Читать книгу Second Nature: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Страница 9

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.

“You prefer the East to the West?”

He smiled and lifted his glass. “I make it a point to prefer where I am.”

He was very adept at evasions, she thought, and turned away to wander the room. It seemed he was also very adept at making her uneasy. Unless she missed her guess, he did both on purpose. “Do you travel often?”

“Only when it’s necessary.”

Tipping back her glass, Lee decided to try a more direct approach. “Why are you so secretive about yourself? Most people in your position would make the most of the promotion and publicity that’s available.”

“I don’t consider myself secretive, nor do I consider myself most people.”

“You don’t even have a bio or a photo on your book covers.”

“My face and my background have nothing to do with the stories I tell. Does the wine suit you?”

“It’s very good.” Though she’d barely tasted it. “Don’t you feel it’s part of your profession to satisfy the readers’ curiosity when it comes to the person who creates a story that interests them?”

“No. My profession is words—putting words together so that someone who reads them is entertained, intrigued and satisfied with a tale. And tales spring from imagination rather than hard fact.” He sipped wine himself and approved it. “The teller of the tale is nothing compared to the tale itself.”

“Modesty?” Lee asked with a trace of scorn she couldn’t prevent.

The scorn seemed to amuse him. “Not at all. It’s a matter of priorities, not humility. If you knew me better, you’d understand I have very few virtues.” He smiled, but Lee told herself she’d imagined that brief predatory flash in his eyes. Imagined, she told herself again and shuddered. Annoyed at her own reaction, she held out her wineglass for a refill.

“Have you any virtues?”

He liked the fact that she struck back even when her nerves were racing. “Some say vices are more interesting and certainly more entertaining than virtues.” He filled her glass to just under the rim. “Would you agree?”

“More interesting, perhaps more entertaining.” She refused to let her eyes falter from his as she drank. “Certainly more demanding.”

He mulled this over, enjoying her quick response and her clean, direct thought-patterns. “You have an interesting mind, Lenore; you keep it exercised.”

“A woman who doesn’t finds herself watching other people climb to the top while she fills water glasses and makes the coffee.” She could have cursed in frustration the moment she’d spoken. It wasn’t her habit to speak that freely. The point was, she was here to interview him, Lee reminded herself, not the other way around.

“An interesting analogy,” Hunter murmured. Ambition. Yes, he’d sensed that about her from the beginning. But what was it she wanted to achieve? Whatever it was, he mused, she wouldn’t be above stepping over a few people to get it. He found he could respect that, could almost admire it. “Tell me, do you ever relax?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hands are rarely still, though you appear to have a great deal of control otherwise.” He noted that at his words her fingers stopped toying with the stem of her glass. “Since you’ve come into this room, you haven’t stayed in one spot more than a few seconds. Do I make you nervous?”

Sending him a cool look, she sat on the plush sofa and crossed her legs. “No.” But her pulse thudded a bit when he sat down beside her.

“What does?”

“Small loud dogs.”

He laughed, pleased with the moment and with her. “You’re a very entertaining woman.” He took her hand lightly in his. “I should tell you that’s my highest compliment.”

“You set a great store by entertainment.”

“The world’s a grim place—worse, often tedious.” Her hand was delicate, and delicacy drew him. Her eyes held secrets, and there was little that intrigued him more. “If we can’t be entertained, there’re only two places to go. Back to the cave, or on to oblivion.”

“So you entertain with terror.” She wanted to shift farther away from him, but his fingers had tightened almost imperceptibly on her hand. And his eyes were searching for her thoughts.

“If you’re worried about the unspeakable terror lurking outside your bedroom window, would you worry about your next dentist appointment or the fact that your washer overflowed?”

“Escape?”

He reached up to touch her hair. It seemed a very casual, very natural gesture to him. Lee’s eyes flew open as if she’d been pinched. “I don’t care for the word escape.”

