, he’d smirk at her for the rest of the evening. Intolerable. And, she reasoned
logically, wouldn’t she still have to touch it to get rid of it? Setting her teeth, Lee reached out a hand for the catch of the day.

  It was wet, slippery and cold. She pulled her hand back. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hunter grinning up at her. Holding her breath, Lee took the trout firmly in one hand and wiggled the hook out with the other. If he hadn’t been looking at her, challenging her, she never would’ve managed it. With the haughtiest air at her disposal, she dropped the trout into the small cooler Hunter brought along on fishing trips.

  “Very good.” He closed the lid on the cooler before he reeled in his line. “That looks like enough for tonight’s dinner. You caught a good-sized one, Lenore.”

  “Thank you.” The words were icily polite and self-satisfied.

  “It’ll nearly be enough for both of us, even after you’ve cleaned it.”

  “It’s as big as…” He was already walking back toward camp, so that she had to run to catch up with him and his statement. “I clean it?”

  “Rule is, you catch, you clean.”

  She planted her feet, but he wasn’t paying attention. “I’m not cleaning any fish.”

  “Then you don’t eat any fish.” His words were as offhand and careless as a shrug.

  Abandoning pride, Lee caught at his arm. “Hunter, you’ll have to change the rule.” She sighed, but convinced herself she wouldn’t choke on the word. At least not very much. “Please.”

  He stopped, considering. “If I clean it, you’ve got to balance the scales—” the smile flickered over his face “—no pun intended, by doing me a favor.”

  “I can cook two nights in a row.”

  “I said a favor.”

  Her head turned sharply, but one look at his face had her laughing. “All right, what’s the deal?”

  “Why don’t we leave it open-ended?” he suggested. “I don’t have anything in mind at the moment.”

  This time, she considered. “It’ll be negotiable?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Deal.” Turning her palms up, Lee wrinkled her nose. “Now I’m going to wash my hands.”

  She hadn’t realized she could get such a kick out of catching a fish or out of cooking it herself over an open fire. There were other things Lee hadn’t realized. She hadn’t looked at the trim gold watch on her wrist in days. If she hadn’t kept a journal, she probably wouldn’t know what day it was. It was true that her muscles still revolted after a night in the tent and the shower facilities were an inconvenience at best, purgatory at worst, but despite herself she was relaxing.

  For the first time in her memory, her day wasn’t regimented, by herself or by anyone else. She got up when she woke, slept when she was tired and ate when she was hungry. For the moment, the word deadline didn’t exist. That was something she hadn’t allowed herself since the day she’d walked out of her parents’ home in Palm Springs.

  No matter how rapid Hunter could make her pulse by one of those unexpected looks, or how much desire for him simmered under the surface, she found him comfortable to be with. Because it was so unlikely, Lee didn’t try to find the reasons. On this late afternoon, in the hour before dusk, she was content to sit by the fire and tend supper.

  “I never knew anything could smell so good.”

  Hunter continued to pour a cup of coffee before he glanced over at her. “We cooked fish two days ago.”

  “Your fish,” Lee pointed out, carefully turning the trout. “This one’s mine.”

  He grinned, wondering if she remembered just how horrified she’d been the first time he’d suggested she pick up a rod and reel. “Beginner’s luck.”

  Lee opened her mouth, ready with a biting retort, then saw the way he smiled at her. Not only did her retort vanish, but so did much of her defensive wall. She let out a long, quiet breath as she turned back to the skillet. The man became only more dangerous with familiarity. “If fishing depends on luck,” she managed, “you’ve had more than your share.”

  “Everything depends on luck.” He held out two plates. Lee slipped the sizzling trout onto them, then sat back to enjoy.

  “If you believe that, what about fate? You’ve said more than once that we can fight against our fate, but we can’t win.”

  He lifted a brow. That consistently sharp, consistently logical mind of hers never failed to impress him. “One works with the other.” He tasted a bit of trout, noting that she’d been careful enough not to singe her own catch. “It’s your fate to be here, with me. You were lucky enough to catch a fish for dinner.”

  “It sounds to me as though you twist things to your own point of view.”

  “Yes. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I suppose.” Lee ate, thoughtfully studying the view over his shoulder. Had anything ever tasted this wonderful? Would anything ever again? “But not everyone makes it work as well as you.” Reluctantly, she accepted some of the dried fruit he offered. He seemed to have an unending supply, but Lee had yet to grow used to the taste or texture.

