The Hawk and the Lamb

by Susan Napier

  ‘I understand you want to challenge the house?'

  Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her seat when the question purred in her ear. The sights and sounds of the casino faded in again, along with a shuddering awareness of the man standing just behind her, the hand he had placed on the velvet padding of her chair touching her back. Her bare back. The little black dress that she had hurriedly bought from the hotel's exclusive fashion boutique late this afternoon was as revealing as it was expensive—scooping almost to the dimples in the base of her spine at the back and deeply square across her breasts in front, baring more of their fullness than had her modest swimsuit.

  She tilted her head to look at him, at an angle that she knew would give him a splendid view of her cleavage. 'What is the house limit?'

  His eyes ignored the unsubtle invitation, his smile a thin slash in a face that was coolly unreadable as he looked at the untidy heap of chips in front of her.

  'For you? The sky.' He nodded curtly to the croupier and the wheel began to spin. ‘I hope you're feeling lucky tonight, Beth.'

  She made herself laugh softly at the hint of threat. 'Why? You're the one who could lose his shirt.'

  She flicked a provocative finger at the pearl buttons on his white shirt, slightly amazed at her temerity. In black trousers and tie and a white jacket he almost looked like the archetypal conservative sophisticate until you noticed the reckless counterpoint of the sleeked-back hair and flash of gold in his ear.

  ‘I’m not playing and the house is well cushioned against the whims of high-rollers,' he murmured, the merest glint in his eyes suggesting that he wasn’t as cool as he seemed to be. 'Do you know how much you're staking here?'

  'No more than I can afford to lose,' she said airily, unwilling to admit she didn’t and annoyed that his eyes still hadn’t wandered to her blatantly wicked dress. Was he blind? Why was it when you wanted a man to ogle you he wouldn’t? She picked up her fresh martini and defiantly tossed it off with one gulp.

  'How many of those have you had?' He sounded vaguely disapproving. He who had practically plied her with drinks that very afternoon. Hypocrite!

  'Dozens!' she lied, smiling at him brilliantly. Damn it, she would get a response from him. She half turned in her seat, draping her elbow over his hand on the chair-back so he could see how the clever slit in her square bodice parted tantalisingly with the movement. 'Your staff obviously know how to take care of a winner!'

  While everyone else's attention had been riveted on the dance and bounce of the ball over the red and black pockets, Jack was grimly amused to notice that his novice high-roller didn’t seem to give a damn what was hap­pening on the table. Whatever game she was playing, it obviously wasn’t motivated by avarice.

  ‘I, on the other hand, am an expert at consoling the losers,' he said suavely, 'which you must admit is by far a more challenging task. I look forward to your com­ments on my technique.'

  She glared suspiciously at the hand he held out.

  'Why should I?'

  'Because, ma chère, I'm afraid your luck just changed infinitely for the worse. You just lost your entire thirty thousand francs.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NEARLY nine thousand New Zealand dollars!

  Elizabeth glared over at the man dealing with the gold-foiled top of a champagne bottle in the small but luxuriously equipped kitchen. It wasn’t the first time Jack had invited her into his suite of rooms, but it was the first time she had been reckless enough to accept. Normally she would have been gazing around intently, curious to see how he lived, but at the moment she couldn’t care less.

  If she had known what her chips had been worth she never would have thrown them away with that last, stupid bet. Why, with that much money she might have been able to bribe somebody into forgetting their loyalty to Hawk Hotels long enough to help her. As it was she was left with Plan A which, having got her this far, was rapidly losing its angry momentum.

  'You might find it a little breezy outside on the veranda at this time of night, so why don’t we just sit in here with the french doors open ...?’

