Hunter

by Diana Palmer

  She grimaced mentally. That would be just the thing to say to him, all right. It would put them quickly back on their old, familiar footing and he’d never speak to her again. Which might not be a bad idea, she told herself. At least if he hated her openly he wouldn’t be making horrible remarks about the red dress she’d worn that one evening they’d gone out together.

  On the other hand, why had he mentioned it at all? That was twice, she realized, that he’d made a remark about that particular dress. She smiled to herself. Well, well. He remembered it, did he? She’d go right out and find herself another red dress, one that was even more revealing, and she’d wear it until he screamed!

  The sudden hard rap on the door made her jump. “Yes?” she called out.

  “Time to go,” Hunter replied quietly.

  She grabbed her purse, almost upending the entire contents on the floor in the process, and rushed to their joint sitting room.

  She stopped short at the sight of Hunter in a dinner jacket. It could have been made for him, she thought as she stared at him. The dark jacket with its white silk shirt and black tie might have been designed for his coloring. It made him look so elegant and handsome that she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  He was doing some looking of his own. His dark eyes ran down the length of her body in the clinging white dress, growing narrower and glittering faintly as they lingered on her full breasts and worked their way back up to her soft mouth and then her dark blue eyes.

  “Will I do?” she asked hesitantly.

  “You’ll do,” he said, his voice terse with reluctant emotion. He met her eyes and held them, watching her cheeks go pink. “Oh, yes, you’ll do, Jennifer. And you know it without having to be told.”

  She dragged her gaze down to his chest, to the quick rise and fall of it under the shirt. “You don’t have to sound angry,” she muttered.

  “I am angry. You know it. And don’t pretend you don’t know why. I wouldn’t buy that in a million years.” He moved toward the door while she was still trying to puzzle out what he meant. “Let’s go,” he said, without looking at her again. “Eugene and Cynthia are waiting for us.”

  She started past him and paused without knowing why. Slowly she lifted her eyes to his and looked at him openly. Her heart ran wild at the fierce warmth she saw there, at the visible effort he made at control. “Is it all right if I tell you that you’re devastating?” she asked softly.

  He lifted his chin without replying, but something flashed in his dark eyes for an instant before he turned away with a faint smile. “Come on.”

  He was quiet when they joined the other couple, which was just as well, because Eugene monopolized the conversation—as usual. It was exciting to go to a ball in a big black limousine, and Jennifer wished her parents could see her now. She almost looked up at Hunter and said so, but he wouldn’t find it interesting, she knew, so she kept her silence.

  The big Washington mansion where the ball was being held was some embassy or other. Jennifer had been too excited about being with Hunter to care which one it was, or even where it was. She was trembling with contained excitement when Hunter helped her from the car and escorted her up the wide steps that led to the columned porch, which was ablaze with light. The faint sounds of music poured from the stately confines of the mansion.

  “What a piece of real estate,” Cynthia said mischievously, clasping Eugene’s hand tightly in her own. “And I thought we had a nice house.”

  “We do have a nice house,” he reminded her. “And we could have had one like this, but you seemed to think that it would be—what was the word you used?—pretentious.”

  “And it would have,” she reassured him. “I was just admiring the pretentiousness of the embassy,” she added, tongue-in-cheek.

  Jennifer grinned. “Do you suppose the staff wear roller skates to get from room to room with the trays?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Eugene said, “but for God’s sake don’t make such a remark to our host. You can take it from me that he has absolutely no sense of humor.”

  “Can I ask why we’re going to a ball at a foreign embassy to talk about land out West?” Jennifer asked.

  “Sure!” Eugene assured her.

  She glared at him.

  He chuckled. “All right. There are two senators I have to see, and I was tipped off that they were both going to be at this shindig. You and Hunter go socialize until I need you—if I need you. I may be able to pull this one off alone.”

  “Then why are we here?” Jennifer persisted.

  Eugene forcibly kept himself from glancing at Hunter. “Because I wanted to make sure you weren’t abducted and held for ransom or some such thing while I was talking terms,” he said. “Go and dance. Can you dance?” he taunted.

  She drew herself up to her full height, an action that made her firm breasts thrust out proudly, and Hunter shifted a little jerkily and moved away. “Yes, I can dance,” she told him. “In fact, I studied dancing for three years.”

  “So go and practice.” His blue eyes narrowed on Hunter’s averted face. “You might teach Hunter how.”

  Hunter cocked a thick eyebrow down at him. “My people could teach yours plenty about how to move to music.” A wisp of a smile touched that hard face and his dark eyes twinkled. “We have dances for war, dances for peace, dances for rain, even dances for fertility,” he added and had to grit his teeth to keep from glancing deliberately toward Jennifer.

  “How about waltzes?” Eugene persisted.

  “Ballroom dancing isn’t included in the core curriculum for CIA operatives,” he said, deadpan.

  “Jennifer might be persuaded to teach you…” Eugene began.

