A Woman Without Lies

by Elizabeth Lowell

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.

  She wished that the car’s owner was half so easily managed. But he wasn’t.

  All Angel could be sure of was that Hawk had made no unmistakable overtures toward her as a woman. Until he did, she could only assume that he wasn’t interested.

  Despite her attraction to Hawk, she would not chase him. It not only wasn’t her style, but she had a deep feeling that he had been too often chased and never caught.

  Not really. Not for more than a night or two.

  That wasn’t enough. Whatever Angel’s feelings were toward the enigmatic Hawk, they were too complex to be satisfied in a few nights.

  10

  Angel parked in front of a small house that had been built forty years before. The other houses on the street were more recent, having been built after Mr. Carey died and his widow was forced to sell the small farm in order to pay death taxes.

  After Angel retrieved the two bags of groceries from the trunk, she walked carefully up the cracked sidewalk to the front porch. On either side of the walkway, once-elegant roses were going to seed.

  Next time I’m here, I’ll have to have a go at the roses with the pruning shears.

  Mail stuck out from the box by the doorbell. Angel pressed the button with her elbow, then braced a grocery bag against the brick house long enough to grab the mail in the box.

  “Mrs. Carey?” she called out. “It’s Angie.”

  “Coming,” said a faint voice from inside the house.

  Angel waited without impatience, balancing the bags of groceries and the mail in her arms.

  After a few minutes the door to the small house opened. A tiny, gray-haired woman smiled up at Angel and retreated a few steps to allow her to enter. The woman’s walker squeaked slightly on the flagstone entryway.

  “Come in, Angie. My, you’re looking lovely this morning. Such a pretty color you’re wearing.”

  “Thank you,” said Angel, smiling.

  The sea-green pullover sweater she wore matched her eyes exactly. The rest of her outfit was strictly functional—faded black jeans and sneakers, plus a rumpled black felt fishing hat that kept hair and sun out of her eyes. She’d forgotten to put on the hat, though. It hung rakishly out of her hip pocket.

  “You’re looking very nice too,” Angel said. “How’s it coming with the walker?”

  Mrs. Carey made a small face as she rested against the U-shaped steel support that had made walking possible since the cast had been removed from her hip. More like half of a cage than crutches, the walker offered a security that crutches did not.

  Even so, it was obvious that Mrs. Carey was less than pleased at having to use a walker.

  “Damned contraption hasn’t thrown me yet,” she said, both proud and defiant.

  Angel concealed her smile. Mrs. Carey was one of Angel’s favorite people. The old woman’s astringent, uncomplaining approach to hardship was refreshing.

  “You go on ahead,” continued Mrs. Carey. “I’ll catch up with you in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks. I’m running kind of late this morning.”

  Quickly Angel walked to the kitchen and began to put away the groceries she had bought for Mrs. Carey early that morning. She noticed the tea service set out with a tin of biscuits and knew that Mrs. Carey had hoped to spend some time with her over a cup of tea.

  Angel glanced at the kitchen clock, hesitated, and shrugged. A few minutes more or less wouldn’t matter. If she and Hawk left by ten-thirty, they would be anchored in Needle Bay well before dark.

  The rubber stoppers on Mrs. Carey’s walker squeaked on the linoleum floor as she walked slowly over to Angel.

  “I’ll put away the rest, dear,” said Mrs. Carey. “You’ve done more than enough.”

  Angel looked at what remained to be unloaded. She could do the work faster herself, but she knew how much being dependent on anyone for help bothered the proud Mrs. Carey. Swiftly Angel set on the counter a few items that she knew went into easily reached cupboards.

  “If you take care of these,” Angel said, gesturing to the pile of tins on the counter, “we’ll have it under control in no time at all.”

  Angel finished with the second sack just as Mrs. Carey placed the last tin of biscuits in the cupboard.

  “Teamwork,” murmured Angel, folding the empty sack triumphantly. “That’s all it takes.”

  “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Mrs. Carey asked hesitantly. “I don’t want to keep you if—”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Angel interrupted gently, smiling. “I was in such a rush this morning that I didn’t have tea.”

  Mrs. Carey walked slowly toward the breakfast table, shaking her head vigorously.

  “Nothing is more important than a cup of tea, young lady.”

  Discreetly Angel looked at the kitchen clock as she sat at the table. But her impatience faded while she sat and drank tea, listening to Mrs. Carey talk about children and grandchildren, the crabapples that were almost ready to be made into jelly, and the berries that would come in later in the summer.

  Gently Angel refused a second cup of tea. She stood and carried her dishes to the sink.

  “I’ll call you in a few days to see what you’re out of,” Angel said, rinsing and setting aside her cup.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t eat much.”

  “If you need anything before I get back, call Mrs. Schmidt.” Angel bent over and hugged Mrs. Carey gently. “See you in a week.”

  “I don’t want to bother you—” began Mrs. Carey.

  “No bother,” Angel said honestly. “I have to shop for myself and Derry anyway.”

  “I feel like a clumsy idiot.”

  Angel smiled.