  Elizabeth took the glass that Jack handed her and in­haled the heady burst of bubbles as she followed him over to the deep-cushioned white leather couch that faced the dark, quiet bay. Although the casino and hotel disco were still open there was no sight or sound of activity at this end of the grounds. They might as well be alone together on a desert island, Elizabeth thought nervously as she sank into the thick cushions. She expected Jack to sit down beside her but instead he chose the far end of the couch, his body angled towards her. He had shed his jacket and the black tie dangled freely from one point of his loosened collar, his white shirt unbuttoned just enough that she could see the beginnings of the dark pelt of hair that covered his chest.

  The light from the standard lamp behind him threw half his face into shadow and the half that she could see clearly was darkly saturnine, and her misgivings in­creased. He had seemed perfectly receptive a few minutes ago when she had accepted his offer of a champagne consolation prize for her spectacular losses. When she had realised that he intended her to have it at the casino bar she had pinned on her best pout and suggested somewhere a little more private.

  A brief spark of fire had glowed in the silver eyes. 'How private is a little more?' he had murmured, his hand firm on her waist as he guided her away from the roulette table, his thigh brushing hers as they navigated the crowd.

  ‘I... there's something I need to talk to you about...' She thought the little stammer was a nice touch, and through her long, dark lashes she gave him the kind of glance calculated to fan that silver glow into a smoulder. ‘It's rather... awkward and I'd prefer to keep it just be­tween the two of us.'

  The hand on her waist, by accident or design, slipped from her hip to rest on the bare skin at the base of her spine, and Elizabeth nearly went through the roof at the warm friction of his palm.

  'Would my office do?'

  Of course he would have one, even though he didn’t seem to spend any time there. The hotel he managed ran so smoothly that there was bound to be mountains of behind-the-scenes work, particularly for someone like Jack whose lazy public persona existed in tandem with a private man whose former profession had trained mind and body to be extremely exacting and disciplined in everything he did.

  'Well.,.' She balked at the idea of trying to seduce Jack's unwitting assistance in an environment where he was used to being on his mettle. She needed him relaxed and completely off-guard. ‘It's very personal. I don’t think I'd be comfortable with a desk between us...' she said coyly.

  'Of course.. .my place it is, then,' he had responded with smooth alacrity. 'And fortunately I already have champagne on ice...'

  Elizabeth sipped the bubbly as she contemplated her nervous dilemma. How did you seduce a man without letting him seduce you...especially one as attractive and sexually confident as Jack Hawkwood? If women were throwing themselves at him all the time—as seemed to be the case—he must be extremely blasé and unlikely to easily lose his head. And how did you seduce him without actually seducing him? For she had no intention of opening that particular Pandora's box of problems for herself. It was he who had to be out of control, not her...

  Jack let the silence stretch out nerve-rackingly before he rescued her from her quandary by asking softly over the top of his glass, 'Well, Beth, what is this awkward personal matter that you wish to talk about?'

  ‘It's about why I came to the Isle of Hawks...' She looked down at her champagne and idly stirred the bubbles with one finger, thinking that she really should have had the hotel beauty salon do her nails at the same time they'd swept her hair into the sophisticated pleat that had suited her mental image of a vamp. She sucked the sparkling droplets from her finger, looking up just in time to see Jack's tongue touch his upper lip as if he was imitating her action in his thoughts. She flushed, the pretty speech that she had rehearsed all evening evaporating from her head.

  'Uncle Simon—I—
he's-'

  'A private detective?' offered Jack helpfully.

  'You know.' Relief swept through her as her sus­picions were confirmed. She wasn’t betraying anything that wasn’t already discovered. 'You probably know the rest of what I'm going to tell you, then.'

  'Probably,' he agreed mildly. 'And what I don’t know I can make a fairly accurate guess at, but I'd like to hear it in your own words.'

  Of course he would. He wanted to rub her nose in her foolishness. She tilted her chin proudly and gave him the edited highlights of the Corvell case, including the initial mix-up at the airport, without mentioning how reluctant a participant she had been. However, she had reckoned without his wicked sense of humour and infuriating intelligence.

