by Kay Hooper
“What does it feel like, Kendall?” he asked.
“What does what feel like?”
“Living inside that body, behind that face. Knowing that the world stops when you walk by.” The deep, gritty voice had taken on some quality Kendall couldn’t put a name to.
She felt, strangely, that this moment was somehow important, but she didn’t know why. And she didn’t know how to respond to his words. “Don’t—be ridiculous.”
“How does it feel?” he insisted softly, stepping closer.
Yet again, something in his gray eyes seemed to draw a response from deep inside her. “It feels like a curse,” she whispered, hearing an unfamiliar pain in her voice. “And a cage…”
He reached out suddenly, enfolding her in his arms.
“What are you doing to me?” she pleaded softly.
“Introducing you to the real Kendall,” he responded almost gently, his lips moving in a feathery caress against her ear. “I think you lost her somewhere along the way.”
BANTAM-BOOKS BY KAY HOOPER
The Bishop Trilogies
Stealing Shadows
Hiding in the Shadows
Out of the Shadows
Touching Evil
Whisper of Evil
Sense of Evil
Hunting Fear
Chill of Fear
Sleeping with Fear
Blood Dreams
Blood Sins
The Quinn Novels
Once a Thief
Always a Thief
Romantic Suspense
Amanda
After Caroline
Finding Laura
Haunting Rachel
Classic Fantasy and Romance
On Wings of Magic
The Wizard of Seattle
My Guardian Angel (anthology)
Yours to Keep (anthology)
Golden Threads
Something Different/Pepper’s Way
C.J.’s Fate
The Haunting of Josie
Illegal Possession
If There Be Dragons
Chapter 1
Hawke Madison listened absently to his manager enthusiastically reading the names of important guests for the summer, his mind only half on the conversation. His hooded gaze was wandering around the sumptuously appointed lobby, flickering with satisfaction at the restful yet luxurious atmosphere which he had painstakingly created.
Skimming over the marble floor, dotted here and there with lush greenery and comfortable chairs and divans, his gray eyes fell at last on the wide glass doors and the doorman who was standing stiffly outside them. He watched Max step forward to greet someone—apparently another guest—and smiled inwardly as he mentally went through the routine greeting. Max would be coolly polite, stiffly British, easily upholding the high-class air of the establishment.
Max was a good doorman, Hawke thought to himself. And a first-rate bouncer, although his haughty, intimidating manner rarely made physical force necessary. Yes, Max was a good employee. Max was … smiling. Smiling? Max?
Curiously, Hawke waited to see who would come through the doors. Max, Hawke was sure, wouldn’t smile at the queen of England. But he was smiling now. And it was a peculiar smile at that. Shy, bemused, like a ray of sunshine emerging. Impatiently waving his manager to silence, he stared at the door.
First through the door was a cabdriver, huffing under the weight of a ton of luggage that bore labels from every country in the world Hawke had heard of, and a few he hadn’t. The cabdriver’s face was wearing the same bemused smile as Max’s. Hawke had never, in his five years as the owner of this hotel, seen a cabdriver even offer to carry luggage.
Next through the door was Max, leaving his post and apparently not even aware of it. His graying head was bent attentively to catch the bubbling conversation of the vision who had one small, delicate hand resting confidingly on his arm.
Everything about her was an odd combination of sweet helplessness and exotic mystery. Her silver-blond hair was styled in a smooth pageboy, framing a heart-shaped face as delicate and lovely as that of a porcelain doll. Huge, innocent blue-green eyes dominated the face, and gave her the unguarded look of a newborn kitten. A lime-green silk dress hugged a figure that had heads turning all across the large lobby; it was slit on one side almost to her hip, exposing a seductive length of golden thigh with every step.
And there was a stole draped around her neck—a live stole. Hawke’s first thought was that the yellow-and-black-spotted creature was a baby leopard, but then the word ocelot popped into his mind. It was about the size of a very large housecat, with yellow eyes blinking detached interest at the commotion all around it.