  But before he could even get the words out, Jennifer was suddenly swept away by a tall, balding man with a badge of office on the sash that arrowed across his thin chest. She was dancing before she knew it, and from that moment on, she didn’t even get a peek at the hors d’oeuvres on the long, elegant table against the wall. She was dying of thirst, too, but one partner after another asked her to dance, and she was too entranced by the exquisite music of the live orchestra to refuse. Especially since Hunter didn’t even bother to ask her for a dance, whether or not he knew how. When her first partner swept her off onto the dance floor, he’d walked away without even looking back and she hadn’t seen him since.

  She pleaded fatigue after a nonstop hour on the dance floor and found her way to the powder room upstairs. By the time she came down, Hunter had apparently come out of hiding because an older socialite had him cornered by a potted plant against one wall. He looked irritated and half angry, and Jennifer felt a surge of sympathy, although God alone knew why she should.

  She started toward him, hesitated, and he looked up at that moment and his eyes kindled. He even smiled.

  That had to mean he was desperate for rescue. He never smiled at her. Well, he was going to get his rescue, but she was going to enjoy it. She moved toward him with pure witchery in her movements, patting her hair back into place.

  “Here I am, sweetheart!” she called in a rich exaggerated Southern drawl. “Did you think I’d gotten lost?” She draped herself over his side, feeling him stiffen. A mischievous sense of pleasure flooded through her. Well, he’d asked for it. She smiled thinly at the older woman, who was watching her with narrow, cold eyes. “Hello. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Jennifer Marist. Hunter and I work for an oil corporation in Oklahoma. It’s so rarely that we get to enjoy a fabulous party like this, isn’t it, darling?” she asked, blinking her long lashes up at him.

  “Rarely,” he agreed, but his eyes were promising retribution. He was already half out of humor from watching her pass from one pair of masculine arms to another. Then this social shark had attacked. He’d been desperate enough to encourage Jennifer to rescue him, but he hadn’t exactly expected this type of rescue. Fortunately his expression gave nothing away.

  “I was just telling Mr. Hunter that I’d love to have him join me fo
r a late supper,” the older woman said, blatantly ignoring Jennifer’s apparent possessiveness. She smiled at Hunter, diamonds dripping from her ears and her thin neck. “I want to hear all about his tribe. I’ve never met a real Indian before.”

  Hunter’s jaw clenched, but Jennifer smiled.

  “I know, isn’t it fascinating?” Jennifer confided. “Did you know that he rubs himself all over with bear grease every night at bedtime? It’s a ritual. And he keeps rattlesnakes,” she whispered, “to use in fertility dances outside during full moons. You really must get him to show you the courting dance. It’s done with deer heads and pouches full of dried buffalo chips….”

  The older woman was looking a little frantic. “Excuse me,” she said breathlessly, staring around as if she were looking for a life preserver. “I see someone I must speak to!”

  She shot off without another word and Jennifer had to smother a giggle. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It was the way she said it…”

  He was laughing, too, if the glitter in his eyes and the faint uplift of his lips could be called that. “Bear grease,” he muttered. “That wasn’t the Apache, you idiot. And the dance a young girl does at her very special coming-of-age ceremony is done with a pouch of pollen, for fertility, not dried buffalo chips.”

  “Do you want me to call her back and tell her the truth?” she offered.

  He shook his head. His dark eyes slid over her body in the clinging dress, and there was a definite appreciation in them. “If I have to suffer a woman for the rest of the evening, I’d prefer you,” he said, startling her. “At least you won’t ask embarrassing questions about my cultural background.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she murmured. “And after that daring rescue, too.”

  “Rescue, yes. Daring?” He shook his head. “Hardly.” He chuckled deeply. “You little terror. I ought to tie you to a chair and smear honey on you.”

  “You have to do that in the desert, where you can find ants,” she reminded him. “You asked to be rescued, you know you did.”

  “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he muttered.

  “Was she trying to put the make on you?” she asked, all eyes.

  He glared at her. “No. She was trying to find out how many scalps I had in my teepee.”

  “Apaches didn’t have teepees, they had wickiups,” she said knowledgeably. “I hope you told her.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Who’s the Indian here, you or me?”

  “I think one of my great-grandfather’s adoptive cousins was Lower Creek,” she frowned thoughtfully.

  “God help us!”

  “I could have just kept on walking,” she reminded him. “I didn’t have to save you from that woman.”

  “No, you didn’t. But before it happens again, I’m going to stand on the balcony and hope I get carried off by Russian helicopters. I hate these civilized hatchet parties.”

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “What for? You’re the belle of the ball. You’ve danced every damned dance!”

  “Only because you walked off and left me alone!” she threw back at him, her blue eyes flashing. “I thought we were together. But I suppose that’s carrying the line of duty too far, isn’t it? I mean, God forbid you should have to survive a whole evening in my company!”

  “I said I was going outside,” he replied with exaggerated patience. “If you want to come along, fine. I don’t like being the only Indian around. Where were all these damned suicidal white women over a hundred years ago? I’ll tell you, they were hiding behind curtains with loaded rifles! But now, all of a sudden, they can’t wait to be thrown on a horse and carried off.”

  “You’re shouting,” she pointed out.

  His dark eyes glittered down at her. “I am not,” he said shortly.

  “Besides, you don’t have a horse.”

  “I have one at home,” he replied. “Several, in fact. I like horses.”

