Page 53 of Hunter

“I came to talk to you,” he repeated.

She nodded against his shoulder but kept sobbing. When she clung to him, pulling him down beside her, he gathered her close and held her gently, wishing he knew what to do to make her feel better. He had frightened her badly, and sadness descended upon him. He had thought. . . well, it didn’t matter what he had thought.

In that unguarded moment when she had wakened, he had discovered her true feelings.

He felt her struggling to get control of herself. When she fumbled for a tissue on the bedside table and blew her nose, he eased away from her and sat up, moving to the side of the bed.

“We can’t talk,” she whispered.

“Yes, we can. I turned off the recording machine,” he explained. “Since it’s voice activated, they will think we are sleeping now.”

She tipped her head toward him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He swallowed painfully, looking down so she wouldn’t see his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in. I frightened you.”

She sat up and put her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “It wasn’t you I was afraid of,” she said quickly.

“Who?” he asked, hardly daring to hope he had been wrong about her terror.

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “I took the job Emerson offered me because I wanted to hide out from a man named James Harrison, who tried to kill me last week,” she said in a shaky voice.” Moving her hand to his, she held on tight.

“Why would someone try to kill you?”

Her grip was almost painful, yet he didn’t loosen her fingers.

“One of my jobs is testifying in court—in trials—as an expert witness. Three years ago, I gave an evaluation of Harrison. He lived at home with his mother because he couldn’t sustain a relationship with a woman. He’d been fired from his job as a computer programmer, and he was depressed. His mother had a lot of money, and he wanted to get his hands on it. So, he was holding her captive—starving her. Hoping she would die.”

“A person would do that to his mother?” he asked, hardly able to believe it.

“Not usually. He was sick—mentally sick. The mother didn’t die, so he wasn’t charged with murder. And she wouldn’t press charges against him. I testified that he was a danger to society. Because of my testimony and another psychologist’s, he was confined to a mental institution.”

He listened intently, not sure he understood everything, but getting the gist of it.

“He escaped, but the authorities thought he was dead. He came to the apartment building where I live. He tried to kill me. I got away from him, but the police haven’t found him yet. And sometimes I dream about him. I dream he’s coming after me again,” she ended with a little gulp that made his heart melt.

“Come here.” He held out his arms to her.

She came into them without hesitation, and he felt a wave of warmth and protectiveness sweep over him as she nestled her head against his chest.

On a deep sigh, he cupped his hands around her shoulders. He liked it so much when she gave herself into his care. It made him feel strong. Good. Able to protect her, although he didn’t know if he really could.

“I thought I’d be safe at Stratford Creek. I didn’t know I was jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”

He repeated the phrase. He’d never heard it before, but he understood what she meant.

She burrowed closer to him. “It wasn’t you I was afraid of,” she said again, her warm breath seeping through his shirt to heat his skin. “I saw your shape in the doorway—a man’s shape—but I couldn’t see your face.”

His hand moved to stroke her hair. He had told himself he wouldn’t touch her when he came to her room to talk. Still, it was impossible to deny himself the pleasure of running the silky strands through his fingers. He could feel his body getting hot and tight again. It was a strange combination of pain and pleasure that compelled him to seek more.

Remembering the kiss in the hallway, he turned his head. She opened her mouth for him, and he gave a sigh of gratification at the soft touch of her lips and the sweet taste of her. Some part of his mind knew this was the wrong thing to do. He shouldn’t have come to her bedroom. Perhaps he had been fooling himself about his reasons.

The pressure of his lips on hers made him dizzy, hot, achy. His fingers shook as they stroked the tender line where her hair met her cheek. When she made a little sound of wanting in her throat, he answered with a growl of satisfaction.

Helpless to stop himself, he moved his hand, cupped one of her breasts, stroked his fingers over the tip.

It was hard. Touching it made him harden in response, as if her body were giving a signal to his. The fabric between his hand and her flesh frustrated him. He wanted to pull the shirt over her head, push her down to the surface of the bed.

Mate with her.

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