A HOME FOR THE HUNTER

by Christine Rimmer

  Suppressing a sigh, he stepped back.

  She must have felt his withdrawal, because her cornflower blue eyes popped open. She blinked, and he watched a blush move up her slender neck and steal beneath the freckles that dusted her nose.

  "Well." She twisted her hands together. "Um, thank you. For everything. And good night." She began fiddling with the small red velvet evening purse that hung from her shoulder on a silken rope.

  Damn, he thought angrily. He liked her. Really liked her. She was a true innocent. She moved him, in a way he hadn't been moved in more years than he cared to count.

  She moved him so much that he felt like a first-class jerk for the way he was deceiving her.

  He had a moment's crazy urge to tell her everything, right now, as she frantically pawed through her little purse seeking the computerized card that would let her into her room.

  But then she looked up at him, those forget-me-not eyes wide and vulnerable. She held the key card in the air. "Found it." She was striving for jauntiness but missed it by a mile.

  And he heard himself saying, "If I knocked on your door at noon, would you be ready for breakfast at the greasy spoon of my choice?"

  It broke the heart he didn't even know he had anymore to see the way her face changed. She looked like someone had turned on a klieg light beneath her pale skin. She glowed, brighter than a searchlight on opening night.

  He wanted to grab her and shake her and tell her it was a rotten world out there. She had to protect herself, learn to cover her feelings, not let strangers see every little thing that went on inside of her.

  But he didn't. He ordered his hands to stay loose at his sides and made his mouth smile an easy smile.

  "I'll be ready," she said.

  "Great. See you then."

  Once inside her suite Olivia tossed her evening bag on the little table by the door and waltzed through the foyer into the sitting room. She danced around the love seat, whirled past the easy chair and spun into the bedroom, where she at last collapsed, giggling joyously across the king-size bed.

  She noticed then that the light on her phone was blinking. She sighed. It would be her father, of course. Wanting her to call him back, no matter what time it was.

  She wasn't going to do it. She simply wasn't.

  But of course, even as she determined to stand her ground on this, she was picturing the way he was probably pacing the floor of his study right now, unable to sleep because of his concern for her.

  It was only because she knew how he worried about her that she'd called him when she'd first arrived here in Vegas. She'd felt driven to reassure him that she was all right. But she'd also told him firmly that he was not to call her back.

  With a little groan Olivia sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she buzzed the desk to make sure the message really had been from her father.

  "I show six messages here," the switchboard operator said. "All from Lawrence Larrabee—hey, is that the Lawrence Larrabee, as in Larrabee Lager?"

  "Yes," Olivia said, sighing. "I'm afraid it is."

  "Well, what do you know? Anyway, he called six times and each time left the same message. Call him back as soon as you get in."

  Olivia suddenly realized she was getting a headache. "Thank you." She hung up and pondered the idea of wandering into the bathroom to see if there was a complimentary packet of pain reliever in there.

  But then she decided she only needed to relax. So she kicked off her shoes and sat Indian-style on the bed. She closed her eyes and rolled her neck and chanted one of the affirmations she'd picked up in a stress-management class.

  "I am in charge of my life and affairs. I am in charge of my life and affairs. I am in charge of—" Right then the phone started ringing. Olivia went on chanting.

  The phone went on ringing.

  Olivia was determined not to answer.

  But somehow, around the seventh ring, her hand reached out on its own accord and snatched the darn thing from its cradle.

  "What?"

  "Liwy?"

  "No, sorry. There's no one by that name here."

  Her father let out a tired breath. "It's damn late, Liwy."

  She thought of Jack, and her mood lightened marginally. "I know. So late it's practically early."

  "I left several messages requesting that you call."

  "Well, I told you I wouldn't."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Stop worrying, Dad. Let it be. I need a little time away, that's all. Can't you please understand that?"

  He was quiet for a moment. She heard a murmur on the other end and knew that Mindy Long—a special lady her father had been seeing for the past year—was there with him. She also knew the things Mindy would be saying. More than once Olivia had confided in Mindy. Mindy understood Olivia's position and would be on her side.

  Olivia urged, "Please, Dad. Listen to Mindy."

  "I have been listening to Mindy. I've been listening to Mindy all night. You two women will drive me to an early grave."

  "Please." She put everything she had into the word, to try to get through to him. "I love you and I know you'd do anything for me. But this is something you just can't do for me. I have to do it on my own."

  Her father made a disgusted sound. "But what is it you're doing?"

  "I'm … finding myself."

  Her father swore roundly. "Fine. Find yourself in Malibu, where you belong."

  "No."

  "This is insane, Olivia. There is nothing in Las Vegas that will help you to find yourself. There are endless miles of sagebrush and cactus. And there is gambling. And that is it."

  "Dad—"

  "It's absurd. I want you to come home. I'm sorry about Cameron." Her father felt guilty about what had happened, because Cameron worked for him. "I never should have introduced you two, I understand that now. It was all my fault and I'll—"

  "It was not your fault. Please, Dad, don't—"

  "Yes, yes it was. I thought he was a nice young man."

  "He is a nice young man, Dad. Just not a faithful one."

