Nora Roberts - Second Nature - the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

He never considered he was using her, though he fully intended to pick her brain for everything he could learn about her. It was a writer’s privilege.

“What made you become a writer?”

He lifted a brow as he continued to eat. “I was born a writer.”

Lee ate slowly, planning her next line of questions. She had to move carefully, avoid putting him on the defensive, maneuver around any suspicions. She never considered she was using him, though she fully intended to pick his brain for everything she could learn about him. It was a reporter’s privilege.

“Born a writer,” she repeated, flaking off another bite of salmon. “Do you think it’s that simple? Weren’t there elements in your background, circumstances, early experiences, that led you toward your career?”

“I didn’t say it was simple,” Hunter corrected. “We’re all born with a certain set of choices to make. The matter of making the right ones is anything but simple. Every novel written has to do with choices. Writing novels is what I was meant to do.”

He interested her enough that she forgot the unofficial interview and asked for herself, “So you always wanted to be a writer?”

“You’re very literal-minded,” Hunter observed. Comfortable, he leaned back and swirled the wine in his glass. “No, I didn’t. I wanted to play professional soccer.”

“Soccer?”

Her astonished disbelief made him smile. “Soccer,” he repeated. “I wanted to make a career of it and might have been successful at it, but I had to write.”

Lee was silent a moment, then decided he was telling her precisely the truth. “So you became a writer without really wanting to.”

“I made a choice,” Hunter corrected, intrigued by the orderly logic of her mind. “I believe a great many people are born writer or artist, and die without ever realizing it. Books go unwritten, paintings unpainted. The fortunate ones are those who discover what they were meant to do. I might have been an excellent soccer player; I might have been an excellent writer. If I’d tried to do both, I’d have been no more than mediocre. I chose not to be mediocre.”

“There’re several million readers who’d agree you made the right choice.” Forgetting the cool facade, she propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Why horror fiction, Hunter? Someone with your skill and your imagination could write anything. Why did you turn your talents toward that particular genre?”

He lit a cigarette so that the scent of tobacco stung the air. “Why do you read it?”

She frowned; he hadn’t turned one of her questions back on her for some time. “I don’t as a rule, except yours.”

“I’m flattered. Why mine?”

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