Page 17 of Unwanted

He stared at her again, an infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes. But he didn’t contradict her.

“Your feet are bare,” she finally said. Stupidly. “They must be cold,” she added. Even more stupidly. Which, at this point, should be my middle name, she thought with an internal grimace. She pressed her lips together, embarrassed and uneasy.

He simply stared at her for a moment and then turned toward his house.

She glanced at the fox den, and with the snow cleared, she could see it was only four baby foxes, no mother. She must be out hunting. They were still covered in the snow her reckless driving had caused to cave in on them, and they had to be cold. A tremor of guilt went through her. Concern for the helpless things.

Lucas had cared about them too. He’d run out there to make sure they weren’t suffocating to death.

“Will they be okay?” she called, knowing it was better not to touch them, knowing it would risk their mother smelling a predator and abandoning the den. Still…to leave them that way, cold and wet and alone…

He slowed and turned his head slightly. “They will be or they won’t. Better to let their mother do the job now. If she’s still alive.”

If. She knew he was right. Still she hesitated, watching as he climbed his short set of steps. He was going to go back inside his house. “Wait,” she called. It only took her a few seconds to jog back to his house and climb the steps to the porch where he had turned and was watching her, that same thin-lipped expression on his face. He looked more…normal now without the layer of animal skins. Just a large, muscular man with several visible scars, longish hair, and a short beard. Not a caveman…no…more of a mountain man or…a guy who’d been out living off the land for several months.

An extremely good-looking mountain man who exuded testosterone and danger. And if she was so unsettled, why was she noticing the former? Because it can’t be ignored, that’s all, she told herself. His good looks startled her in their intensity. It wouldn’t make her any less cautious of him. Maybe he was like one of those wildcats she’d spotted a few times. Sleek and beautiful to look at but wild and dangerous. Brutal even.

Although he didn’t seem brutal. Just wary…and curious. Intelligent and uncertain.

He gave the rifle she’d left propped on the porch a casual glance. “I’m sorry. I was careless and rude. I…I thought I recognized the locket hanging around your neck. It looks familiar, and I… I was wondering if I could see it, just for a moment. I’ll give it back. I just…may I look at it? Um, Lucas. Oh, and in case you don’t remember my name, I’m Harper.”

She’d stumbled over her words and felt breathless, a lump rising in her chest for reasons she wasn’t sure she could explain. She could hardly believe she was out there, standing in the snow with this man. Couldn’t believe she’d acted so rashly. Foolishly, maybe. But she couldn’t manage to be sorry for it or wish she’d considered it more carefully. “Please,” she whispered.

His light eyes seemed to soften minutely, though he was still regarding her as though she were an anomaly he couldn’t understand.

Their gazes held as he pulled the leather string from the collar of his shirt, and her gaze shot to his large, scarred hand, watched as it pulled the string so the locket appeared. Her breath hitched, and she stepped forward, her trembling fingers reaching for the small, round piece of silver, hesitating midway, the fear inside her suddenly growing. What if… What if…

She was standing on a precipice. The next several seconds might change everything. With a rushed exhale, she extended her arm and grasped the locket, her hand touching his as she took another step toward Lucas. They were toe to toe. She tipped her chin, looking up at him, and he stared down at her, their breath mingling, the weight of the moment seeming to have fallen over both of them. She saw his nostrils flare and knew he’d just inhaled deeply. Was he inhaling her? His head dipped minutely, so minutely she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been so close, and then the same drawing in of breath. Yes, he was taking in her scent. And something about the flickering expression on his face told her he’d enjoyed the experience. It made her stomach clench in a foreign way, and she was so overwhelmed with fear and emotion and confusion, she thought she might faint.

She didn’t know this version of herself. She always held it together. Always. And yet all she wanted to do was fall into his chest and ask him to hold her for a moment while she gathered herself to look at that locket.

Wildcat, Harper, she reminded herself, taking a small step back.

Time slowed, and with effort, she moved her gaze from his, her eyes going to the locket that was engraved with three linked hearts.

Always together, never apart.

She let out a small sob as she reached up with her other hand, using her thumbnail to open the small disk, her hands shaking so badly, it almost slipped from her grasp. But it didn’t. It fell open to reveal a miniature photo of three people, their arms encircling each other, the joy in their smiling faces clear.

She remembered that joy, felt it cascade over her like a ray of warm summer sun.

The photo was of her father.

Her mother.

And herself.

Chapter Twelve

“Agent Gallagher?” The tall, sixtyish man in the khakis and button-down blue shirt extended his hand, giving Mark an easy smile as they shook. “I’m Dr. Swift. What is it I can do for you?”

They were standing in an open reception area, hallways on two sides where a small group stood chatting. “I have some questions about someone who used to work here. Isaac Driscoll? Is there somewhere more private we can speak?” Mark was eager to talk to this man and to sit down in a place where he could make better note of his reactions—the man who had once worked closely with Isaac Driscoll.

“Isaac? Uh…I haven’t heard his name mentioned in years.” Dr. Swift appeared flustered for a brief moment. “But yes, of course. Please follow me.”

Dr. Swift led him to a room down the hall with a whiteboard on one wall and, across from that, a long one-way mirror. It appeared that this was some sort of interview room, and when he asked, Dr. Swift said, “Yes. Project researchers use this room to observe subjects answering questions or relating to each other, reacting to things, etcetera, depending on the study.”

“Ah,” Mark said. He’d taken classes in social science when he was in school—which was a long time ago now—but was interested to hear exactly what was involved in the study aspect.

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