“You’re angry,” she said in that same calm, even voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come this way.”

Hunter rose and began to stack dishes. “No, I’m not angry.” Anger was possibly the only emotion he hadn’t experienced in the last hour. “Why did you?”

“I…” Lee looked down helplessly at her hands. She should help him with the dishes, keep busy, stay natural. She didn’t think her legs would hold her just yet. “I finished the book,” she blurted out.

He stopped and turned. For the first time since she’d opened the door, she saw that hint of a smile around his mouth. “Congratulations.”

“I wanted you to read it. I know I could’ve mailed it—I sent a copy on to your editor—but…” She lifted her eyes to his again. “I didn’t want to mail it. I wanted to give it to you. Needed to.”

Hunter put the dishes in the sink and came back to the table, but he didn’t sit. He had to stand. If this was what she’d come for, all she’d come for, he wasn’t certain he could face it. “You know I want to read it. I expect you to autograph the first copy for me.”

She managed a smile. “I’m not as optimistic as that, but you were right. I had to finish it. I wanted to thank you for showing me.” Her lips remained curved, but the smile left her eyes. “I quit my job.”

He hadn’t moved, but it seemed that he suddenly became very still. “Why?”

“I had to try to finish the book. For me.” If only he’d touch her, just her hand, she wouldn’t feel so cold. “I knew if I could do that, I could do anything. I needed to prove that to myself before I…” Lee trailed off, not able to say it all. “I’ve been reading your work, your earlier work as Laura Miles.”

If he could just touch her … But once he did, he’d never let her go again. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” There was enough lingering surprise in her voice to make him smile. “I’d never have believed there could be a similarity of styles between a romance novel and a horror story, but there was. Atmosphere, tension, emotion.” Taking a deep breath, she stood so that she could face him. It was perhaps the most difficult step she’d taken so far. “You understand how a woman feels. It shows in your work.”

“Writer’s a word without gender.”

“Still, it’s a rare gift, I think, for a man to be able to understand and appreciate the kinds of emotions and insecurities that go on inside a woman.” Her eyes met his again, and this time held. “I’m hoping you can do the same with me.”

He was looking into her again. She could feel it.