GABRIEL HAWK'S LADY

by Beverly Barton

  "If all you needed was stubbornness and determination, then you'd be prepared right now. But it's going to take physical stamina to swim ashore at night. And depending on what we find when we get to La Vega, we could well end up on foot, in the jungle, climbing up the mountain or just running for our lives in some out-of-the-way village."

  She pointed her index finger at him. "I'll diet, I'll exercise, I'll follow every one of your commands in order to get in shape. All I want is for you to keep your promise to me."

  "It would be so much easier if you'd let me go to San Miguel and get your nephew. You wouldn't have to risk your life—or maybe my life—if you screw up."

  In the end it will be you who must save both Frankie and Gabriel. If you have the courage… If your love is strong enough… Rorie heard Elizabeth's voice predicting the future. Elizabeth couldn't be right, could she? How was it possible that, in the end, it would be up to her to save not only Frankie, but Hawk, as well?

  "I have to go with you to San Miguel. I— You don't understand how I feel," she told him. "Peter and Cipriana trusted me to keep Frankie safe. They left him in my care and I let King Julio take him from me. I have to be the one to rescue him. I have to—" Her voice cracked with emotion. She swallowed the unshed tears trapped in her throat.

  "There was no way you could have stopped the king's men from taking Frankie."

  Grasping her shoulders, Hawk forced her to face him.

  She lifted her chin and glared defiantly into his dark eyes. What would he say if she told him about Elizabeth's prediction? How would he react if she told him that, in her heart of hearts, she believed the prediction?

  He tightened his hold on her and drew her closer, looking down into her beautiful face. She glared at him boldly. Suddenly he noticed that the eyes he'd thought an ordinary blue were, in reality, an azure blue as brilliant and bright as the Caribbean waters surrounding San Miguel.

  "I've known some stubborn women in my time, lady, but you take the cake."

  Her chin quivered. Her eyes misted. Dammit, she was going to cry. He hated weepy females. He didn't tolerate tears. Other men might hang around and put up with a blubbering woman, but he made sure his relationships were so brief that a woman didn't have time to get emotional on him. The few times he'd been caught off guard by a woman's tears, he had walked away. He'd never cared enough to stay.

  Rorie clenched her teeth, refusing to give in to the tears threatening to reveal her weakness to Hawk. Why was he looking at her like that? As if he wanted to strangle her and kiss her at the same time?

  From above them, on the upper level of the house, rose a throbbing, avalanche of musical emotion, so powerful that it took Rorie's breath away. The melody wrapped around her heart as if tying it with a ribbon to present it as a gift.

  A tear dropped from Rorie's eye and trickled down her cheek. She bit down on her bottom lip in an effort to control the feelings raging inside her. Gazing at Hawk, her eyes questioned him.

  He chose to answer the least provocative of her silent questions. "That's Manton playing the piano."

  "The baby grand in the parlor? But how is that possible, if he's deaf?"

  Hawk loosened his tenacious hold on Rorie's shoulders, but did not release her. Instead he slid his hands down her arms to her wrists and slowly eased upward again, stopping at her elbows. When she sucked in her breath, he released her. "Jeannie says he feels the music. That it's inside him. A part of him. A vital part, like his heart or lungs."

  A second tear cascaded down Rorie's cheek. Reaching out, Hawk wiped the moisture from her face. She gasped. Involuntarily, their bodies swayed toward each other. The magical piano concerto enveloped them in its spell, drawing them closer and closer. Almost touching. A hairbreadth separating their straining bodies.

  Rorie had never felt anything so powerful, so absolutely compelling. She could not look away, could not break the hypnotizing eye contact with Hawk. His black gaze devoured her, consuming her with its heat.

  Hawk wanted to pull this woman into his arms and drink his fill of her sweetness. He wanted to lay her down in the big, soft bed and take her with all the wild passion that was riding him so hard.

  The crashing melodic crescendo reached its peak just as the ocean waves burst onto shore. Then the tide washed back out to sea and the music's tone mellowed to a sweet, quiet tenderness.

