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

“To where?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Too many people,” Hunter said automatically. “Don’t you ever feel as though they’re using up your air?”

She wouldn’t have put it that way, would never have thought of it, but there were times she felt a twinge of what might be called claustrophobia. Still, her home was there, and more important, her work. “No. There’s enough air, such as it is, for everyone.”

“You’ve never stood at the south rim of the canyon and looked out, and breathed in.”

Again, Lee shot him a look. He had a way of saying things that gave you an immediate picture. For the second time, she regretted that she wouldn’t be able to take a day or two to explore some of the vastness of Arizona. “Maybe some other time.” Shrugging, she turned with him as he headed down a corridor to the right.

“Time’s fickle,” he commented. “When you need it, there’s too little of it. Then you wake up at three o’clock in the morning, and there’s too much of it. It’s usually better to take it than to anticipate it. You might try that,” he said, looking down at her again. “It might help your nerves.”

Her brows drew together. “There’s nothing wrong with my nerves.”

“Some people can thrive on nervous energy for weeks at a time, then they have to find that little valve that lets the steam escape.” For the first time, he touched her, just fingertips to the ends of her hair. But she felt it, experienced it, as hard and strong as if his hand had closed firmly over hers. “What do you do to let the steam escape, Lenore?”

She didn’t stiffen, or casually nudge his hand away as she would have done at any other time. Instead, she stood still, toying with a sensation she couldn’t remember ever experiencing before. Thunder and lightning, she thought. There was thunder and lightning in this man, deep under the strangely aloof, oddly open exterior. She wasn’t about to be caught in the storm.

“I work,” she said easily, but her fingers had tightened on the handle of her briefcase. “I don’t need any other escape valve.” She didn’t step back, but let the haughtiness that had always protected her enter her tone. “No one calls me Lenore.”

“No?” He nearly smiled. It was this look, she realized, the secret amusement the onlooker could only guess at rather than see, that most intrigued. She thought he probably knew that. “But it suits you. Feminine, elegant, a little distant. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore’! Yes.” He let his fingertips linger a moment longer on her hair. “I think Poe would’ve found you very apt.”

Before she could prevent it, before she could anticipate it, her knees were weak. She’d felt the sound of her own name feather over her skin. “Who are you?” Lee found herself demanding. Was it possible to be so deeply affected by someone without even knowing his name? She stepped forward in what seemed to be a challenge. “Just who are you?”

He smiled again, with the oddly gentle charm that shouldn’t have suited his eyes yet somehow did. “Strange, you never asked before. You’d better go in,” he told her as people began to gravitate toward the open doors of the Canyon Room. “You’ll want a good seat.”

“Yes.” She drew back, a bit shaken by the ferocity of the desire she felt to learn more about him. With a last look over her shoulder, Lee walked in and settled in the front row. It was time to get her mind back on the business she’d come for, and the business was Hunter Brown. Distractions like incomprehensible men who drove Jeeps for a living would have to be put aside.

From her briefcase, Lee took a fresh notebook and two pencils, slipping one behind her ear. Within a few moments, she’d be able to see and study the mysterious Hunter Brown. She’d be able to listen and take notes with perfect freedom. After his lecture, she’d be able to question him, and if she had her way, she’d arrange some kind of one-on-one for later.

Lee had given the ethics of the situation careful thought. She didn’t feel it would be necessary to tell Brown she was a reporter. She was there as an aspiring writer and had the fledgling manuscript to prove it. Anyone there was free to try to write and sell an article on the conference and its participants. Only if Brown used the words off the record would she be bound to silence. Without that, anything he said was public property.

This story could be her next step up the ladder. Would be, Lee corrected. The first documented, authentically researched story on Hunter Brown could push her beyond Celebrity’s scope. It would be controversial, colorful and, most important, exclusive. With this under her belt, even her quietly critical family would be impressed. With this under her belt, Lee thought, she’d be that much closer to the top rung, where her sights were always set.

Once she was there, all the hard work, the long hours, the obsessive dedication, would be worth it. Because once she was there, she was there to stay. At the top, Lee thought almost fiercely. As high as she could reach.

On the other side of the doors, on the other side of the corridor, Hunter stood with his editor, half listening to her comments on an interview she’d had with an aspiring writer. He caught the gist, that she was excited about the writer’s potential. It was a talent of his to be able to conduct a perfectly lucid conversation when his mind was on something entirely different. It was something he roused himself to do only when the mood was on him. So he spoke to his editor and thought of Lee Radcliffe.

Yes, he was definitely going to use her in his next book. True, the plot was only a vague notion in his head, but he already knew she’d be the core of it. He needed to dig a bit deeper before he’d be satisfied, but he didn’t foresee any problem there. If he’d gauged her correctly, she’d be confused when he walked to the podium, then stunned, then furious. If she wanted to talk to him as badly as she’d indicated, she’d swallow her temper.

A strong woman, Hunter decided. A will of iron and skin like cream. Vulnerable eyes and a damn-the-devil chin. A character was nothing without contrasts, strengths and weaknesses. And secrets, he thought, already certain he’d discover hers. He had another day and a half to explore Lenore Radcliffe. Hunter figured that was enough.

The corridor was full of laughter and complaints and enthusiasm as people loitered or filed through into the adjoining room. He knew what it was to feel enthusiastic about being a writer. If the pleasure went out of it, he’d still write. He was compelled to. But it would show in his work. Emotions always showed. He never allowed his feeling and thoughts to pour into his work—they would have done so regardless of his permission.

Hunter considered it a fair trade-off. His emotions, his thoughts, were there for anyone who cared to read them. His life was completely and without exception his own.

The woman beside him had his affection and his respect. He’d argued with her over motivation and sentence structure, losing as often as winning. He’d shouted at her, laughed with her and given her emotional support through her recent divorce. He knew her age, her favorite drink and her weakness for cashews. She’d been his editor for three years, which is as close to a marriage as many people come. Yet she had no idea he had a ten-year-old daughter named Sarah who liked to bake cookies and play soccer.

Hunter took a last drag on his cigarette as the president of the small writers’ group approached. The man was a slick, imaginative science fiction writer whom Hunter had read and enjoyed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be there, about to make one of his rare appearances in the writing community.