  “So do I. But I haven’t ridden much,” she replied. “There was never much time for that sort of thing.”

  “People make time for the things they really want to do,” he said, looking down at her.

  She shrugged. “There are plenty of places to ride around Tulsa, but I think it’s a mistake to get on a horse if you don’t know how to control it.”

  “Well, well.” He stood aside to let her precede him onto the balcony, past the colorful blur of dancing couples. The balcony was dark and fairly deserted, with huge potted plants and trees and a balustrade that overlooked the brilliant lights of the city.

  7

  Jennifer couldn’t believe he’d actually allowed her to invade his solitude without a protest. It was sheer heaven being here beside him on the balcony, without another soul in sight.

  She leaned forward on the balustrade. “Isn’t it glorious?” she asked softly.

  He studied her hungrily for a moment before he turned his gaze toward the horizon. “I prefer sunset on the desert.” He lit a cigarette and smoked it silently for several seconds before his dark eyes cut sideways to study her. “Did you really want to dance with me?” he asked with a faint smile. Actually he danced quite well. But having Jenny close was a big risk. She went to his head even when they were several feet apart.

  “Wasn’t it obvious that I did?” she asked ruefully.

  “Not to me.” He blew out a cloud of smoke and stared at the distant horizon. “I won’t dance, Jennifer. Not this kind of dancing, anyway.” He was careful to say won’t and not can’t—lying was almost impossible for him. Apaches considered it bad manners to lie.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. You do everything else so well, I just assumed that dancing would come naturally to you.”

  “It doesn’t,” he replied. “Where did you learn?”

  “Dancing class,” she said, grinning. Odd how comfortable she felt with him, despite the feverish excitement his closeness engendered in her slender body. She could catch the scent of his cologne, and it was spicy and sexy in her nostrils. He was the stuff dreams were made of. Her dreams, anyway.

  “You studied ballroom dancing?” he persisted.

  “Tap and ballet, actually. My mother thought I should be well-rounded instead of walking around with my nose stuck in a book or studying rocks most of the time.”

  “What are your parents like?” he asked, curious.

  She smiled, picturing them. “My mother looks like me. My father’s tall and very dark. They’re both educators and I think they’re nice people. Certainly they’re intelligent.”

  “They’d have to be, with such a brainy daughter.”

  She laughed self-consciously. “I’m not brainy really. I had to study pretty hard to get where I am.” She smiled wistfully.

  “You know your job,” he replied, glancing down at her. “I learned more about molybdenum than I wanted to know.”

  She blushed. “Yes, well, I tend to ramble sometimes.”

  “It wasn’t a criticism,” he said. “I enjoyed it.” He looked out over the horizon. “God, I hate society.”

  “I guess it gets difficult for you when people start making insulting remarks about your heritage,” she said. “It’s hard for me when I get dragged on the dance floor by men I don’t even know. I don’t particularly like being handled.”

  He frowned. He hadn’t thought of her beauty as being a handicap. Maybe it was. She’d had enough partners tonight. Enough, in fact, to make him jealous for the first time in memory.

  “I don’t like being an oddity,” he agreed. “I’ve never thought of you that way.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I could return the compliment.”

  He turned away from her, leaning against the balcony to look out at the city lights. “I suppose I’m less easily offended than I was before you joined the company. Maybe I’m learning to take that chip off my shoulder,” he added, glancing at her with a rueful smile. “Isn’t that what you once accused me of having?”

  She joined him by the balcony
, leaning her arms on it. “Yes. It was true. You got your back up every time I made a remark.”

  “You intimidated me,” he said surprisingly. He lifted the cigarette to his firm lips, glancing down at her. “Beautiful, blond, intelligent…the kind of woman who could have any man she wanted. I didn’t think a reservation Indian would appeal to you.”

  “I suppose you got the shock of your life that night by the creek,” she remarked, a little shy at the admission.

  “Indeed I did,” he said huskily. His eyes darkened. “I never dreamed you wanted me like that.”

  “It wasn’t enough, though,” she said sadly, her eyes moving to the dark landscape. “Wanting on one side, I mean.” She pushed back a loose strand of blond hair that had escaped her elegant upswept coiffure. “You didn’t smoke while we were camping out.”

  “You didn’t see me,” he corrected. “It’s my only vice, and just an occasional one. I have the infrequent can of beer, but I don’t drink.” His eyes narrowed. “Alcoholism is a big problem among my people. Some scientists have ventured the opinion that Indians lack the enzyme necessary to process alcohol.”

  “I didn’t know. I don’t drink, either. I like being in control of my senses.”

  “Do you?” He looked down at her quietly.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I always have been. Except with you.”

  He sighed angrily, lifting the cigarette to his mouth again before he ground it out under his heel. “So I noticed,” he said gruffly. Her nearness was making him uncomfortable. He didn’t like the temptation of being close to her, but he didn’t want to spoil the evening for her by saying so.

  She moved a little closer so that she could see his lean, dark face in the light from the ballroom. “Hunter, what’s wrong?” she asked softly.

  He hated the tenderness in her voice. It tempted him and made him angry. “Nothing.”