by Kay Hooper
Muttering to herself, she reached out a hand to touch the plant, then drew back abruptly as she recognized the plant. “You’re a Venus’s-flytrap,” she told the plant in a bemused voice. “Why would he give me a Venus’s-flytrap?”
It was at that point that she realized the night before deserved some serious thought. She went over to sit on the sofa beside Gypsy, absently scratching the cat beneath her chin.
She remembered the drink. And the dancing. And she remembered laughing quite a lot. Too much, in fact. The longer she sat and thought, the more she remembered.
A merciful God would have left the evening a total blank.
Kendall was glad there was no one present as she slowly relived the night before. She had asked him—no, dammit, begged him—to stay with her, she remembered. And he had. She could remember everything else. What she had done, what she had said…
Surprised, she realized that she could think of Rosita now without that dreadful pain. Hawke had been right—sharing the pain had eased it. She would always be grateful to him for that.
But the rest …
She decided to be angry about the rest. It would be safer that way. If nothing else, the anger would sharpen her survival instincts. She needed that small edge. Never mind everything they had in common. Never mind the fact that he had seen a side of her she’d never shown anyone else. Never mind.
She wouldn’t let herself love him.
Love was dangerous. It was reckless, foolish, and potentially painful. No matter what tricks Hawke pulled out of his hat, she wouldn’t give in to him. She wouldn’t let him go to her head, or her heart; she wouldn’t become his summer fling.
And she damn sure wouldn’t drink another Purple Passion.
Having made those firm decisions, Kendall gathered up her beachbag, dropped her room keys inside, and headed out. She didn’t warn Gypsy to stay in the room. Let her sharpen her claws on Hawke’s sofa. It would teach him not to send Venus’s-flytraps to puzzled women.
She found Rick in the lobby by the desk, and something he’d said to her earlier tugged at Kendall’s mind.
“You’re looking better,” he greeted her cheerfully.
“Beast. Never tell a woman she’s looking better; it makes you sound very ungentlemanly.” Taking pity on his bemusement, she waved away the comment and asked curiously, “Did you say Hawke was at the other hotel?”
He nodded. “That’s right. A problem with the staff that he had to deal with.”
“He owns the other hotel on the island?”
“Sure.”
Kendall propped an elbow on the desk and stared at him. She should have known. She really should have. “Tell me,” she said carefully, “does this island have a name?”
“Of course.” Rick sounded surprised that she didn’t know. “It’s called Isle of the Hawk.”
She leaned her forehead on a raised hand and sighed softly. “Don’t tell me. He owns the whole damn island?”
Rick’s smile held a trace of sympathetic amusement. “’Fraid so. It’s been in the family for generations. A buccaneering ancestor—Hawke’s namesake—used this island as a base of operations way back when pirates roamed the seas. The island got its name from him.”
Kendall frowned slightly. “Hawke told me that he bought the hotel.”
“He did. After ’Nam, he traveled for a while. Kept coming back to this place. When his father died, he traded Some of his family stock for the island—and the hotels. He has two younger brothers who manage the family holdings in the States.” Rick shrugged. “Then he called me in to manage for him.”
Several things fell into place in Kendall’s mind. “You were with him in Vietnam. You’re the ‘mutual friend’ Father Thomas was talking about.”
Rick looked blank for a moment, then nodded with a faint smile. “I’m the one who talked to Father Thomas about Hawke, if that’s what you mean. And we were in ’Nam together—in the same squad.”
“And the tattoo?” she asked wryly.
“Tattoo?” He seemed startled, but then comprehension came and he grinned. “Oh—the hawk. Yes, I’m one of the guys responsible for that. We had fun that night,” he added reminiscently.
“I’m sure.” Kendall started to say more, but her attention was caught by an older woman who was passing the desk and smiling at her. The woman from the elevator last night? Amanda?
“Feeling better?” the woman asked Kendall cheerfully.
