Hawk sensed that Angel was not nearly so aggressive as many of the women he had taken. With those women, 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.
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.
What Angel said about herself is true in the strict factual sense, Hawk admitted. She isn’t beautiful in a conventional way.
She is fascinating.
Like a kaleidoscope, changing with each breath, never the same, always subtly shifting, brilliant.
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 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.
Maybe it’s as close to a smile as he ever gets, she thought.
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.”
Angel didn’t notice Hawk’s quick look or the surprise that showed for an instant on his face. Her excitement and pleasure was as clear as the sunlight bouncing off the calm water. Whatever else might or might not be true about Angel, Hawk believed that she enjoyed fishing as few people enjoyed anything on earth.
And then he wondered if she brought the same passionate honesty to bed that she brought to fishing.
The rod jumped and quivered in Hawk’s hands.
“Keep the tip up!”
Angel leaned over the rail, straining for her first glimpse of Hawk’s fish.
“The fish just gained ten pounds,” Hawk said, startled.
The rod bent in a tight, inverted U, reinforcing the truth of his words.
“That’s a cod for you,” Angel said, laughing. “He caught a glimpse of the boat and spread his fins to make it harder for you to pull him up. Good-bye streamlining. It’s like hauling up a cement slab, isn’t it?”
Hawk grunted and kept reeling in until a long, surprisingly slender shape showed just beneath the surface. The lateral fins were widely flared.
Angel slid past Hawk to reach for the net that was in a rack beside the cockpit door. She leaned over the low railing, net in hand, and deftly scooped the sullen cod out of the sea.
“Hand me the cosh, would you?” she asked.
Hawk glanced just beyond Angel’s reaching fingertips to
what looked like a short ax handle. He pulled it out of its holder.
With a single, quick blow, Angel dispatched the fish. Her grimace told Hawk that this was one part of fishing that she didn’t particularly enjoy.
“You could just throw it in the box and let it die,” he pointed out.
“I can’t stand to hear fish flopping around,” she admitted.
“Soft-hearted, Angel?” Hawk asked, his voice sardonic.
“I’m no more cruel than circumstances require.”
She pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers out of her hip pocket, fastened the pliers onto the cod’s lower lip, and extracted the cod from the net.
“Teeth,” Angel said succinctly.
A glance showed Hawk that the cod’s jaws were lined with needlelike teeth. The fish was indeed a predator.
Angel opened the fish box, dropped the cod in, and closed the lid. She tested the sharpness of Hawk’s jig with a careful fingertip, nodded, and gestured for him to go back to fishing.
Silence returned, broken only by the soft nibbling of small waves along the boat’s length. Angel caught the next fish, two pounds of fiercely ugly red rock cod. When Hawk reached for the net, she shook her head.
“No,” Angel said, reeling in smoothly. “This one has spines that can rip apart a net. They’re poisonous, too. Not lethal. Just painful.”
She pulled the pliers out of her hip pocket again. Leaning low over the rail, rod held high in one hand and pliers in the other, she fastened onto the shank of the hook. She gave a quick shake, freeing the fish. It swam languidly back into the green darkness, more disgruntled than frightened.
“Not good to eat?” asked Hawk.
“They’re fine. That one was a bit small. It would fillet out into about two bites per side.”
“More trouble than it’s worth.”
“Unless you’re hungry, yes.”
As Hawk turned to resume fishing, the radio in the cockpit crackled to life.
“—calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Black Moon calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Over.”
Eagerly Angel spun toward the sound. She reached the cockpit in two steps, snatched the mike off its rack, punched in the button, and spoke quickly. Excitement vibrated in her voice.
A Woman Without Lies Page 7