Feeling anything but detached, Hawke watched bemusedly as his new guest walked gracefully across the lobby on the arm of an obviously ensnared Max, and just barely caught a fragment of her soft conversation.
“…and it was such a crush at the airport! Is it always like that, Max?” she bubbled sweetly, her voice filled with music. “I’ve never been to the Bahamas before…,”
Chaos reigned all around her. Two bellboys were arguing fiercely with the cabdriver, who was loath to give up the luggage. One guest walked into a potted palm in an effort to get a better view of the enchantress, while another ran smack into the argument going on over the luggage … and promptly became the target of blue-tinted invective from the cabdriver. Both the desk clerk and Hawke’s manager stood openmouthed with astonishment. Or awe.
And through it all walked the new guest, with an indifference that was apparently the product of innocence rather than arrogance.
She paused to speak sweetly to the cabdriver and, though Hawke didn’t hear what she said, it was apparent that the big, beefy man would willingly have killed for her. He abandoned the luggage finally, backing out the door with his hat literally in his hand.
Reaching the desk at last, she went through the formality of registering, still talking a mile a minute to both the desk clerk and Max—both of whom were patently captivated. A little boy came barreling around from in back of the desk just then, running into the new guest with a force that staggered her. Instead of being annoyed, she knelt down to be on eye level with the boy, speaking to him and smiling gently.
A beautiful, ultrafeminine woman, Hawke was thinking delightedly, who obviously loved kids. God—he had believed that type of woman to be an extinct species! Heaven knew it was a change from the coolly sophisticated, ambitious women he was accustomed to, and a far cry from those who were so wrapped up in the women’s lib movement that they fairly bit a man’s head off for opening a door for them!
He watched as she patted the boy’s cheek and rose, seeing the adoring look on the child’s face and not surprised by it. He was still watching moments later as she was escorted to the elevator. Then, leaving his silent manager without a word, he walked over to the desk and checked the register. Kendall James. Miss Kendall James. He glanced thoughtfully toward the elevator, a definite gleam in his gray eyes.
Kendall closed the door at last as the bellboy left and leaned against it with a weary sigh. God, but she was tired! The flight from Paris hadn’t been too bad, but the week before had been hectic. She’d kept herself too busy to do more than tumble into bed at night and sleep dreamlessly—exactly as she’d wanted to do. It was a sort of therapy for her.
Like the performance downstairs. After twenty-five years, she had the routine down pat. It was a rare talent, her father had once humorously remarked, a peculiar ability to be exactly what people—particularly men—expected her to be. So … if an uncertain smile or a helpless look got her the best tables in restaurants or a seat on a supposedly booked-solid flight to wherever … terrific.
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Kendall was a realist. She looked like the proverbial dumb blonde and she knew it. She didn’t resent that fact, nor did she go through life aggressively demanding that people realize she was no such thing. She used it. Men bent over backward to do things for her: They certainly enjoyed it, and she didn’t have to carry her own luggage. A fine arrangement all around.
Absently setting her ocelot on the plushly carpeted floor, she watched the cat begin to explore, her mind still on her masquerade downstairs. Not that it was really a masquerade. It was more a part of herself that she allowed to take control for a time. She was a very feminine woman. Men instinctively wanted to watch over her, to protect her, thinking her touchingly innocent. That was fine with Kendall. She had nothing to prove to anyone; she felt neither inferior nor superior to any man—or to anyone, for that matter.
Besides … there was a certain devilish enjoyment in watching men fall over potted palms.
Kendall smiled as she remembered the poor man who had caused that hilarious display in the lobby, then wondered vaguely about the dark-looking man. He’d watched her, she remembered, the entire time she’d been in the lobby. There had been several men around, but he stood out in her mind for several reasons. First because of his clothing. He’d been wearing a black suit—the color unusual for the tropics, and the formality unusual for afternoon attire even in this classy hotel.
