Hunter

by Jacquelyn Frank

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Suspense

Synopsis

This can't be happening to her. A random breakdown, an isolated mountain road, a seemingly chance meeting with a hotter-than-hot stranger. Tatyana is a modern gal who can handle any crisis, but before she knows what's hit her, she's sensing a hideous threat, not to her but to this man who draws her like a moth to a flame. Hunter.



"I know things . . . I saw it."



When the attack comes, she is his protection from a diabolical enemy, even as he initiates her into a startling world of magic, sorcery, and sensuality. For in a moment of terrifying danger a spark has been struck, and neither can escape the erotic fire to come.

Release date: June 24, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Tatyana Petrova bent her head forward and banged her forehead on the upper rim of her steering wheel.

“This isn’t happening to me,” she announced to the quickly chilling interior of her car. “This is the sort of thing that happens to stupid, unprepared women. You see,” she explained, “I’m neither stupid nor unprepared. Therefore, logic dictates that this isn’t happening to me.”

She reached for her key, confident that her speech would make all the difference in the world. It turned in the ignition . . . and a nifty little click echoed into the car. This was followed by immediate, deafening, highly discouraging silence. Tatyana growled with disgust and yanked the useless key from the ignition of what had always been the most incredibly reliable automotive companion she had ever owned. She loved her car. From its multi-disc CD player to its in-dash hands-free cell phone, and even its cup holder that fit perfectly around her favorite cup.

“I have triple A. I have a cell phone. I even know how to change a damn tire!” She made an exaggerated sound of frustration. “But of course I can’t get a cell signal in the middle of nowhere because I’m surrounded by mountains, and I don’t have a flat tire!”

Tatyana sighed, laying her head back on the headrest. She cast a mean look at the cell phone on the passenger seat, and then decided it was time to end her temper tantrum. She was a modern gal and she could handle any crisis. It was just that she needed about five minutes of woe-is-me, PMS-worthy despair before she took action. Scooping up the phone and shoving it in her bag, she swung herself out of the car and marched back to the trunk. After popping it open, she rummaged around in her gym bag until she found her sneakers. She traded her heels for them, sliding her stocking feet easily into the Nikes. Granted, it didn’t make a fashion statement when she was wearing a designer silk dress in shocking red that sparkled with a light dusting of glitter, but she wasn’t about to trek up and down mountain roads in spiky leather stilettos just because they looked good. It was bad enough she had chosen a fringed shawl for a wrap and was likely to freeze her butt off by the time she found a working phone.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

No, the worst of it was that her best friend, her confidant, the man she adored and loved most in the world . . . was going to kill her. Possibly even literally. She sighed as she slammed the trunk shut, then shivered.

“Happy freakin’ New Year!” she cheered to herself, watching her breath cloud ominously in the air.

She was supposed to be in Manhattan at one of the swankiest New Year’s parties in town. The firm she worked for was notorious for going all out, reserving the entire Panorama Grill, the restaurant at the top of the building she worked in. There was also the minor technicality that it was considered very bad form by your bosses if you didn’t show up at the year-end party. Promotions could be gained or lost at this event based solely on appearances.

But was she making a fabulous impression on her bosses like she was supposed to? Nooo. Of course not. Here she was, her car broken down in the back of beyond with her unhappily freezing her cha-chas off, all for the sake of a beloved brother who was going to murder her for the effort.

“Dimitre, I love you very much and I know you are worth this, but why in hell did you have to move to this scene straight out of Deliverance? God, I can’t see a single light anywhere.” She turned herself in a complete circle, to no avail. If the skyline around her was any indication, she was currently in a valley and the Catskills surrounded her with their sparsely populated mountain faces. “Well, at least the roads are paved and I don’t hear any banjos in the distance,” she quipped to herself as she shouldered her purse and began to trek off in the direction she’d been headed.

It was really her only choice. Tatyana was closer to where her brother lived than the nearest town, so it just made sense to keep going.

“And someone should have warned me about the sucky cell phone reception out here. I can’t believe that, with what I pay for this phone, I can’t even get a signal in an emergency. Now, here I am, a stranded woman marching down a spooky, remote road with no one to hear me scream. I’m in a damned plot for a B horror flick!”

