Page 22 of Hunter

“What’s the first thing you remember about your life here?”

“Watching Swinton and Anderson in the research center.” His face hardened, and he didn’t elaborate.

She hated to get into deeper water, yet she wanted to trigger memories—and emotional responses. “When was the first time Beckton hit you?

“He slapped my face—on the rifle range. He was angry because I failed a qualification test, but I missed the target because somebody had bent the gunsight.”

“Who would do that?”

“Someone who wants to stop Project Sandstorm.”

“Who?”

He shrugged.

“How do you know?” she demanded

“Things happen. Colonel Emerson gets angry and announces new procedures.”

“What other things have happened?” she demanded.

“A man was killed. The chief of security. His name was Fenton.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “How was he killed?”

“I heard them talking about it. He fell off a roof. Winslow thought he was pushed. And McCourt took over,” he added.

So that was why a guy in his thirties had such an important position, she thought as she struggled to take in the implications.

“Do you know anything else about it?”

When he shook his head, she sighed. He might not have any more information about the security chief, but his own life was a different matter. “The incident with the gun? When did it happen? A year ago? Months?”

“Time. . . I did not think about time at first,” he answered slowly. “I think it was some months ago.”

Her mind was starting to overload. She had wanted information about him, about this place. But his simple answers were providing more than she could handle.

Who was he? What was his background? How had he ended up at Stratford Creek? In her mind, she replayed the scene when he had first come out of the shower. He had been all lean muscle and sinew, and unblemished skin, except for the recent injuries. If he’d been a criminal before coming here, it didn’t show.

“Your face looks strange. What thoughts are in your mind?” he asked.

She felt herself blush. “I was remembering how your body looked after your shower.”

“Why does that make your face red?”

“Social conventions,” she answered. “It’s not exactly polite to think about another person with no clothes on—and admit it to them.”

“I think about you that way.”

“Oh.” She flushed again and fumbled for another topic. “Tell me about your assignment.”

He didn’t answer.

“What are you supposed to do?” she asked, her hand tightening on his arm.

“I cannot talk about that.”

“Why?”

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