A Woman Without Lies

The line went dead.

Angel stared at the phone, confused and more than a little irritated. Hawk had been rude, demanding, and abrupt. There was also the fact that nobody called her Angel, not even Derry.

Angelina, yes. Angie, yes. Angel? Never. Only in the privacy of her own mind did Angel acknowledge that name, the name she had begun to call herself when she woke up in the hospital after surviving a wreck she’d had no right to survive.

A wreck she hadn’t really wanted to survive. Not at first. Not alone.

“Trouble?” asked Bill, standing at Angel’s elbow.

Angel looked up from the receiver. She replaced it very gently.

“I don’t know,” she said unhappily.

Then Angel turned away from both the phone and Bill. She bent over to remove her purse and lightweight black shawl from a desk drawer.

“Make my apologies, Bill.”

“Angelina, you can’t just walk out on your own show,” began Bill in a voice that tried to be reasonable.

“Derry needs me.”

“Your career needs you more!”

Angel looked out into the full gallery.

“They’re buying my stained glass, not me,” Angel said.

Bill swore, started to argue, then gave up. Angel was immovable on two subjects. Her art was one of them.

Derry Ramsey was the other.

Angel pulled the silk shawl over her black dress as she stepped out the back door of the gallery. Even in midsummer, Vancouver could be cool, especially when clouds and sun played tag across the afternoon sky.

When Angel arrived at the Golden Stein, she wasn’t surprised to find it crowded. The place was a favorite watering hole with tourists and natives alike. Normally she would have avoided the noisy, smoky, exuberant bar.

This afternoon wasn’t normal. This afternoon Derry had asked her to meet a rude man called Hawk, even though Derry knew that she was in the midst of her first stained glass show in the Northrup Gallery.

In a way, Angel was almost grateful to Hawk for his rudeness. It kept her from dwelling on all the unhappy reasons Derry might have for needing her.

Impatiently Angel stood just inside the Stein’s door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim carmine light favored by the bar’s habitues.

The man called Hawk watched Angel intently from a nearby table. His dark eyes took in her black silk dress, her fringed black shawl thrown carelessly over her shoulders, her pale hair that seemed to gather and concentrate light.

The Stein’s front door opened again, bathing Angel in light, making her long, bright hair shimmer and float in the breeze. Derry’s description – tall, blond, and skinny – barely skimmed the reality of the slender, self-contained woman standing by the door.

Yet Hawk was sure that she was Derry’s Angie. No one else could have eyes like that, too large for her face, too haunted to belong to a woman her age.

Hawk’s mouth formed a cynical, downward-curving line as he realized how young Angie – no Angel – was.

Any woman who looks like this isn’t an Angie, Hawk told himself sardonically. She undoubtedly isn’t an Angel either, no matter how ethereal she appears.

Hawk’s lips thinned as he remembered the last innocent-looking blond he’d taken for a while, an actress with nothing beneath her soft exterior but emptiness and lies.

The actress was, in short, like every other woman Hawk had known. Like Angel standing so quietly, staring at him.

Angel.

A three-dimensional lie, Hawk thought coldly. But a beautiful one. Damned beautiful.

The worst ones always are.

So I’ll call her Angel, and each time I use the name, it will remind me that she’s anything but angelic.

Angel looked back at the man who was watching her from only a few feet away. She sensed with utter certainty that the man watching her was Hawk.

In the atmosphere of forced bonhomie that pervaded the Stein, Hawk was like a rocky island at sunset, darkness condensed amid color, immovable certainty anchored in an aimlessly shifting sea.

Then the front door opened again, spearing the man with light, and Angel knew why he was called Hawk. It wasn’t the blunt angles of his face or his thick, black hair and upswept eyebrows. It wasn’t his hard, lean body. It wasn’t even his predatory grace as he walked toward her.

It was his eyes, the eyes of a hawk, a crystalline brown that was clear and deep, lonely and wild.

“Hawk,” she said.

“Angel.”

His voice was deep, gritty, as essentially uncivilized as his eyes.

“People call me Angie.”

There was a moment of uncanny stillness while Hawk measured her.

“People call me Mr. Hawkins to my face,” he said. “Even friendly puppies like Derry Ramsey.”

Angel hesitated, wondering at the abrasive description of Derry. She knew that Derry thought Hawk all but walked on water. Abruptly she wanted to know more about the man who had earned Derry’s unqualified hero worship.

“What do people call you to your back?” Angel asked.

Hawk’s eyes narrowed.

“A lot of names that angels wouldn’t know about,” he said.

His clear, hard eyes measured her impersonally, lingering on the nimbus of light that was her hair.

“Angel. It suits your looks.”

Hawk’s tone said that her name was Angel so far as he was concerned, and Angel was what he would call her.

She bridled at his arrogance, then forced herself to relax. Derry needed Hawk. In any case, Hawk couldn’t know the meaning of the name Angel for her.

Something alive that once had died.

“Then I will call you Hawk,” Angel said, her voice soft, “and we both will be unhappy with our names.”

Chapter 2

Hawk’s left eyebrow lifted, emphasizing the ruthless lines of his face. He turned away from Angel and took a step back toward his table.

As he turned, he spoke. “What do you drink, Angel?”

“Sunlight.”

Hawk turned back so suddenly that Angel couldn’t suppress a startled sound. She had never seen such quickness in a man. Yet for all his speed, his motions were smooth, utterly controlled, and as graceful as wind.

“Sunlight,” he said, gesturing to the smoky room, “is in short supply here.”

“I didn’t come here to drink, Hawk. I came because Derry needs me.”

Though Angel’s voice was soft, there was real determination in it. It was the same tone that had warned Bill she wasn’t prepared to be reasonable on the subject of Derry.

“What does Derry need?” Angel asked.