  "Gabriel?" Why she had used his given name, Rorie would never know. It was as if she had known this man forever, since the dawn of time. As if his name had been the last name on her lips in lifetime after lifetime.

  Hawk forced himself to break the spell, to release them both from the enchantment of Manton's music. What the hell was going on? What was happening to him?

  He stepped backward, putting some distance between Rorie and him. Then he glanced away from her. Get the hell out of here now, he told himself. Turning around, he rushed toward the door, not pausing a second in his flight from her room.

  During his hasty departure, he mumbled, "Good night."

  For several seconds, Rorie stood frozen to the spot, unable to move as Manton's piano recital ended and Hawk slammed her bedroom door in his abrupt departure. Finally she willed herself to move. She walked slowly over to the bed and sat down, then grabbed a feather pillow. Curling into a ball, she clutched the pillow to her stomach and cried silently, not quite sure exactly why her heart was breaking.

  Down the hall, Hawk stormed into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. Stepping beneath the warm spray, he threw back his head and allowed the water to drench him thoroughly.

  He was hot and hard and aching. He hadn't wanted sex this badly since he'd been a teenager and unable to control his raging hormones. He had no idea what had just happened between Rorie and him. All he knew was that it had scared the hell out of him, that he couldn't get away from her fast enough—and that he didn't dare let it happen again.

  Tears didn't affect him. Not anyone's tears—man's, woman's or child's. And yet Rorie's tears had gotten to him. When he'd seen those tears falling down her cheek, all he'd been able to think about was wiping them away—of comforting her. Gabriel Hawk neither gave comfort nor accepted it. Not in the past. Not in the present. And not in the future.

  Rorie Dean didn't mean anything to him. And she never would. Hell, just because he wanted to take her to bed, didn't mean he cared about her.

  As the water covered his body in prickling rivulets, he tried to erase Rorie from his mind. But as the image of her standing there in her thin cotton gown, the outline of her lush body visible in the lamplight, flashed through his mind, his sex hardened painfully. While thinking of a woman he could never have, he gave himself the relief he dared not seek in her virgin body.

  * * *

  The alarm broke through the haze of sleep cocooning Rorie in its peaceful warmth. She lifted her eyelids slowly, then closed them again. When the clock continued its piercing wail, she opened her eyes and focused on the illuminated face of the offensive object. Darkness surrounded her. Reaching out, she punched the Off button on the alarm and sighed sleepily after she'd silenced the deafening beep.

  Ten till five. Oh, Lord, she had ten minutes to get up, use the bathroom and dress before Hawk took control of her life. She threw back the covers, flipped on the bedside lamp, got up and rushed to the bathroom. Hurriedly, she went through her morning routine, except for the eye-opening shower she usually enjoyed. No time for a shower. She threw cold water on her face and peered into the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and puffy and her hair looked like a rat's nest. Running her tongue over her teeth, she grunted.

  Just as she squirted toothpaste on her brush, Rorie heard a loud knock on the outside door. She groaned. Oh, no. Hawk already?

  "It's five o'clock," Hawk yelled. "Up and at 'em. I want you ready for our morning run in five minutes."

  Rorie pulled the toothbrush out of her mouth. "I'll be there!"

  Eight minutes later, she rushed into the foyer. Hawk waited impatie
ntly, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked great, Rorie thought, as if he'd gotten a good night's sleep and was ready to take on the world. On the other hand, she realized that she looked like a woman who had slept less than four hours and was ready for a nap.

  "Have you ever done any running or jogging?" Hawk asked.

  Rorie hated the way he surveyed her plump body. She knew that she looked even fatter in the baggy sweatpants and shirt, which she usually wore when she lounged around the house alone.

  "I walk," she told him. "I've never had any desire to run or jog."

  "Why not? Don't you like to sweat?"

  "As a matter of fact, I don't." She smiled. "Besides, Southern ladies never sweat. We don't even perspire."

  "Then what the hell do you do?"

  "We glow."

