Free Hunter by Diana Palmer Page A

carried.
    The sight of the cold metal in his hand made her nauseous. Sometimes it was easy to forget exactly what he did for a living. But this brought it home with stark clarity. He knew how to use the gun, and probably had, many times. She knew he’d been shot a time or two, and she’d seen one of the scars against his tanned shoulder, when he’d taken a shower two nights earlier. She shivered, remembering how he earned his living, what risks he took doing it.
    He felt her tremble and glared toward the departing sound of the helicopter. He’d never known her to be afraid. This had to be a first.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said, feeling unusually protective toward her. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
    She looked up at him, glad he’d misjudged the reason for her unsteadiness. “Thanks,” she said huskily. She looked toward the canopy of leaves. “Was that them, do you think?”
    â€œVery likely.” He put the safety back on the automatic and reholstered it with practiced ease. “We’ll make a smokeless fire, just in case.”
    She smiled at him. “I suppose woodcraft, or the desert equivalent, was part of your upbringing?”
    He nodded. “One of my ancestors fought with Cochise,” he said. “When I was a boy, I knew how to find water, which plants I could live on, how to find my way in the darkness. Did you know that an Apache can go without water for two days by sucking on pebbles?”
    â€œYes,” she said simply. Her eyes lingered on his dark face. “I…read a lot,” she explained.
    He let his gaze fall to her soft mouth. He had to stop remembering how silky and warm it felt, like a rose petal kissed by the sun. She wasn’t a woman he could have, ever. Not as long as they both worked for the corporation. It would be the kiss of death to become involved on the job. One of them would have to go, and that wouldn’t be fair. Jennifer was good at her job, and she loved it. He loved his, as well. Better to avoid complications.
    She frowned slightly. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
    He smiled faintly. “That a hundred years or so ago, I could have carried you off on my pony and kept you in my wickiup,” he murmured. “My other wives might have beaten or stoned you when I was out making war, of course.”
    â€œOther wives, the devil,” she said firmly. “Polygamy or no polygamy, if I’d lived with you, there would have been one wife, and it would have been me.”
    He smiled at her ferocity. Amazing that she could look so cool and professional, but under the surface there was fire and independence and passion in her. He could imagine her with a rifle, holding off attackers and defending her home. Children playing around her skirts on lazy summer days. He frowned. His eyes fell to her flat stomach and for one insane moment, he let himself imagine…
    â€œWhy are you looking at me like that?” she asked softly.
    His gaze came back up to hers, the expression in his eyes unreadable. “We’d better get things set up. I’ll pitch the tent.”
    He became unapproachable again, withdrawing deep into himself. Jennifer was sorry, because just for a few minutes it had seemed that they were on the verge of becoming friendlier. But Hunter was Hunter again when he had the tent up and the portable battery backup working. He left her to her computer and charts, busying himself with securing the parameters of their small camp and setting up his distance surveillance equipment.
    She put on a pair of hiking shorts and long socks with her thick-soled walking boots and a button-up khaki blouse. She had a hat, an Indiana Jones one, in fact, that she used to keep the sun from baking her head. One thing she’d learned long ago was that a hat in the desert was no luxury. One case of sunstroke had taught her that, and Hunter had given her hell when he’d found her