Tatyana kept marching down said remote road at full steam, promising an ignorant Dimitre that he would be very sorry if his sister met a gruesome death by chainsaw. Of course, at the rate she was talking to herself, and considering her present frame of mind, maybe she’d be picking up her own chainsaw.

If she could only find a hardware store.

“Annali, love, what are you doing?”

Annali waved off the taunting query with a graceful hand, the filmy material of her blouse fluttering like the petals of a lavender orchid around her wrist. The romantic cuffs at the ends of the snug sleeves made for an incongruous picture as she leaned over a massive worktable, one that was cluttered to the very edges with a hundred or more labeled bottles and pouches filled with all manner of curiosities. Adjoining tables held burners, sinks, a heavy mortar and pestle of marble, and a network of beakers, flasks, and distillery equipment. She toiled over all of these while dressed in an outfit spun of the finest silk, yet she hadn’t even bothered to don an apron to protect her blouse or skirt.

She was clearly in the middle of something complex. Her right hand was toying with a strand of pearls at her throat in a rapid, absent gesture, while the notebook she was scrawling in was filled nearly corner to corner with notations by her left hand.

Only half of her hair, a myriad sandy blond tones, remained swept up into its original coiffure; the other half was a tumble of wayward curls that bounced happily on her shoulders at their parole from the severe upsweep. She was missing one of her shoes, her bare foot swinging in tempo to some internal beat only she could hear. She had a smudge of ink on her cheek that had an eerie Rorschach effect when stared at too long.

“Stop hovering, Ryce,” she scolded as she continued to write furious notes without even bothering to look up.

“How long have you been closeted away here, Annali?” Ryce persisted, looking for clues. There was a half-drunk cup of tea on the table behind her, but he knew it was long cold. There were no indications as to whether or not she’d eaten. It was par for the course when she worked in a fever like this that she’d always forget to eat.

“What day is it?” she countered.

“Friday.”

“I’ve been here since Thursday.”

Ryce was not misled.

“Of what bloody week?” he shot back.

She made a little moue with her pretty lips and finally looked up at him so she could give him a full-on pout. “Please stop pestering me. I’m a grown woman and I’m quite capable of caring for myself.”

“That remains to be seen,” Ryce said dryly, reaching out to sweep one of her slender hands in his, drawing it to his lips in a flutter of soft, lavender ruffles. He kissed the back of her wrist. “You know, Dimitre would never forgive me if I allowed you to starve to death. Come on, let me take you to dinner. Once I’ve fed you, I promise to leave you be.”

“In the middle of all this?” she demanded, clearly aghast at the suggestion as she swept her free hand over the large work area, the pen in her fingers almost being flung away in her enthusiasm. “Ryce, you know very well I can’t just get up and abandon things mid-experiment.”

“It’s nice to know that some things never change.”

Annali gasped even as Ryce pivoted around sharply on the ball of his foot to face the new voice. The familiar newcomer had entered via the exterior conservatory doors, by way of the outlying gardens, and held the knobs, one in each hand, as he grinned at their gaping expressions.

“Hunter!”

Leave it to Annali to recover herself the quickest, Ryce thought with humor as she whipped her hand out of his grasp and flew at the fresh arrival like a beautiful lavender flamingo, all slim, delicate-looking arms and legs. She coiled her wrists behind Hunter’s neck and drew him down for an enthusiastic welcome home kiss as he caught her around the ribs. Hunter flushed as her kisses moved to his cheeks with repeated enthusiasm. He flicked up brilliant blue eyes to see Ryce smirking at him, enjoying this display of Annali’s affections. Hunter grinned and gave him a rude hand gesture behind her back as he bent to kiss her supple cheek affectionately.

“Blessed be. It’s good to see you, Annali,” he said warmly when she finally settled back onto her heels.

“Well it’s not good to see you,” she declared in contradiction, her Southern accent exaggerated by pique as she reached out to slap him smartly on his shoulder in true Scarlett O’Hara style. All she was missing was a hoopskirt and a fan. “You are such a fiend, staying away so long!”

“Anna,” Ryce scolded her from the worktables.

“Well, it’s true,” Annali said, whipping out one of her infamous pouts. There was a collective sigh from the men. It was very hard to resist Annali’s adorably perfect little pouts.

“I had my reasons, Annie,” Hunter said simply, putting her a little farther away from himself, trying to ease the discomfort of her little guilt trip.

