Hard to Handle

by Diana Palmer

  “Yes, sir,” she said with resignation.

  He let Teresa out and started to close the door. He looked back at Jennifer first, and the intensity of his stare made her lift her head. His eyes held hers for one long moment before they went to her mouth and back up again.

  “Don’t wait up,” he said, but there was another, darker meaning in the casual remark.

  “You can depend on me, sir,” she saluted him.

  He shook his head and went out the door.

  She picked up one of her shoes and threw it furiously at the closed door. It connected a split second before he opened it again. The expression on his face was priceless, she thought.

  “I forgot my car keys,” he said, watching her narrowly as he went to the dresser to get them. On the way back, he reached down and picked up her shoe, cocking an eyebrow at it. “Target practice?”

  She tried to look innocent. “Would I throw a shoe at you?”

  He studied her for a long moment before he dropped the shoe on the floor. “I’ll be back before midnight. You should be safe enough.”

  “Definitely safer than Miss Whitley,” she said, and could have bitten her tongue clean through.

  His head lifted. “That’s true. Most men react to a deliberate invitation. Even me,” he added, angry at his vulnerability and lashing out because of it.

  Her face colored. “I did not—” she began.

  “Invite me?” He let his eyes drop slowly to her mouth. “Yes, you did. But it won’t work a second time. You’re not my type, cover girl,” he added with a mocking smile. “I like a woman with less experience than I have. Not more.”

  He went out without a backward glance, missing the fierce anger that burned in her cheeks. She hadn’t invited him! She groaned. Yes, she had. She wanted him and it showed, but he thought it was because she was experienced and used to a full sexual life. What a laugh!

  She went back to her computer. Anyway, he’d just warned her off, and maybe it was a good thing. He seemed to prefer Miss Whitley, and he could relate to her. She was from his world, and Jennifer was just a diversion that shouldn’t have happened.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and sighed angrily. “You should have stayed home in Missouri and married a mountain man and had two point five children,” she told herself. “Instead of joining an oil company and getting tangled up with Mr. Native American.”

  She refused to let herself think about that one weak moment she’d shared with Hunter. She ordered a fish dinner and coffee to be sent to the room, and she ate it in silence, hoping the fish would leave its scent and drive him crazy. She’d heard someone say that he hated fish. Good enough for him. She hoped his girlfriend gave him warts.

  It was only ten o’clock when she put on her cotton gown—deciding to let Hunter think what he liked—climbed into bed and turned out the lights. She didn’t mean to go to sleep, she was too fired up by the long day and longer evening. But she was tired and the day caught up with her. She closed her eyes and slept like a baby.

  Hunter came in just after midnight, sick of Miss Whitley’s too-obvious adoration, and found Jennifer sprawled on her bed in a gown that would have raised a statue’s temperature.

  The covers had been thrown off, and the gown was up around her thighs. She was lying on her back with one arm thrown over her head, and the bodice was half off, baring the exquisite pink curve of one firm breast. Her clothes hid most of her figure. She didn’t seem to go in for revealing things, except for that one night when she’d sent him up the walls in a low-cut red dress that showed every man around just what he was missing.

  She was no less lovely now in that white cotton gown with its delicate embroidery. With her long blond hair spread around her perfect oval of a face, her lips parted in sleep, her body totally relaxed, she made a picture that he was going to have hell forgetting.

  He managed to turn away from her at last and stripped down to his shorts. He almost removed them, too, but her remark about pajamas came back to twist his lips into a smile. He turned back his covers and set one of the security devices, just in case. From what Teresa had found out for him, the agent had been misled by this “vacation trip” and had followed their flight on to California, not realizing that Hunter and Miss Marist had suddenly turned into Mr. and Mrs. Camp in Tucson. But it didn’t pay to get careless.