  “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”

  Perhaps because he’d asked without preamble, perhaps because she was so unexpectedly relaxed, Lee answered without thinking. “I’d have more.”

  He didn’t, as her parents had done, ask more what. Hunter only nodded. “We could say it’s your fate to want it, and your luck to have it or not.”

  Nibbling on an apricot, she studied him. The lowering light and flickering fire cast his face in shadows. They suited him. The short, rough beard surrounded the poet’s mouth, making it all the more compelling. He was a man a woman would never be able to ignore, never be able to forget. Lee wondered if he knew it. Then she nearly laughed. Of course he did. He knew entirely too much.

  “What about you?” She leaned forward a bit, as she did whenever the answer was important. “What would you change?”

  He smiled in the way that made her blood heat. “I’d take more,” he said quietly.

  She felt the shiver race up her spine, was all but certain Hunter could see it. Lee found she was compelled to remind herself of her job. “You know,” she began easily enough, “you’ve told me quite a bit over this week, more in some ways than I’d expected, but much less in others.” Steady again, she took another bite of trout. “I might understand you quite a bit better if you’d give me a run-through of a typical day.”

  He ate, enjoying the tender, open-air flavor. The clouds were rolling in, the breeze picking up. He wondered if she noticed. “There’s no such thing as a typical day.”

  “You’re evading again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s my job to pin you down.”

  He watched her over the rim of his coffee cup. “I like watching you do your job.”

  She laughed. It seemed he could always frustrate and amuse her at the same time. “Hunter, why do I have the feeling you’re doing your best to make this difficult for me?”

  “You’re very perceptive.” Setting his plate aside, he began to toy with the ends of her hair in a habit she could never take casually. “I have an image of a woman with a romantic kind of beauty and an orderly, logical mind.”

  “Hunter—”

  “Wait, I’m just fleshing her out. She’s ambitious, full of nerves, highly sensuous without being fully aware of it.” He could see her eyes change, growing as dark as the sky above them. “She’s caught in the middle of something she can’t explain or understand. Things happen around her and she’s finding it more and more difficult to distance herself from it. And there’s a man, a man she desires but can’t quite trust. He doesn’t offer her the logical explanations she wants, but the illogic he offers seems terrifyingly close to the truth. If she puts her trust in him, she has to turn her back on most of what she believes is fact. If she doesn’t, she’ll be alone.”

  He was talking to her, about her, for her. Lee knew her throat was dry and her palms were damp, but she didn’t know if it was from his words or the light touch on the ends of he
r hair. “You’re trying to frighten me by weaving a plot around me.”

  “I’m weaving a plot around you,” Hunter agreed. “Whether I frighten you or not depends on how successful I am with that plot. Shadows and storms are my business.” As if on cue, lightning snaked out in the sky overhead. “But all writers need a foil. Smooth, pale skin—” He stroked the back of his hand up her cheek. “Soft hair with touches of gold and fire. Against that I have darkness, wind, voices that speak from shadows. Logic against the impossible. The unspeakable against cool, polished beauty.”

  She swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat and tried to speak casually. “I suppose I should be flattered, but I’m not sure I want to see myself molded into a character in a horror story.”

  “That comes back to fate again, doesn’t it?” Lightning ripped through the early dusk as their eyes met again. “I need you, Lenore,” he murmured. “For the tale I have to tell—and more.”

  Nerves prickled along her skin, all the more frantically because of the relaxed hours. “It’s going to rain.” But her voice wasn’t calm and even. Her senses were already swimming. When she started to rise, she found that her hand was caught in his and that he stood with her. The wind blew around her, stirring leaves, stirring desire. The light dimmed to shadow. Thunder rumbled.

  What she saw in his eyes chilled her, then heated her blood so quickly she had no way to keep up with the change. The grip on her hand was light. Lee could’ve broken the hold if she’d had the will to do so. It was his look that drained the will from her. They stood there, hands touching, eyes locked, while the storm swirled like madness around them.

  Perhaps life was made up of the choices Hunter had once spoken of. Perhaps luck swayed the balance. But at that moment, for hardly more than a heartbeat, Lee believed that fate ruled everything. She was meant to go to him, to give to him, with no more choice than one of the characters his imagination formed.

  Then the sky opened. The rain poured out. The shock of the sudden drenching had Lee jolting back, breaking contact. Yet for several long seconds she stood still while water ran over her and lightning flashed in wicked bolts.