The Hunt. Jennifer Sturman

      The Hunt

      Jennifer Sturman

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      This book is dedicated to Rulonna Neilson.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      A number of friends were extremely generous with their time and their knowledge of the Bay Area as I was writing this book. These kind people include Rita and Joe Brogley, Maria and Jan Leeman, Jasper Malcolmson, Stefanie Reich Offit, Elizabeth Porteous, Raj Seshadri and Rick Ostrander, and Marybeth Wittekind Sharpe and Amory Sharpe. Many thanks to Michele Jaffe, who again served as an early reader, and to Carrie Weber for her ace translation skills. And, as always, thanks to my agent, Laura Langlie, Margaret Marbury and the team at Red Dress Ink, and my family for their continued encouragement and support.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 9

      CHAPTER 10

      CHAPTER 11

      CHAPTER 12

      CHAPTER 13

      CHAPTER 14

      CHAPTER 15

      CHAPTER 16

      CHAPTER 17

      CHAPTER 18

      CHAPTER 19

      CHAPTER 20

      CHAPTER 21

      CHAPTER 22

      CHAPTER 23

      CHAPTER 24

      CHAPTER 25

      CHAPTER 26

      CHAPTER 27

      CHAPTER 28

      CHAPTER 29

      CHAPTER 30

      1

      “T hey’re so normal.

      Luisa lit her cigarette and snapped the lighter shut. “And how is that a problem?”

      “I didn’t say it was a problem. But they named their dog Spot.”

      “The dog does have a spot, Rachel.”

      It was true. The dog in question had a spot. And as dogs went, Spot was okay—not too yappy or slobbery. In fact, he was a completely normal dog, exactly right for his owners, Charles and Susan Forrest, my future in-laws and the source of all this rampant normalcy.

      The phrase my future in-laws still felt unreal to me, even though Peter and I had been engaged for several months now and in spite of the very real engagement party we were currently attending at the Forrests’ San Francisco home. Or, to be more accurate, the engagement party from which Luisa and I were sneaking a break. She had wanted a cigarette, and the sight of my family mingling with Peter’s family, especially our grandmothers with their heads close together, undoubtedly hammering out just how many children we should have, was enough to make a little second-hand smoke seem nearly appealing.

      We’d slipped out of the house through the side door and walked the short distance to the top of the Lyon Street steps, which led down from Pacific Heights to the Palace of Fine Arts and the Bay beyond. The steps were the local hot spot for underage drinkers on a Saturday night. Clumps of kids gathered on the landings, discreetly sipping from beer cans and plastic cups and apparently unconcerned that even in June the air was damp and chill.

      I heard the staccato of high-heeled feet approaching, and one of the kids looked in our direction and whistled, a long, piercing wolf whistle. Since Luisa and I had already been there for several minutes, I knew the sound had nothing to do with us. I turned, and sure enough, Hilary was heading our way. Six-foot tall women with platinum hair and a proclivity for small clothing generate a disproportionate amount of whistling, especially in a city where most people’s wardrobes are comprised largely of fleece.

      Fortunately, Hilary enjoyed the occasional objectification. She flashed the whistler a smile and pulled herself up to sit on the stone railing. “I thought I’d find you two out here.”

      “Luisa needed a cigarette,” I explained.

      “And you’re freaking out,” Hilary said.

      “Not at all,” I said, which was almost the truth. There was nothing quite like being the guest of honor at an engagement party to remind a person she had commitment issues, not to mention several other relationship-related neuroses, but I was proud of the progress I’d made in developing emotional maturity. Between the party and the quality time Peter and I had planned with his parents over the next few days, my skills were definitely being put to the test, but I was confident the Forrests would never guess just how new I was to this whole normalcy thing.

      “I don’t know how you people do it,” said Hilary.

      “‘You people?’” asked Luisa, raising one dark, well-shaped eyebrow.

      “Do what?” I asked, wishing I had Luisa’s one-eyebrow-raising skill.

      “Long-term relationships,” said Hilary. “You and Peter. Jane and Sean. Emma and Matthew. You, too, Luisa. At least, until Isobel dumped you.” Luisa, Hilary and I had been roommates in college, which was starting to become longer ago than I cared to admit. Jane and Emma completed the group, but they were both on the East Coast this weekend: Jane home in Boston with her newborn son and Emma at the Southampton wedding of her boyfriend’s sister.

      “Isobel did not dump me,” said Luisa evenly. She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “After careful consideration, we mutually decided our relationship had run its course.”

      “And before Peter, my longest relationship only lasted three months,” I pointed out. Technically, it had been closer to two and a half months, but it seemed fair to round up for the purpose of this discussion.

      “Ben and I haven’t been together anything like three months, but it’s felt stale ever since I got over the thrill of being with a guy who carries a gun. And that was during the second week,” said Hilary. Her boyfriend of the moment, Ben Lattimer, was an agent with the FBI’s financial fraud unit, and he did carry a gun, but it didn’t seem to be providing much in the way of defense against Hilary. Her blunt manner masked a deep affection and fierce loyalty where her friends were concerned, but her attention span could be short when it came to romance, and it sounded as if Ben was on his way out, whether he was aware of it or not.

      “Have you considered giving a guy a chance for once?” I asked.

      “I have given him a chance, and it was fine for a while, but now he’s getting all mushy on me. You know how I feel about that.”

      We did know, having listened to more than a few discourses from her over the years on how love, like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and a nonsurgical cure for cellulite, was a nice idea but equally lacking any basis in reality. “Are you sure? Ben’s sweet, and he seems mentally stable, and he’s really good-looking,” I said.

      “He’s taller than you, too,” said Luisa. “How often does that happen?”

      “And how often do all of those qualities come together in one man?” I added.

      “How will I ever find out if I’m stuck with him for the rest of my life?” Hilary countered, swinging one long leg with impatience.

      “Do