  He had to remember that, he thought, looking at Jennifer one last time before he turned out the light. It had been one close call tonight, when Teresa had interrupted them. Another few seconds, and he’d have taken Jenny’s sweet mouth without one single thought for the consequences. She’d have let him. That memory haunted him until he fell asleep. For a woman who purported to hate him, she was remarkably responsive to his touch. He had to convince her that he wasn’t interested, no matter what it took. Her responsiveness could have terrible consequences if he let himself take advantage of it.

  The next morning, Hunter was awake and dressed and had breakfast waiting when Jennifer smelled the coffee and food and forced her eyes open.

  She sat up, barely aware of her state of undress until she saw Hunter scowl and avert his eyes. She tugged down her gown, angry at having given him a show, and quickly got her clothes together to dress in the bathroom.

  She fixed her hair and put on makeup this morning, and she was wearing a blouse for a change, one that buttoned up and emphasized the exquisite shape of her breasts and her narrow waist. It was red, to go with her white jeans, and as she looked at her reflection, she hoped Hunter had fits because of her outfit. Miss Whitley, indeed! This morning she was more than match for the security lady.

  When she went back into the room, Hunter was dishing up eggs and bacon. “Coffee’s in the pot, pour your own,” he said curtly.

  “Thanks.” She took the plate from him, aware of her beauty and its effect, tingling when she saw his dark eyes glance over her body and away.

  “We aren’t going to a party,” he informed her curtly.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Jeans, a short-sleeved blouse and sneakers aren’t exactly party gear,” she pointed out.

  He lifted his head, and his eyes made threats. “I’m not a eunuch. We’re going out into the desert, where we’ll be completely on our own for several days. Don’t complicate things. You looked better yesterday.”

  “Did I? Compared to what?” she demanded coldly. “Or should I say to whom?”

  He let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair to study her. “Teresa is an operative. When she isn’t trying to compete for attention, she’s very good at her job. I’m not her lover, nor likely to be. Nor yours,” he added with a cold stare.

  She had to grit her teeth. “I wasn’t inviting you to be my lover. I’m tired of knit blouses. It gets hot on the desert. This blouse is cooler. So are the white slacks—they tend to reflect heat.”

  “God deliver me from scientific lectures before breakfast,” he said icily, his narrow dark eyes making her nervous. “The fact is, Miss Marist, you saw Teresa as competition and you wanted to show me that you could beat her hands down in a beauty contest. All right, you have. You win. Now put on something less seductive and eat your breakfast. I’d like to get started.”

  She shook with mingled fury and humiliation and indignation, her fists clenched at her sides. No man had ever enraged her so much, so easily. She could have laid a chair across his skull with pleasure. Except that he was right. She had been competing for his attention. She just hadn’t wanted him to realize it.

  She grabbed up the same white knit shirt she’d worn the day before and pulled it on over her blouse, tugging her shirt collar through the rounded neckline. She didn’t say another word to him. She sat down at the table and ate her breakfast. She was getting used to not tasting what she ate when she was with him. One way or another, he always managed to kill her appetite.

  He finished his bacon and eggs and leaned back to sip his coffee, his gaze level and speculative. “Pouting?” he taunted. He wanted her and he couldn
’t have her. It was making him irritable. “You should know better than to throw yourself at men.”

  Her dark blue eyes flashed fire. She put down her coffee cup. “I don’t pout,” she said coldly, getting to her feet. “And I don’t need to throw myself at men! Especially you!”

  He got up, too, towering over her, his eyes dark with mingled frustration and anger. It got worse when she tried to step back and her cheeks flushed.

  “To hell with it,” he murmured roughly. He caught her waist and jerked her against his lean, powerful body, holding her there while his mouth bent to hers.

  He didn’t look in the least loverlike. He looked furious. “Hunter, no…!” she whispered frantically, pushing at his chest.

  His lips poised just above hers, his dark eyes holding hers, his breath on her face. “You’re going to push until you find out, aren’t you?” he asked roughly. “Well, for the book, Apaches don’t kiss their women on the mouth. But I’m no novice with your race or your sex. So do let me satisfy your curiosity.”