  "He's toast in the brewing industry, I can tell you that."

  "You already told me that. And I told you that he's the best salesman you've got. And I don't want you to fire him because of me. Please."

  "Liwy, you are too forgiving. You have got to toughen up a little or—"

  Olivia just didn't want to hear anymore, so she prepared to say what she'd been hoping she wouldn't have to say. "Dad, I want you to stop calling me."

  "Liwy, I—"

  "Listen. I mean this. If you don't let me work this out on my own, I'll go somewhere else."

  That gave him pause. "What?"

  "I said, I'll go somewhere else. And this time I won't call you to tell you I'm all right."

  "Now, Liwy. Don't do anything you'll regret."

  "This is the situation, Dad. You leave me alone. Stop calling me. Let me work this out for myself, or I will get in my car and drive. I'll disappear. And when I finally stop, it'll be somewhere you've never heard of. Understand?"

  "Please don't do that, Liwy."

  "Then stop calling me."

  The ensuing silence from her father's end was hard for Olivia to bear. But she did bear it, because she had to, even though she knew that he truly did want the very best for her.

  "All right," Lawrence Larrabee said at last.

  He sounded so weary. Olivia ached for him. But she couldn't give him what he wanted. Not anymore. At some point she had to live her life as she chose to. She had to make her own mistakes and suffer her own consequences. She was almost thirty and she was going to have to grow up.

  He asked, "Have you got enough money?"

  She wanted to cry. "Of course."

  "If you need anything…"

  "I know. I love you, Dad."

  "I never doubted that. And I love you."

  "Bye."

  And then he was gone.

  Olivia very gently put the phone back in its cradle. And then she stared towar
d the far wall for a time, questioning everything—all of it, from coming here in the first place to the conversation she'd just had with her father.

  She'd said she was "finding herself," and sincerely meant it at the moment. But the more she thought about it, the more she had to agree with her father. Las Vegas was an odd place to go to find oneself.

  And then there was Jack, about whom she really knew nothing. Which wasn't his fault, of course. She'd been the one to suggest they remain "strangers in Las Vegas" for an evening. Tomorrow, she was sure, they would get to know each other better.

  The wisdom of there even being a "Jack" in her life at this point made her wonder. She'd just been betrayed in the worst kind of way by one man. Perhaps that should have told her something about her judgment where men were concerned. She really hadn't had much experience in that area, to be honest. And maybe it would be advisable to stay away from men for a while.

  Maybe tomorrow she should tell Jack that she'd enjoyed their evening together more than he could ever know, but she wasn't going to have breakfast with him after all. She could explain gently and regretfully that, while he was the most incredible man she'd ever laid eyes on, the timing was all wrong. She simply had too much work to do on herself before she would be ready to share anything meaningful with a man.

  "Yuck," Olivia said to the far wall.

  The thought of sending Jack away was just too depressing to consider. And hadn't she come here in the first place to avoid depression? A lot of good she'd do herself if she sent Jack away in order to "find herself" and then became depressed once he was gone. Because, truthfully, the idea of not seeing Jack tomorrow left her feeling more than a little dismal.

  And beyond that, there remained the fact that she really didn't know the man at all. Maybe he wouldn't even show up tomorrow. Maybe she was wasting her time sitting here worrying about whether or not she should send him away, because she was never going to see him again, anyway. Maybe he would—

  "Oh, stop it," she muttered at the wall. "Stop it right now. No more thinking tonight, and that's that."

  With a soft little sigh, she slid off the bed. Once she managed to undo the tiny buttons at the back of her red velvet dress, she slithered it down over her hips and stepped out of it. Then she went straight to the bathroom for a long, soothing soak in the tub.

  Behind her, the expensive dress lay on the floor in a crimson puddle, right where it had fallen, next to her red satin shoes. A trail of silky underthings marked the way she had gone.

  Olivia woke to the sound of knocking. After a few grunts and groans she rolled her head and squinted at the digital clock-radio by the bed. Noon.

  Jack was supposed to come for her at noon.

  "Omigod!" She leapt from the bed. "Coming!" She looked down at herself. She was wearing black silk shorty pajamas.

  "Unacceptable," she decided aloud. She was crazy about Jack, but that didn't mean she could greet him at the door wearing nothing but black silk lingerie. She scanned the room frantically, looking for something to put on over the pajamas, calling out at the same time, "Just a minute! Be right there!"

  The short robe that matched the pajamas was nowhere in sight. And anyway, it was too suggestive by far.

  She raced to her stack of luggage in the dressing area and plowed through the largest suitcase, which was a total mess even though she'd only been in Las Vegas since early yesterday morning. Already she was missing Constance, her live-in housekeeper at home, who kept everything in order and seemed somehow always to be able to find whatever Olivia was looking for.

  "Aha!" she crowed, as she found a huge knit shirt that was supposed to be worn with stirrup pants. The stirrup pants were nowhere in sight. But the shirt was modest enough by itself. Olivia tugged it over her head and smoothed it down.

  Then she rushed to the door and swung it wide.