  ‘If your uncle thinks you're a good example of a cloak-and-dagger operative,' he commented drily when she finally petered into silence, ‘It's a wonder his agency hasn’t gone belly up by now. You couldn’t have drawn more attention to what you were doing if you'd worn a neon sign. You, ma chère, have got a lot to learn about covert operations—'

  'Thank you, but I don’t wish to learn any more!' she snapped, forgetting her supplicant's role.

  He tilted his head. 'Lost your taste for excitement already, chérie?’ he murmured.

  She drank her champagne sullenly, feeling that control of the situation was rapidly escaping her uncertain grasp.

  'Or was your Uncle Simon just trying to inject some much needed colour and verve into your highly or­ganised existence at some advantage to himself? All work and no play digs Eliza-Beth into a very dull home rut. With your university job and your domestic responsi­bility for your uncles and their eccentric business you seem to have precious little active social life for an un­attached twenty-five-year-old...'

  She visibly simmered at his mocking description of her hitherto contented life. 'You have been a busy boy,' she said nastily.

  Her sarcasm fell very flat. 'Man, chérie, man—there's a very important distinction there which I would be enchanted to demonstrate. But I'm sure you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t realised that...'

  She wasn’t entirely sure whether he was referring to her confession of something he already knew or her opinion of his masculinity, so she decided that she might as well take her chances. She leaned forward to set her empty glass on the coffee-table in front of her, aware of the soft light from the lamp falling across her pro­vocative cleavage, the pale swell of her breasts mantled with a faint blush from the long day's unaccustomed exposure to sun and alcohol.

  'Oh, I'm sure I've experienced enough social life in my dull existence to make my own distinctions,' she said huskily. She slipped off her high-heeled shoes and flexed her legs, tipping her head back against the raised arm of the sofa as she groaned softly. 'Oh, that feels good; those shoes pinch terribly, but they were the only ones that went with my dress.' She half closed her eyes, looking at him through the lashes, a little thrill passing through her at the wickedness of her intent. ‘I bought it after I saw it in the window of the hotel boutique this afternoon.'

  He could scarcely avoid the compliment she invited, but he made it uniquely and scandalously his own.

  ‘I thought I recognised it. Or is it the body under­neath that seems so familiar? Your superb breasts are exquisitely memorable and you have the most beautiful back I've ever seen... or touched.' He toasted her with his glass, and with a caressing survey that extended from the top of her sleek head to the tips of her toes. ‘I think it may have something to do with your paleness, when every other woman in the casino tonight was flaunting a leathery tan. Your legs, too, are wonderfully dis­played ... but isn’t it hot wearing black tights in this climate?'

  Trust Jack to so effortlessly discompose her, but Elizabeth was determined not to let him see how bone-deep her blushing reaction went. She had worn black to slim her legs, not to emphasise them, after she had realised that the dress was shorter than it had looked on the mannequin.

  ‘I’m not wearing tights,' she told him archly. ‘I find stockings much cooler and... freer...'

  And with that outrageous comment she lifted her legs and placed her feet boldly across his thighs, lying back against the cushions piled on the end of the couch. 'Would you mind helping iron out the kinks? My feet do ache so from those high heels ...'

  For a fleeting moment all expression was wiped clean from his face then, wordlessly, he bent and set his own glass down on the floor, and cupped one of her feet with both hands, looking at it with a hungry, sensual curve to his mouth as if he was contemplating taking a bite out of it. Slowly he adjusted his grip, one large hand running caressingly over the top of her foot to bracelet her ankle, the other beginning to knead the tender sole firmly.

  'Why do you wear heels if they hurt your feet?'

  ‘I need the extra inches,' she murmured, closing her eyes. She had never had her feet rubbed before and was alarmed at how good it felt.

  'Too short, too big...is there anything about yourself that you are happy with?' he said wryly, rubbing his fingers along the base of her toes and up underneath them with a rhythmic insistence that made her gasp inaudibly.

  'My brain,' she said smartly, to counteract the tingling tendrils of warmth that were darting up her legs.

  'Mmm... and what is your brain telling you now, chérie?'