  "Damn!" This wasn't going to work, trying to whip some soft, little, glowing Southern belle into shape. He would be fighting a losing cause to try.

  A sudden, unbidden image appeared in his mind. Rorie Dean naked beneath him, her lush body damp and glowing after they'd made passionate love.

  "We'll walk this morning." He sounded too gruff, even to his own ears. Don't take it out on Rorie, just because you need a woman. "We will make as many rounds as you're able to make in an hour, then we'll do some laps in the pool. You can swim, can't you?"

  "Yes, I can swim, thank you very much! I was born in Chattanooga, and whenever we weren't in the mission field, we lived there. Swimming and boating on the Tennessee River are a way of life back home."

  "All right. Let's go. I want to return to the house by six o'clock, then do our laps in the pool and have a quick breakfast. After that, you can take an hour to shower and change before I introduce you to Sam's private gym."

  "Goody, goody. I can hardly wait."

  * * *

  She'd known she would hate walking with Hawk, if you could call his fast-paced canter walking. It was more like a low-speed jog. Time after time, he moved ahead of her, then stopped on the beach and waited for her to catch up. Out of breath, her chest aching and her calves throbbing, Rorie glared at Hawk, who wasn't even breathing hard. The man was in such superb physical condition, she suspected he wasn't human at all—he was some sort of humanoid with circuits and wires inside him instead of blood and bones.

  Standing on a rise above the beach, Hawk shook his head, the look on his face mocking sadness. "Lady, you are one pitiful sight. I suggest you call it quits now, before you kill yourself."

  "No way am I quitting!" She panted as she climbed the knoll to reach him. "Have you ever considered the possibility that one of the reasons I can't keep up with you—besides the fact that I'm not accustomed to this—is that my legs are a lot shorter than yours? You've got to be at least eight inches taller than I am."

  Hawk grinned. "You know, you're crazy. But I must be even crazier to have made such a ludicrous bargain with you. You're going to put yourself through hell with this training program for nothing. There's no way you'll last two whole weeks."

  She wanted to scream at him, to shout that she knew he was trying to break her. That despite the bargain they'd made, he'd never had any intention of taking her to San Miguel. He was so sure she would give up before the time limit expired, so sure she didn't have what it took to withstand his brutal punishment.

  "I'm ready to continue," she said, still slightly out of breath.

  He looked at her. Yellow strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail stuck to the side of her damp face and neck. Her cheeks glowed rosy pink. Her breasts lifted and fell with each labored breath she took.

  "We've been at it for nearly an hour," he said. "It's time to head back to the house for our swim."

  Oh, thrill, thrill! she thought. Now I'm going to get to change into my bathing suit and let him get a good look at my fabulous figure. It wasn't that she disliked her body. A hundred years ago her form had been the ideal. A Lillian Russell hourglass shape. But in today's world, waiflike models and skinny-legged, silicone-breasted actresses were the ideal of beauty. And she didn't have a doubt that Hawk was the type who would appreciate the current trend in long, lean, toned bodies. After all, he himself possessed a rugged, muscular, hard-as-nails body.

  Once back at the house, Rorie took her time changing into her one-piece black swimsuit. The suit wasn't overly revealing or the least bit sexy, but somehow with it on, she felt completely naked. Grabbing one of the huge bath towels from the stack on the wicker wall shelves, she draped it around her hips and overlapped it on one side.

  Bracing her shoulders, she marched out of her room, along the hall, up the stairs and through the house. Hawk waited for her by the pool. She took a really good look at him and wanted to run back to her room and lock the door. He was, without a doubt, the most magnificent man she'd ever seen. Tall and muscular, with a to-die-for body. Sleek bronze skin over finely toned muscles. Long, powerful arms and legs. Jet-black hair that hung loosely down his broad back, like the mane of a stallion.

  And he was naked, except for a pair of tiny black briefs that did absolutely nothing to disguise the well-endowed proportions of his lower body.

  "What took you so long?" he asked. "I thought I was going to have to come and drag you out here."

  "You're exaggerating," she said. "I wasn't gone more than fifteen minutes."