  The tone was smooth and deep, pure honey. She watched his hard lips part and then they were on her mouth, fierce and rough but totally without feeling. His breath filled her mouth with its minty warmth, his mouth moved with expert demand. But his body showed no sign of arousal, and he might have been holding a statue for all the warmth he projected.

  She’d wanted this. She’d waited forever to be close to him like this, to feel his arms closing around her, enfolding her, to feel his hard mouth on hers. She breathed him, anguished pleasure racking her body at the taste of him, so intimate on her mouth.

  But he was feeling nothing, and she realized it quite suddenly, with bitter disappointment. Almost at once he lifted his head. She opened her eyes and saw nothing in his face. No desire, nor need, nor love. There was nothing there except a cold curiosity. She was hungry, but he wasn’t. Not a hair out of place, she thought with faint hysteria, Mr. Cool.

  He let her go with a smooth, abrupt movement of his hands, putting distance between them effortlessly. “If you know as much about men as I think you do,” he said quietly, “that should tell you exactly what I feel.” He smiled, but it was a mocking, cold smile. “Bells didn’t ring. Horns didn’t blow. The earth didn’t move. You have a pretty mouth, but I wouldn’t kill for it. So now that we’ve breached that hurdle, can we go to work?”

  She swallowed her pride and hurt. “By all means,” she said. “I’ll get my gear.”

  It was dark and they were camped on the peak of a small hill, under a palo verde tree. No jungle hammock, just a tent with two sleeping bags inside it. The bags were positioned as far apart as Jennifer could get them. Equipment was set up to monitor any movement for miles around. The computer was busy. There was no conversation. Jenny hadn’t said one single word to Hunter since they left the motel, and if she had her way, she never would again. She didn’t care about him, she told herself. She couldn’t love a man who could be that cruel.

  He was aware of her hostility, but he preferred it to those melting glances she’d been giving him. He’d deliberately been ice-cold with her when he’d kissed her. It had been imperative to show her that he felt nothing. Now he’d convinced her, and he wasn’t pleased with his handiwork.

  Jenny had withdrawn from him, into her work. Now it was she who was ignoring him, and it disturbed him to feel the distance he’d created. Not that it wasn’t desirable. He couldn’t afford the luxury of involvement with Ritter’s top field geologist. It would complicate his own job, especially when the affair ended. And it would end. He and Jennifer were as different as night and day. He wanted her. She wanted him. But desire would never be enough to keep them together. He was old enough to know that, and she should be.

  She was so different like this. They’d never been alone together on assignment, there had always been other people around. He saw a Jennifer that he hadn’t known existed. A shy, uncertain woman with a keen analytical mind who actually downplayed her extraordinary looks. Or she had, he amended, until Teresa had tried her hand at upstaging Jennifer. Jennifer had tried to compete, to draw his attention. He should be flattered, he supposed, but it had made him angry to be the object of a female tug-of-war.

  “Do you want anything to eat?” he asked when the silence became too tense.

  “I had a candy bar, thanks,” she replied. She was putting away the computer, her attention elsewhere.

  “I brought provisions. You can have anything you like, including a steak.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “Starve yourself if you like,” he said, turning his back to fix himself a steak on the Coleman stove. “Pride doesn’t digest well.”

  “You’ll never know,” she said under her breath.

  He glared at her. “Do you have to have every man you meet on your string?” he asked. “Does your ego demand blind adoration?”

  She closed her eyes. The pain was unbearable. “Please stop,” she said huskily. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  He felt a strange empathy with her at times. He seemed to sense her feelings, her emotions. He was doing it now. She was wounded, emotionally.

  He got to his feet and knelt beside her, his dark eyes enigmatic. “Won’t do what again?” he asked.

  “I won’t…how did you put it?…try to get your attention.” She stared at the darkening ground. “I don’t know why I tried.”

