"Copies were dangerous," Hawk admitted. "It's hard enough to hide one object of value when people are hunting you. Anything more is taking a stupid chance." He knew that if Marchand believed there was only one tape— the truth, as it happened—he would be less likely to kill them all before trying to leave. Unfortunately, killing them was probably what Marchand planned to do in any case. Even though he was leaving the country, it wouldn't do to leave witnesses of any sort behind. If Marchand was going to the island Hawk thought he was, even rumors of drug dealing would raise uncomfortable suspicions—and that would be enough to put an end to his tropical idyll, not to mention his life.
For now, Hawk's job was to keep Marchand calm and talking. The longer he could manage that, the better chance they all had of getting out alive. The men in Peter's assault team had to get close and tight in order to succeed.
"Let the women go, Marchand. They've nothing to do with this."
"All in good time. First, the tape."
Mrs. Avery appeared in the kitchen doorway just behind Marchand's right shoulder. He must have seen her out of the corner of his eye because he dragged Angela tighter to him without pulling his aim from Hawk. "Come sit down, Mrs. Avery. Hawk is going to get the tape and I don't want either of you ladies out of my sight."
"But the cups," she said, holding up the china teapot, one hand on the spout, the other on the handle. Hawk noticed there was no lid on the pot. "They're still in the kit—"
"Sit down!" Marchand thundered. Angela winced at both the loud voice in her ear and the arm tightening around her. She frowned as Hawk appeared to ease away from the door, then Marchand suddenly tensed against her. His shrill scream filled the air, and Hawk dove straight for them.
Angela caught the full power of Hawk's charge in the stomach as Marchand's gun went off. The double assault left her deafened and winded, and she wasn't much of a help to Hawk as he somehow jerked her hair free and shoved her out of the way. She let him at it, knowing that without the gun, Marchand was helpless. Mrs. Avery obviously thought so, too, because she seemed quite content to stand in the corner and watch as Hawk gave Marchand a good pounding.
Scrambling on all fours, Angela headed for the wall and hadn't even caught a decent breath when Marchand's gun came skittering across the rug to bounce against her feet. Because it seemed a good idea, she picked it up—then swung it around to point at the men who came rushing through the front door.
Their reflexes were superb. Freezing into respectful statues, they waited until Peter pushed past them to hunker down next to Angela. He smiled and took the gun. "Hawk warned me you've picked up some bad habits over the past few days. I take it this is one of them?"
She looked over his shoulder where Hawk was allowing some of the others to pick up whatever pieces he'd left of Marchand. In very short order, they removed him from Mrs. Avery's living room and shut the door behind them.
"Considering how often I find a gun in my hand," Angela said, "I should probably get one of my own. It will save having to pick them up all the time."
"Not necessary." Hawk put his back to the wall and slid down it to join Angela and Peter. "If I get my way, the closest you'll ever come to a gun again will be the water cannons our kids are going to use to persecute each other." He took her hand in his slightly bruised one and kissed the back of it.
"Fiona was wrong and I'm going to call and tell her," Mrs. Avery said as she put the china pot down on the coffee table and looked at Angela. "You didn't point that gun at Hawk, not even once. She obviously got her wires crossed."
"Who's Fiona?" Peter asked.
"Don't ask," Hawk said, grinning at Mrs. Avery. "You were brilliant."
The pink-haired woman blushed and smoothed her pleated skirt. "It was Angela's idea, really. If she hadn't suggested the tea, I would never have thought of it."
"Thought of what?" Peter asked, looking more confused by the minute.
"She poured boiling hot water down Marchand's back," Hawk said.
"You did?" Angela said, blinking rapidly as she reassessed the woman.
"I was a little worried I might get some on the roadrunner," Mrs. Avery said. "It was just behind that horrible man."
"What roadrunner?" Peter asked.
"The one Bob—excuse me, Hawk sewed for me." She bent down to swipe a surprisingly steady hand across the needlepoint-covered footstool. "I don't think Fiona believed me when I told her about this."