He was a hard-looking man, she’d noted, a man who looked as though he’d seen a few of life’s more than usually unpleasant truths. The strength beneath his well-cut clothing had been apparent, and the harshly drawn features attractive in an oddly primitive, compelling way. It would not be possible, she thought, to ignore such a man. He would be either loved or hated—and possibly both at the same time.
Frowning, Kendall pushed the absurd thoughts away. She was here to rest, to allow her nerves to unwind after those harrowing months in South America. Her father would join her in a few weeks, and they’d be off again. Probably to the Middle East, although her father hadn’t been sure about that. In any case, she had a few weeks to laze around in paradise.
So. She’d work on her tan, write letters to friends, and act like a scatterbrained tourist. Heaven knew, she didn’t need another emotional upheaval in her life. When one had a great deal in common with a rolling stone, it hurt too much to form attachments. And Kendall hated saying good-bye.
The sound of the bathroom faucets being turned on full force distracted her suddenly, and Kendall flung her purse on the huge bed and headed hastily for the bathroom. “Gypsy! Drat you, cat—turn that water off! I’ve told you before…”
Two hours later Kendall had completed her unpacking and cleaned up the mess her pet had made in the beautiful green-tiled bathroom. Leaving her cat to sun herself while leashed on the balcony—where, Kendall hoped, she wouldn’t decide to test her flying ability—Kendall changed into one of her more modest bathing suits and an ankle-length terry cover-up, grabbed her beachbag, and headed for the inviting pool behind the hotel.
Emerging from the elevator in the lobby and pausing to get her bearings, she overheard a snatch of conversation between the desk clerk and one of the bellboys, and felt her interest pique.
“Did you see the gleam in his eye?” the young woman was laughingly asking. “Mark my words— the hawk’s going hunting!”
The blond bellboy responded mournfully. “Yeah—but this time he’s going after a hummingbird! The poor little thing won’t stand a chance. Think we should warn her?”
“And miss what’ll probably be the best entertainment of the summer? No way!”
The elevator doors opened behind her, and Kendall hastily slung the beachbag over her shoulder and crossed the lobby. She smiled sunnily at the pair by the desk, waved, and immediately noted their twin expressions of consternation. Oh, no! she thought with rueful amusement. That means I’m the intended prey! A hummingbird, huh? Well, she’d probably been called worse. Translated: a pretty, helpless, fluttery creature.
And, quite suddenly, her father’s parting words to her made far more sense than they had at the time. “Beware of the hawk!” he’d told her with a laugh as she’d boarded the plane in South America. But who was the hawk? And how did her father know him—or know of him?
Kendall had a sudden uneasy feeling that her father had been in one of his infrequent alarmingly scheming moods when he’d chosen this resort for her. And the last time that had happened, she’d found herself very nearly engaged. It had taken some fancy footwork to get herself out of the mess, and she’d retaliated by doing some unsubtle matchmaking of her own. Alarmed, the elder James had stopped pushing.
It wasn’t that he wanted to get rid of her and figured that a husband was the best way, Kendall mused wryly as she stepped out into the bright sunlight and headed for an unoccupied lounge by the pool. It was simply her father’s belief—unequivocally stated more than once—that following him, a mining engineer, into some of the more godforsaken areas of the world was not the life he wanted for his daughter. She didn’t really blame him for that; she understood completely. But she enjoyed travel and was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—even her father admitted that.
The past fifteen years had complicated her love life, though. And not just because she was rarely in one place long enough to form more than a surface relationship. Through wry experience, Kendall knew that her ability to take care of herself had jarred more than one male ego. It probably had a great deal to do with the fact that she looked so feminine and so ridiculously helpless, she thought. And her near-constant charade hadn’t helped.
