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

“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.