Hunter by Diana Palmer Page B

her there while his mouth bent to hers.
    He didn’t look in the least loverlike. He looked furious. “Hunter, no…!” she whispered frantically, pushing at his chest.
    His lips poised just above hers, his dark eyes holding hers, his breath on her face. “You’re going to push until you find out, aren’t you?” he asked roughly. “Well, for the book, Apaches don’t kiss their women on the mouth. But I’m no novice with your race or your sex. So do let me satisfy your curiosity.”
    The tone was smooth and deep, pure honey. She watched his hard lips part and then they were on her mouth, fierce and rough but totally without feeling. His breath filled her mouth with its minty warmth, his mouth moved with expert demand. But his body showed no sign of arousal, and he might have been holding a statue for all the warmth he projected.
    She’d wanted this. She’d waited forever to be close to him like this, to feel his arms closing around her, enfolding her, to feel his hard mouth on hers. She breathed him, anguished pleasure racking her body at the taste of him, so intimate on her mouth.
    But he was feeling nothing, and she realized it quite suddenly, with bitter disappointment. Almost at once he lifted his head. She opened her eyes and saw nothing in his face. No desire, nor need, nor love. There was nothing there except a cold curiosity. She was hungry, but he wasn’t. Not a hair out of place, she thought with faint hysteria, Mr. Cool.
    He let her go with a smooth, abrupt movement of his hands, putting distance between them effortlessly. “If you know as much about men as I think you do,” he said quietly, “that should tell you exactly what I feel.” He smiled, but it was a mocking, cold smile. “Bells didn’t ring. Horns didn’t blow. The earth didn’t move. You have a pretty mouth, but I wouldn’t kill for it. So now that we’ve breached that hurdle, can we go to work?”
    She swallowed her pride and hurt. “By all means,” she said. “I’ll get my gear.”
    * * *
    It was dark and they were camped on the peak of a small hill, under a palo verde tree. No jungle hammock, just a tent with two sleeping bags inside it. The bags were positioned as far apart as Jennifer could get them. Equipment was set up to monitor any movement for miles around. The computer was busy. There was no conversation. Jenny hadn’t said one single word to Hunter since they left the motel, and if she had her way, she never would again. She didn’t care about him, she told herself. She couldn’t love a man who could be that cruel.
    He was aware of her hostility, but he preferred it to those melting glances she’d been giving him. He’d deliberately been ice-cold with her when he’d kissed her. It had been imperative to show her that he felt nothing. Now he’d convinced her, and he wasn’t pleased with his handiwork.
    Jenny had withdrawn from him, into her work. Now it was she who was ignoring him, and it disturbed him to feel the distance he’d created. Not that it wasn’t desirable. He couldn’t afford the luxury of involvement with Ritter’s top field geologist. It would complicate his own job, especially when the affair ended. And it would end. He and Jennifer were as different as night and day. He wanted her. She wanted him. But desire would never be enough to keep them together. He was old enough to know that, and she should be.
    She was so different like this. They’d never been alone together on assignment, there had always been other people around. He saw a Jennifer that he hadn’t known existed. A shy, uncertain woman with a keen analytical mind who actually downplayed her extraordinary looks. Or she had, he amended, until Teresa had tried her hand at upstaging Jennifer. Jennifer had tried to compete, to draw his attention. He should be flattered, he supposed, but it had made