Night of the Hawk (LS 767)

by Victoria Leigh

  Sammy's guard stepped out from behind a cluster of rhododendrons and stood in her path. He was dressed much like the men Hawk had seen earlier, and he was relieved when the man kept his weapon slung over his shoulder. Angela hesitated, then tried to walk around him. Admiration for her sheer guts kicked his mouth into a half smile, and Hawk watched as the guard shook his head and said something to her. Whatever it was stopped her in her tracks. She glanced up at him, listened for a moment longer, then looked back toward the cottage, where two similarly dressed men had come into view. As soon as she saw them, they retreated back to wherever they'd sprung, leaving the first guard to watch as Angela padded back across the lush grass toward the cottage.

  Hawk waited until he was sure she'd given up—for the time being, anyway—then got back on the bed and shut his eyes in case she came in and looked at him. It wouldn't serve any purpose for her to know he'd watched her defeat.

  The front door clicked softly, and Hawk drifted on the wings of angels into a deep, soul-reviving sleep. If Angela came into the room, he didn't even know it.

  * * *

  The sun that filtered through the bedroom drapes wasn't as strong as it had been when Hawk had last looked. A glance at his watch confirmed it was late afternoon. He'd slept four hours straight, almost eight hours total, and a rumble from the vicinity of his stomach reminded him that it had been a very long time since he'd last eaten.

  Aromas of garlic and onion teased his senses and made his mouth water. It didn't take a genius to realize Angela was doing something miraculous out in the kitchen, and as Hawk got out of bed and shut himself into the bathroom, he wondered if she'd made enough for two.

  Three minutes later he went into the living area and saw her seated in a recessed alcove next to the kitchen. The table was set for two. She hadn't waited for him to begin, and ignored him when he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. He looked at the plate piled high with pasta, slivers of chicken, spring onions, and asparagus tips, then lifted his gaze to her bent head. She still wore the clothes she'd slept in, although it was apparent she'd found a comb. Her hair was woven into a French braid she'd tied off with a piece of string, and it looked as though she'd changed the bandages on her wrists.

  He supposed it was too much to expect her to do everything he'd suggested, and was grateful she wasn't refusing to eat. A sick woman was the last thing he needed right now.

  "Thank you," he said, picking up his fork. "My abilities in the kitchen are confined to opening cans and boxes."

  She lifted her head to look at him, and he saw that her face was scrubbed clean of cosmetics. Her nose was a little shiny, her lashes dark but not as thick as he remembered, and the color in her cheeks was entirely natural.

  He thought she was stunning and only just stopped himself from saying so. Her learning that he was attracted to her wouldn't do anything for her peace of mind. His own equilibrium on that front was delicate enough. Sleeping beside Angela had been a uniquely exotic experience—a combination of frustration over the struggle not to pull her into his arms and fascination for the tenderness he felt toward her. The resulting dreams had been wild and exciting.

  "I thought about starving," she said, "but couldn't see the point. I also considered cooking only for myself."

  Her voice kicked him in the gut with the same potent energy it had the first time he'd heard it. He remembered the way it had been in his dreams, her silky cries of yearning, of need. He had to take several deep breaths before he could resume eating.

  "This is very good," he said. "What made you cook enough for me?"

  Doubt and indecision furrowed her brow. "Whether it's enough is yet to be seen. I'm not used to cooking for a man."

  He filed the information that there wasn't a man in her life and asked again. "So why bother?"

  Her gaze went to his plate, which was already half-empty. "Maybe I put poison in your share. Isn't that what an assassin would do?"

  He swirled some pasta onto his fork, stabbed a bit of chicken, and put it into his mouth. After he'd finished chewing, he said, "Sammy would never leave anything so tempting lying around, and I know you didn't bring anything with you. Which brings me back to my original question." He watched a faint blush darken her cheeks and knew he'd embarrassed her. "Why do I rate a spectacular meal like this?"

