Night of the Hawk (LS 767)

by Victoria Leigh

  Her hands were shaking as she pulled out a sweatshirt, leather holster, small address book, and a black leather case that she didn't bother opening because it was too small to be of any use. There was a largish blue nylon bag tucked into one corner, and she was reaching for it when she spotted a small, familiar-looking gun.

  She hesitated, then put her fingers around the butt end and pulled it out. It was, she guessed, the same automatic she'd picked up off the garage floor. With movements practiced long ago but never forgotten, she pulled out the clip, checked the load, and snapped it back into place. Leaving the safety on because running with a loaded gun was bad enough without it being ready to go off, she tested the weight in her hand and smiled.

  Now she had something useful.

  Shunning the remaining contents of the bag, Angela crawled around it. Her shoes were where she'd dropped them earlier, but she decided to leave them. Pumps would be worthless in the soft turf, and she already had one hand fully occupied.

  Taking a moment to check for noise outside, she rose to her feet and opened the door. After glancing right, left, and center and seeing no one, she ran like hell for a clump of rhododendron bushes nearly thirty yards beyond the lighted path. She dove into the center, triumphant that the only sounds were the snapping of branches and her own excited breathing. No one raised the alarm. No one shouted, "Hey you! Stop or I'll shoot!"

  No one was there to suggest—very politely, as had the man that morning—that she return to the cottage. She'd made it halfway to the trees. Another thirty-yard dash, and the rest would be easy.

  She crouched shivering on the soft, moist earth, every sense alert as she peered through the thick foliage and scouted the terrain. So long as she didn't lose her nerve, she'd be free before sunrise.

  Just to be on the safe side, she decided to wait where she was for a few minutes. Her eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the dark, and she wanted to be damned sure no one was out there when she made her final run. Moments later she was rewarded for her patience when a guard slipped out of the shadows and went inside the cottage. Angela decided he was probably doing another check of the premises, and was a little surprised when he came back out after only a few seconds and disappeared around the back side of the cottage.

  Then she forgot all about him as she stared hard into the night and planned her run to the trees.

  * * *

  Hawk didn't notice at first when the guard running beside him fell back. They were in the trees at the north rim of the forest, having already covered nearly half the perimeter without so much as a sign that Angela had come that way. His companion was in constant communication with the other members of the team, and occasionally Hawk spotted their dark shapes moving nearby. Over a dozen men were looking for Angela, with Sammy himself directing the search from the control room.

  She didn't stand a chance. Hawk wiped a film of sweat from his forehead and wished she'd taken his advice to stay put. Sammy's men were too well trained to shoot, but there was no telling what would happen if she surprised one of them. She just might get a little hurt before reactions could be controlled.

  If she was lucky, all she'd get from tonight's adventure was a scare. Unless she got as far as the perimeter beyond the forest, and then it was anyone's guess what Sammy would do. Hawk tried not to think about it.

  A low-pitched whistle pulled him up short, and he looked back to where the guard was signaling him to return. Jogging back, he heard the last bit of what the guard was saying into his mike.

  ". . . sure she's armed? What is it?" He listened for a moment, then looked at Hawk. "She's got a gun."

  Hawk thought of the one he'd left behind and groaned. "There was a Beretta in my bag, but that was inside the cottage."

  "So was she." The guard relayed that information, then asked Hawk, "Is it loaded?"

  "Yes." He winced at his own stupidity in leaving it behind, but the guard just shrugged it off, then confirmed to the others what Hawk had told him. He added, "Don't anyone approach the woman. If she tries to move out, let her go. We'll cut her off."

  "Where is she?" Hawk demanded.

  "Near the cottage."

  Hawk breathed his first easy breath since he'd discovered Angela missing. With the guard at his heels, he turned and headed back. Now that she'd been found and everyone knew she hadn't gone far enough to find out anything useful regarding their location, the rest was more or less under control. Once he convinced her that shooting was not in her best interests, he would have a heart-to-heart talk with her about the seriousness of the fix she was in. When that was done, he hoped she would be easier to keep track of.

  The only loose end was to discover where she'd been hiding. When he found that spot, he'd fill it with cement. He doubted even Sammy would object.

  Moonlight shafted down through the trees, lighting their way more effectively than flashlights. Hawk's eyes had long since adjusted to the night, and they kept up a steady pace as they cut back through the forest. The trees thinned eventually, and they halted at the edge of the lawn while still in the forest's protective shadows. Hawk squinted toward the lights of the interior compound as the guard pointed to a clump of rhododendrons.

  "She's been inside there since she left the cottage, about three minutes."

  "What's keeping her from moving?" Hawk asked.

  "Don't know. There are a half-dozen men surrounding the area, but they're keeping out of sight. The only close surveillance is electronic, and they don't have a camera inside the bushes."

  Hawk handed his revolver to the guard without paying attention to the man's surprise and began to walk across the lawn, his empty hands in full view. He moved slowly, giving Angela plenty of time to see him and decide what to do about it.