  “Just unlucky,” Angel said, bending and giving Mrs. Carey another light hug. “You’ll be back to shopping for yourself in a few weeks.”

  “Blasted cat.”

  The cat in question chose that moment to meow at the back door. Mrs. Carey went slowly to let in the old tom, muttering every step of the way about the stupidity of the cat that had tripped her and caused her to break her hip.

  Struggling not to smile, Angel watched. She knew that so far as Mrs. Carey was concerned, the sun rose and set on that scruffy cat.

  Angel gave another glance at the kitchen clock, then let herself out the front door.

  She made a concerted dash through the grocery store to get everything that she had missed that morning in her headlong rush to get back in time for the arrival of the glass. The unexpected delivery had disrupted her carefully planned morning.

  It was more than worth it, though. The glass was exquisite. Already designs were forming in Angel’s head, mountains and the sea and a man’s hidden smile.

  From the store it was just a short drive to the Ramsey house. Angel hurried anyway, eager to get out on the water. Although she and Hawk had taken out his big powerboat several times before, this would be their first real fishing expedition. Up until today their trips had been more sightseeing excursions than anything else.

  Today, however, Angel was finally going to get to show Hawk what it was really like to go in quest of the si
lver salmon. Privately, she was sure that Hawk would succumb to the lure of the beautiful, powerful fish.

  And, perhaps, to her.

  Angel grabbed three bags of groceries from the trunk and rushed up the front walk. Juggling bags, leaning against the door, she groped for the front door handle.

  The door opened suddenly, throwing Angel off balance. She grabbed at the bags desperately. Before she lost either the groceries or her balance, strong hands clamped around her arms, holding her upright until she was steady again.

  Angel knew it was Hawk who held her even before she looked up. If the strength of his fingers hadn’t told her, his clean, male scent would have.

  Does he taste half as wonderful as he smells?

  The intensity of Angel’s curiosity disturbed her. Since Grant’s death, she hadn’t wanted to touch or be touched by men. Not like this, a sweeping hunger and a breathless heat.

  Hawk had slid by Angel’s fears and defenses as easily as sunlight sliding through glass.

  Yet Hawk didn’t seem to know it, or care.

  “I—thanks,” Angel said, her voice strained, her thoughts chaotic.

  “You wouldn’t be any good to me in a cast,” Hawk said, releasing her.

  Though Hawk’s words were indifferent, almost curt, his fingers slid all the way down to Angel’s buffed nails before he let her go.

  Angel’s breath caught again, caught between Hawk’s impassive exterior and the hunger she sensed beneath, a hunger like hers, a yearning toward the warmth and beauty that a man and a woman could give to each other. She had caught tantalizing glimpses of that feeling with Grant, sweet moments of passion before he pulled back and sat without touching her because he wanted to wait until they were married.

  But Grant had died before they were married.

  Angel wrenched her thoughts into the present as Hawk took the grocery bags from her arms. She followed him into the kitchen, admiring the silence and power of his movements.

  “Where’s Derry?” she asked as Hawk set the sacks on the counter and began unloading items.

  “Studying.”

  “Organic chemistry?”

  Hawk shrugged. “All I saw was a formula as long as my leg.”

  “Organic chemistry,” confirmed Angel.

  She began putting away food as fast as Hawk unloaded the bags.

  “That’s the course that separates the ones who will be from those who might have been,” Angel said.

  “Derry’s intelligent and disciplined. If he wants to be a doctor badly enough, he’ll be one.”

  Only if you buy Eagle Head.

  But the words went no further than Angel’s mind.

  She looked toward the kitchen clock, wondering if they were going to miss the evening tide at Indian Head, which was just below Needle Bay. Even when she stood on her tiptoes, Hawk’s shoulders blocked her view of the clock.

  Without thinking, Angel grabbed Hawk’s wrist and looked at his watch. She leaned around his arm to see the face of his watch.

  “We’re going to miss the tide unless we run,” Angel said.

  Hawk said nothing.

  When Angel glanced up to see if Hawk understood, his clear, dark eyes were watching her with unusual intensity.

  Suddenly she felt the heat of him reaching through his clothing, through her clothing, spreading through her in waves that made her dizzy. Her heart beat raggedly. Her breath caught in the back of her throat and stayed there.

  She was incredibly aware of her breast brushing against Hawk’s arm, her nipple tightening until it ached. Her eyes darkened as her pupils expanded, all but eclipsing the blue-green iris.

  Angel was too inexperienced to recognize the symptoms of sudden, passionate arousal. Hawk wasn’t. Every one of his senses was fully alert, quivering with the signals that radiated from Angel.

  He wanted to put his hands on her, all of her, and then take her completely, finishing what her touch on his wrist had started. But Derry could come into the kitchen at any moment. Or in the next breath Angel could remember where she was, and draw back.

  Hawk had waited this long for the right moment, for the last sudden turn, the cry, the capture. He could wait longer. He could wait until Angel walked into the open, all pretense of innocence and retreat gone.

  Slowly Hawk turned back to the counter. As he moved, his arm brushed slowly over Angel’s breast.