“Oh … fine, thank you,” Kendall managed to answer weakly. She watched until the woman had left the lobby, then looked at Rick. Obviously, he was trying to stifle laughter. “I suppose you think something’s funny?” she muttered irritably.
“Funnier than you know.” Rick made an effort to straighten his face. “That lady was Mrs. Foster. This morning she extended her reservation another week. She told me that she just had to see how the romance turned out.”
Kendall didn’t believe him. It was absurd, of course. She glared at him. “You just wait!” Her voice was threatening. “One of these days, you’ll get yours—and I hope I’m around to see it. I’ll laugh myself silly!”
“You’ll be around,” he said with a peculiar smile. “If it ever happens.”
“It will.” She ignored the first part of his statement, turning on her heel and stalking toward the doors leading out to the pool. She could hear him laughing behind her, and the sound set the seal on her temper.
She passed the pool without a glance, intent on finding one of the shaded lounges she’d seen on the beach. The path was deserted, the beach nearly so. Most of the hotel guests, she decided, were having lunch. Kendall wasn’t hungry.
She shed her shorts and T-shirt, fished in her beachbag for her sunglasses and a paperback novel, then settled down on the shaded lounge she had chosen.
A few minutes later a young waiter came out and placed a small table by the lounge. On the table he set a frosty glass. Kendall stared at it. “What’s this?”
“Mr. Evans sent it out, Miss James.”
She took a sip of the fruity drink, then looked suspiciously at the young man. “What’s in it?”
He looked bewildered. “Fruit juice, Miss James.”
Kendall didn’t like the looks of the tiny umbrella jutting out of the glass. “That had better be all that’s in it,” she told the young man ominously.
Nodding hesitantly, he beat a hasty retreat, still looking bewildered.
Kendall felt a giggle pushing its way up, and sternly repressed it. Determined, she went back to her novel. Hopefully, it would discourage casual conversation from anyone walking by. It did.
Hours later she was nearing the end of the book, and the sun was beginning to sink in the western sky. She had gotten up a couple of times to reposition the umbrella shading her, but other than that, she hadn’t moved all afternoon.
She glanced up absently, and barely managed to keep from jumping when she saw Hawke standing at the foot of the lounge and staring at her. He was wearing slacks and a knit shirt, and looked as if he weren’t quite sure what her reaction would be. Kendall wasn’t sure either.
“I got your message,” he offered finally.
“Good. Take it to heart.”
He sighed, and assumed a ridiculously woeful expression. “Have a little pity for me. There I was, all set to have the night of my life—and the lady in my arms kept being attacked by fits of the giggles.” His voice was pained.
Kendall silently held up one hand, thumb and forefinger rubbing gently together.
Hawke stared at the gesture. “What’s that?”
“This,” Kendall told him succinctly, “is the smallest violin in the world, playing hearts and flowers just for you.” Halting the gesture, she turned her attention back to her book.
“Well, thanks.” His voice held a tremor of laughter. “No sympathy from you, I see.”
“None.” She was grateful for the shielding sunglasses, which were hiding the gleam of laughter in her eyes.
“My little g
ift of apology didn’t help, obviously.”
“Why a Venus’s-flytrap?” Kendall felt irritated at her curiosity, and added with great dignity, “Not that I can accept it.”
“You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.” He sat down on the end of the lounge, regarding her thoughtfully. “And I picked that because it reminded me of you.”
She waited a beat, then asked carefully, “I remind you of a carnivorous plant?”
“Sure.” Hawke smiled slowly. “Beautiful, deceptively fragile, and potentially deadly.”
Kendall started to say that she’d been compared to worse things, then realized that she hadn’t. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he responded solemnly.
She decided that if he wasn’t going to mention last night’s confession, she certainly wasn’t. It probably hadn’t meant anything to him anyway. In spite of what she’d thought. “I’m trying to read this book, you know,” she pointed out.
“Sorry.” He got to his feet. “I just came to say good-bye.”
