Page 12 of Hunter

He tugged on his left earlobe the way he had done before, thinking. “The things that come to me. A color. Or a sound. A smell. The sunset over the desert at night. They flit into my mind like a moth. Then they escape into the darkness.”

“You remember things?” she asked, suddenly hoping for proof that Emerson had been lying.

“I . . . do not know for sure. What is the difference between memories and wishing?”

She had no answer, for she knew that it was perfectly possible, under the right circumstances, for people to remember things that hadn’t happened. But the mixture of uncertainty and longing on his face tore at her, and she raised her hand to his cheek. For a long moment, neither of them moved, then he turned his head so that his lips brushed her fingers, so lightly that she wondered if she imagined it.

“Another thing I remember. . . the touch of soft flesh against my flesh. Or perhaps I want to think it is true,” he said wistfully.

His voice was husky with emotion she suspected had been bottled up inside him for a long time. She wanted to turn and gather him to her. Then she remembered that the Chief of Operations and a squad of security men were waiting outside, and she’d promised to defuse a tense situation.

Straightening, she cleared her throat. Although it wasn’t easy to make herself pull back, she took a small step away from him. “I told Mr. Emerson I’d find out about what happened with Beckton,” she said.

His expression hardened. “He asked why I was late. I told him. He said I was lying, and he punched me. I do not lie.”

She tried to keep her voice neutral. “He hit you before, and you didn’t hurt him. Why was this time different?”

“It just was.”

“Why?”

His brows knitted. Seconds ticked by. “You,” he finally said. “Seeing you. And talking.”

“I don’t understand. What does it have to do with me?”

“You made me want to be different,” he said, then looked startled by the revelation.

“What do you mean?” she persisted in a shaky voice.

“I—” Before he could finish the sentence, the sound of running feet echoed through the gym.

Hunter’s gaze shot from her to the door through which she’d entered. He gave her a look that was equal parts hurt and anger. Then his face went blank. Whirling, he crouched in a defensive stance, just as the door opened and a swarm of men wearing riot gear poured into the locker room.

Chapter Three

Kathryn screamed as the riot squad swarmed over Hunter like predators fighting over fresh meat. He had remarkable strength. At first, he was able to defend himself with several well-placed martial arts moves, but there were six of them and only one of him. She saw them landing blow after blow designed to inflict pain. Then, as if on an unspoken signal, a man in the back calmly lifted a gun with a needle-shaped barrel and fired into Hunter’s shoulder.

Even as her mind registered that it must be a tranquilizer gun, an anguished gasp tore from her lips.

Although the dart was clearly embedded in his flesh, Hunter redoubled his efforts, fighting like a wild man to free himself from the hands that held him fast. Still, his incredible physique was no match for a tranquilizer.

She saw consciousness slipping from him, but he fought to stay awake. Raising his head, he scanned the room for something. He was looking for her, she realized with a start as his dark gaze cleared for a moment, boring into her with the force of a drill bit gouging through solid rock. She had never been truly afraid of him until that moment. Suddenly she was thankful that four men were restraining him. Anger blazed in the depths of his eyes like cold fire.

“You. . . tricked. . . me,” he flung at her, fighting to get the words out as the dart did its insidious work.

“No!”

“You came . . . here with soft words . . . so they. . . could . . ..” The effort to speak sapped the last of his strength, and his body sagged.

“No,” she repeated, shaking her head violently, still protesting her innocence, even as he lost the effort to keep his eyes open.

The four men hanging on to him were left supporting his dead weight. Even as he slipped toward the floor, the man with the gun uttered a vile curse and punched sharply on the back of the neck.

The last sound he made was a deep groan of pain.

“Stop it!” Kathryn clenched her fists, wanting to rush across the room and pummel the man who had landed the gratuitous blow on Hunter’s defenseless body. Helpless rage bubbled up inside her. There was nothing she could do, not even strike out in anger. According to their view of events, that would only make them think that she was some kind of nut case.

“Get him out of here, Reid,” Emerson ordered.

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