“Thanks,” he said, his voice husky, slow.
The pain pill was obviously taking effect. Derry looked past Angel to Hawk.
“When do you want . . . to start your . . . grand tour?” Derry asked, speaking in slow motion.
For an instant Hawk almost felt sorry for Angel, neatly trapped by a young blond charmer. Then the corner of Hawk’s mouth lifted in a curve well short of a smile. Derry’s charm was a real force, a radiance like the sun that encouraged people to come and warm themselves.
But Hawk hadn’t seen any sign that Derry was a liar or a cheat. Derry could no more help his easy charm than he could help the fact that he had ten fingers and toes. Derry was unspoiled by women and lies.
Hawk would see that it stayed that way.
“Tomorrow is soon enough,” said Hawk. “Until Angel is sure that you can take care of yourself, her heart won’t be in her work.”
Angel’s head came up. “What are you two talking about?” she demanded.
Derry looked back at Angel. He squinted, trying to focus through the effects of the pill.
“Taking Hawk . . . around,” Derry managed. “I . . . can’t.”
Angel looked up at Hawk, surprise clear in the eyes that were too large for her face.
“Do you know what Derry’s talking about?” Angel asked, worried.
Through the pain pill’s haze, Derry heard Angel’s words fade in and out of his consciousness. He knew that he had to make her understand how important it was that she help Hawk, but his tongue just wouldn’t form the words.
Suddenly Derry realized how much of his strength had drained away, how weak he had become. He began to fight the effects of the pill, something close to panic in his body and voice.
“Angie?”
Angel felt the bunching of Derry’s muscles beneath her hand. She spoke quickly, remembering her own feeling of helplessness in the hospital three years ago, the shots that whirled her down into darkness, taking away even the power to scream.
Except in her mind. She had screamed there, endlessly, caught in barbiturate chains.
“Don’t fight the pill,” Angel said urgently. “Do you hear me, Derry? Don’t fight it. Let go, Derry. Let go. It’s all right.”
“Can’t . . . Hawk.”
“I’ll take care of Hawk,” Angel said instantly. “Let go, Derry. I’m here.”
She stroked Derry’s forehead and his cheek, focusing only on him, willing him to be calm.
“It’s all right now,” Angel said quietly, her voice like a benediction. “Sleep, Derry. I’m here.”
Derry’s eyes focused on Angel for an instant. He took a ragged breath, nodded slowly, and stopped struggling.
Only then did Angel realize that Hawk had come to her side, helping her by holding Derry’s shoulders in a powerful vise. Without Hawk, she wouldn’t have been able to contain Derry’s struggle to sit up.
“Thank you,” Angel said to Hawk, her voice soft. “Derry will be all right now. He just had a bad moment when he realized that the pill was stronger than he was. The helplessness is frightening.”
Angel’s fingers clenched as she remembered three years ago—pain and helplessness and rage.
Hawk saw. Without stopping to think, he took her hand between his and gently pried her fingers open. He stroked her fingers, surprised by their chill.
“Derry is as strong as he is charming,” Hawk said, warming Angel’s hands between his. “He’ll be fine.”
With an effort, Angel forced her hands to relax. The heat of Hawk’s skin was almost shocking.
She looked up suddenly and found herself reflected in the hard clarity of Hawk’s eyes. Reflected and . . . measured. His eyes were not nearly so soothing as the slow rhythm of his hands rubbing warmth into hers.
Suddenly Angel felt wholly vulnerable, as though she were naked and an ice-tipped wind was sweeping down out of the dark sky to claim her.
Angel eased her hands free of Hawk’s. She returned to stroking Derry’s hair, but this time the soothing contact was more for herself than for him.
Silently Hawk watched, following every movement of Angel’s hands, her eyes, the last of the sunlight sliding like a caress over her pale hair. And most of all he watched the slow rise and fall of her breasts beneath midnight silk.
The fact that Hawk wanted Angel didn’t surprise him. The fact that he had wanted to comfort her did.