“You—you’re leaving?” It was the last thing she had expected.
The response seemed to satisfy him. “For a couple of days. I have some business in Florida. Will you miss me?”
“Dreadfully!” she snapped, angry at herself for the betraying uncertainty. “How soon are you leaving?”
“Right away.” He was amused now. “Helicopter to Nassau, then a plane to Miami.”
“Have a nice trip.” Resolutely, she went back to the book.
“Not so fast.” He reached down to grip her upper arms firmly, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. “Not without a kiss good-bye.”
“Hawke!” she protested as he removed her sunglasses and tossed them onto the lounge. “I can’t—I won’t—dammit, stop manhandling me!”
He took the book away from her and tossed it on the lounge. “A kiss for luck,” he told her reproachfully. “It’s a savage world out there. Never know what I might run into. Isn’t a maiden supposed to give her knight a kiss for luck?”
“No,” Kendall said a little desperately. “She gives him a scarf to wear into battle. But since you’re not my knight, you’re not going into battle, and I don’t happen to have a scarf handy, it doesn’t really matter!”
“A kiss will do.”
She stared up at him for a moment, then muttered “Oh, hell.” And she swayed toward him, her face lifted invitingly.
There was a slight pause, and then Hawke kissed her. On the forehead. Chastely. Just like a knight in the age of chivalry. If Kendall had been holding something heavy, she would have hit him with it.
“Bye, honey.” His deep voice was threaded with laughter.
Kendall sank down on the lounge as he released her arms, not trusting herself to speak. And it didn’t help her temper one bit to see that several hotel guests had watched the little scene with great interest.
Hawke started to turn away, then looked back at her as though he’d had a sudden thought. “What would you like me to bring you from Florida?” he asked cheerfully.
She picked up her sunglasses from the lounge and shoved them onto her nose. “That,” she told him carefully, “is a dangerous question to ask me right now.”
“Oh.” His lips twitched slightly. “Sorry. HI just find something on my own; how’s that?”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” she advised him politely.
Grinning, he started toward the hotel, throwing one last remark over his shoulder. “Don’t forget me, now!”
“Fat chance,” Kendall muttered to herself. Resolutely, she picked up her novel again and began to read. Half an hour later, still reading the same page, she swore softly and dropped the novel into her beachbag. And she didn’t even feel a twinge of dismay when she realized that the book had completely lost its appeal.
She rose from the lounge, pulled on her shorts and T-shirt, and headed for the hotel, swinging the beachbag as though she wanted to throw it at someone. Unfortunately, the target she was longing for had already left.
There was a package waiting for her at the desk. It was about five inches square, three inches deep, and wrapped in glittering silver paper. And there was a small card tucked into a snowy envelope. Kendall didn’t say a word as she accepted the package from Rick. She even resisted an impulse to tear into the envelope when she was alone in the elevator.
Common sense told her it was from Hawke. Temper told her to drop it from her balcony. Dignity and pride commanded her to place the gift in his suite—unopened. Curiosity ate at her.
Alone in her suite, Kendall dropped her beachbag, sank on to the sofa, and hastily opened the envelope. This is your symbol, he’d written on the card, the handwriting as bold and decisive as the man himself. A creature of myth and legend, lovely and fragile … and just slightly unreal. Hawke.
Kendall was almost afraid to open the box. But she did. And a soft “Oh!” escaped her as she carefully lifted the delicate cut-glass unicorn from the tissue paper. It was absolutely beautiful.
She wanted to cry. Half angrily, she realized that there always seemed to be a cloudburst just over the horizon these days. Oh, God, what was the man doing to her? He made her laugh, made her angry, made her cry. In two short days he’d literally turned her life upside down.
Never in her life had she known a man like him. When most men wooed a woman, they sent flowers, candy, perfume. Not Hawke. He sent seashells. And carnivorous plants in expensive copper bowls. And unicorns. What had he told her? That knowing him would be an education? Damn the man—right again.
