Then there was the matter of the kiss. Sammy had been right when he'd said a woman didn't let a man kiss her like Hawk had without there being something between them— a spark, a recognition, a feeling. True, he'd taken her by surprise, but her defenses hadn't kicked into play until she'd remembered she wasn't supposed to like the feel of his body against hers or the warm, firm play of his lips on her mouth.
Hawk had felt her response, and no amount of lying to herself would erase it. And while she was still reluctant to admit just how attracted she was to him, she was beginning to recognize that feeling as belonging to the world she'd left and not the one she now inhabited with Hawk. The outrageous and unfamiliar circumstances she found herself in allowed, perhaps even nurtured, a different perspective on what she normally regarded as acceptable or even rational.
She was attracted to Hawk; she made herself admit it. But she'd been attracted to other men in her life and never had she experienced the "jumping out of a plane without a 'chute" sensation she felt just by being close to him. It wasn't the most comfortable of feelings, and one she would have marked up to the situation as a whole if it weren't for the fact that it only happened when he was near or when she was thinking about him.
Curling her fingers around the wheel, Angela wondered just how much tap dancing Hawk had in mind.
* * *
Hawk stared at the map until he'd memorized everything on it, then put it down and looked out the window at the flat fields zooming past. Angela's reading of their situation essentially matched his own, but he'd found that even though he knew it would give her comfort, he couldn't lie to her. He'd promised her that much.
On the other hand, she was working from the hypotiie-sis that a confrontation with Constantine and/or Marchand was inevitable. Two other options were open to them that she didn't know about, but he kept quiet about both of them. Until he figured out which he was going to use, she was better off not knowing. Besides, he wasn't at all certain either would work.
In the meantime he wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Sammy's compound. Glancing aside, he saw how Angela's fingers gripped the wheel and wondered what she was thinking about.
"The interstate is just ahead," he said. "Do you want me to drive?"
"No."
"Sure? You look a bit tense."
"I always look tense when I'm tense," she said. "Until I met you, it wasn't something that happened often enough to worry about."
He angled his body so that he could look at her without having to turn his head. "We're heading north for a while. If you're hungry, we can stop for something."
"I had breakfast," she said, then was quiet as she negotiated the on-ramp and accelerated to blend with the traffic heading north. The speedometer was a steady sixty-five and she'd rolled her window most of the way back up when she glanced at him again. "Are you hungry, or was that just small talk?"
"I've got lots of things we can talk about without resorting to food or the weather, but no, I'm not hungry. I got something to eat before Sammy called." He adjusted the vents on the dash to let more fresh air into the cab. "You never did tell me where you were going for the two weeks your secretary didn't expect you in the office."
"I didn't tell you because it seemed contrary to my best interests to do so." She shrugged, and he thought he noticed a slight relaxing in the way she held the steering wheel. That surprised him. It was precisely the opposite reaction he expected to his question. "I had reservations for a vacation in St. Lucia," she continued. "I'd just finished a big conference and was hauling the last load of materials from the hotel to my office when I ran into you. My plan had been to go home and pack, catch a few hours' sleep, and get up early enough to miss rush-hour traffic to the airport."
"A vacation, huh?"
"Mmm. Two whole weeks of solitude and sun and nary a telephone in sight—not in my sight anyway. They probably have them, but are savvy enough to keep them hidden. The result is an environment where decision making is confined to when, where, and how much to eat and what to wear while doing it. I've been going there every year since I discovered it."
Hawk was fascinated by the look of near bliss on her face. "Tell me more."
She smiled without taking her gaze from the road ahead. "The hotel is one of those ridiculously posh places where the rich go to be pampered and the famous go to get away from being famous. I visited it a few years ago with the idea of using it for a small conference, but couldn't bear to spoil it with business. It's the only place I've ever gone where I've been able to get away from it all."
"You have to go all the way to St. Lucia for that?"
