A Woman Without Lies

He let out a long breath. “Good. I’ll be back in a minute.”

When Hawk returned, he was wearing jeans over his swim trunks. He rinsed out the wash-cloth, renewing its heat. With the gentleness that was becoming second nature when he touched Angel, Hawk placed the pad over the wound.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

Angel nodded, sending ripples of light through her hair.

Sitting down again, Hawk looked at Angel with dark brooding eyes. Every time he rinsed out the washcloth, the twin wounds mocked him.

No one had ever gone out of the way to save Hawk from hurt before. Angel’s unselfishness was as shattering to him as her innocence.

And now he wanted her as he had never wanted a woman in his life. Yet even greater than his desire was his determination not to hurt her again. She had been hurt too much already, lost too much.

There were too many ghosts in her beautiful eyes.

“You should have let the hook go into me.”

Hawk didn’t realize that he had spoken his thought aloud until Angel’s eyes opened, blue-green, as deep as the sea.

“I couldn’t,” she said simply.

“Why not? Other people would have.”

Angel tried to answer, but in the end could only shrug.

“I just couldn’t. I knew what was happening. You didn’t. You had no way to protect yourself from something you couldn’t foresee.”

“That’s the nature of life,” Hawk said sardonically. Then, much more softly, “I wish I had known you a long time ago. Before – ”

Abruptly his words stopped. He rinsed out the cloth again, replaced it very gently on her skin.

“Before what?” Angel asked.

She watched Hawk from beneath her long eyelashes, wondering what memories had drawn his face into cold predatory lines.

“Who was she, Hawk?”

“There was more than one.”

The sardonic voice and cold line of Hawk’s mouth were back, yet his hands were still gentle. Then his face changed, hardening into contempt.

“That’s not quite true,” he said clearly. “There was only one woman, really. The first one. She taught me everything a woman can teach a man.”

“Except love.”

“She didn’t have that in her.”

Angel closed her eyes against sudden tears. She could no longer bear to see his eyes narrowed against memories that brought only pain. The hunger and the yearning buried deep within him reached out to Angel with unnerving force.

Who was she?

What did she do that taught Hawk hatred rather than love?

When Angel opened her eyes, Hawk was gone.

Before she could call out, he emerged from the cabin with a basin of steaming water in his hands. He sat down again, then bent over Angel and touched the skin around her wounds with exquisite care.

She drew in a swift breath.

“Hurt?” Hawk asked, lifting his fingers.

Angel shook her head. She could think of no way to tell Hawk that it was pleasure rather than pain that had made her gasp.

The gentleness of his touch radiated through her, taking away pain as surely as hot water took the inflammation from her back. The washcloth touched her again, bringing a soothing, healing heat to her flesh. With a shivering breath, Angel relaxed and gave herself to the sensation of his unexpected tenderness.

Hawk saw as well as felt Angel give herself to his touch. The knowledge that he had brought her something besides pain eased the talons of need and regret digging into him.

Then the easing of his own tension taught him that there was more to his desire for Angel than simple sexual hunger.

He needed to know that he was capable of more than destruction and hurt. He needed to believe that being with Angel wouldn’t be another kind of wounding for her, a deeper, more destructive wounding that would ultimately poison her as he had been poisoned long ago.

Hawk couldn’t take back the past, wiping out his bitterness and all its consequences. He could try to explain what had happened, though, and then perhaps Angel would realize that he hadn’t meant to hurt her, not really.

Not the person who was Angel Lange.

Hawk had simply been doing what he had always done since he was eighteen, using women as casually and cruelly as he himself had been used.

But how can I explain that?

When Hawk finally spoke, his voice was as calm as the soft sounds of the water as he rinsed the washcloth.

“I was twelve when my father died,” Hawk said. “The tractor rolled on him, crushing him. I tried… but there was nothing I could do to help him.”

Angel’s hands curled slightly, fingernails digging into the quilt. Hawk spoke of death so calmly, a fact like sunset, just one fact among the many facts of life.

“Grandma and I couldn’t handle the farm alone, but we couldn’t afford to hire a man,” Hawk said. “She had another grandchild. A true grandchild, as she always pointed out to me. Her daughter’s daughter.”

Silence. Then, “Jenna was eighteen when she came to live with us. She was strong, wild, and cold as a winter wind.”

Instinctively Angel knew that Jenna was the woman who had taught Hawk how to hate. It was there in his voice, ice and contempt.

“The three of us kept that farm alive,” Hawk said. “It was brutal work. Grandma died when I was fourteen. Jenna became my guardian.”

Hawk hesitated, comparing what he was about to tell Angel with her own teenage years, picnics on the beach and laughter. Innocence.

“Jenna seduced me the night of Grandma’s funeral.”

Angel couldn’t conceal the shock that went through her.

“You were only fourteen!” she said.

“I was man-sized and I’d been woman hungry for two years without knowing it. Jenna knew, though. She knew everything about men. She was a born whore. Cold-hearted screwing was her specialty.”

Angel made a small sound.

“I didn’t know what Jenna was then,” Hawk said, his voice rich with self-contempt. “My body was a man’s, but my judgment and emotions were those of a boy. I thought Jenna was the most perfect woman God ever made.”

Hawk’s near-silent, bitter laughter raked over Angel’s nerves. She bit back a protest at the pain he had endured.

The pain was still caught within.

“The truth was a bit different,” Hawk said. “The truth was that I was the biggest fool God ever made.”

Angel rose up on her elbows, twisting in order to see Hawk’s face.

“You were just a boy,” she said. “How could you expect yourself to know about a – a – ”

“Bitch?” Hawk suggested sardonically. “Whore? Slut? I’ve called Jenna those names and worse. All of them were true, especially the worst ones.”

His eyes narrowed to glittering brown lines, but his voice was neutral when he spoke again.

“Jenna told me we needed money, so I took to racing boats, cars, whatever I could get my hands on. I had