Sweet Anger(54)

She joined their ranks and answered his smile with one equally as dazzling. “Me, too.”

He winked. “Got your list? Let’s go.”

He had driven to Dillon. It was little more than a community of rental properties used by skiers during the season. The prices for life’s necessities were outrageous but somewhat more reasonable than those in Breckenridge.

It was a new experience to stroll up and down the aisles of a grocery store with a man. Thomas’s house-keeper had done all the shopping when Kari had lived with him. Before and after her marriage, no man had ever accompanied her on her whirlwind expeditions through the market where she picked up only the essentials and rushed out.

Hunter shopped impulsively. “Ever had any of this?”

“What is it?”

He studied the label on the can. It was printed in a foreign language. “I’m not sure.” He tossed the can into their basket.

While she squeezed heads of lettuce, he peeled an orange and conscientiously put the peels in the nearest trash can. He fed Kari a wedge, then popped two in his mouth. “You do intend to pay for that, don’t you?” she asked, trying to keep the juice from drooling out the sides of her mouth.

“Sure,” he said in the middle of chewing his own bite. Then he bent close to her ear and whispered. “If they catch me.”

She coughed. “I thought you were always on the side of law and order, locking away the bad guys.”

“But I’m on vacation.” He tweaked her nose.

“Why did you choose prosecution over defense? As sharp as you are, wouldn’t you make more money as a defense lawyer?”

“Thanks for the compliment.” He studied a bag of marshmallows, but returned them to the shelf. “And you’re right. I guess it would be more profitable to go into business for myself rather than to continue being a public servant.”

“So why?” she persisted. If she got to the bottom of this, she felt that many of her ambiguities concerning him would be resolved.

“I guess my parents taught me too well. It was ingrained in me from the cradle that there is a difference between right and wrong and that one must be held accountable for one’s actions. I don’t think I could defend someone I knew was guilty of committing a crime. Don’t’ get me wrong. I respect defense attorneys and the work they do. They’re necessary. The system can work. But that particular kind of law isn’t for me.”

“You’re ambitious,” she said quietly. The grocery cart beside her came to a halt. He waited until she looked at him before he spoke.

“Yes. I am. I don’t deny it. But I don’t consider it a fault, either.”

“Even when it’s blown out of proportion?”

“Do you think mine is?”

She glanced away. “I did. Now”—she lifted her eyes back to his—“now I’m not sure. Do you have political aspirations?”

His smile was mischievous and fleeting. “We’ll see. Right now, I want to be a good district attorney.”

“You are.” She met his stare levelly. There was no guile in her eyes.

Again Hunter felt that rush of passion and tenderness sweep through him. She wasn’t just a desirable woman, she was a person worth knowing. She was willing to admit her mistakes and to forgive. “Thank you,” he said.

For a while their eyes held, then she took up pushing the cart. “Tell me about yourself.”

He had grown up in Utah. His father had an insurance agency. Both parents were still alive. One of his sisters was married. The other was in school. “I’m the middle child. Very ornery and stubborn by nature.”

“No comment.”

He laughed. “I’d like you to meet my family.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your family, childhood, etc.”

They had paid for their groceries and driven to a fast-food restaurant to have lunch. The hamburgers were thin, the french fries were greasy and limp, the shakes were foamy. But they didn’t notice.

She told him about losing her mother when she was ten and going through adolescence with only her father to keep things on an even keel. “I loved him desperately. He tried so hard to be both parents for me. It couldn’t have been easy for him.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“He was a newspaper journalist. That’s where I first got my love for a newsroom. I would meet him in the city room every day after school. It gave me a sense of superiority to be the first to read the news as it rolled off the presses. That thrill of being in on things as they happen has never left me.”