“I know. But, in the name of the Lady, Hunter, this is the information age! You could have written. A few lousy e-mails here and there to let us know you were still alive wouldn’t have killed you.”

Hunter glanced up at Ryce in a silent plea. Ryce gave him a meaningful look and shook his head. Both men knew Annali had never, and would never, fully understand the reasons behind Hunter’s departure so long ago. Neither would she understand why Hunter had cut himself off from all contact with his friends. It had been difficult for Ryce to comprehend as well; but though he didn’t agree with all of Hunter’s reasons, he respected them. For ten years he’d left Hunter to his own devices, never contacting him, as per his wishes.

Until now.

It was painfully good to see him, Ryce thought as he clasped his arms behind his back in a casual movement that belied the emotions he was feeling, taking the opportunity to look over Hunter. His old friend had changed in many ways. He was as vigorous and sturdy a man as he’d ever been, in a physical sense, but time had matured his body, making him seem far more at ease within the roped musculature of his build. It took discipline to maintain such a physique. Ryce wondered if it was still Hunter’s passions for Thoroughbreds and martial arts that kept him fit and motivated. A person could change a great deal in one decade, but Ryce doubted that those essentials had altered. Hunter was born to ride and fight. His seat on a horse was a phenomenal thing to behold, poetry between man and beast. His hand-to-hand reactions, the ease of his uncanny reflexes, and his succinct choices in the heat of a fight made him unbelievably valuable at one’s back.

Hunter had also cut his hair. That was a sharp difference. He’d previously kept the pitch-colored locks long enough to touch his shoulders, sweeping them into a tail as Ryce himself did. Now his hair was severely shortened, cropped to a perfectly manicured line over the back of his neck, with only the front and top showing a slightly rakish length that hung in curving spears over his forehead. His eyes, the remarkable cerulean blue that leapt out at anyone he glanced at, were notably less shadowed by pain and grief, and Ryce was glad to see it. As for the rest, he could only guess at this juncture. Who knew how time had treated Hunter? It had treated them all so differently. In fact, it was time that had compelled Ryce to draw Hunter home at last, back into their fold where he truly belonged.

Time and danger.

“Well, anyway,” Annali said breezily, “I forgive you. But only because I have so much to tell you and I need to hear absolutely everything about you as well.”

“Since Ryce is intent on feeding you, pet, why don’t we all go out to eat?” Hunter suggested. “I’m starved, as well as jet-lagged, and I think dinner and a fresh bed would make all the difference.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ryce said at last. “Annali, go and change for dinner. Hunter and I will be waiting for you in the front parlor when you’re ready.”

“Ryce,” Annali used his name as a gentle scold, her fair lavender blue eyes holding a world of admonishment. “Hunter’s only just come through the door. I don’t want you harping on him already, okay?” She spoke with lightness, but knowing her so well, Ryce knew there was a little bit of an irrational fear that if he upset the apple cart, Hunter would just walk off again and this time he wouldn’t come back for good.

“I’m curious over her definition of harping,” Hunter chuckled, an ungentlemanly reminder that she’d just been harassing him herself.

Annali turned a speaking glance on Hunter that announced her pique that he should make fun at her expense. “I mean it,” she sniffed, her tone like a mother scolding young boys. “Both of you behave and be nice.”

“Go change, Anna,” Ryce persisted, giving her a gentle shove in the direction of the conservatory exit.

As she left, Hunter turned to close the exterior doors against the winter cold before it destroyed the hothouse atmosphere and endangered some of Annali’s precious plants. By the time he turned around, Ryce had done the same with the hallway doors. The two men crossed the room, meeting in the middle with an enthusiastic handshake and hug.

“It’s good to see you, my friend. Blessed be to you,” Ryce greeted with an eagerness no less keen than Annali’s before he stepped back.

“And you as well,” Hunter said with a grin. “Ryce, Annali is beautiful. And happy. It’s hard to reconcile the woman I just saw with the haunted seventeen-year-old she was when I left. Well done, my friend.”

“Annali deserves all the credit,” Ryce said dismissively. “I see you’ve picked up a fair bit of Romany in your inflections.” He noted this as a first clue to Hunter’s whereabouts all these years.

