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

“Mr. Brown, I don’t need to tell you again how honored we are to have you here.”

“No—” Hunter gave him the easy half smile “—you don’t.”

“There’s liable to be quite a commotion when I announce you. After your lecture, I’ll do everything I can to keep the thundering horde back.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”

The man nodded, never doubting it. “I’m having a small reception in my suite this evening, if you’d like to join us.”

“I appreciate it, but I have a dinner engagement.”

Though he didn’t know quite what to make of the smile, the organization’s president was too intelligent to press his luck when he was about to pull off a coup. “If you’re ready then, I’ll announce you.”

“Any time.”

Hunter followed him into the Canyon Room, then loitered just inside the doors. The room was already buzzing with anticipation and curiosity. The podium was set on a small stage in front of two hundred chairs that were nearly all filled. Talk died down when the president approached the stage, but continued in pockets of murmurs even after he’d begun to speak. Hunter heard one of the men nearest him whisper to a companion that he had three publishing houses competing for his manuscript. Hunter skimmed over the crowd, barely listening to the beginning of his introduction. Then his gaze rested again on Lee.

She was watching the speaker with a small, polite smile on her lips, but her eyes gave her away. They were dark and eager. Hunter let his gaze roam down until it rested in her lap. There, her hand opened and closed on the pencil. A bundle of nerves and energy wrapped in a very thin layer of confidence, he thought.

For the second time Lee felt his eyes on her, and for the second time she turned so that their gazes locked. The faint line marred her brow again as she wondered what he was doing inside the conference room. Unperturbed, leaning easily against the wall, Hunter stared back at her.

“His career’s risen steadily since the publication of his first book, only five years ago. Since the first, The Devil’s Due, he’s given us the pleasure of being scared out of our socks every time we pick up his work.” At the mention of the title, the murmurs increased and heads began to swivel. Hunter continued to stare at Lee, and she back at him, frowning. “His latest, Silent Scream, is already solid in the number-one spot on the bestseller list. We’re honored and privileged to welcome to Flag staff—Hunter Brown.”

The effusive applause competed with the growing murmurs of two hundred people in a closed room. Casually, Hunter straightened from the wall and walked to the stage. He saw the pencil fall out of Lee’s hand and roll to the floor. Without breaking rhythm, he stooped and picked it up.

“Better hold on to this,” he advised, looking into her astonished eyes. As he handed it back, he watched astonishment flare into fury.

“You’re a—”

“Yes, but you’d better tell me later.” Walking the rest of the way to the stage, Hunter stepped behind the podium and waited for the applause to fade. Again he skimmed the crowd, but this time with such a quiet intensity that all sound died. For ten seconds there wasn’t even the sound of breathing. “Terror,” Hunter said into the microphone.

From the first word he had them spellbound, and held them captive for forty minutes. No one moved, no one yawned, no one slipped out for a cigarette. With her teeth clenched tight, Lee knew she despised him.

Simmering, struggling against the urge to spring up and stalk out, Lee sat stiffly and took meticulous notes. In the margin of the book she drew a perfectly recognizable caricature of Hunter with a dagger through his heart. It gave her enormous satisfaction.

When he agreed to field questions for ten minutes, Lee’s was the first hand up. Hunter looked directly at her, smiled and called on someone three rows back.

He answered professional questions professionally and evaded any personal references. She had to admire his skill, particularly since she was well aware he so seldom spoke in public. He showed no nerves, no hesitation and absolutely no inclination to call on her, though her hand was up and her eyes shot fiery little darts at him. But she was a reporter, Lee reminded herself. Reporters got nowhere if they stood on ceremony.

“Mr. Brown,” Lee began, and rose.

“Sorry.” With his slow smile, he held up a hand. “I’m afraid we’re already overtime. Best of luck to all of you.” He left the podium and the room, under a hail of applause. By the time Lee could work her way to the doors, she’d heard enough praise of Hunter Brown to turn her simmering temper to boil.

The nerve, she thought as she finally made it into the corridor. The unspeakable nerve. She didn’t mind being bested in a game of chess; she could handle having her work criticized and her opinion questioned. All in all, Lee considered herself a reasonable, low-key person with no more than her fair share of conceit. The one thing she couldn’t, wouldn’t, tolerate was being made a fool of.

Revenge sprang into her mind, nasty, petty revenge. Oh, yes, she thought as she tried to work her way through the thick crowd of Hunter Brown fans, she’d have her revenge, somehow, some way. And when she did, it would be perfect.

She turned off at the elevators, knowing she was too full of fury to deal successfully with Hunter at that moment. She needed an hour to cool off and to plan. The pencil she still held snapped between her fingers. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to make Hunter Brown squirm.

Just as she started to push the button for her floor, Hunter slipped inside the elevator. “Going up?” he asked easily, and pushed the number himself.

Lee felt the fury rise to her throat and burn. With an effort, she clamped her lips tight on the venom and stared straight ahead.

“Broke your pencil,” Hunter observed, finding himself more amused than he’d been in days. He glanced at her open notebook, spotting the meticulously drawn caricature. An appreciative grin appeared. “Well done,” he told her. “How’d you enjoy the workshop?”

Lee gave him one scathing look as the elevator doors opened. “You’re a fount of trivial information, Mr. Brown.”

“You’ve got murder in your eyes, Lenore.” He stepped into the hall with her. “It suits your hair. Your drawing makes it clear enough what you’d like to do. Why don’t you stab me while you have the chance?”

As she continued to walk, Lee told herself she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of speaking to him. She wouldn’t speak to him at all. Her head jerked up. “You’ve had a good laugh at my expense,” she grated, and dug in her briefcase for her room key.

“A quiet chuckle or two,” he corrected while she continued to simmer and search. “Lose your key?”

“No, I haven’t lost my key.” Frustrated, Lee looked up until fury met amusement. “Why don’t you go away and sit on your laurels?”

“I’ve always found that uncomfortable. Why don’t you vent your spleen, Lenore; you’d feel better.”

“Don’t call me Lenore!” she exploded as her control slipped. “You had no right to use me as the brunt of a joke. You had no right to pretend you worked for the hotel.”

“You assumed,” he corrected. “As I recall, I never pretended anything. You asked for a ride yesterday; I simply gave you one.”

“You knew I thought you were the hotel driver. You were standing there beside my luggage—”

“A classic case of mistaken identity.” He noted that her skin tinted with pale rose when she was angry. An attractive side effect, Hunter decided. “I’d come to pick up my editor, who’d missed her Phoenix connection, as it turned out. I thought the luggage was hers.”