  If she was going to shoot, he'd prefer she did it from a distance. It took a decent marksman to hit anything with a handgun, and he didn't think that was one of her talents.

  He'd been wrong about her before, though, and the thought didn't give him any comfort as he drew nearer. He was about ten feet away when he heard rustling noises from inside the cluster, followed some distinctly unfeminine muttering.

  Angela knew from the moment Hawk stepped out of the trees and started toward her that the jig was up. He walked without hesitation, heading straight for the rhododendrons as though he knew exactly where she was. She didn't know how he knew, and a shiver curled up her spine at the thought that someone had been watching her all along. Her success had been an illusion, her escape nothing more than an exercise in futility.

  She mentally kicked herself for wasting time waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark, then in the next moment admitted that even if she'd reached the trees, they wouldn't have let her go far.

  They, not just Hawk. The gun suddenly seemed heavy in her grasp, though she knew it didn't weigh more than a couple of pounds. Staring down at its dull black shape, she supposed she ought to be grateful they hadn't shot her already. If they knew where she was, they certainly knew she was armed. Which might explain why Hawk was the only person in sight. The pistol slipped from her fingers to the ground, and she swore as she sifted through the leaves until she found the cold metal.

  "Angela?"

  Her heart thudded an extra beat, and she peered through the leaves to see Hawk hunkered down about five feet beyond the branches.

  "Angela, are you all right?" His hands were lightly clasped across his knees, and he sounded concerned—for her, not himself. If he was worried about getting his head blown off, he certainly didn't look it. It occurred to her then that he wasn't holding a gun.

  "What?" Her knees ached from all the cramped positions that had been imposed on her body over the past twenty-four hours, but she gritted her teeth against the pain and tried to think of a way out.

  "It's getting late."

  He was worried about the time? She almost laughed. "Your beauty sleep isn't a big concern for me."

  "It's also getting chilly out. You don't have a coat."

  "Whose fault i
s that? Mine is in my car back in San Rafael." Shooting him was an option, but she didn't think that would get her far. As he'd told her before, there were men with guns whose job it was to keep her from going anywhere. Just because she couldn't see them didn't mean they weren't there. If she killed Hawk, they might just as easily do the same to her.

  Besides, she was certain she couldn't do it—shoot Hawk, the man she'd slept beside and cooked for. It had nodiing to do with her reliance on him for survival, the hostage/terrorist syndrome that made certain behavior acceptable under unusual conditions. No, it was Hawk himself, a man who'd clearly taken no pleasure in her embarrassment or her fear. He had slept beside her without making her feel threatened. He'd given his word that she was safe from rape, and she'd believed him.

  In a situation that grew more bizarre by the hour, he was a man who seemed to possess both honor and discipline. She admired him for that, and wouldn't have cooked for him otherwise. And if she was being strictly honest, there was something about him that would have drawn her to him under different circumstances, something in his bold, hard strength that touched her and left her shaken and bemused.

  It was a combination of things that kept her from using the gun on Hawk, but in the end it came down to her own sense of right and wrong. Escape was essential. Shooting Hawk was not.

  She watched as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and put it on the ground beside him.

  "What did you do that for?" she asked.

  "So we'll be even."

  "I'm barefoot."

  "You want me to take my shoes off?"

  "Not particularly. I was just pointing out another inequity." Even if she wanted to, she couldn't shoot him, she thought. Ten years ago, while vacationing on her parents' ranch, she hadn't been able to shoot the pit bull that had savaged and killed her sister's cat. She'd had the shotgun cocked and aimed, her sights on the dog's bloodied jaws, but she hadn't been able to do it.

  Later she'd learned the dog had been responsible for killing a new lamb. Her father's foreman had transported the dog to the vet after the decision had been made to put it down.

  She almost wished that same foreman was here to do her dirty work for her again. But only to wound, maybe incapacitate, not kill.

  Hawk stood up, turned his back so she could see he wasn't hiding anything, then knelt on the grass. "You'll notice I'm not carrying a gun. It would be a nice gesture if you'd hand yours over. Very carefully."

  "I ran out of nice gestures when I tried to save your butt last night." She could try taking him hostage and bluff her way back to civilization—however far away that was—but something told her Hawk would risk getting shot rather than let her escape. That something, she realized, was the way he'd walked across the grass knowing she could shoot him anytime.

  "I told you earlier that last night was my mistake, Angela. Don't you make an even bigger one."

  "I doubt there's a court in the land that would convict me of anything once they heard my side of the story."

  "Sammy has his own means of settling things," Hawk said. "The courts you're referring to will remain forever ignorant of anything that happens here."

  "You mean if I kill you, Sammy will just get rid of the body and pretend it never happened?" Ludicrous, but not any more outlandish than anything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

  "You'd be better off thinking what Sammy would do to you if I'm not here. Two bodies are as easy to dispose of as one." He paused, then added, "Give me the gun, Angela. This isn't a game."

  "Don't be so impatient. I'm not exactly defenseless in here, you know." Her toes made dents in the soft ground and she thought that if she'd been wrinkled and soiled before, she was filthy now. While diving into the bushes had seemed prudent at the time, it had left her hands, feet, and clothing coated with grime.