“No doubt,” Hunter chuckled. “Among others. Whereas the Queen’s English is sounding surprisingly bastardized from your tongue. Too much time in New York, I’m thinking.” Hunter released Ryce’s hand and clasped his shoulder briefly. “You look very well. I hope the others are all in good health, too?”

“As well as ever. As you can see”—he gestured to the workstations sprawled in the center of the conservatory—“Annali is a thriving biochemist and is still the obsessive botanist. With much success, I might add.”

“I’m not surprised at Annali succeeding at anything,” Hunter remarked, with a visibly strong streak of pride.

“Agreed,” Ryce said, taking great comfort in the signs he saw in Hunter that told him he’d made the right choice by summoning him home. The only thing he would ever regret was that he hadn’t done so much sooner. “Kaia is buried knee deep in work at the local hospital, as well as a free clinic. She’s presently on a short lecture circuit. Dimitre, the new witch I told you about, is with her.”

“You mean Annali’s new love?”

“New and only. Besides you, there was never anyone else.”

Hunter smiled at that, a whimsical tilting of his lips. “She had a young girl’s crush back then. Hero-worship. It lasted only as long as those things do. She’s thought of me as a big brother ever since, just as she does you.” He raised a brow of inquisition. “I assume you’re going to tell me why Annali’s mate is off with Kaia?”

“In time,” Ryce agreed. He watched as Hunter turned to inspect some of Annali’s potion bottles. “Lennox is well, but Gracelynne is recovering from a riding accident,” he said casually.

That brought Hunter’s attention fully back to Ryce, his handsome face folding into concern and consternation. “A riding accident?” Ryce knew there was no getting around the sharp questions in those intuitive eyes. “Forgive me, Ryce, but I am trying to wrap my mind around the concept of Gracie having a riding accident. She’s nearly as good as I am on horseback.”

“Of course she is. You can just imagine her embarrassment. A spirited horse and a low branch was all it took,” the Englishman said dismissively. “She landed on her rear good and hard, but she’s got nothing worse than a bruised coccyx and a broken wrist to show for it. After dinner we will discuss it in more detail. Annali was unusually disturbed seeing Gracelynne brought down like that, and I’d prefer we not thrash it out in front of her. You know how she can be when someone she loves is hurt. Brings up bad memories.”

Hunter frowned and nodded. He knew very well why Annali was sensitive to those things. Her parents had been murdered right before her eyes eleven years earlier.

“In the meantime, I suggest you shower and change for dinner yourself,” Ryce went on to say. “You’re looking a bit the worse for wear from your flight.”

“I feel worse for wear. Thanks for pointing it out.” Hunter stopped and went still, his mind clicking. He narrowed severe eyes on his friend. “You didn’t mention Asher.”

Ryce tried not to visibly wince, but there was no avoiding the instant tension that rushed through him at the mention of Asher’s name.

“Ryce, don’t you dare tell me I’ve been called back because of him.” Hunter’s good humor and congeniality vanished instantly. His entire body coiled tight as he narrowed a cutting indigo stare on Ryce, giving the other man a chill because of the sheer intensity that was put into the look. Ryce was a potent man in his own right, the High Priest of this notoriously powerful coven, but if there was one man he knew not to cross, it was Hunter Finn.

Hunter was Sentinel of Willow Coven, Spellcaster witch and defender of all his brethren in the coven. Ryce’s personal assassin, if necessary. Or at least he had been at one time. But the whole point of Hunter’s return was to resume that role, and it was almost comforting to see the coldness in him that assured Ryce the man still had the edge it took to be a killer. He would need it before long.

“Hunter, you don’t understand,” he said at last, releasing a regretful sigh. “You’ve been away a long time and, as requested, I kept from contacting you. Even now I would have honored the request and handled this on my own, but . . .” Ryce’s strong hands curled into fists. “Things have changed. I can’t explain everything to you now, and I beg you not to bring anything up at dinner. Please”—Ryce held out a placating palm—“just trust me. We will enjoy a good meal with good friends, and after Annali and the others have retired, you and I will talk.”

“It isn’t like you to do things behind their backs. This isn’t the way I remember us doing things. Haven’t we always made choices as a united group? Or has that changed since I’ve been gone?”

“It hasn’t changed as a general rule,” Ryce assured him, his tone a little impatient that Hunter would even ask the question. “But it can’t be that way this time, Hunter. Please, I beg you not to ask any more questions until later.”

