Page 33 of Hunter

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I could be wrong. I should not have said it.”

She shook her head. “You did the right thing. I need to understand the situation here.”

He gave her a tight nod. After a little hesitation, he slipped his arm around her shoulder and held her to his side. Once again, she needed his strength. When she relaxed against him, he touched her hair, and she allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes.

“You should leave,” he said; again, the words were barely audible.

Earlier he had told her to leave the medical center. Was he telling her it wasn’t a good idea for them to be sharing the guest cottage? “Leave the house?” she asked.

“Leave Stratford Creek, if they will let you.”

Her eyes blinked open. “What?”

“The situation here is—it is not safe for you. I heard McCourt and Winslow talking about you. Using words like. . . bitch. And . . . and worse than that. Beckton came in and told them to shut up. He was afraid someone might hear. They shut up, but they do not like having you interfering. They thought they were doing fine without you,” he continued in the same muffled voice.

She held on to his shoulder, brought her mouth close to his ear. “I’m not going to leave you.”

He turned his head, his eyes searching hers for confirmation, and she realized at that moment she had made a commitment.

Her lips skimmed his cheek, moved to his ear. “I mean it,” she whispered.

His arms tightened on her. It was both an awkward and an intimate way to have a conversation. Holding each other close. Moving their heads so that they took turns feeling the other’s warm breath against their ears.

“Why?” he asked, layers of questions in his lowered voice.

As she clung to him for support, she tried to think of what to say. “We are friends. Friends help each other.”

“Yes. I will protect you—if I can.”

Again, he had spoken a simple truth, without censoring his words, and she realized he was making his own commitment.

“Friends,” he murmured, as if savoring the idea. Yet there was a kind of sadness in his eyes, too. She was vividly aware that his lips were inches from hers, that he was staring at them with suppressed intensity. If she turned, if he turned, her breasts would be pressed against his chest and his mouth would touch hers. They both stood rigid as the moment stretched. Once again, she wondered if they were feeling the tug of a mythical past neither of them could remember. Or the future.

“I wish—” he said, his voice hoarse.

“What?”

Without answering, he took a step back, breaking the contact.

She needed his warmth. More than that, she desperately needed to continue the discussion. There was so much to say. And so much to find out. But they couldn’t go out into the pelting rain to talk. And they couldn’t go on like this, because the heat building between them would reach flash point. After taking a little breath, she gave him a steady look, then raised her voice for the benefit of whoever might be listening. “Right now, we’re going to get ready for supper.”

“Supper? What is the difference between supper and dinner?” he asked, taking his cue from her without missing a beat, his voice giving only a hint of his emotions.

She managed a strained laugh. “It’s a subtle distinction. Supper is usually a little less elaborate than dinner” Turning she made a quick exit from the room. After pulling on dry slacks and a light blue tee shirt, she went back to the kitchen. Unpacking the rest of the groceries gave her some sense of regaining control.

As she put the food away, she could hear Hunter showering. When she looked up a few minutes later, he had silently crossed the living room. He was dressed in dry jeans and another knit shirt, his hair still damp.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He stood very still, taking her in, and she suspected he’d been half thinking she would disappear while he was in the shower.

“I’m still here,” she said, watching the color in his cheeks deepen.

He gave a little nod, holding his gaze on her for several more seconds before taking in their surroundings. All at once he was like an archaeologist who finds himself in an ancient Roman city. He pondered the sofa and chairs, felt the fabric, flipped the television off and on and studied the shelves along one wall that held books and a strange assortment of knickknacks. After examining a mug with a picture of the Empire State Building, he picked up a small stuffed alligator, turning it one way and then the other in his hands.

“What is this for?” he asked.

“It might be a child’s toy. Or a souvenir from a trip.”

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