He’d seen little more than the coppery mass of hair above the sleeping bag in the dim morning light of the tent. Because he’d wanted to touch it, draw her to him, wake her, he’d given himself some distance. Today he’d walk for miles and fish for hours. Lee could stick to her role of reporter, and by answering her questions he’d learn as much about her as she believed she was learning about him. That was his plan, Hunter reminded himself, and poured a second cup of coffee. He was better off remembering it.

“Coffee’s hot,” Hunter commented without turning around. Though she’d taken great care to be quiet, he’d heard Lee push the tent flap aside.

Biting back an oath, Lee scooped up her pack. The man had ears like a wolf. “I want to shower first,” she mumbled.

“I told you that you didn’t have to fix up your face for me.” He began to arrange strips of bacon in a skillet. “I like it fine the way it is.”

Infuriated, Lee scrambled to her feet. “I’m not fixing anything for you. Sleeping all night in my clothes tends to make me feel dirty.”

“Probably sleep better without them,” Hunter agreed mildly. “Breakfast’s in fifteen minutes, so I’d move along if I wanted to eat.”

Clutching her bag and her dignity, Lee strode off through the trees.

He wouldn’t get to her so easily if she wasn’t stiff and grubby and half-starved, she thought, making her way along the path to the showers. God knows how he could be so cheerful after spending the night sleeping on the ground. Maybe Bryan had been right all along. The man was weird. Lee took her shampoo and her plastic case of French-milled soap and stepped into a shower stall.

The spot he’d chosen might be magnificent, the air might smell clean and pure, but a sleeping bag wasn’t a feather bed. Lee stripped and hung her clothes over the door. She heard the water running in the stall next to hers and sighed. For the next two weeks she’d be sharing bathroom facilities. She might as well get used to it.

The water came out in a steady gush, lukewarm. Gritting her teeth, she stepped under. Today, she was going to begin to dig out a few more personal facts on Hunter Brown.

Was he married? She frowned, then deliberately relaxed her features. The question was for the article, not for herself. His marital status meant nothing to her.

He probably wasn’t. She soaped her hair vigorously. What woman would put up with him? Besides, wouldn’t a wife come along on camping trips even if she detested them? Would that kind of man marry anyone who didn’t like precisely what he did?