He kissed her, just as unexpectedly as before, but not so gently. Not nearly so gently. This time, she felt the full force of the strength that had been only an undercurrent each other time his mouth had touched hers. If she’d pitched back and taken that dizzying fall, she’d have been no more helpless than she was at this moment, molded to him, supported by him, wrapped around him. The edge was close—inside her, behind her. Lee couldn’t tell which would be more fatal. But she knew, helplessly, that either could break her.

He hadn’t meant to touch her just then, but the demanding climb up the path hadn’t deadened the need he’d woken with. He’d take this much, her taste, her softness, and make it last until she willingly turned to him. He wanted the sweetness she tried to gloss over, the fragility she tried to deny. And he wanted the strength that kept her pushing for more. Yes, he thought he knew her and was very close to understanding her. He knew he wanted her.

Slowly, very slowly, for lingering mouth-to-mouth both soothed and excited him, Hunter drew her away. Her eyes were as clouded as his thoughts, her pulse as rapid as his. He shifted her until she was close to the cliff wall and away from the drop.

“Never step back unless you’ve looked over your shoulder first,” he said quietly. “And don’t step forward until you’ve tested the ground.”

Turning, he continued up the path, leaving her to wonder if he’d been speaking of hiking or something entirely different.

Chapter 7

Lee wrote in her journal:

On the eighth day of this odd on-again, off-again interview, I know more about Hunter and understand less. By turns, he’s friendly, then distant. There’s an aloof streak in him, bound so tightly around his private life that I’ve found no way through it. When I ask about his preference in books, he can go on indefinitely—apparently he has no real preference except for the written word itself. When I ask about his family, he just smiles and changes the subject or gives me one of those intense stares and says nothing. In either case, he keeps a cloak of mystery around his privacy.

He’s possibly the most efficient man I’ve ever met. There’s no waste of time, no extra movements and, infuriating to me, never a mistake, when it comes to starting a campfire or cooking a meal—such as they are. Yet, he’s content to do absolutely nothing for hours at a time.

He’s fastidious—the camp looks as if we’ve been here no more than a half hour rather than a week—yet he hasn’t shaved in that amount of time. The beard should look scruffy, but somehow it looks so natural I find myself wondering if he didn’t always have one.