"Who's—" Peter began, but shut his mouth and just shook his head.
Hawk pushed himself to his feet and pulled Angela up behind him. "Peter, I trust you won't need me for a while."
"I think I can handle things, thank you," he said, rising also. "But the video—"
"It's under the floorboards next to the bookshelf," Hawk said, pointing, then he turned to Mrs. Aveiy. "I know I owe you an explanation for all this, but do you think it could wait—"
"You take your lady and go home, Hawk," she said, obviously delighting in his new identity. "With all this activity, Mr. Tompkins is surely busting a gut to know what's been going on. I think I'll get out the sherry and tell him all about it. We might even give Fiona a call."
* * *
Hours later, perhaps days—Angela didn't know; time was irrelevant when everything you wanted in life was breathing down your neck and holding you tight—Hawk rolled over until he was on top looking down and she was caught between the hard mattress and his equally hard body. She loved it.
"What?" she asked when he didn't say anything.
"What I said about kids," he began. "We haven't talked about it—"
Squirreling a hand up between their bodies, she covered his mouth to keep him from going on. "We haven't said anything because we both agree," she said simply. "If you didn't want children, you wouldn't have made love to me without taking precautions. Ditto for me. End of debate."
He grinned. "I didn't know you'd noticed."
"I did. I also didn't leave the bathroom door open without understanding the consequences." She smoothed her fingers over his brow. "Changing the subject a bit, do you think you'll get your job back now?"
"It doesn't matter. If you don't have any objections, I thought I'd go private. Give Blackthorne a little competition. Shifting his hips until she took the hint and opened her legs wider, he added, "On the other hand, I could always work for you. What do you think, Angel? Would it work? Don't you think I'd be a great meeting planner?"
A mild panic assaulted Angela at the thought of spending every working minute of every working day with a man whose planning skills could be engraved on the head of a pin. Fortunately, Hawk's growing arousal and her response distracted them both enough that when she finally said no, he couldn't work with her, he didn't seem to mind.
Much later, as they lay with limbs entwined and her head snuggled into his shoulder, Hawk reached over to snap on the bedside light and gathered the strength he needed for one last question before they slept.
"Angel?"
"Hmm?" She answered without opening her eyes or her mouth.
"This hotel in St. Lucia."
She opened one eye and looked at him. "What about it?"
"Well, since the room is already paid for and you've got over a week left . . ." He yawned and shut his eyes against the questions in hers.
"What about it?" When he just yawned again, she thumped him on his chest with her fist. "Come on, Hawk. Get to the point."
He looked at her through narrowly slitted eyes. "This might sound just the slightest bit tacky—I know the groom usually takes care of the honeymoon arrangements—but I was thinking that if we flew through Reno, we could get married and the hotel room in St. Lucia wouldn't go to waste."
"Let me get this straight, Hawk." Angela propped her elbows on his chest and stared at him. "Is it the honeymoon or the quicky marriage in Reno you're wanting an answer for?"
"Both." Cupping her chin in his hand, he smiled into her eyes. "I thought that with your passion for detail, you'd like to help me s
ettle these tiny ones."
She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled so brightly that the gold bits in her eyes sparkled. "You're learning, Hawk."
"Learning what?"
"Not to leave anything to luck."
"That's right," he said, sliding his fingers into her hair and drawing her close. "I'm leaving it all to love."
* * *
Sitting alone on the screened porch of her North Carolina home, Fiona drank herbal tea and watched contentedly as lightning ripped across the night sky. Suddenly the back of her right hand began to throb and she had to put down the cup so the tea wouldn't slosh out. Before she could do anything to soothe the pain, though, she was struck by the startlingly vivid image of a hawk soaring high and strong. It turned in the wind, and Fiona gasped with pleasure as she saw the angel beneath its wings.
Then they were gone, a union of power and light that took the pain from her hand and left Fiona content with her glimpse of the end.
Night of the Hawk (LS 767) Page 21