The sooner I get her into bed, the better. I’ve never seen an actress who portrays both strength and vulnerability so easily.
So convincingly.
Only in bed will the act fall apart, freeing me from her soft fascination and lies.
“What was Derry talking about?” Angel asked after a few minutes of silence.
“You mean the grand tour?” asked Hawk.
Without looking away from Derry, Angel nodded her head in agreement. The motions sent strands of her hair whispering over each other.
Hawk wanted to wrap a curling tendril around his finger and then slowly release it, letting the silk and radiance of Angel’s hair caress the sensitive skin between his fingers.
“I’ve never spent any time in the Pacific Northwest,” Hawk said. “Frankly, I don’t know a damn thing about the countryside. Before I build an enclave of exclusive homes, I want to be sure that I have more to offer buyers than high-priced houses and an expensive resort complex.”
Angel waited, her hands still, her fingers relaxed due to an act of will that made her ache. The thought of selling Eagle Head made her want to cry or scream or plead with Hawk not to buy.
Yet selling Eagle Head was the only way Derry could afford the eight years of advanced education and training that being a surgeon would require.
Angel would not stand in the way of that. No matter how much she loved Eagle Head, she loved Derry more.
“That’s where you come in,” Hawk said, his voice as expressionless as his eyes. “You’re my tour guide.”
“What?” Angel asked, not quite believing she had heard Hawk correctly.
“The way Derry is now, he would have a hell of a time getting in and out of a car, much less a boat,” Hawk said, his voice matter-of-fact.
Angel’s hand stilled.
“Beach walking would be impossible,” Hawk continued. “Especially down these cliff trails.”
Angel said nothing.
“Derry said you could do it,” Hawk said, watching her closely. “In fact, he said you were a better fisherman than he was. Better at clamming, too. He said you could cook like a European chef and knew all the best places to be for a hundred miles in all directions.”
“He exaggerates.”
Hawk shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
Angel looked only at Derry.
Then, coolly, Hawk added, “You do understand that I won’t buy a pig in a poke. No tour, no sale. Sorry, but that’s the way life is. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
Hawk watched the realization sink into Angel. No tour. No sale.
And no money for her twenty-five percent of the land.
Derry had told Hawk about that—Angel and a quarter of Eagle Head. Hawk assumed that it was payment for services rendered. How else could Angel afford to laze away three months of the year and her holidays, too?
Somebody had to pay for the privilege of Angel’s company. A quarter interest in Eagle Head wasn’t bad wages for three years of “work.”
Angel didn’t see Hawk’s cynical appraisal of her. She was watching Derry, seeing the shadows of pain and sleeplessness beneath his tanned skin. Derry looked very young, but she knew that he wasn’t. Not really.
No one who had lived through the wreck three years ago would ever be young again. Inexperienced, yes. Young, no.
Angel sighed.
Derry must like Hawk very much to promise him me as a tour guide, Angel thought unhappily.
Derry, too, must have sensed the loneliness beneath Hawk’s proud surface. As lonely as a hawk riding a cold wind. And as compelling.
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Power and grace and darkness, eyes that see all the way through to the core.
Angel’s hand hesitated over Derry’s hair, then resumed stroking him almost absently.
There’s no real reason not to show Hawk the leisure possibilities of the Pacific Northwest. I would spend my summer roaming the Vancouver Island and the Inside Passage anyway.
It’s hardly too much to ask that I take Hawk along, and in so doing help Derry fulfill a dream.
Angel looked up at Hawk, not surprised to find that he had been watching her. She met his hard, enigmatic eyes without flinching.
“How long will you need me?” Angel asked calmly.
A corner of Hawk’s mouth turned down in a cynical curve. Not more than a night or two, I’ll bet.
But the thought went no further than Hawk’s narrowed eyes. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, without emotion of any kind.
“Six weeks at most,” Hawk said. “That’s all the time I can afford. I have several other land deals coming together.”
Hawk frowned faintly. He had an intricate, interlocking network of stock and land sales that should culminate within six weeks. Then he would either be a great deal richer or he would get to start all over again.
