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

“Why do intelligent people buy and read something that’s going to terrify them?” Lee demanded. “When you pick up a Hunter Brown, you know what it’s going to do to you, yet his books consistently spring to the top of the bestseller list and stay there. Why does an obviously intelligent man write books like that?” She began, in a habit Bryan recognized, to fiddle with whatever was at hand—the leaves of a philodendron, the stub of a pencil, the left earring she’d removed during a phone conversation.

“Do I hear a hint of disapproval?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Frowning, Lee looked up again. “The man is probably the best colorist in the country. If he’s describing a room in an old house, you can smell the dust. His characterizations are so real you’d swear you’d met the people in his books. And he uses that talent to write about things that go bump in the night. I want to find out why.”

Bryan crumpled her candy wrapper into a ball. “I know a woman who has one of the sharpest, most analytical minds I’ve ever come across. She has a talent for digging up obscure facts, some of them impossibly dry, and turning them into intriguing stories. She’s ambitious, has a remarkable talent for words, but works on a magazine and lets a half-finished novel sit abandoned in a drawer. She’s lovely, but she rarely dates for any purpose other than business. And she has a habit of twisting paper clips into ungodly shapes while she’s talking.”

Lee glanced down at the small mangled piece of metal in her hands, then met Bryan’s eyes coolly. “Do you know why?”

There was a hint of humor in Bryan’s eyes, but her tone was serious enough. “I’ve tried to figure it out for three years, but I can’t precisely put my finger on it.”

With a smile, Lee tossed the bent paper clip into the trash. “But then, you’re not a reporter.”

Because she wasn’t very good at taking advice, Lee switched on her bedside lamp, stretched out and opened Hunter Brown’s latest novel. She would read a chapter or two, she decided, then make it an early night. An early night was an almost sinful luxury after the week she’d put in at Celebrity.

Her bedroom was done in creamy ivories and shades of blue from the palest aqua to indigo. She’d indulged herself here, with dozens of plump throw pillows, a huge Turkish rug and a Queen Anne stand that held an urn filled with peacock feathers and eucalyptus. Her latest acquisition, a large ficus tree, sat by the window and thrived.

She considered this room the only truly private spot in her life. As a reporter, Lee accepted that she was public property as much as the people she sought out. Privacy wasn’t something she could cling to when she constantly dug into other people’s lives. But in this little corner of the world, she could relax completely, forget there was work to do, ladders to climb. She could pretend L.A. wasn’t bustling outside, as long as she had this oasis of peace. Without it, without the hours she spent sleeping and unwinding there, she knew she’d overload.

Knowing herself well, Lee understood that she had a tendency to push too hard, run too fast. In the quiet of her bedroom she could recharge herself each night so that she’d be ready for the race again the following day.

Relaxed, she opened Hunter Brown’s latest effort.

Within a half hour, Lee was disturbed, uncomfortable and completely engrossed. She’d have been angry with the author for drawing her in if she hadn’t been so busy turning pages. He’d put an ordinary man in an extraordinary situation and done it with such skill that Lee was already relating to the teacher who’d found himself caught up in a small town with a dark secret.

The prose flowed and the dialogue was so natural she could hear the voices. He filled the town with so many recognizable things, she could have sworn she’d been there herself. She knew the story was going to give her more than one bad moment in the dark, but she had to go on. That was the magic of a major storyteller. Cursing him, she read on, so tense that when the phone rang beside her, the book flew out of her hands. Lee swore again, at herself, and lifted the receiver.

Her annoyance at being disturbed didn’t last. Grabbing a pencil, she began to scrawl on the pad beside the phone. With her tongue caught between her teeth, she set down the pencil and smiled. She owed the contact in New York an enormous favor, but she’d pay off when the time came, as she always did. For now, Lee thought, running her hand over Hunter’s book, she had to make arrangements to attend a small writers’ conference in Flagstaff, Arizona.

She had to admit the country was impressive. As was her habit, Lee had spent the time during the flight from L.A. to Phoenix working, but once she’d changed to the small commuter plane for the trip to Flagstaff, her work had been forgotten. She’d flown through thin clouds over a vastness almost impossible to conceive after the skyscrapers and traffic of Los Angeles. She’d looked down on the peaks and dips and castlelike rocks of Oak Creek Canyon, feeling a drumming excitement that was rare in a woman who wasn’t easily impressed. If she’d had more time…

Lee sighed as she stepped off the plane. There was never time enough.

The tiny airport boasted a one-room lobby with a choice of concession stand or soda and candy machines. No loudspeaker announced incoming and outgoing flights. No skycap bustled up to her to relieve her of her bags. There wasn’t a line of cabs waiting outside to compete for the handful of people who’d disembarked. With her garment bag slung over her shoulder, she frowned at the inconvenience. Patience wasn’t one of her virtues.

Tired, hungry and inwardly a little frazzled by the shaky commuter flight, she stepped up to one of the counters. “I need to arrange for a car to take me to town.”

The man in shirtsleeves and loosened tie stopped pushing buttons on his computer. His first polite glance sharpened when he saw her face. She reminded him of a cameo his grandmother had worn at her neck on special occasions. Automatically he straightened his shoulders. “Did you want to rent a car?”

Lee considered that a moment, then rejected it. She hadn’t come to do any sight-seeing, so a car would hardly be worthwhile. “No, just transportation into Flagstaff.” Shifting her bag, she gave him the name of her hotel. “Do they have a courtesy car?”

“Sure do. You go on over to that phone by the wall there. Number’s listed. Just give ’em a call and they’ll send someone out.”

“Thank you.”

He watched her walk to the phone and thought he was the one who should have said thank-you.

Lee caught the scent of grilling hot dogs as she crossed the room. Since she’d turned down the dubious tray offered on the flight, the scent had her stomach juices swimming. Quickly and efficiently, she dialed the hotel, gave her name and was assured a car would be there within twenty minutes. Satisfied, she bought a hot dog and settled in one of the black plastic chairs to wait.

She was going to get what she’d come for, Lee told herself almost fiercely as she looked out at the distant mountains. The time wasn’t going to be wasted. After three months of frustration, she was finally going to get a first hand look at Hunter Brown.

It had taken skill and determination to persuade her editor-in-chief to spring for the trip, but it would pay off. It had to. Leaning back, she reviewed the questions she’d ask Hunter Brown once she’d cornered him.

All she needed, Lee decided, was an hour with him. Sixty minutes. In that time, she could pull out enough information for a concise, and very exclusive, article. She’d done precisely that with this year’s Oscar winner, though he’d been reluctant, and a presidential candidate, though he’d been hostile. Hunter Brown would probably be both, she decided with a half smile. It would only add spice. If she’d wanted a bland, simple life, she’d have bent under the pressure and married Jonathan. Right now she’d be planning her next garden party rather than calculating how to ambush an award-winning writer.