bay.
Absently Angel sucked her stinging thumb. When she realized that her skin tasted of Hawk, her pulse hesitated, then accelerated raggedly. She took several steadying breaths, recalling the tranquil rose to her mind. It was the only way she had found to gather and steel herself against the pain of learning how to walk again, how to live again.
Frowning, Angel looked at her thumb. Until this moment she hadn’t realized that her special rose was the exact color of blood, the color of life itself.
Angel let the understanding radiate through her like light through stained glass, bringing color to everything it touched. When she returned to the open stern of the boat, her breathing was easy, her voice and body relaxed.
“Have you ever jigged for cod?” she asked Hawk calmly, taking the rod from his hands.
“No. Is it difficult?”
“For you? I doubt it. You’re very quick.”
“Another compliment? You’ll turn my head.”
Angel gave Hawk a cool sideways look.
“Another fact,” she said distinctly. “And it would take a bulldozer to turn your head.”
The left corner of Hawk’s mouth turned up.
It was as close to a smile as Angel had seen from him.
It wasn’t a comforting insight.
“Have you used a spinning reel before?” asked Angel, turning away from the intent brown eyes watching her.
“Yes. Then I was soundly whipped for taking it without permission.”
Angel looked at the tall, powerful man standing so close to her.
“That must have been when you were a lot smaller,” she said dryly. “Either that, or they ganged up on you.”
“I was six.”
Shadows of memory changed Hawk’s eyes. Angel watched, wondering what had caused the instant of grief and… rage?
Yes, it had been rage. She was certain of it.
Angel had felt both those emotions, knew how viciously they could tear at your soul. Suddenly she knew that Hawk’s childhood had not been a happy one.
She wondered if he had ever laughed as a boy, and if he ever laughed now, as a man.
“No matter how many birds’ nests you make in my line,” Angel said quietly, “I promise I won’t beat you.”
Hawk’s dark eyes focused on her, startled by the intensity that seethed beneath her calm voice. His fingertip lightly traced the straight line of her nose.
“Wise of you,” he murmured. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m bigger than you are. Much bigger.”
“Harder, too,” agreed Angel, but her eyes were luminous, reflecting Hawk’s closeness. “Much harder.”
Hawk’s eyes changed, darkening as his pupils dilated. The temptation to taste the rosy softness of Angel’s mouth was almost overwhelming. But just as he decided to accept the ripe invitation of her lips, she turned away.
For a few moments Angel stood with her back to Hawk. When she turned around again, she was as tranquil as a flower unfolding into the dawn. In a calm, professional voice she described the theory and practice of jigging for cod.
“We’ll be drifting over a rocky reef soon,” said Angel. “The reef is about six fathoms – thirty-six feet – down. We’re looking for black cod or ling cod, although I’m not fussy. I learned to like rock cod when I was young because Dad wouldn’t let me keep anything I wouldn’t eat.”
Angel stepped back toward the cockpit, leaned in, and looked quickly at the sonar screen. Then she thrust the rod into Hawk’s hands and gestured for him to go to the side of the boat.
He held most of the rod out over the water. A few inches below the wiggling tip of the rod, the lead-weighted, hula-skirted jig danced and quivered as even the smallest movement of Hawk’s body was transmitted up the flexible length of the rod.
With a casual motion, Angel flipped aside the curved piece of metal that kept the fishing line from falling off the reel. Immediately the heavy jig plopped into the water and sank, dragging transparent line down into the blue-green sea.
“This is the bale,” Angel said, pointing to the curved metal she had pushed aside. “Let the lure sink until it bounces off the bottom. Then reel in about six feet.”
Hawk watched the line flip off the reel in graceful, glistening curves until the jig touched bottom. The bale clicked once in the silence as Hawk began to reel in. When he estimated that he had pulled in about six feet of line, he turned to Angel and raised one black eyebrow.
“The idea is to make the cod think that there’s a wounded herring fluttering down to the bottom,” Angel explained.
“How?”
“Pull up quickly on the rod, then let go, wait a few seconds, and repeat. If a hungry cod is anywhere around, he’ll come hunting. And then,” added Angel, licking her lips delicately, “we’ll have a leg up on dinner.”
Hawk’s dark eyes followed the tip of Angel’s tongue as it left a thin shine of moisture over her lips.
“Sneaky,” he said, his voice deep. “What seems to be the prey turns and catches the predator.”
Angel tipped her head to one side.
“I never thought of it like that,” she admitted. Then she smiled slightly. “Maybe it’s only just. The cod is finally paying for a lifetime of free herring lunches.”
The left corner of Hawk’s mouth curled up. “What about you? When do you pay?”
With a downward sweep of her lashes, Angel concealed the stark memories that haunted her eyes.
“I already have,” she said.
Hawk hesitated, wanting to ask what Angel meant. He waited, but she didn’t look up. With a shrug, he decided that her words had been one more graceful, elusive twist of the prey. He turned his attention back to the fishing rod, lifting it with quick, smooth power, then letting the line go slack again.
Angel watched for a few moments, appreciating Hawk’s deft handling of rod and line. In addition to his obvious male strength, Hawk had superb reflexes.
“You’re a natural,” she said finally.
Fact, not compliment, as the tone of her voice made clear.
Hawk glanced sideways but Angel was bent over the tackle box, selecting a lead-headed jig for herself. Within moments her rod was set up. She let down the lure over the stern.
For a time there was only silence and the occasional high vibration of fishing line stretched taut and then released.
With no warning Hawk’s rod tip dipped deeply, quivered, then dipped sharply again.
“You’ve got one,” Angel said, reeling in quickly and setting her rod aside. “Keep your rod tip up!”
Silently Hawk glanced at the flexible rod. It was impossible to keep the tip up.
As though Angel knew what he was thinking, she stepped to his side.
“Bring your elbows in against your hips,” she ordered.
As soon as Hawk obeyed, the rod butt came nearly parallel to his body, forcing the tip up.
“Good,” she said. “Now keep up the pressure as you reel in. Steady and slow. That cod isn’t going anywhere but into our frying pan.”
“Sure it’s a cod?” asked Hawk, one eyebrow raised in a question or a challenge.
“Sure am,” she said confidently. “It isn’t fighting much.”
Hawk looked at the lashing rod tip and felt the life of the fish quivering through his hands up to the muscles of his arms.
“Not fighting?” he asked dryly.
“Nope. Wait until you get a salmon on that tippy little rod,” said Angel, her voice rich with memories. “Then you’ll know what it’s like to hold sunrise and lightning in your hands.”