  She bent her head and continued eating, and Hawk realized she didn't know why any more than he did. Either that, or she wasn't going to tell him no matter how many times he asked. So he let it go and concentrated on the food. He was nearly done when she spoke again.

  "What happened last night?"

  He looked at her carefully. "Quite a lot. Which part are you referring to?"

  Her eyebrows veed in delicate confusion. "The last thing I remember was dying. Obviously, that didn't happen."

  "You went to sleep." Her eyebrows twitched in exasperation, prompting him to continue. "It wasn't anything I did, if that's what you're bothered about. I assume it was a combination of exhaustion and fear, though I have to admit I was a little surprised."

  "I was dead on my feet before I even went down to that garage," she admitted, and her eyes twinkled for a brief moment as her own words must have struck an absurd chord. She chased away the aberration with a determined frown. "Even so, I find it hard to believe I simply fell asleep. I was much too scared to do that."

  "Terror takes a lot out of people. In your case, it sounds as though you were already functioning on reserves." He met her gaze without flinching, and was relieved to see more anger than fear in her golden-green eyes. Anger would serve her better, even if it did make her less easy to manage. He added, "Putting you through what I did last night was more than your body could stand. Going to sleep was the only way you could cope."

  She looked at him a little longer, then nodded in agreement. "So what did you put in that thing you made me swallow?"

  "Flour."

  "That's it? Flour?"

  Her expression plainly told him she wished he'd been the one to swallow something, and he didn't fool himself into thinking she was imagining anything smaller than a football.

  There was a pause as she nibbled on some pasta, then she asked, "Who's Sammy?"

  He finished what was on his plate and looked up to find her waiting. "Sammy is the man who owns this place. We're here under his protection."

  "Where is here?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  She pushed her plate aside and rested her fisted hands on the yellow linen place mat. "I thought you said there would be no more lies."

  "I did." He stood up, reached for her plate, and carried it with his own to the sink. He rinsed them both before returning to the table for the silverware and glasses. He was putting everything into the dishwasher when he heard her come sit at the bar that jutted out between the kitchen and living room.

  He turned his back on the dishes and looked at her. "I said I wouldn't lie to you. I will not, however, tell you things you don't need to know."

  "You've made it clear I won't be allowed to leave," she said, neatly avoiding telling him she'd already tried. She glared at him as though it was his fault she'd been turned back by Sammy's men—which it had been, of course, but it wasn't as though he hadn't warned her. She continued. "What harm can it do to tell me where I am? I can't see how that information will do me any good."

  "That's not the point. Sammy's compound is a closely guarded secret. He wouldn't like it if I shared its whereabouts with you."

  "You mean so I can't find it again?" she asked, and something that resembled hope flared in her eyes.

  "Precisely." He turned away and made quick work of the pots she'd used for cooking. When he finished a few minutes later, the counters were clean and Angela had gone to sit in the bay window facing the big house. Curled up on the thick cushion with her back against the wall and arms hugging her drawn-up knees, she stared through the window with an intensity that he knew was designed to block him out. He shifted a heavy, overstuffed chair cl
ose to the window and sat down.

  "There are some things we need to talk about," he said.

  "When are you going to let me go?" she asked, without looking at him.

  "Not yet. You'll understand why after we've talked." He propped an elbow on the chair's arm and bounced his fist lightly against his chin as he searched for the best approach. "I think that if I explain everything from the beginning, you'll have a better picture of what's going on."

  She turned her head to meet his gaze. "What you did to me last night was cruel and unforgivable. I thought I was going to die."

  "I'm not asking for forgiveness."

  She frowned. "Then why bother explaining anything? If you won't let me go, we have nothing to discuss."

  "If I let you walk out of here, you're as good as dead."

  "I was supposed to die last night, but here I am, wearing an outfit I bought last week that looks like I haven't taken it off since." She plucked at a wrinkled sleeve and sniffed delicately. "Sorry, Hawk, but I don't scare as easily as I did last night."