  "I've been waiting at least twenty minutes." His gaze traveled the length of her body, as if taking inventory. "Get rid of the towel and come over here."

  Reluctantly, she loosened the towel, pulled it off and tossed it onto a nearby lounge chair. She felt as naked as the day she was born. Move it, she told herself. Get your behind over there and do what you have to do. It doesn't matter what Hawk thinks of your body. You don't care whether or not he thinks you're fat. You're not here to impress him with your beauty. You're here to fulfill the stipulations of a bargain.

  Hawk watched her walk slowly toward him. "Get the lead out, lady. We're running behind schedule as it is."

  She marched over to him, her chin held high, her cheeks slightly flushed. She stopped directly in front of him and narrowed her gaze, focusing on his face.

  He wasn't quite sure what he had expected Rorie to look like in a bathing suit. Fat and soft and unattractive, maybe. Well, if she'd been in a skimpy bikini she might have looked fat. But in the black one-piece she wore, she looked voluptuous, flawless, pale-ivory skin. Soft flesh covering a surprisingly firm body. Large breasts swelling out of the top of the modestly-cut swimsuit bodice. And a mane of golden blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders.

  "I'm ready," she said.

  After they'd done several laps, Hawk dragged himself up onto the edge of the pool. Rorie halted in the middle of her lap and swam over to him, but stayed in the water.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "You're a damn good swimmer," he said. "Not quite fast enough, but with practice…" What the hell was he saying? With practice, she would become fast and strong enough to swim the distance from a raft a half-mile offshore to the secluded beach on San Miguel?

  "I'm surprised that you'll admit I'm not a total flop in the physical-fitness department."

  "All I said was that you're a good swimmer," Hawk told her. "That alone doesn't prepare you for making this trip with me."

  "Give me the next thirteen days and I'll prove to you that I'll be able to go on this mission." She smiled at him.

  Hawk hated the way she smiled. With warm, genuine welcome. A friendly, happy smile. He was used to women whose smiles were coy and flirty and cunning. And usually fake. There was nothing fake about Rorie or her smile. She was the genuine article. A good woman. No, not just a woman—a sweet, old-fashioned lady, with an innocence untouched by cruel, ugly reality.

  Angered by his own feelings, Hawk pushed Rorie to make as many laps in the pool as she possibly could; and then he demanded that she make one more. If he was going to break her, he couldn't allow his admiration for her determination or his respect for her as a person to interfer
e with his plans.

  * * *

  Rorie hated Hawk. He was a Machiavellian monster. How could he sit there and devour a plate of bacon, eggs and toast, while she scraped the bottom of her yogurt container and eyed the carrot sticks on the table with disgust? He'd done it deliberately—fed her rabbit food while he feasted on a real breakfast. It was part of his plan to make her give up. She slammed the empty yogurt container down on the table and picked up a carrot stick.

  "Take the carrots with you up to your room, if you'd like," Hawk said. "You've got less than an hour before we start our morning workout in the gym."

  His smile was more wicked than ever, which tempted Rorie to wipe that sinister grin off his face. But she was a believer in nonviolence, in a peaceful solution to every problem. She smiled weakly at him, snatched up a handful of carrot sticks and stormed out of the kitchen.

  During the next thirty minutes, she ate all the carrot sticks while she rested on the bed in her room. Noting how quickly the time had passed, she jumped up and ran into the bathroom. After a rushed shower, she secured her wet hair with an elasticized hair ribbon, pulled on her shorts, T-shirt, socks and sneakers, then raced out of her room and down the hallway.

  A somber Hawk, arms folded over his chest, waited for her. "Maybe we need to synchronize our watches. Yours seems to be running a little slower than mine."

  "Lighten up, will you? Five or ten minutes one way or another isn't going to matter, and you know it!"

  Hawk grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger and tilted her head upward so that she was forced to look directly at him. "You're right. Here on Le Bijou Bleu, five or ten minutes doesn't matter. But on San Miguel, being just a couple of minutes off could mean the difference between life and death."