She shot him a chiding look. "Everyone has their refuge. I spend my life trotting three steps ahead of everyone else so that when crises arise, I'm ready for them. The only fancy footwork I have to do in St. Lucia involves hot sand on long white beaches."
"Now you're making me feel guilty," he grumbled, not liking the feeling.
"You should. I haven't had a real vacation in a year." She glowered at him, but there was a smile in her eyes as she did it. "No one will know I'm missing except for the hotel, and they won't do anything about it unless someone asks—which, of course, no one will because I've never told a soul where I go."
He studied her carefully. "Why are you telling me all this now?"
"Because it's something you need to know. Otherwise, you wouldn't have asked."
"That explains why I want to know. Your reasons for telling me aren't as clear."
She shrugged. "I've had to choose between believing everything you've told me about drug lords and dead partners and corrupt bosses, or deciding it's all a lie—in which case I'm forced to find another explanation for your behavior. I can't. As preposterous as your story sounds, it hangs together." She shrugged again. "Of course, I'm relying pretty heavily on instinct here. Without my instincts telling me to trust you, nothing you said would matter because I'd be too busy plotting how to get away to hear a single word."
A minute or so passed as Hawk let the refreshing logic of her words sink in. He wasn't sure what he'd expected when he'd told her about Constantine and Marchand, but her forthright acceptance of the status quo left him a little stunned. It puzzled him, too, because she was so calm about it all, but he guessed he should have anticipated that. With the minor—but quite understandable—exception of the night he'd forced her to swallow what she believed was cocaine, she'd kept the hysterics at bay and had held on to her dignity with a quiet courage he admired.
The better he got to know her, the more he liked what he saw. She was brave and gorgeous, and her sexy voice had a way of wrapping itself around his senses until his pleasure centers pulsed hot and hard. If only— Hawk cut the thought off before it got started. There wasn't any use in wishing for what he couldn't have.
She glanced at him. "I can't decide if you're quiet because you think I said all that as a ruse to get you to trust me so I can make a break for it, or if you're calculating how long we can keep this truck before Sammy decides your money ran out and tells someone about it." A strand of burnished red escaped her braid, and she lifted a hand to tuck it behind her ear.
The smile that curved his mouth felt good. "Sammy wouldn't do that. It isn't good business."
"So we keep the truck?"
"No. We'll lose it in Redding. I'll feel better once we've cut all ties with Sammy. No telling how many of his men rose to Constantine's bait."
"That's about a hundred miles away. Are you sure we're okay until then?"
"As sure as I can be. Sammy's reputation suffered a blow today. He won't stay in business long if it gets out he messed up twice in one day."
She looked at him again as though weighing his conviction, then Hawk felt a subtle increase in the truck's speed. When he looked at the speedometer, the needle was on the high side of seventy.
"Getting pulled over for speeding isn't what I had in mind when I said not to draw attention to us," he said.
"In case you had
n't noticed, we were the only vehicle on the road paying any attention at all to the speed limit," she answered, and the reprimand in her voice was clear. "Now we look just like everyone else."
"The 'keeping up with all the other speeders' defense rarely works. Trust me, Angel. I know a lot of cops."
"Don't worry about it, Hawk," she said with a quick smile. "I'll be too busy explaining why I'm driving a truck I don't own without a license—not to mention in the presence of a man carrying a concealed weapon. The subject of speeding probably won't even come up."
* * *
They dumped the truck at the Redding airport, caught a taxi into town, then went into a family restaurant where Hawk picked up a copy of the nickel ads before leading Angela toward a booth tucked into a corner next to the kitchen door. They'd clearly missed whatever lunchtime rush there was, and only one other table was occupied.
A waitress watched indifferently from a counter stool until they were settled and had checked the menu, then she stubbed out her cigarette and walked across the room. Her apron was stained with something that Angela guessed was anything from grease to cherry pie, her eyelids drooped with tiredness, and the tag pinned beneath her slumped shoulders said her name was Mabel.
