“No.” He cut her off. “I never wrote for the money, Lenore, any more than the novel you’re writing is done for financial gain. As far as wasting my talent, you shouldn’t look down your nose at something you don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be condescending. I’m just—” Helplessly, she shrugged. “I’m just surprised. No, I’m astonished. I see those colorful little paperbacks everywhere, but—”

“You never considered reading one,” he finished. “You should, they’re good for you.”

“I suppose, for simple entertainment.”

He liked the way she said it, as though it were something to be enjoyed in secret, like a child’s lollipop. “If a novel doesn’t entertain, it isn’t a novel and it’s wasted your time. I imagine you’ve read Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Gone with the Wind, Ivanhoe.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Romances. A lot of the same ingredients are in those colorful little paperbacks.”

He was perfectly serious. At that moment, Lee would’ve given up half the books in her personal library for the chance to read one Laura Miles story. “Hunter, I want to print this.”

“Go ahead.”

Her mouth was already open for the argument she’d expected. “Go ahead?” she repeated. “You don’t care?”

“Why should I? I’m not ashamed of the work I did as Laura Miles. In fact…” He smiled, thinking back. “I’m rather pleased with most of it.”

“Then why—” She shook her head as she began to absently nibble on cold bacon. “Damn it, Hunter, why haven’t you ever said so before? Laura Miles is as much a deep, dark secret as everything else about you.”

“I never met a reporter I chose to tell before.” He rose, stretching, and enjoyed the wide blue expanse of sky. Just as he’d never met a woman he’d have chosen to live with before. Hunter was beginning to wonder if one had very much to do with the other. “Don’t complicate the simple, Lenore,” he told her, thinking aloud. “It usually manages to complicate itself.”

Setting her plate aside, she stood in front of him. “One more question, then.”

He brought his gaze back down to hers. She hadn’t bothered to fuss with her hair or makeup that morning, as she had from the first morning of the trip. For a moment, he wondered if the reporter was too anxious for the story or the woman was too involved with the man. He wished he knew. “All right,” he agreed. “One more question.”

“Why me?”