style="font-size:15px;"> “They say you hate women,” she replied. “Especially,” she added, forcing her blue eyes up to his narrowed dark ones, “white women.”
He nodded slowly. His gaze held hers, and then drifted down to her soft bow of a mouth with its faint peach lipstick, and further, to the firm thrust of her breasts almost but not quite touching his shirtfront. He remembered another beautiful blond, the one who’d deserted him when he’d been five years old. Her Apache child had been an embarrassment in her social circles. By then, of course, her activist phase was over, and she had her sights on one of her own people. Some years back, he’d been taken in by a socialite himself. An Apache escort had been unique, for a little while, until he’d mentioned a permanent commitment. And she’d laughed. My God, marry a man who lived on a reservation? The memories bit into him like teeth.
He released Jennifer abruptly with a roughness that wasn’t quite in character.
“I’m sorry,” she said when she saw the expression in his dark eyes. She winced, as if she could actually feel his pain. “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories for you.”
His expression was frightening at that moment. “What do you know about me?” he asked, his voice cutting.
She managed a wan smile and moved away from him. “I don’t know anything, Mr. Hunter. Nobody does. Your life is a locked door and there’s no key. But you looked…” She turned and glanced back at him, and her hands lifted and fell helplessly. “I don’t know. Wounded.” She averted her eyes. “I’d better get this put away.”
Her perception floored him. She was a puzzle he’d never solved, and despite his security files, he knew very little about her own private life. There were no men at the office, he knew. She was discreet, if nothing else. In fact, he thought, studying her absently with narrowed eyes as she put away her computer, he’d never heard of her dating a man in all the years she’d been with the company. He’d never seen her flirt with a man, and even those she worked with treated her as just one of the boys. That fact had never occurred to him before. She kept her distance from men as a rule. Even out in the field, where working conditions were much more relaxed, Jennifer went without makeup, in floppy shirts and loose jeans, and she kept to herself after working hours. He’d once seen her cut a man dead who was trying to make a play for her. Her eyes had gone an icy blue, her face rigid with distaste, and even though she hadn’t said much, her would-be suitor got the message in flying colors. Hunter wouldn’t admit, even to himself, how that action had damned her in his eyes. Seeing her put in the knife had made him more determined than ever not to risk his emotions with her. There were too many hard memories of his one smoldering passion for a white woman, and its humiliating result. And, even longer ago than that, his mother’s contempt for him, her desertion.
He turned away from Jennifer, busying himself with the surveillance equipment one of his cases contained. He redistributed the equipment in the case and closed it.
“Why do we have to have all that?” she queried suddenly.
He nodded toward her computer and equipment. “Why do you have to have all that?” he countered.
“It’s part of my working gear,” she said simply.
“You’ve answered your own question.” He checked his watch. “Let’s get something to eat. Then we’ll have a look at camping supplies.”
“The joy of expense accounts,” she murmured as she got her purse and put away her reading glasses. “I wonder if Eugene will mind letting me have a jungle hammock? I slept in one when I was a kid. We camped next to two streams, and they were like a lullaby in the darkness.”
“You can have a jungle hammock if you think you can find a place to hang it.”
“All we need is two trees….”
He turned, his hands on his lean hips, his dark face enigmatic. “The desert is notorious for its lack of trees. Haven’t you ever watched any Western movies?” he added, and came very close to a smile. “Remember the Indians chasing the soldiers in John Wayne movies, and the soldiers having to dive into dry washes or gulches for cover?”
She stared at him, fascinated. “Yes. I didn’t think you’d watch that kind of movie…” She colored, embarrassed.
“Because the solders won?” he mused. “That’s history. But the Apache fought them to a standstill several times. And Louis L’Amour did a story called Hondo that was made into a movie with John Wayne.” He lifted an eyebrow. “It managed to show Apaches in a good light, for once.”
“I read about Cochise when I was in school. And Mangas Coloradas and Victorio…”
“Different tribes of Apache,” he said. “Cochise was Chiricahua. Mangas and Victorio were MimbreÑos.”
“Which…are you?” she asked, sounding and feeling breathless. He’d never spoken to her like this before.
“Chiricahua,” he said. His eyes searched her face. “Is your ancestry Nordic?” he asked.
“It’s German,” she said softly. “On my father’s side, it’s English.” Her eyes wandered helplessly over his lean face.
Her intense scrutiny disturbed him in a new and unexpected way. Her eyes were enormous. Dark blue, soft, like those of some kitten. He didn’t like the way they made him tingle. He turned away, scowling.
“We’d better go, Jennifer.”
Her name on his lips thrilled her. She felt alive as never before when she was with him, even if it was in the line of duty.
She started toward the door, but he turned as she reached it, and she bumped into him. The contact was like fire shooting through her.
“Sorry!” She moved quickly away. “I didn’t mean to…!”
He put a strong hand under her chin and lifted her face to his eyes. Her eyelids flinched and there was real fear in them at close range. “You really are afraid of me,” he said with dawning comprehension.
She hadn’t wanted him to know that. Of course she was afraid of him, but not for the reasons he was thinking. She moved back and lowered her eyes. “A little, maybe,” she said uneasily.
“My God!” He jerked open the door. “Out.”
She went through it, avoiding him as she left. She hadn’t expected the confession to make him angry. She sighed heavily. It was going to be a hard trip, all the way, if this was any indication. He was coldly silent all the way to the motel restaurant, only taking her arm when they were around people, for appearance’s sake.
They were halfway through their meal when he spoke again.
“It’s been years since I’ve scalped anyone,” he said suddenly, his angry eyes searching hers.
The fork fell from her fingers with a terrible clatter. She picked it up quickly, looking around nervously to see if anyone had noticed, but there was only an old couple nearby and they were too busy talking to notice Jennifer and her companion.
She should have remembered how sensitive he was about his heritage. She’d inadvertently let him believe that she was afraid of him because he was an Indian. What a scream it would be if she confessed that she was afraid