"Long shift, Mabel?" Angela asked after she'd given her order for a hamburger and fries.
"Just came on." Mabel licked her pencil and looked down at Hawk, who was still studying the menu. "If you're real hungry, Cook does a nice chicken-fried steak. My Walter says it's the best thing on the menu."
Hawk glanced up and offered a nod of thanks for the hint. "That would be good. We'll have coffee too."
"It comes with the steak," Mabel said, "but not with the burger."
"Bring her some anyway," Hawk said, hiding a smile.
"You get dessert with the steak."
"I saw some lemon pie in the case when we came in. Can you save me some of that, please?"
"Me too?" Angela asked, her mouth watering in anticipation.
"It's extra for you."
"That's okay," Hawk said. He waited until Mabel had shuffled away into the kitchen, then flattened the nickel ads on the table and took out a pen.
Angela watched as he circled a couple of ads before asking what he was looking for.
"A car," he said, without looking up. "Or a truck. It doesn't matter."
"I saw a couple of used-car dealerships on the way here. Wouldn't that be easier?"
He glanced up at her, the look in his eyes mildly chiding. "It wouldn't take Constantine any time at all to trace us through one of those places. Even if we pay cash, the salesman will still be able to describe us." He tapped an index finger on the paper. "He'll never be able to find us this way."
"We still have to register the car," she pointed out.
"We won't have it long enough to worry about that. As far as the seller is concerned, that's our problem." He looked back down at the paper and circled another ad as Mabel arrived with two mugs and a carafe of coffee. She slopped some into each mug, then went back to the stool at the end and lit up another cigarette.
Hawk folded the paper open to the page where he'd circled two different ads and stood up. "There's a phone out by the front door. Stay here and keep an eye on my stuff," he said, nodding toward the sports bag.
"Aren't you afraid I'll duck out through the kitchen?" she asked, her expression determinedly bland as she looked up at him.
His gaze was dark and thoughtful. "You told me in the truck you trusted me. I'm returning the compliment."
"I won't run, you know," she said softly, and was surprised when he reached out to stroke a finger down her cheek. Her skin warmed where he'd touched it, and she couldn't stop herself from covering the ribbon of sensation with her hand.
"I know you won't, Angel," he said in a voice that was deep and strangely gentle. "Even if you wanted to, I think you know I'd just bring you back"
"Because you feel responsible for me?"
He smiled enigmatically, but only said, "There's that too," then turned and walked away.
Angela watched him go, then looked away because his loose-hipped walk did something to her pulse rate, and that was already thrumming on high in response to the things he'd left unsaid. Staring at the collection of fifties-era condiment containers at the end of the table, she thought about the way Hawk's potent masculinity affected her . . . and wondered what she was going to do about it.
When Mabel arrived with their food, Angela was disgusted with herself because not only hadn't she come to any conclusions, she'd missed a golden opportunity to go through Hawk's bag.
Just because they were on the same side didn't mean she couldn't be curious.
TEN
It was late afternoon before they finally left Redding, but Hawk seemed in no crushing hurry and Angela was too delighted to be out among people who'd never heard of Constantine or Marchand to wonder why.
The truck he'd found was a dark green Chevy Blazer with fifty-five thousand miles on the odometer and pock-marks scattered across the hood and roof from a freak hailstorm. Even though the owner swore the engine was in top shape, Hawk spent half an hour looking under the hood and followed that with a short test-drive, leaving Angela on the seller's front porch and his sports bag beside her. Just as Angela was set to zip open the bag, the seller's wife came out onto the porch with coffee.
When they returned, the very happy owner went inside for the necessary paperwork and Hawk sat down on the other side of the sports bag and unzipped a side pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out a fistful of cash and proceeded to peel a dozen or so notes—all fifties—from it. Those he stuffed back into the bag, then began counting what was left as the gasp Angela had been holding finally escaped.