  And there was Jack, wearing chinos and a shirt with a designer logo on it. He looked as if he'd been awake for hours.

  "Hi."

  "Hi."

  After that, she wasn't sure what to say next.

  The lines around his eyes deepened with his smile. "Forgot to set the alarm, huh?"

  She just stared, thinking how absurdly glad she was to see him. He looked her up and down and went on smiling.

  She realized that they couldn't stand here all day, gawking at each other and grinning. "I need a few minutes." She almost invited him to wait in her sitting room, but held back. It seemed a little too intimate for right now.

  "I'll be in the lobby."

  "Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes. I promise."

  Jack took her to a place called Randy Jim's.

  Randy Jim's was an actual railroad car parked between a Joshua tree and a saguaro cactus out on Highway 147. The sign in the window said Breakfast Served All Day. They ate biscuits and gravy and drank coffee they poured themselves from the insulated pot the waitress provided.

  They were both quiet, but more because neither of them felt like talking, Olivia thought, than anything else. They looked out the window at the highway and then back at each other.

  Once or twice Olivia almost broke the companionable silence to tell him that she'd lied about her name. But she was having such a lovely time that she decided she could put it off for a little while longer. She definitely would tell him by the end of the day. But for right now, even though she probably shouldn't, she was going to postpone the unpleasant task for a while and just enjoy being with him.

  When they were through eating, they lingered a while, sharing a newspaper that some other customer had left behind.

  At one point Olivia glanced over the top of the entertainment section she was reading. She saw the crown of Jack's head, his brown elbows and forearms and his fingers. The rest of him was hidden by the sports section.

  And she had the warmest, sweetest welling of emotion within her. She didn't examine it, for fear of losing it. She only smiled to herself and went back to her own reading.

  "Ready to go?" he inquired just a little while later.

  On their way back to the hotel/casino, Jack asked if she'd tried the pool up on the roof yet. She admitted she hadn't.

  "How about now?" he asked.

  She agreed that a swim was just what she needed.

  The roof pool was open to the sun, with a view of the gray outlines of the mountains that loomed in the distance. And even though it was October, the heat in the middle of the day made the air dance and shimmer.

  Olivia was careful of her pale skin, slathering herself in sunscreen and then putting her chaise longue in the shade of a potted palm. Jack put his chaise beside hers, though his bronze skin looked like it could withstand a lot more sun than hers.

  After a few minutes in the water they lay down side by side, and for a while neither spoke. Olivia closed her eyes and listened to the splashing and giggling from the kids who were playing in the pool. Once or twice the kids got carried away. The water would splash so high Olivia would feel the cool drops on her legs. It felt good.

  She felt good.

  "What are you smiling about?" Jack's voice was low and very close.

  She turned her head and opened her eyes. He lay on his stomach and had rested his head on his hands at the edge of his chaise, so that his face was less than two feet from her own.

  She studied him, her breath catching a little. His lashes were very thick and pale gold, like his brows.

  Earlier, she'd had a chance to admire him without being too obvious about it. His body was lean, his shoulders broad, his musculature well developed, though spare. He had more than a few scars—on his arms and shoulders and on his chest. There was one on his leg that ran around the back of his calf, like a white snake against the bronze flesh. A warrior's scars, she thought, and wondered if he'd been in the military.

  "Earth to Olivia," he teased softly.

  "What?"

  "I asked what you were smiling about."

  Instead of answering, she asked a question of her own. "You
were watching me, weren't you? While I had my eyes closed."

  "Is that a crime? If so, I plead guilty."

  "No, it's no crime."

  "Good. Now, what were you smiling about?"

  "I was thinking that I feel good."

  The corners of his mouth curled in a lazy grin. "I suppose there are worse reasons to smile."

  A word she'd been trying to think of finally occurred to her. "Obsidian," she whispered.

  He lifted an eyebrow. "What?"

  "Your eyes," she mused. "Like obsidian. That deep black green. Especially for a man with light hair, it's very unusual." She purposely used the word he'd employed to describe her the night before, wondering if he'd remember, if he'd come back with some clever rejoinder.

  But instead of a clever reply, he only looked away. "Yeah. So I've been told."

  His reaction puzzled her. "What? Did I say something?"

  "Nothing. It's nothing."

  "Yes, it is. I can tell."

  "It's nothing, really. Someone used to say that about my eyes, that's all. But it doesn't matter. It was a long time ago."

  "You mean, someone used to say that your eyes are unusual?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who?"

  "It was a long time ago."

  "Who?"

  "No one. My father."

  She turned over onto her stomach. Then she scooted closer, so there were only inches between their noses. She could smell him. Moisture and chlorine. Some kind of lotion or aftershave. And something else, slightly musky and very seductive to her: his body's special scent.

  She put aside her pleasurable contemplation of how much he attracted her. She had another thing on her mind right then. She was thinking of how she wanted to learn all about him, but how she had no right to expect him to tell her any of his secrets when he still believed that she was someone named Loveless.

  Do it. Tell him who you really are right now, an inner voice urged.

  But she couldn't quite say the words.

  Instead she decided to lay a little groundwork for the beginnings of trust between them.

  "Jack?"