Hunter scowled at his friend for a long moment, and then nodded curtly in agreement. He had sense enough to know how serious things were when Ryce started keeping secrets from the others. The other man had been the leader of this group for as long as Hunter could remember. There were reasons for that, not the least of which was that Ryce was one of the world’s most powerful white witches.

It was on that merit alone that Hunter acquiesced to his High Priest. After all, it was because of Ryce’s personal request that he’d rousted himself out of his self-imposed exile in the first place . . .

Finally returning to the coven he had once called home.

Hunter had every intention of respecting Ryce’s request to wait for explanations, but he had no desire to wait to see Gracelynne. After he’d showered and dressed for dinner, he left his suite in the west wing and crossed the mansion to the east wing, where Gracie’s rooms were housed. Willow House, a grand estate in the Catskill Mountains of New York, boggled the mind with its sheer size and appointments. Ryce had even larger holdings in England, but this manse had been built with all the luxuries of modern architecture and convenience.

Ryce’s taste was everywhere. The mansion was a melding of the modern with timeless classics. He’d pulled it off quite well. The most thoughtful concept the Englishman had incorporated into the design was that each of the members of Willow Coven had his or her own complete living suite, including a sitting room, private bath, and kitchenette along with a bedroom.

Regardless of these conveniences, household custom dictated that, if one was present in the house, cocktails and dinner were shared together at set times. However, with private kitchenettes, there was always the option for one to be a little anti-social if the mood struck. Hunter suspected that Ryce still took tea at four o’clock every day as well, and since half the household was native to England, it would be a communal affair, too.

You could take the Brit out of Britain . . .

That made him smile. He had missed Willow House. He’d missed his companions and their familiar ways. It was an almost surreal feeling to be walking these halls again after such a great gap in time. So much was the same, the basic layout and shapes of the halls and rooms, but furnishings and colors had changed dramatically over time. Familiar paintings had shifted positions or even rooms. Floors once carpeted were now polished wood or marble. This was all Ryce’s doing, he knew. Willow Coven’s leader was a closet decorator. He had a wonderful eye, making it grand and beautiful without tawdriness or ostentatiousness, a distinction that was only made by a fine line at times.

Witchcraft was a full-time art, and each of them had his specialty, but there was such a thing as over-devotion when it came to magic. It was important for them to find and enjoy pursuits outside of their work. One could only excel at the Craft if one took enjoyment in it. It was sad when witches labored hard at their magic without ever truly learning to enjoy it. Without taking pleasure in magic, witches would never reached their fullest power and potential.

This truth had been a strong motivator in Hunter’s departure from the coven so many years ago. At the time he’d known he would take no joy in his magic so long as he was weighed down by the sorrow he was feeling. Indeed, he’d thought to forsake his gifts completely for the remainder of his life. It had never once occurred to him that his place wouldn’t be filled in his absence, or that the others would be waiting for his return. He was still trying to wrap his thoughts around the concept even as he reacted emotionally to being home again.

When he reached Gracelynne’s suite, Hunter didn’t bother to knock. He entered the sitting room, expecting to see her sitting by the fire working on one project or another. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the darkness of the room, and then laughed softly under his breath, reminding himself that not everything would be exactly as he remembered it.

He crossed to the doors of her bedroom and here he paused to knock gently.

“Bugger off, Rochelle, I don’t want to eat,” came Gracelynne’s rather petulant reply from within.

Hunter’s expression altered to bemusement. Gracie, it seemed, was feeling a little cranky and taking it out on their chef. He stifled a grin and knocked again.

“I said bugger off, goddamn it! Now quit pestering me, you bloody twit!”

Hunter’s amusement faded under the onslaught of the viciously spoken remark. Surely he’d heard wrong, because the Gracelynne he knew would never be abusive to anyone who didn’t truly deserve it. He reached for the door and pushed it open, ignoring privacy now as a frown marred his features. The bedroom was equally as dark as the sitting room, and with a snap of his fingers, Hunter brought the bedside lamp to life, spilling light into the room.

Illumination flooded over the woman who awkwardly flung herself up into a sitting position and whipped around to glare at the intruder through a tangled mop of jaw-length, ginger curls. A pair of dull, earthen brown eyes bored into him angrily for several long seconds before recognition occurred. Her small, pointed chin dropped down as her mouth opened in shock.

