Now, after a thorough debate, she slipped into the silk. It coolly skimmed her skin; it draped subtly over curves. Her own reflection satisfied her. The unsmiling woman who looked back at her presented precisely the sort of image she wanted to project—elegant, sophisticated and a bit remote. If nothing else, this soothed her bruised ego.

As Lee looked back over her life, concentrating on her career, she could remember no incident where she’d found herself bested. Her mouth became grim as she ran a brush through her hair. It wasn’t going to happen now.

Hunter Brown was going to get back some of his own, if for no other reason than that half-amused smile of his. No one laughed at her and got away with it, Lee told herself as she slapped the brush back on the dresser smartly enough to make the bottles jump. Whatever game she had to play to get what she wanted, she’d play. When the article on Hunter Brown hit the stands, she’d have won. She’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d helped her. In the final analysis, Lee mused, there was no substitute for winning.

When the knock sounded at her door, she glanced at her watch. Prompt. She’d have to make a note of it. Her mood was smug as, after picking up her slim evening bag, she went to answer.

Inherently casual in dress, but not sloppy, she noted, filing the information away as she glanced at the open-collared shirt under his dark jacket. Some men could wear black tie and not look as elegant as Hunter Brown looked in jeans. That was something that might interest her readers. By the end of the evening, Lee reminded herself, she’d know all she possibly could about him.

“Good evening.” She started to step across the threshold, but he took her hand, holding her motionless as he studied her.

“Very lovely,” Hunter declared. Her hand was very soft and very cool, though her eyes were still hot with annoyance. He liked the contrast. “You wear silk and a very alluring scent but manage to maintain that aura of untouchability. It’s quite a talent.”

“I’m not interested in being analyzed.”

“The curse or blessing of the writer,” he countered. “Depending on your viewpoint. Being one yourself, you should understand. Where’s your manuscript?”

She’d thought he’d forget—she’d hoped he would. Now, she was back to the disadvantage of stammering. “It, ah, it isn’t…”

“Bring it along,” Hunter ordered. “I want to take a look at it.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Every writer wants his words read.”