"Hush, Angel," he murmured, without looking up from what he was doing.
"Don't hush me, Hawk," she returned fiercely, albeit in a whisper. "What are you doing with all that cash?"
"How'd you expect me to pay for the truck? With a credit card?"
Her gaze narrowed on the money as she quickly calculated to the nearest thousand how much he was holding. "You're spending a lot on the truck. Don't you think we should get something cheaper and save the cash for other things?"
"This is only a small part of what I've got available. Don't worry, Angel. There's enough left over for anything we need." He finished counting and zipped the bag closed as the owner returned through the screen door.
Contrary to Angela's fears, the owner not only didn't question why Hawk was paying in cash, he seemed to expect it. He gave Hawk the necessary documents, wished him luck with the Chevy, then watched them drive away with an expression on his face that rivaled a canary-fed cat for smugness.
"Didn't your mother teach you to bargain before spending your hard-earned money?" she asked Hawk.
"The two or three hundred dollars I might have got wasn't worth the time," he said with a shrug. "Besides, it's not my money. I stole it from Constantine."
"You what?"
"The night I killed Nico. Things were a little confusing —which was good because I wasn't supposed to be there in the first place, and for a few critical minutes nobody realized I was the one who'd fired the shot. I managed to climb into one of their vehicles and make a run for it before Marchand spotted me and they caught on. Luckily, they were slow and I got away. The money was in the truck I appropriated."
"How much money, Hawk?"
He grinned, something she'd never seen him do before. "A lot. What do you say we go spend some more of it?"
She pressed her fingers to her temples and moaned. "Is there anything you didn 't do to make sure you went to the top of Constantine's hit list and stayed there?"
"Yeah. I didn't put him out of business, but I'm working on that."
* * *
They stopped at a shopping mall and spent some of Constantine's money on a change of clothes for each of them, flat comfortable shoes for Angela, and a sackful of high-calorie, low-nutrition snacks that they mutually agreed would k
eep them going until dinner. Hawk threw in a couple of healthy-looking energy bars, too, but Angela got the feeling he did this because he knew he should and not because he actually intended to eat them. So long as he didn't make her eat them either, it was okay with her.
They headed west on Highway 299 toward the coast, Angela driving again. She asked Hawk what he had in mind in the way of a plan, or were they, as she put it rather succinctly, "going to wander aimlessly until Constantine died a natural death and Marchand retired?"
"If I thought we could keep our heads down and hide for the rest of our lives," he said, "I'd say let's do it. Unfortunately, Constantine won't stop looking until he's found us."
"Not to mention the fact that someone will, eventually, miss me." She geared down to follow a heavy semi up a long, steady incline. "So what's the plan?"
"There's a man in Colorado named Blackthorne who I can trust to look after you. The only problem is getting you to him."
"You're sending me away?" She hadn't considered that, and the tense, hunted feeling that had receded since morning suddenly returned.
"Of course I'm sending you away. I would have done it sooner, but Sammy's place was closer and I wanted to get something from my apartment in San Rafael to send with you." He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "That's where I was headed this morning when all hell broke loose."
"So that's where we're going now? San Rafael?" So far, Angela didn't think much of the plan. San Rafael was exactly where they shouldn't be headed—not to mention the fact that if that was his plan, they'd traveled a hundred and fifty miles in the wrong direction that afternoon.
"No," he said reasonably. "We're going to Portland, Oregon, where you should be able to get on a plane east widiout any trouble."
She shot him an exasperated look. "You need a lesson in map reading, Hawk. If we'd stayed on the interstate, we would have been in Portland in six or eight hours. This way will take twice as long."
"The scenic route will be safer," he said. "Besides, I called Blackthorne's office at lunch, and he's out of town until tomorrow night. If we don't dawdle too much, this should time out perfectly."
Night of the Hawk (LS 767) Page 13
