Page 3 of Hunter

They were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, she thought, as they found hers through the windshield, telegraphing a message that he asked nothing from her or anyone else. He stood alone, which should mean nothing. Yet something about the look on his lean features conveyed a sense of isolation that made her breath catch painfully.

She couldn’t analyze the feeling. For heartbeats, she was held by the currents she sensed flowing below the surface of the dark eyes. He broke the spell by moving large hands to his shoulders, easing a pair of straps, and she realized that he was wearing a heavy-looking backpack.

Her attention was so totally focused on the runner that she forgot all about McCourt sitting next to her. Apparently, he had been as transfixed as she—until the man took a step toward the car. Then her passenger reached for the door handle.

“Who is that?” she managed.

Without answering, McCourt climbed out and stepped around the car, his face set in harsh lines. From her vantage point behind the wheel, Kathryn watched the dynamics of the close encounter with fascination.

“What the hell are you doing on this part of the grounds?” McCourt demanded, yet the question came out more wary than authoritative.

The runner shifted his stance. Although he kept his face carefully neutral, there was something about the angle of his firm jaw that sent a shiver up her spine. When he spoke, his voice was low, controlled. “Training exercise,” he answered in measured syllables, using only the precise number of words he needed to convey his meaning. “Six-mile run. Fifty-pound pack.” His voice was rough, rusty, with a kind of unused quality.

Kathryn goggled as she tried to imagine the stamina it would take to run ten miles carrying that much weight.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” McCourt growled.

The man drew himself up taller. “The trails are wet,” he said in his gritty voice, then took a step toward McCourt who backed up the same amount of space.

“Stay away from me,” he warned, a quaver in his voice as his hand inched toward the gun at his waist.

Kathryn could see he was badly rattled by the chance encounter. My God, was he capable of shooting the man for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? What kind of place was this, anyway?

She looked around. The grounds were as deserted as before. She was the only witness.

Her heart started to pound. Before she quite realized what she was doing, she stepped out of the car and moved to join the two men.

McCourt heard the car door open, glanced back at her and swore under his breath. “Stay out of his reach,” he flung over his shoulder. “He’ll beat the crap out of you as soon as look at you.”

The runner shook his head in strong denial, then switched his attention from McCourt to her, apparently dismissing the other man as if he had ceased to exist. Yet she had the feeling that if McCourt made a sudden move for his gun, it would be knocked out of his hand before he could raise it into firing position.

“I will not hurt you,” the runner said to her with an absolute finality that she felt as well as heard.

“I believe you,” Kathryn replied, lifting her eyes to meet his.

His gaze locked with hers, held. “Thank you.” He spoke the simple phrase with deep sincerity, giving the impression that he rarely had the opportunity to thank anyone.

“I never lie,” he added.

It wasn’t a boast, she decided. It was a simple statement of fact. Like the correct date and time.

“Who are you?” she asked in as steady a voice as she could manage.

It was a straightforward request for information, yet he appeared to give it deep consideration, and she had the strange feeling that perhaps nobody had ever bothered to ask the question before.

“Nobody,” he finally answered with a half shrug of his shoulders.

“You must have a name,” she came back.

His hand rose, and he tugged for a moment at his left earlobe as if the gesture helped him think. “I am called John Doe,” he recited, the syllables running together into one word. From someone else, it might have been a joke or a sarcastic attempt to cut off the conversation, but the serious look on his face belied any attempt at humor or irony.

He didn’t ask her name, yet she offered it anyway. “Kathryn Kelley. Kelley with an extra E before the Y,” the way she always said it, even as she pondered the combination of a first and last name that had very little chance of being real.

“Kathryn Kelley,” he repeated in a thoughtful voice. “You are different.”

“How?”

He considered the question. “Many ways. Your hair.” He reached out a hand toward her red curls, his fingers making the barest contact, like a man afraid to harm something of great value. The touch was gentle, yet it sent a vibration traveling along her nerve endings.

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