the sport had been to twist and dodge away from them, watching their frustration grow at his elusiveness.
With Angel, the sport would be to let her come to him.
Either way, the end was the same. Satiation and then dissatisfaction, tears and Hawk flying away, spreading his dark wings until he hung poised in the sky, waiting for the next chase to begin.
The thought made Hawk’s mouth turn down in a cruel curve that was aimed as much at himself as it was at the women he had brought down and then flown from. He was beginning to tire of it, the chase and the kill; and most of all he was tired of the restlessness that consumed him the morning after. The adrenaline was no longer enough.
But adrenaline was all there was.
He had learned that when he was eighteen. He had never accepted it, though. Not completely.
Hope was why he flew again, searched again, chased again. Hope kept telling him that there was more to life than betrayal and lies and the hollowness that came in the aftermath of adrenaline.
Hawk had learned to hate hope, but he hadn’t learned how to kill it.
Yet.
Chapter 8
“Hawk?”
Hawk blinked, returning to the present and to the beautiful actress who promised to lead him on a fascinating chase.
For a time.
“Yes?” Hawk said.
“If you’ll move, I’ll start putting the fishing gear together.”
He stepped back just enough so that Angel could get out of the cockpit seat, but not enough so that she could avoid touching him as she got to her feet. Angel hesitated, then brushed quickly by him, leaving behind her scent and a hint of warmth.
Hawk absorbed both with a hot thrill of pleasure. But nothing showed on his face. He was as impassive as the cliff rising out of the sea.
Angel rigged the fishing rods quickly, explaining as she worked. The rods she chosewere eight feet long and as flexible as fly rods. The boat rocked idly, drifting almost imperceptibly toward the shallow end of the tiny bay.
“I won’t try trolling or drift fishing for salmon,” Angel said.
“Why not?”
“They aren’t here yet.”
“How can you tell?”
Angel’s lips curved in a small smile.
“Carlson isn’t here,” she said simply. “That man’s uncanny. If there are salmon around, he knows it. Must be his Tlingit heritage.”
“An old gray shaman?” asked Hawk with an amused tilt of his eyebrow.
Angel laughed as she bent over the tackle box and pulled out a spinning reel. When the reel was fixed in place on the rod, she began threading line through the guides.
“Carlson isn’t old,” she said. “His hair is as black and thick as yours. Handsome as sin and hard as that cliff. Like you.”
Angel’s voice was so matter-of-fact that it took Hawk a moment to understand what she said.
“Thank you,” he said calmly, watching her.
Angel pulled a wicked-looking jig out of its slot in the tray. The hook gleamed cruelly in the sun.
“Thank your parents,” she said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
For a moment Hawk was off-balance. Women had told him he was handsome before. Often. He was tired of hearing it, just as he was tired of so many things.
But Angel’s offhand summation of his appearance was… pleasing. She expected nothing in return. Not a touch, not even words.
It was as though she had pointed out that he had ten fingers. Nothing remarkable. Everyone had ten fingers.
A feeling of quiet exhilaration rippled through Hawk. First Angel retreated, then she returned, but she returned so delicately that he had all but missed her reappearance.
Never before had Hawk’s prey moved so gracefully, so unexpectedly. He had been right to let her set the pace.
He would continue to do so, until desire overcame his predator’s patience and he swooped down, ending it.
“What if I said you were beautiful?” asked Hawk, real curiosity in his voice.
“I’d say you had good manners and bad eyesight,” answered Angel.
As she spoke, she fastened the roundheaded jig to the fishing line by means of a bronze safety pin that was already tied to the line.
“My eyesight is excellent,” Hawk said.
“Then you can see that my forehead is too high, my cheekbones are too prominent, my hair is too thick, my body is too thin, and my skin is too pale.”
Angel touched the tip of the hook with an experimental fingertip. Not quite the way it should be – lethally sharp.
“On the plus side,” Angel continued, “my eyes are a nice color and everything else works better than it has any right to. There’s nothing wrong with my mind, either – most of the time,” she amended wryly.
As she spoke, Angel pulled out a small whetstone and begun sharpening the jig’s hook.
Hawk watched, intrigued both by her words and by her casual inventory of herself.
Hawk was astonished. He was certain that she must know how unusual she was, yet she had sounded absolutely certain of her lack of appeal to men.
“You’re an amazing actress,” murmured Hawk, meaning every word of the ambiguous compliment. “Quite the best I’ve ever seen.”
Startled, Angel looked up.
The hook slipped, piercing the skin on the ball of her thumb. She snatched her hand away from the hook and frowned at the single bright drop of blood rising on her thumb.
“What do you mean?” Angel asked.
Hawk shook his head admiringly.
“Just that, Angel.”
He took her hand and brought it to his mouth. He sucked lightly on her thumb.
“Your blood is real, though,” he murmured, releasing her with a final, flicking caress from his tongue.
Hawk had moved very quickly, capturing and releasing Angel before she understood what was happening.
But her body understood. She could still feel the soft rasp of his tongue, the quick pressure and heat of his mouth. Her breath was wedged tightly in her throat.
Hawk took the rod from Angel’s hands as though nothing had happened.
“I think the hook is sharp enough now, don’t you?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” said Angel, looking away from him.
She walked quickly back into the cockpit and checked the sonar. They had drifted past the cliff face. Now the bottom was shelving up steeply. No more than eighty feet of water lay beneath the boat. With a quick glance at the land, she estimated where they were in relation to the rock reef that lay beneath the lower portion of the tiny