  "I told you, no more lies."

  "You've told me a lot of things. Trouble is, I've learned not to take any of them at face value."

  Hawk stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles as he contemplated the wilted yet tense picture she made. She was resisting him, fighting because she thought it was the only way to survive. He'd known she wouldn't be easily convinced of the real and continuing danger she'd waltzed into the moment she picked up that gun, but he had hoped she would at least listen.

  He tried again. "You won't have to stay here long. But until I can organize a more permanent kind of protection for you, you won't be safe anywhere. This was the best I could do for the short term."

  "You're telling me all this"—her hand swept wide in a gesture that encompassed everything in sight—"all this is for my protection? Don't make me laugh."

  Hawk smothered a curse at her stubbornness and his own clumsy attempt to right a wrong. Looking beyond Angela to the big house, he saw one of Sammy's men come out a side door and head for the cottage.

  "Why didn't you shower?" he asked her.

  "Why didn't you shave?"

  "Too hungry." He rubbed a hand over the two days' growth on his chin. "This might take a while. Besides, I think I'm going out for a bit. Why don't you go ahead and use the bathroom. I saw a thick robe in there. You won't be cold."

  "I'm more comfortable in clothes." Her chin tilted up and she drew her shoulders back, accenting the line of her throat.

  "Then I guess I'll have to find you some." He got up and went to the door as Sammy's man crossed the last few yards. He spoke with him briefly, then turned back to Angela. She was still looking out the window, pretending she didn't care what was going on behind her back.

  "I have to go over to see Sammy. I'll probably be gone an hour or so." He pointed to a bookcase in the corner. "There's some books and magazines over there."

  The look she gave him was carefully guarded. "Aren't you going to tell me what not to do while you're gone?"

  He shook his head. "You're a quick study, Angel. I wouldn't insult you by repeating myself."

  "Don't call me that. I don't like it." It was clear from the way she said it that she didn't like him calling her that.

  "Too late, Angel. I do."

  He put an end to the discussion by going into the bedroom, where he retrieved his gun from under the pillow. Weighing in on the side of caution—Sammy wouldn't appreciate him arriving at the house armed—he compromised and tucked it into the sports bag. Sammy's sensibilities aside, he had no intention of leaving it around for Angela to pick up. As there were other things in the bag he didn't want her to have either, he took the lot with him.

  He grabbed his jacket and took that, too, for much the same reason as he was taking everything else. Even though he doubted Angela would look that closely, the papers sewn into the lining weren't something he wanted to fall into the wrong hands.

  When he walked back through the living area, she was still staring out the window, her posture a clear signal that she was ignoring him. He let himself out the door and nodded at the man leaning against the side of the house, the butt of his machine pistol—a micro-Uzi, Hawk noticed— resting on his hip and the bill of his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

  Hawk walked across the grass to the big house, sorting in his mind the various directions his talk with Sammy might take. Even if Sammy had the information Hawk needed, there was no guarantee he'd sell it. Complex loyalties, bought and paid for, ensured that nothing was certain. It would require a combination of nerve, cash, and timing to get anything from Sammy that wasn't necessarily on the market.

  All Hawk knew for certain was that Angela would be in the cottage when he got back. Sammy never went back on services already contracted.

  * * *

  Sammy gave him what he wanted, but it took two hours and more energy than Hawk had to spare. Subtle ground-level lanterns splayed light in his path as he walked back to the cottage in the quickly falling night, his sports bag in one hand and several hangers full of clothes slung over his shoulder. He was tired without being sleepy, yet was fully aware that he wasn't alone out there. He counted two of Sammy's men who purposely showed themselves as he passed by.

  Obviously, Angela wasn't the only one being "guarded." Until Sammy passed the word that Hawk had paid for all services, Hawk's movements were as restricted as Angela's. He reached the cottage and was about to open the door when one of the guards came up to him.