Kendall cradled the glass creature in her hands and stared down at it. Beautiful things such as this were her weakness, but she had never gotten the chance to collect them. Living as she did, out of suitcases, it just wasn’t practical. Had he guessed?
She wondered vaguely if he had written the note with a straight face. And knew that he had. He was a strange man, Hawke Madison. She had already noticed that his staff treated him with the utmost respect. Instinct told her that he would be formidable indeed if he were roused to temper. He’d come of age in a brutal war and, God knew, that would harden a man.
And yet … the sensitivity was there. He loved children. He could cheerfully sweep a woman off her feet and carry her through a crowded lobby or bar. He could talk of fairy tales and myths. He could hold her gently in his arms as she cried, sharing the pain of grief and a nightmare.
A romantic man. A storybook romantic man. And what woman could resist that?
Kendall wasn’t angry with him any longer—if, indeed, she had ever been angry in the first place. And that was a bad sign. A very bad sign.
Rick escorted her to dinner that night—something that Kendall didn’t question until they were at their table. She found Rick to be uncomplicated next to his friend and employer, and had no trouble at all in talking to him. The conversation flowed easily between them.
Kendall’s question was calm, but she timed it so that Rick was somewhat involved with eating. “Did Hawke tell you to do this?”
Her escort choked and hastily reached for his wineglass, then looked at her with watering, faintly accusing eyes. “Of course not,” he said stoutly.
He was a bad liar.
She sighed and went on with her meal, not even able to conjure up a flash of temper. And her involuntary thought of Damn the man! was more rueful than anything else. Her thoughts were distracted, though, when Rick began to speak.
“You know, you’re not at all what I thought you were,” he commented slowly, watching her. “When you came in the other day, I thought you were—well—” He made a vague gesture.
“The phrase,” Kendall told him dryly, “is ‘dumb blonde.’ A little game I used to play.”
“Did you enjoy the game?” His brown eyes gleamed cheerfully.
“Immensely. I never had to carry my own luggage.”
“Then why did you stop?” Rick smiled faintly. “Hawke?”
Staring down at the fork in her hand, Kend
all only then noticed that it was monogramed. Stamped into the silver was a tiny bird. It might have been an eagle. Or even a particularly handsome chicken. Except that it was a hawk. It was very discreet; she never would have noticed it except that the subject tended to prey on her mind.
Looking up at Rick, she gave a shrug and asked in a defeated tone, “Can we please talk about something else?”
Trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin, Rick obligingly changed the subject.
The next two days were a somewhat trying test of Kendall’s composure. Hawke might not have been present in the flesh, but his spirit was slowly boxing her in. Reminders of him were everywhere. Hotel stationery stamped with a tiny hawk. The tennis racket she used to play tennis with Rick—again, stamped with a hawk. Small emblems on the clothing of the hotel staff.
Escaping from the hotel on the second day, Kendall went to the orphanage and played with the children for a while, then walked back through the village. Stopping before the window of a gift shop, she stared wryly at two figurines of hawks. The first was a somewhat savage hawk clasping a thankfully unidentified victim in his talons. The second—shaking Kendall oddly—was a more sensitive scene. Two hawks hovering over a nest filled with their young.
Turning hastily away, she came face-to-face with a sign hanging over the doorway of a nearby building. The Hawk’s Nest Tavern.
It was enough to drive a woman crazy.
And then there were the gifts. They were always waiting for her at the desk—although there were no more notes. On the first day there was one delivered to her by Rick as she was passing the desk on her way back from breakfast. It was a stained-glass sun-catcher, complete with a fine chain to hang it in a window. The workmanship was exquisite, and the scene was a rainbow—complete with a pot of gold. There was a tiny bird on the pot.
On the second day there was another suncatcher—this time with a unicorn beneath the rainbow and prancing toward the pot of gold. After dinner she was given another silver-wrapped box. This one held a small brass paperweight bearing another unicorn.