Either way, it would be exciting.
That was what mattered to Hawk. Not the money, but the adrenaline. He had made and lost several fortunes since he quit racing. As in racing, he preferred winning in business to losing or crashing.
But win or lose, the adrenaline flowed. The discovery, the pursuit, the kill. The endless cycle, endlessly exciting, telling Hawk that he was alive.
“Six weeks,” repeated Angel, keeping her voice level with an effort.
“On and off. I’ll be flying in and out.” Hawk gave Angel a dark-eyed glance. “We can hammer out a tentative schedule. You tell me what’s available to see and do, and we’ll figure out the best times for both of us.”
Angel nodded absently.
“No promises,” Hawk added. “I may not like what I see. If I don’t, no sale.”
Angel looked at Derry. Despite the barbiturate’s embrace, he stirred restively and made a small sound. His pain had merely been put at a greater distance, not vanquished.
For an instant Angel’s hand hesitated in its soothing journey as she realized how many times Derry had sat by her bed, watched her restless sleep, and heard her whimper as unconsciousness released the harsh guard she kept on her emotions.
So many times she had awakened to his affectionate smile and encouraging You look better today.
There was really no question about helping Derry. If Hawk needed Angel as a guide for six weeks or six years, she would be there.
Gently, Angel’s hand resumed smoothing back Derry’s springy blond hair.
“Fine,” Angel said quietly, not looking up at Hawk again. “Whatever is necessary.”
5
It was still dark outside, almost an hour until dawn. Angel worked quietly in the kitchen, putting food into grocery bags, wrapping sandwiches, and turning strips of bacon in the pan.
When she heard the thump of Derry’s crutches in the hallway, she peeled off another handful of bacon and put the strips into the pan to fry.
“You’re up early,” Angel said, turning to smile at Derry. “Did I wake you?”
“No.”
Derry grimaced as he shifted his weight. Normally he was cheerful—maddeningly so—in the morning. His present state told Angel that his ankle was throbbing.
“How did you sleep?” she asked, searching his face.
Derry glowered. Between that and his tousled blond curls, he looked a surly sixteen.
“Lousy,” he muttered. “I feel hung over.”
“You look it, too. Orange juice?”
Yawning, ruffling his hair with one hand, Derry nodded.
“Please,” he said. Then, hopefully, “Coffee?”
“Sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”
While Derry went to the little breakfast nook that had a view of the strait, Angel fixed up a tray with coffee, juice, toast, and homemade jams. The latter were courtesy of Mrs. Carey, a neighbor who made the best jams on Vancouver Island. Two months ago she had tripped over her cat and broken her hip. The cast was off now, but Angel still shopped for her, as well as for two other temporary shut-ins.
“Where’s Hawk?” Derry asked as Angel set the tray on the table.
“Telephone.”
Derry shook his head. “He works too hard. The sun isn’t even up.”
“It is in London. He’s talking to Lord Someone-or-other.”
“Must be the island he’s trying to buy.”
“A whole island?” asked Angel.
“Yeah,” Derry said. “He wants to turn it into a cracking plant for North Sea oil.”
Angel hesitated, then went back to the stove.
“Hawk must be very rich,” she said.
“I guess. When I asked the bank to check him out as a potential buyer for Eagle Head, I got no further than the name Miles Hawkins. Old Man Johnston’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Orange juice,” Angel said.
Obediently Derry drank the juice.
“Hawk has quite a reputation in what Johnston refers to as ‘the international financial community,’ ” Derry added. “A bona-fide high roller.”
Derry paused long enough to take several long swallows of the fragrant coffee. Sighing, he looked hopefully at the coffee pot.
Smiling, Angel picked up the coffee pot and topped off his cup.
“Odd, though,” Derry said after a moment. “Hawk doesn’t act rich.”
Shrugging, Angel returned to the bacon.
“How does someone ‘act rich’?” she asked.
“You know. Throwing money everywhere. Dropping the names of the right resorts, the right people. Private jets and cars faster than the speed of light.”
