Page 38 of Hunter

She gave him other examples, and he listened intently. After sitting for a while with his brow wrinkled, he asked,

“Do you know the rhyme about Peter Piper?”

“Um hum.”

“Well, I’m sure Peter Piper didn’t pick a peck of pickled peppers because he hasn’t found the pepper picking pot that’s lost. It’s in the toolshed.”

She laughed. “That’s good!”

He looked pleased.

“I think you’ve got it. By George, I think you’ve got it!” Impulsively, she reached across the table and pressed her hand over his. He went very still, his eyes lifting to hers. For several heartbeats, he didn’t move, then he shifted slightly so that his fingers were pressed to hers along their length.

She felt a strong current flowing between them, a current that increased in intensity as he experimentally stroked her with his fingertips. He wedged his fingers between hers, then inched them up, and she knew from her own reaction he was testing the heated sensations generated by the simple touch.

“Can friends do this?” he said in a thick voice.

She knew she should say no. She couldn’t force the syllable out of her mouth as he reversed the position of their hands, flattening her palm against the table and stroking delicately against it.

Such light contact, really. His hand on hers. Nothing more.

His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as if to shut out everything else but the slender link of flesh to flesh. Her own lids fluttered closed as she sat across from him, feeling heat pooling in her body—heat generated simply by the sensual stroking of his fingers against hers. When he arched his hand, testing the movement of his blunt-cut nails against her palm, she felt her heartbeat leap.

Then a noise from the front of the house made them both jump. The front door, she realized with a start as he snatched his hand back and prepared to push himself away from the table. He was looking over her shoulder toward the cabinet where he’d hidden the gun, she realized.

“No,” she ordered. “Stay here.”

Sam Winslow strode into the room. “What are you doing? Where the hell is the security team that’s supposed to be outside?”

Hunter’s face went blank as he sat back down in his seat.

Kathryn lifted her face toward the man who had rudely interrupted their supper. “To answer your first question, we’re having dessert. Would you like a piece of apple pie?”

Winslow ignored the offer. “Where are the men who are supposed to be stationed here?” he clipped out.

“Perhaps they went to their quarters for dry clothes. But as you can see, we’re doing perfectly fine by ourselves.”

His gaze shot to Hunter. “He isn’t accustomed to these conditions. He could leave.”

“I would not . . . wouldn’t do that,” Hunter answered.

“This is ludicrous,” Winslow muttered. “Are you playing house?”

“We’re not playing anything. I’ve already taught him how to set the table.” She swallowed, hating to demean Hunter. “And we’ve been working on his table manners and his speech patterns. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the results.”

“I’m moving a security detail to the porch,” Winslow answered.

“Before you do, perhaps you can satisfy my curiosity about a matter of procedure.”

He raised questioning eyebrows.

“When I arrived back home from buying groceries, I found Hunter already here. But no one had informed him that I’d be sharing the cottage with him. That led to a little misunderstanding between the two of us. Were you responsible for bringing him over without adequate preparation?”

“Certainly not,” Winslow growled. “Informing him was supposed to be taken care of.”

“But it slipped between the cracks?”

He gave a curt nod.

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