A Woman Without Lies

Derry, who had seen nothing but the broad line of Hawk’s back as he stood near Angel, shrugged and hoisted himself onto his crutches.

“It’s just his manner, Angie. Nothing personal. And whatever business deal he’s working on is rough. He’s as busy as a one-legged soccer player.”

“Ummm,” was all Angel said.

Derry went to the door. “I’d better get back to the books. If you cut yourself, holler.”

“Don’t trip over Mrs. Carey’s stuff. I left it in the hall.”

“Hawk loaded the bags in his car. He thought they were for the trip.”

Angel watched Derry leave, but her mind was on Hawk. Even after ten days the man was as much of an enigma to her as he had been when they first met.

Most of the time Hawk was cool and abrasive, making her subtly uneasy with his intense, dark brown eyes, eyes that watched each movement she made, each breath. He would touch her casually, impersonally, as they moved about his powerboat or went sightseeing in his car. The touches were invariably gentle, a simple brush of fingertips over her wrist or palm or, once, her cheek.

At first Angel had been startled by Hawk’s touch. She had retreated, watching him narrowly. He had done nothing, neither pursued her nor sought to make the next touch more intimate.

In time, Angel had decided that Hawk’s touches were simply part of his complex nature, like his fierce eyes and unsmiling mouth. She no longer retreated when he touched her. She accepted him for what he was – if not a gentleman, at least a very controlled one.

In the hours they had spent together Hawk had never really crowded Angel, never said or done anything out of line. And he was easy to be with, despite his moments of startling intensity. Long silences didn’t require chatter to cover the untamed murmur of wind and sea.

Once, when they had been out on the water for several hours, relaxation had eased the harsh lines of Hawk’s face. Angel hadn’t been able to look away from him. She was fascinated by the change in him, as though peace had dissolved away his darker surface color, revealing the warmer color beneath.

Yet sometimes Angel felt pursued.

When she looked up and found Hawk watching her, her heart hesitated and then beat too quickly. He seemed to see right through her to the blood racing in her veins.

Once, when he had touched her cheek with his hard fingertips, she had thought he was going to say something. Surely he had seen the rapid beat of her pulse beneath her throat.

But he had said nothing, simply looked at her, and a feeling of longing had swept through her like sunlight through stained glass, transforming her. She found herself holding her breath, anticipating the next time his fingers would brush over her skin. Then she found herself watching him, wondering with strange urgency what it would take to make him smile.

For Hawk had never smiled in the time they were together. Not once.

Perhaps when he catches his first salmon, Angel thought. Perhaps then he will smile.

No one can resist the flashing beauty of the fish, the thrilling power vibrating up through the rod, the moment of capture when the net explodes with rippling silver energy.

The phone rang, startling Angel out of her thoughts.

It didn’t ring a second time. Hawk had picked it up before she could do more than look at the extension in her studio.

Angel glanced at the wall clock. Nine-thirty. A bit late for London. The call was probably from one of Hawk’s limited partners in the United States. Later in the day Hawk would usually talk to Tokyo, long calls that left him irritable, restless, liked a caged thing ready to lash out at whatever was within reach.

But not today. Today they were going fishing if Angel had to grab Hawk and drag him to the boat.

First, though, Angel had to take care of her own obligations. She glanced at the partially unloaded box.

The glass can wait. Mrs. Carey can’t.

Angel pulled off her gloves, grabbed her purse, and left the room at a half-run, eager to have everything done so that she could be out on the water. She stopped long enough to poke her head into Hawk’s suite of rooms.

As she had expected, Hawk was on the phone. His head was resting against the back of the leather chair, his long legs sprawled across the beautiful Chinese rug. Tension and fatigue were clear on his face. Eyes closed, he was listening without speaking.

Angel knocked lightly on the door frame. Hawk’s eyes opened. They were startlingly clear, as intense as focused sunlight.

“Go ahead and talk,” Hawk said to Angel, his voice rough. “His damned secretary lost the last offer. They’re looking for it right now.”

“Can I have your car keys for a minute?”

Hawk looked surprised, then reached into his slacks for his key ring. As he shifted, the slacks pulled tightly across his lower body, revealing every masculine line of him.

Angel closed her eyes, but it was too late. The image of Hawk was etched behind her eyelids as surely as if she had done the job herself with acid and flashed glass.

Keys jingled in front of Angel’s face.

“Thanks,” Angel said, her voice tight. “Your car is blocking mine. I’ll give you back the keys as soon as I move it.”

“Don’t bother. Just take my car.”

“What?” asked Angel, barely hearing his words.

Hawk had unbuttoned his shirt when he sat down for the round of morning calls. Tanned, powerful, with a wedge of curling midnight hair, the lines and textures of Hawk’s chest between the crisp white edges of his shirt appealed to both the woman and the artist in Angel. It was all she could do not to grab her sketch pad and go to work, capturing him.

Or to lean over and tangle her fingers in the rough silk of his hair, capturing him in a different way.

“Take my car,” said Hawk. “I won’t be needing it.”

His eyes roamed over Angel’s face, lingering on her moist, slightly parted lips. Anticipation flooded through his body in a wave of heat.

She was just within his reach.

With very little effort he could pull her between his legs, hold her against the growing ache of his arousal, the ache that came whenever he was with her for more than a moment.

Hell, Hawk admitted angrily to himself, I get hard just thinking about her soft mouth and haunted eyes, and what it will be like to hear and feel her passion.

When Hawk spoke again, his expression was impassive – and his voice a caress.

“Take it, Angel. It’s easy to handle.”

Then Hawk’s voice changed.

“No, Jennings,” he said into the phone, “I didn’t mean you.” Hawk’s mouth curled up at the left corner. “I wouldn’t give you a saucer of warm spit, and you know it.”

Angel heard the blast of laughter that came from the phone. She took the keys from Hawk and hurried out of the room, wondering if he had noticed her staring at him.

And if he had, what he thought about it.

Angel was drawn to Hawk as surely as waves were drawn to the shore. She wanted to be with him, to touch him, to talk with him, to enjoy his quick intelligence and even his abrasive wit.

Yet she didn’t know if he was attracted to her in the same way. There was no reason he should be. There was no lack of women for Hawk.

Women wanted him. It was that simple.

Every time Hawk walked down a street or into a restaurant, women looked, and then looked again, drawn by the maleness that radiated from him as inevitably as color radiated from stained glass.

Yet Hawk didn’t look back at the women who looked at him. Either he didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.

Angel slid behind the wheel of Hawk’s black BMW. A quick study of the dashboard told her everything she needed to know. She started the engine and drove confidently, enjoying the responsiveness of the car. As Hawk had said, it was easy to handle.