  "If I seriously thought you'd shoot," he said, "we wouldn't be having this conversation. I could have let Sammy's men disarm you without so much as showing my face."

  "I might have shot one of them."

  "I doubt it. Even if you know how to handle that gun, you're not in their league." He paused, then asked, "Do you know how to use it?"

  "It's a little late to be asking that."

  There was a short lull, then he said, "What are you waiting for, Angel? No one out here is going to hurt you— not as long as I'm with you." His voice was low and reassuring, and she realized he could now see her as easily as she saw him.

  She flashed the gun for bravado and tried desperately to think of a plan. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. "You hurt me before."

  "That was before I knew better."

  "I don't want to be here anymore, Hawk."

  "Then come out of there and we'll go inside."

  "I didn't mean the bush."

  "I know." He stood up and held out his hand toward a break in the branches.

  Angela debated, then decided it was no use putting off the inevitable. In a low crouch that further tormented her knees, she beat her way through the gap and stopped the moment her toes reached the grass on the other side.

  His arm was still extended, waiting for the gun, she knew, but there was softness in the gesture that gave it the feeling of a request instead of a demand. Without looking at him, she put the automatic in his palm and turned toward the cottage.

  "Thank you."

  She glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze. "What for?"

  "For not shooting me."

  "That's okay. I couldn't shoot the dog either." He didn't ask what dog, and she started walking across the cool grass, knowing he followed. Not because of any sound he made, but because she could sense he was there. He didn't try to touch her, which she was grateful for. The tremors of reaction were a weakness she'd rather keep to herself.

  When they got to the cottage door, Hawk reached around her to open it, then waited until she looked up at him before saying, "Did someone else kill the dog when you couldn't?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you have nothing to worry about." He pushed the door open and followed her inside.

  She felt his gaze on her back as she walked across to the bay window and curled up on the seat. Then he went back outside and spoke in low tones to someone in the shadows, leaving Angela to wonder why she didn't feel any satisfaction at knowing Hawk expected to die.

  SIX

  Angela stared at the sleeveless pink cotton nightgown dangling with alien delicacy from the tips of Hawk's fingers, and frowned. The gown had a deep ruffle around the hem, a satin bow in the center of its slightly scooped bodice, and looked soft and clean.

  She didn't want any part of it. "It suits you."

  He gathered it into a loose ball and tossed it to her. It landed on the window cushion in a heap. "Don't be stubborn, Angel. I thought you'd appreciate having something clean to put on."

  She kicked the gown from the window seat with a deft flick of her toes. It landed on the floor, not far from the cabinet from which she'd begun her great escape. She wondered if Hawk had discovered yet where she'd hidden. "I told you before. I prefer to be dressed."

  "That's why pajamas and nightgowns were invented, for people who feel the same way as you."

  "It's not the same thing."

  "All right, Angel, which is it? Are you afraid I'll attack you if you take off your clothes, or is the gown too sexy for your standards?" He picked it up and shook out the wrinkles. "Sorry, but Sammy didn't have any jammies with feet and a zipper from top to bottom. This was by far the most modest gown available."

  Admitting that it was, indeed, modest had nothing to do with it. Since she wasn't prepared to discuss the real issue, she simply said, "If you like it so much, why don't you wear it?"

  "Because I normally don't wear anything at all." He tossed the gown aside and before she could react, was holding her chin captive, giving her no choice but to meet his heated gaze. "Normally, I sleep nude, particularly if I'm with a woman. In your case, however, I'll settle for taking off my shirt and sock
s."

  His fingers were warm and hard against her skin, the tingling a result of nerves, she thought. Admitting he made her nervous was a lot safer than taking that tingling feeling a step further. She was not prepared to analyze the way he made her feel.

  She touched her tongue to her lips, then froze as his gaze narrowed on that part of her. "I won't sleep next to you," she said.

  "You'll sleep where you're told." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her face, and he bent his head so close that she could smell the sweet tang of whiskey on his breath. "I explained to you last night that rape wasn't on the agenda."

  "You also admitted you'd told lies."

  "Three. That wasn't one of them." His hand dropped from her face, but instead of moving away, he pushed her knees toward the window and sat down. It was crowded, too crowded, and she tried to shrink back against the wall, but there wasn't a single inch of space available for her retreat. His nearness threatened something vulnerable within her, an indefinable weakness that was as new to her as the terror he'd instilled in her the night before.

  He braced one hand against the window frame and the other beside her head, his body holding her captive even though the only place they touched was at their hips.

  He said, "We'll sleep together because that's the only way I'll get any rest. If you try to leave, I'll know it."

  "I left this morning, and you slept right through it. You didn't know anything," she said, then nearly bit her tongue off when she realized telling him wouldn't help her escape—a goal she hadn't yet given up on.

  "I knew." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a technique Angela often used herself when a situation required patience and hers was waning. "You've gone outside twice now. Sammy's men are well trained, but even the best soldiers get jumpy if they're constantly tested."