Pushing the thoughts away, Kendall dropped her bag on the lounge she had selected, untied her cover-up, and allowed it to drop to the multicolored tiles surrounding the tremendous pool. She stepped out of her thongs and strolled to the edge of the pool, never noticing that one rather paunchy guest choked on his drink and another grossly offended his female companion by staring at Kendall for a full minute.
The black bikini was the most modest one in Kendall’s wardrobe, but only the liberal-minded would have believed that. The best thing that could have been said for it was that it probably wouldn’t get her arrested. It was a string bikini, with tiny black triangles covering what absolutely had to be covered and not a fraction of an inch more. And since her petite figure was surprisingly voluptuous, the effect was distinctly eye-catching.
Unconcerned with the attention she had attracted, Kendall cautiously stuck one toe in the water, then took a deep breath and dived cleanly off the side. Without pausing, she swam the length of the pool twice, displaying the smooth coordination of a skilled swimmer. Her earlier weariness dissipated by the brisk exercise, she headed for the shallow end of the pool feeling refreshed and alert.
A male hand was extended to help her up the steps, and Kendall took it automatically, her widening eyes fixed in utter fascination on the colorful bird drawn with a skillful hand on the tanned forearm. No doubt about it—it was a hawk.
“Oh,” she murmured, still staring at the tattoo. “Then that’s the hawk!”
“No—I am,” returned the amused and startlingly deep masculine voice that obviously owned the tattoo.
“Hawk like the bird?” she inquired innocently, raising her gaze to meet a pair of striking light-gray eyes, and thinking insanely, Oh, no! Anybody but him!
The dark man from the lobby laughed and assisted her up the steps. “Hawk with an e. I’m Hawke Madison, Miss James. I own the hotel.”
“Kendall—please,” she murmured, holding on to her charade with an effort and wondering ruefully if the next few weeks were going to be as restful as she had supposed. Without bothering to dry off, she moved her beachbag and sank down on the lounge, feeling more than a little unnerved and wondering why.
“Only if you’ll call me Hawke.” He sank down on the lounge beside her own, smiling with devastating effect.
Kendall’s veiled gaze swept his muscular length, noting that he had changed out of the suit and into a pa
ir of casual slacks and a knit sport shirt. Trying to ignore the rapid-fire pace of her heart, she said sweetly, “That shouldn’t be hard to remember,” and nodded at the small but colorful tattoo.
One large hand brushed over the hawk as he laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t be held responsible for this, Kendall. A couple of army buddies decided years ago that I should wear my name on my arm, so to speak, and they took care of it.”
“Didn’t it hurt?” she asked curiously.
“To be perfectly truthful, I can’t remember,” he confessed with an absurdly shamefaced expression.
She considered his answer for a moment and bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. “You were drunk?”
“They never would have gotten me into the tattoo parlor otherwise,” he explained gravely.
As Hawke talked more about his past, Kendall’s first instinct was to abandon her charade and get to know this fascinating man, but she swiftly discarded the notion. She did not want a summer fling, and after overhearing the desk clerk and bellboy in the lobby, she was fairly certain that was all Hawke Madison had in mind. And if she were, by chance, wrong about what he wanted from her, the situation could become dangerous for her peace of mind.
Smiling at him sunnily, she began to chatter, knowing from experience that few things put a man off quicker than an extremely talkative woman. She talked a great deal without saying a thing, sprinkling the one-sided conversation with questions she barely gave Hawke time to answer and jumping from topic to topic bewilderingly.
Half an hour later Hawke was called from the poolside to answer a phone call. Rummaging in her bag for her sunglasses, Kendall shoved them onto her nose and decided a bit grimly that she was definitely in trouble. Hawke Madison had the patience of Job. He’d answered each breathless question with amused indulgence, and seemed fascinated by her empty chatter. Now what?
Kendall wasn’t vain by any means. She knew that men found her to be attractive and she knew that her figure was good. But she’d always admired darkly exotic beauty, and her own reflection in a mirror always reminded her of a startled kitten. Startled kittens were cute, but they weren’t beautiful.