She was a difficult combination to resist, Hunter thought, as he let his fingertips skim down the side of her throat. The fiery hair, the vulnerable eyes, the cool gloss of breeding, the bubbling nerves. She’d make a fascinating character and, he realized, a fascinating lover. He’d already decided to have her for the first; now, as he toyed with the ends of her hair, he decided to have her for the second.

She sensed something when his gaze locked on hers again. Decision, determination, desire. Her mouth went dry. It wasn’t often that she felt she could be outmatched by another. It was rarer still when anyone or anything truly frightened her. Though he said nothing, though he moved no closer, she found herself fighting back fear—and the knowledge that whatever game she challenged him to, she would lose because he would look into her eyes and know each move before she made it.

A knock sounded at the door, but he continued to look at her for long silent seconds before he rose. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner,” he said, so calmly that Lee wondered if she’d imagined the flare of passion she’d seen in his eyes. While he went to the door, she sat where she was, struggling to sort her own thoughts. She was imagining things, Lee told herself. He couldn’t see into her and read her thoughts. He was just a man. Since the game was hers, and only she knew the rules, she wouldn’t lose. Settled again, she rose to walk to the table.

The salmon was tender and pink. Pleased with the choice, Lee sat down at the table as the waiter closed the door behind him. So far, Lee reflected, she’d answered more questions than Hunter. It was time to change that.

“The advice you gave earlier to struggling writers about blocking out time to write every day no matter how discouraged they get—did that come from personal experience?”

Hunter sampled the salmon. “All writers face discouragement from time to time. Just as they face criticism and rejection.”

“Did you face many rejections before the sale of The Devil’s Due?”

“I suspect anything that comes too easily.” He lifted the wine bottle to fill her glass again. She had a face made for candlelight, he mused as he watched the shadow and light flicker over the cream-soft skin and delicate features. He was determined to find out what lay beneath, before the evening ended.

He never considered he was using her, though he fully intended to pick her brain for everything he could learn about her. It was a writer’s privilege.

“What made you become a writer?”

He lifted a brow as he continued to eat. “I was born a writer.”

Lee ate slowly, planning her next line of questions. She had to move carefully, avoid putting him on the defensive, maneuver around any suspicions. She never considered she was using him, though she fully intended to pick his brain for everything she could learn about him. It was a reporter’s privilege.

“Born a writer,” she repeated, flaking off another bite of salmon. “Do you think it’s that simple? Weren’t there elements in your background, circumstances, early experiences, that led you toward your career?”

“I didn’t say it was simple,” Hunter corrected. “We’re all born with a certain set of choices to make. The matter of making the right ones is anything but simple. Every novel written has to do with choices. Writing novels is what I was meant to do.”

He interested her enough that she forgot the unofficial interview and asked for herself, “So you always wanted to be a writer?”

“You’re very literal-minded,” Hunter observed. Comfortable, he leaned back and swirled the wine in his glass. “No, I didn’t. I wanted to play professional soccer.”

“Soccer?”

Her astonished disbelief made him smile. “Soccer,” he repeated. “I wanted to make a career of it and might have been successful at it, but I had to write.”

Lee was silent a moment, then decided he was telling her precisely the truth. “So you became a writer without really wanting to.”

“I made a choice,” Hunter corrected, intrigued by the orderly logic of her mind. “I believe a great many people are born writer or artist, and die without ever realizing it. Books go unwritten, paintings unpainted. The fortunate ones are those who discover what they were meant to do. I might have been an excellent soccer player; I might have been an excellent writer. If I’d tried to do both, I’d have been no more than mediocre. I chose not to be mediocre.”

“There’re several million readers who’d agree you made the right choice.” Forgetting the cool facade, she propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Why horror fiction, Hunter? Someone with your skill and your imagination could write anything. Why did you turn your talents toward that particular genre?”

He lit a cigarette so that the scent of tobacco stung the air. “Why do you read it?”

She frowned; he hadn’t turned one of her questions back on her for some time. “I don’t as a rule, except yours.”

“I’m flattered. Why mine?”