Page 27 of Hunter

As his mind made rapid evaluations, his searching hand began to move again, continued down her body, lingering at all the places where a weapon might be concealed. Flare of hip, silky skin of thigh, delicate structure of knee. The touch of her flesh scalded his fingertips so that by the time he finished, his heart was pounding, and he was struggling to breathe normally.

So was she. Did she feel what he did—the strange combination of weakness and strength that swirled within him when he touched her? Or was she only afraid of what he might do to her?

What he or anybody else felt had never been of much concern to him. Tonight, feelings overwhelmed him. All his training urged caution. Yet there was no way of knowing where caution lay.

Kill her. Let her run to whoever had sent her. Or hold her within reach and ask his own questions—the way she had questioned him this afternoon.

He had never felt less sure. The right course of action escaped him, but he knew on some deep, instinctive level that he wanted to keep her close by his side. The scene in the locker room flashed into his mind again. Then her apology in the medical center. No one had ever made excuses for their behavior to him before.

But what did her words really mean? What would she say when he was the one in control?

Before he could change his mind, he dragged her toward the sliding glass doors. When she tried to struggle, he brought his lips close to her ear and growled, “If you do not want to get hurt, be still.”

She obeyed at once, although he knew she could simply be waiting for a better chance to get away. Or to kill him. They had warned him women could be trained to kill. Perhaps she was only looking for the right opportunity to turn the tables.

Taking the chance that he knew more of physical combat than she did, he lifted her over the threshold and carried her into the area behind the house, where trees had grown up. Beeches, maples, and wild cherries made a thick screen, hiding the two of them from view.

The branches were shivering in the wind, and dark clouds blocked out the sun, signaling the approach of a storm. If she screamed, the wind might hide the sound.

As soon as he was certain they were alone, he removed the hand from her mouth, tensing for her reaction.

Her eyes were wide and round as she focused all her attention on him. Her pale skin was as white as the chalk Beckton used on the blackboard. He watched her suck in a ragged breath and let it out slowly. Nervously, her hand went to her hair, pushing it away from her face, then patting it into place.

His breath was almost as uneven as hers as he waited, knowing he was taking the greatest risk of his life.

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Kathryn thought about running, but she forced herself to remain where she was, standing under the wind-tossed trees, facing the man who had slammed her against the wall, covered her mouth with his hand, searched her intimately. After each of their previous meetings, she’d convinced herself that she understood him—that he was a normal man forced into a diabolical experiment. As she cowered before him now, the criminal theory suddenly made a lot more sense. When she’d come into the bedroom, he had reacted with the instinctive ferocity of a cornered tiger. And she knew from the obdurate look in his eyes that if she made the wrong move, he was still poised for violence.

Yet as she faced him across three feet of dry leaves and the scraggly grass that grew under the trees, she could come up with an equally plausible theory. He had been normal and reasonable until Emerson and Swinton had wiped out his memory. Now he was simply reacting in the way he’d been trained. Unfortunately, that made the situation no less dangerous. She was his captive. At his mercy.

“Why did you take me out here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even as she pressed her fingers against the rough bark of a tree trunk.

“So we could talk. There will be microphones or cameras in the house.”

“Mr. Emerson promised we would have privacy.”

“Do you believe everything he says?”

The only honest answer was, “No.”

“He might think he’s telling the truth. And someone else could be listening,” Hunter suggested.

“Who?”

He answered with his own question. “Are you working with the man who tried to kill me?”

Her head snapped up. “Somebody tried to kill you? Who? When?”

“A few minutes ago. He came in through the sliding door in my bedroom. He thought I was asleep. He was wrong.”

Hunter could be lying, but he had told her he never lied. She believed him. In fact, it reinforced her earlier hypothesis—that he was responding to danger the way he’d been taught to respond. Unfortunately, she had charged into the room at the wrong time. “Is that what I heard?” she managed. “You were fighting him off?”

“Yes. He dropped his gun on the floor. Are you working with him?” he repeated, watching her face carefully.

“No.”

His eyes told her he wanted to believe her. They also told her he hadn’t made up his mind.

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