  "The boss just radioed your clearance. We'd appreciate it, though, if you wouldn't go wandering around without letting us know first—especially in the dark."

  Hawk nodded, admiring, as always, Sammy's efficiency. It hadn't been five minutes since he'd left him checking the stack of hundred-dollar bills under an ultraviolet light.

  "The woman still needs to be restricted," he said, knowing it was a repeat of what Sammy must have already told them. Still, he felt better emphasizing the point. He added, "Gently, though. I'll let you know if and when that becomes unnecessary."

  The guard nodded and faded away, leaving Hawk to go inside. He stepped through the door, and couldn't help the pang of disappointment at discovering she wasn't still in the living area. Sighing because he'd really wanted to get a few things settled before they slept, he draped the clothes over the back of a chair, put his bag on the floor, and went across to the bedroom.

  He pushed the door open quietly, not wanting to disturb her if she was already asleep. She wasn't on the bed, or anywhere else in the room. Crossing to the bathroom, he pushed open the door and switched on the light. Empty.

  His heart skipped a beat as anxiety warred with total disbelief, but the moment passed and he was all business— checking closets, under the bed, behind curtains. He went through the whole cottage with an efficiency that showed none of the alarm he was feeling.

  He couldn't help thinking, though, that it was dark outside, and there were men with guns who would shoot first and show no regret later. Dammit! Didn't she know how dangerous it was out there?

  Obviously not, because she'd somehow slipped out. Hawk didn't waste time going through the cottage twice. Stopping only to extract his own gun from the bag—he didn't plan to shoot anyone, but the idea of being the only man out there without a weapon was unsettling—he opened the door and shouted, "The woman is gone. Find her."

  He waited impatiently in the light streaming from the window, knowing better than to move away from the cottage. The delay was frustrating but unavoidable. Running into the night without a plan—not to mention without telling anyone—was the best way to get the same thing Angela was asking for. Killed.

  The same guard who had spoken to him earlier rounded the corner of the cottage and joined Hawk in the light. He was calm and, from Hawk's point of view, not the least bit concerned.

  He said, "She can't get through the perimeter without us knowing."

  "I would have thought she could
n't get out of the cottage either," Hawk growled, "but she's done that."

  "We'll all be very interested in learning how too." He paused to listen to something being transmitted into his earphone, then said, "That was the control room. If she's moving about the grounds, they can't locate her." He had the grace to look vaguely uncomfortable. "Sammy isn't pleased."

  Neither was Hawk, but he guessed the guard knew that because he didn't say a word about the gun in Hawk's hand.

  * * *

  Angela waited until she could no longer hear the murmur of men's voices, then counted to thirty just to be on the safe side. When the only noise to reach her ears was that of her own breathing amplified inside the small space, she pushed the cabinet door open with the flat of her hand. When it swung back and banged against a nearby chair, her heart leaped into her throat and stayed there until she was certain no one had heard the crack of wood on wood.

  It took less skill to crawl out of the small cabinet than it had taken to fold herself inside, but with her limbs nearly numb and her body slick with sweat from the airless, cramped quarters, it was a challenge all the same. In the end, she flopped out onto the living-room carpet in a manner reminiscent of a beached fish and lay on her back until the stabbing pain in her joints subsided to a tolerable level.

  The thrill of victory surged through her, and she allowed herself a mental pat on the back before getting on with the serious work of escaping. The next steps weren't as clear as the first, but she didn't allow negative thinking to sway her determination. It was a matter of getting outside and reaching the trees without anyone seeing her. From there, she guessed she'd be playing hide-and-seek as she worked her way to freedom.

  It was a game she'd already proven quite adept at.

  She didn't try to walk until she thought she could do so without falling over and crashing into something, then had to crawl to the front door anyway when she realized she'd forgotten to close the drapes. Hawk's sports bag was next to the door. She pushed it aside, then changed her mind and zipped it open. There had to be something useful inside, she mused, remembering the seemingly endless succession of items Hawk had extracted from it the night before.