  Her breath came in swiftly, brokenly. She stared at Hawk for an instant, wondering if he felt even a small part of what she was feeling.

  No expression showed beneath his dark features. For all that Angel could see, Hawk hadn’t noticed her reaction to his closeness. Nor had he reacted to being close to her.

  The realization should have comforted Angel, but it didn’t. It made her feel lost, lonely, almost afraid. Sadness and passion ached in her.

  Is Hawk so used to being alone that he can’t respond to me?

  Or is it simply that I survived Grant’s death only to find myself wanting a man who neither needs nor wants me?

  Angel stood motionless in the kitchen, seeing nothing, not even Hawk. The thoughts turning in her mind consumed her.

  She realized that it was not merely eagerness to go fishing that had made her blood race when she had awakened today. It was the knowledge that she was going to have Hawk to herself.

  No Derry. No phone calls from New York and Texas and Tokyo to delay sightseeing trips and picnics. Nothing but Hawk and Angel and the restless, island-studded sea. Five days alone. Perhaps more.

  Anything could happen in that time.

  Even love.

  The thought shocked Angel for an instant. Then she accepted it the same way she had finally accepted the automobile accident that had so brutally changed her life.

  Running from the truth doesn’t change anything, certainly not reality, Angel reminded herself. Running just weakens you.

  And I will have to be very strong with Hawk.

  Quietly, standing in the kitchen not an arm’s length from Hawk, Angel admitted to herself that if she spent much more time with him, she ran the risk of caring for him too much. She was powerfully drawn to the lonely reaches of his mind, the intelligence and power of him, the rare gentleness that spoke so movingly of the emotions hidden beneath his harshness.

  Hawk was like a stained glass window in a black night, mystery and brooding hints of color. So much darkness, so little life. Yet when bathed in sunlight, the beauty inherent in the glass would leap into silent, overwhelming life, all the colors of love pouring forth where only darkness had been before.

  Angel didn’t know if she was strong enough to be the sunlight to Hawk’s stained glass.

  She only knew she had to try.

  11

  Angel looked at the clock on the boat’s control panel and swore silently. Everything seemed to conspire against getting Hawk out on the water at the best time for some decent fishing.

  It was five o’clock, and they had barely cleared Campbell River.

  For a moment Angel considered slowing and trolling along the floating rafts of logs waiting to be picked up by a towboat and hauled to Vancouver Bay. Some good-sized salmon had been known to school up under the rafts.

  “Something wrong?” asked Hawk, his voice pitched above the sound of the engines.

  His eyes raked quickly over the gauges. He saw nothing to account for Angel’s sudden frown.

  “I’m tempted to fish here,” Angel said, disgusted.

  “Fine with me.”

  “Damn it, I was looking forward to drift fishing off Indian Head.”

  A corner of Hawk’s mouth turned up slightly.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know the Honorable Mr. Yokagamo would have insomnia and decide to call me. I got rid of him as soon as I could without insulting him.”

  “And then London called.”

  “Paris, actually. London was the next call.”

  “Then Tokyo again.”

  Angel shook her head. Having to look at a globe and hav
e a clock that kept time in every world zone before you even answered the phone struck her as an unnerving way to do business.

  It seemed to come easily to Hawk, though. She could see his quick intelligence assessing every possibility and lining up arguments even as he reached for the phone. His concentration, memory, and patience were phenomenal.

  He would make an excellent fisherman if she ever got him out on the water long enough to teach him anything. As it was, they were only going to get a short distance up the coast before dark.

  “Well, as long as we’re late anyway, we might as well stop in at Brown’s Bay,” Angel said. “We’ll top off the tanks, catch up on the fishing gossip, and then head over to Deepwater Bay for the night. If we’re in luck, we might even get in some salmon fishing.”

  “You don’t sound hopeful.”

  “It’s early for salmon to be there, but,” Angel shrugged eloquently, “we have to get our lines wet somewhere.”

  “Or you’ll go crazy.”

  “That is a distinct possibility.” She gave Hawk a sideways look out of green eyes. “Have you ever considered taking a vow of silence for a few days?”

  The left corner of Hawk’s mouth curled slightly.

  “Tired of my phone calls?” he asked.

  “You could say that. And then you could say it again.”

  “I’ve been meaning to break this to you gently.”

  “What?”

  “I have to check in with Tokyo tomorrow evening.”

  Hawk saw the combination of disappointment and irritation that crossed Angel’s features.

  “We don’t have to go back to Campbell River,” Hawk added. “I can patch through on the radio.”

  “Do you mind if I fish while you talk?” Angel asked crisply, exasperated by the unending demands of Hawk’s business.

  “It’s not always this bad.” The corner of Hawk’s mouth lifted again. “Sometimes it’s worse.”

  Angel shook her head in despair.

  “Most of the time it’s better,” added Hawk.

  He measured Angel’s disappointment and wished he could be sure that it was his company rather than the chance to fish that she was missing.

  “The deal I’m working on is rather complex,” Hawk said. “Tomorrow’s call should be that last major hump for a few weeks.”