“Hunter,” she whispered.

And then she burst into tears. She covered her mouth and tried to turn away from him, but he was already sitting on her bed and dragging her close into his embrace. He held her securely, rocking her softly as she wept hard and wild, her angry hands fisting around the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders; her body shaking with her emotion. All the while, Hunter was swallowing back fury and shock.

Beneath the curtain of corkscrew curls, Gracelynne’s face and neck were covered in livid bruises that showed the clear mark of fingerprints. One of her hands was wrapped from palm to elbow in the rough but colorful purple of a fiberglass cast. He thought a hasty detection spell within his mind, allowing him to sense the stiffness in her entire body posture, the soreness in her belly and legs, and the distinctive bruising on the sides of both her hips. There was hardly a spot on her body that hadn’t been abused in some fashion.

“Gracie,” he murmured softly to her, closing his eyes and concentrating on purging himself of the fury rushing wildly through him. She didn’t need him to be uncontrolled in his emotions right now. She needed his strength and as much comforting peace as he could manage.

“Oh, Hunter. The Lady has blessed us. You’ve come home to us!” she sobbed, her hands creeping deep into his hair and holding him as if she had no intention of releasing him ever again. It made him smile against her soft cheek and he shifted the smile into a gentle kiss against her bruises.

“I missed you, Gracie,” he told her on a fierce whisper, but he didn’t squeeze her in hugs as he had Annali, knowing she was too sore to bear such enthusiasm.

And all the while, all he could think of was that Ryce had lied to him.

There was no way in hell Gracelynne had gotten her injuries in a riding accident. He’d known it the very instant the light had touched her. As an avid equestrian, he knew what happened when one fell from a horse, or even got swept from horseback by a tree limb, as Ryce had suggested. No. Trees and animals didn’t cause wounds like these.

Men did.

A human being had caused these injuries, both interior and exterior. He could feel the damage ran deeper than bruises and broken bones. He didn’t need the wrenching heartache of her tears to sense that, although every salty drop sent the knowledge home all the more. It wasn’t Grace he would be questioning about this, though. Oh no. She wasn’t handling the aftermath of whatever had happened well at all; sitting in the dark, refusing food, and the Goddess only knew what other manifestations of grief and anger she suffered.

Annali’s sensitivities or no, he wasn’t going to rest until Ryce explained himself. As Willow Coven’s High Priest, Ryce was ultimately responsible for the safety of those who lived within his protection. Plainly he had failed Gracelynne when it came to this duty. Hunter would have him answer for it before the end of the hour, dinner be damned.

“I’m home now, honey,” he soothed her softly. “And I’m so happy to see you.”

“So long,” she sniffled, swiping her undamaged hand over her cheeks. “You’ve been gone so long. It hasn’t been the same without you. So much has changed . . .” She pulled away with that remark, shivering as she turned her body slightly. “I know you felt you had to go. I always understood your reasons. I don’t mean to lay a guilt trip on you.”

“I know that,” he scolded gently, touching her chin to make her look back into his eyes directly. He wouldn’t have her afraid to speak her mind to him with the boldness she had always used before. “Just as I know it was you who had to pick up the slack I left behind me when I went. I heard no complaints, though. You’ve done extremely well in my absence, and Willow Coven has been blessed to have you. The house is clearly safe and secure, and all, except yourself at the moment, are in extraordinarily good health from what I’ve seen.

“As for guilt trips, you and Annali are loving in your reproaches. Ryce was a bit more petulant when . . .” Hunter hesitated, not wanting her to think he’d been called back because of her, even though he now suspected the attack she’d suffered had something to do with it. “Well, you know how he loves to give stern lectures about duty and honor and yaddayaddayadda . . .” He rolled his eyes, making her laugh through her tears.

“Right. That’s our Ryce,” she agreed, reaching to rub his arm, as if she couldn’t believe he was real and solid and there. “Well, you look very handsome and well turned out. Not travel clothes, I’ll warrant. Going out so soon?”

“Yes. Ryce and Annie are taking me out to dinner. It sounds like you haven’t eaten yet,” he said with a pointed look of reproof for her earlier petulance when he’d knocked on her door. “Why don