  He studied the shadows on the ground. Night was coming down around them. Crickets sounded in the grass. A coyote howled. The wind caught her hair and blew it toward his face, and he felt its softness against his cheek.

  “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

  “Twenty-seven,” she replied, her voice terse because she didn’t like admitting her age.

  He hadn’t realized she was that old. He frowned, wondering why on earth a woman so lovely should be so alone. “You don’t date,” he persisted.

  “Checked the file, did you?” She pushed back her hair and glanced up at him and away as she closed the laptop and put it aside. “No, I don’t date. What’s the use? I was almost engaged twice, until they realized that I had a brain and wanted to use it. I wasn’t content to be a room decoration and a hostess to the exclusion of my career. I’ve gotten used to being alone. I rather like it.”

  “Except sometimes on dark nights, when you go hungry for a man’s arms,” he added with faint insolence.

  She stared at him with equal insolence. “I suppose you’re in a position to know that,” she agreed, nodding. “I’ve been alone too long, I suppose. Even you started to look good to me!”

  He didn’t answer her. He had to admit that he’d deserved that. He shouldn’t have taunted her, especially about something that she probably couldn’t even help.

  She got up and moved away from him, tense and unnerved by his continued scrutiny.

  “Come and eat something,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I meant it. I’m not hungry.” She laughed bitterly. “I haven’t tasted food since Eugene forced us on this ridiculous assignment. The only thing I want is to get it over with and get away from you!”

  His dark eyes caught hers. “Do you, Jennifer?” he asked softly, his voice deep and almost gentle in the stillness.

  She felt that tone to the soles of her feet and she turned away from him. It wasn’t fair that he could do this to her. “I’d better get my equipment put away.”

  He watched her go. She seemed to bring out the very worst in him. “There’s no need to run,” he said mockingly, glaring at her through the growing darkness. “I’m not going to touch you again. I don’t want you. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “Yes.” She almost choked on the word. She turned toward the tent. “Yes, I could tell.”

  Her voice disturbed him. It seemed to hurt her that he didn’t find her desirable. He drew in a slow breath, wondering what to do. It had seemed the best idea at the time, to put her at ease about his intentions. But he’d done something to her emotions with that cold,
angry kiss. It hadn’t been anything like the kiss he’d wanted to give her, either. Nothing like it.

  He cooked his steak and ate it, feeling vaguely disturbed that he couldn’t make her share it. He put out the fire, set his surveillance equipment, and went into the tent.

  She was already in her sleeping bag, zipped up tight in her clothes, her eyes closed. But she wasn’t asleep. He could hear her ragged breathing and there were bright streaks on her cheeks in the faint light of the flashlight he used to get to his own sleeping bag.

  He put out the light angrily and took off his boots, climbing in fully clothed. He lay back on the ground, his eyes on the top of the tent, his mind full of thoughts, mostly unpleasant.

  Jenny was crying. He could hear her. But to go to her, to offer comfort, would be the biggest mistake of all. He might offer more than comfort. Not wanting her was a lie. He did. He always had. But she’d want something more than desire, he thought. And desire was all he had to give.

  She wiped at her tears, trying not to sniff audibly. She never cried, but she’d set new records tonight. Why did he have the power to hurt her so badly? She pushed the damp hair out of her eyes and stared at the wall of the tent, thinking back to camping trips with her parents and her cousin Danetta when they were girls. How uncomplicated and sweet life had been then. No career, no worries, just long, lazy summer days and hope.

  A coyote howled and she stiffened under the sleeping bag. Was it a coyote, or a wolf?

  “It’s a coyote,” he said, giving it the Spanish pronunciation. “We call them songdogs. They loom large in our legends, in our history. We don’t consider them as lowly as whites do.”

  “If you dislike white people so much, why do you work with us?” she asked angrily, her voice hoarse from the tears.

  “It’s a white world.”

  “Don’t blame me. None of my ancestors ever served in the U.S. Cavalry out west. They were much too busy shooting Union soldiers.”