She sensed something when his gaze locked on hers again. Decision, determination, desire. Her mouth went dry. It wasn’t often that she felt she could be outmatched by another. It was rarer still when anyone or anything truly frightened her. Though he said nothing, though he moved no closer, she found herself fighting back fear—and the knowledge that whatever game she challenged him to, she would lose because he would look into her eyes and know each move before she made it.

A knock sounded at the door, but he continued to look at her for long silent seconds before he rose. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner,” he said, so calmly that Lee wondered if she’d imagined the flare of passion she’d seen in his eyes. While he went to the door, she sat where she was, struggling to sort her own thoughts. She was imagining things, Lee told herself. He couldn’t see into her and read her thoughts. He was just a man. Since the game was hers, and only she knew the rules, she wouldn’t lose. Settled again, she rose to walk to the table.

The salmon was tender and pink. Pleased with the choice, Lee sat down at the table as the waiter closed the door behind him. So far, Lee reflected, she’d answered more questions than Hunter. It was time to change that.

“The advice you gave earlier to struggling writers about blocking out time to write every day no matter how discouraged they get—did that come from personal experience?”

Hunter sampled the salmon. “All writers face discouragement from time to time. Just as they face criticism and rejection.”

“Did you face many rejections before the sale of The Devil’s Due?”

“I suspect anything that comes too easily.” He lifted the wine bottle to fill her glass again. She had a face made for candlelight, he mused as he watched the shadow and light flicker over the cream-soft skin and delicate features. He was determined to find out what lay beneath, before the evening ended.

He never considered he was using her, though he fully intended to pick her brain for everything he could learn about her. It was a writer’s privilege.

“What made you become a writer?”

He lifted a brow as he continued to eat. “I was born a writer.”

Lee ate slowly, planning her next line of questions. She had to move carefully, avoid putting him on the defensive, maneuver around any suspicions. She never considered she was using him, though she fully intended to pick his brain for everything she could learn about him. It was a reporter’s privilege.

“Born a writer,” she repeated, flaking off another bite of salmon. “Do you think it’s that simple? Weren’t there elements in your background, circumstances, early experiences, that led you toward your career?”