“Like Clarissa?”
Derry paused, then sighed. “Yeah. She was something else, wasn’t she?”
Angel suppressed a smile.
“I’d tell you what that something was,” Angel offered, “but I’m not supposed to know the word. Thank God you saw through her, Derry. She was gorgeous, sure, but she had the intelligence of a clam.”
“You’re slandering clams,” Derry said dryly.
Smiling openly, Angel set strips of bacon out to drain on paper towels.
“How many eggs?” she asked.
“Five.”
“Hungry, aren’t you?”
“I slept through dinner, remember?”
“Ummm,” Angel said, wielding a chopper over the crisp bacon.
She remembered dinner very well. She and Hawk had spent an hour working on a schedule. She had made up a list of things to do and the approximate times involved in doing them right. Hawk had scanned the list very quickly and set it aside.
Then Hawk had questioned Angel in detail, missing none of the thirty-seven items on the list that he had looked at for less than sixty seconds. His questions had been concise and incisive. At the end of the hour Angel had felt wrung out.
When Hawk had all the information he required, he—without looking at the list again—wrote out a tentative schedule, handed Angel several thousand dollars for expenses, and excused himself.
Hawk had spent the next hour talking to Tokyo’s equivalent of the stock exchange.
The beaten eggs hissed as they slid into the hot omelet pan. Angel swirled the pan deftly, adding ingredients as the omelet formed. Her hand hovered over the mounds of freshly prepared ingredients heaped on the breadboard by the stove.
“Mushrooms?” she asked.
“The works,” said Derry instantly.
The omelet thickened, glistening with melting cheese. Just as Angel folded it in half, a timer went off.
She slid Derry’s omelet onto a warm plate, then pulled a pan of croissants out of the oven and put them into a napkin-lined bun warmer. The marvelous fragrance of fresh croissants and steaming
omelet preceded her to the table.
Derry smiled up at her.
“Thanks, Angie,” he said softly. “This beats hell out of peanut butter and toast.”
“Anything beats that.”
“Creamed liverwurst?” Derry asked innocently.
Angel shuddered.
Derry took a bite of the omelet and sighed. “Clarissa was right about one thing,” he said.
“Oh?”
“You’re gonna spoil me for any other woman.”
Angel laughed and ruffled Derry’s hair affectionately. Then she turned to go back to the stove—and nearly walked right into Hawk.
“Oh!” Angel stepped back, her eyes wide and startled. “Good Lord, but you’re light on your feet!”
Hawk simply looked down at Angel with a cold expression. The planes of his face seemed unusually harsh, his eyes black in the artificial light.
Angel would have backed away even farther but Derry’s plaster-encased leg prevented it.
“Didn’t you sleep well?” Angel asked, searching Hawk’s face.
“As well as I ever do.” Hawk’s voice was clipped, as cold as his eyes raking over her.
He turned and picked up a mug from the counter. Then he grabbed the coffee pot and poured a dark stream into the mug. As he took a sip of coffee, he eyed the omelet ingredients heaped colorfully on the counter.
“Sit down,” Angel said quickly to Hawk. “How many eggs do you want in your omelet?”
“Don’t bother.” Hawk gave her a dark glance. “I’d hate like hell to be spoiled for other women.”
Derry made a choking sound that rapidly escalated into unrestrained laughter.
Angel’s lips flattened in the instant before her normal control asserted itself. She wished she could find Hawk’s caustic comments as entertaining as Derry did. Instead, she forever seemed to take them personally.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Angel said, crossing quickly to the stove. “How many eggs?”
“Six.”
Angel looked startled. She glanced covertly at Hawk and realized that he was even bigger than she had remembered. He had to be at least six foot three, lean, hard, and very male.
Somehow the casual clothing Hawk wore now revealed his size more than the civilized three-piece suit he had worn yesterday. The black pullover that fitted his chest so well was patterned after Irish fishermen’s sweaters. Just standing there, he looked unreasonably large, his shoulders wide enough to block out the light.
A Woman Without Lies Page 4