Hunter by Diana Palmer Page A

terrible consequences if he let himself take advantage of it.
    * * *
    The next morning, Hunter was awake and dressed and had breakfast waiting when Jennifer smelled the coffee and food and forced her eyes open.
    She sat up, barely aware of her state of undress until she saw Hunter scowl and avert his eyes. She tugged down her gown, angry at having given him a show, and quickly got her clothes together to dress in the bathroom.
    She fixed her hair and put on makeup this morning, and she was wearing a blouse for a change, one that buttoned up and emphasized the exquisite shape of her breasts and her narrow waist. It was red, to go with her white jeans, and as she looked at her reflection, she hoped Hunter had fits because of her outfit. Miss Whitley, indeed! This morning she was more than match for the security lady.
    When she went back into the room, Hunter was dishing up eggs and bacon. “Coffee’s in the pot, pour your own,” he said curtly.
    â€œThanks.” She took the plate from him, aware of her beauty and its effect, tingling when she saw his dark eyes glance over her body and away.
    â€œWe aren’t going to a party,” he informed her curtly.
    Her eyebrows arched. “Jeans, a short-sleeved blouse and sneakers aren’t exactly party gear,” she pointed out.
    He lifted his head, and his eyes made threats. “I’m not a eunuch. We’re going out into the desert, where we’ll be completely on our own for several days. Don’t complicate things. You looked better yesterday.”
    â€œDid I? Compared to what?” she demanded coldly. “Or should I say to whom?”
    He let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair to study her. “Teresa is an operative. When she isn’t trying to compete for attention, she’s very good at her job. I’m not her lover, nor likely to be. Nor yours,” he added with a cold stare.
    She had to grit her teeth. “I wasn’t inviting you to be my lover. I’m tired of knit blouses. It gets hot on the desert. This blouse is cooler. So are the white slacks—they tend to reflect heat.”
    â€œGod deliver me from scientific lectures before breakfast,” he said icily, his narrow dark eyes making her nervous. “The fact is, Miss Marist, you saw Teresa as competition and you wanted to show me that you could beat her hands down in a beauty contest. All right, you have. You win. Now put on something less seductive and eat your breakfast. I’d like to get started.”
    She shook with mingled fury and humiliation and indignation, her fists clenched at her sides. No man had ever enraged her so much, so easily. She could have laid a chair across his skull with pleasure. Except that he was right. She had been competing for his attention. She just hadn’t wanted him to realize it.
    She grabbed up the same white knit shirt she’d worn the day before and pulled it on over her blouse, tugging her shirt collar through the rounded neckline. She didn’t say another word to him. She sat down at the table and ate her breakfast. She was getting used to not tasting what she ate when she was with him. One way or another, he always managed to kill her appetite.
    He finished his bacon and eggs and leaned back to sip his coffee, his gaze level and speculative. “Pouting?” he taunted. He wanted her and he couldn’t have her. It was making him irritable. “You should know better than to throw yourself at men.”
    Her dark blue eyes flashed fire. She put down her coffee cup. “I don’t pout,” she said coldly, getting to her feet. “And I don’t need to throw myself at men! Especially you!”
    He got up, too, towering over her, his eyes dark with mingled frustration and anger. It got worse when she tried to step back and her cheeks flushed.
    â€œTo hell with it,” he murmured roughly. He caught her waist and jerked her against his lean, powerful body, holding