  He was massaging the ball of her foot, and to her dismay his question was rapidly becoming un­answerable. She opened her eyes, the better to divorce herself from the blissful sensations that were turning the aforesaid brain to mush, and found him watching her.

  'Er—that what you're doing feels good,' she said stupidly.

  He smiled faintly and only with his mouth, his eyes remaining glitteringly intent. 'And this, does this feel good, too?' he murmured. His hand moved and pressed and something melted deep inside her. With horror Elizabeth wondered if her foot was one of her uncharted erogenous zones, which, given her potentially explosive libido, was quite possible. If so, she had just made an awful mistake.

  'F-fine. Great. Er—that's much better, thank you. I think that's enough now-'

  She tried to repossess her legs but he prevented her by the simple tactic of splaying the hand on her ankle to encompass both and pinning them firmly against his rock-hard thigh.

  'Nonsense,' he purred, 'we're just getting started. Do you know, Beth, that there are some who believe that by massaging certain parts of the soles of the feet you can benefit certain parts of the body... ?'

  'Really?' she said faintly, more trapped than she would have been if he had captured her hands. With her short skirt she couldn’t struggle without subjecting him to flagrant indecency.

  'Yes, really. Here, for example. When I press just here do you feel a response somewhere else in your body...?' It was auto-suggestion, it had to be, she told herself des­perately as his eyes slid to her breasts and they began to ache within the tight confines of her dress.

  'No...' Her voice was stifled as she tried to control her breathing.

  'Then here...?'

  ‘No!' She came up off the cushions, her torso sup­ported on her braced arms, her knees pressed tightly together, legs stiffening.

  He knew. Damn it, he knew what he was doing to her. It was there in that infuriatingly sensual smile.

  'Jack, that's enough-'

  'What about here...?'

  'Jack!' His hand caressed the sole of her foot once more and slid abruptly up the underside of her stock­inged calf, cupping the rounded flesh briefly before stroking up to the back of her knee. Her legs auto­matically bent to escape the sizzling contact, her narrow skirt riding dangerously up her thighs, her imprisoned feet twisting more deeply into his lap as she tried to jerk them free.

  She stilled, a wild warmth flushing her body as she registered the hardness nestling against her heels that was not his thigh. Her toes curled involuntarily, scrunching the dark fabric covering his inner thigh as she realised that he was not the cool, controlled tormentor of her frightened imagination, that he w
as as aroused by the game she had instigated as she had been...perhaps more so.

  Suddenly her misplaced confidence came rushing back. If she was trapped then so was he—far more obviously so. Why, he was practically seducing himself. This was going to be like taking candy from a baby!

  She stopped trying to wrest herself away from his hold and tilted her head back, her lips parting, an expression of unconscious and very feminine cunning crossing her face, making her look as sultry as the archetypal vamp she had been attempting to emulate.

  Warily Jack removed his hands from her legs, not taking his eyes off hers, watching the violet gaze become dark and heavy-lidded. Instead of taking advantage of her freedom Elizabeth flexed her feet experimentally. The breath came hissing through his teeth.

  'Eliza-Beth.'

  Now it was his turn to admonish in a slow drawl that hinted of darker passions. She pouted, her small pink mouth an erotic counterpoint to the huge purple eyes.

  'Yes, Jack?' she enquired innocently. She moved her feet again and a low rumble vibrated in his chest and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs.

  'What are you doing?'

  'Waiting for you to finish my foot massage.'

  ‘I thought you'd cried "enough".'

  He sounded wry, but his expression was anything but. Even with his tan she could see the dark blood that had risen in his face, the faint flare to his nostrils with each rapid inhalation.

  ‘It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind.' She relaxed her arms and leaned back against the arm of the couch again, in an attitude of conscious abandon. Having spent years successfully repressing her powerful sexual urges, Elizabeth was finding the freedom of pro­vocative man-woman banter a headily addictive experience.

  'Do you really want me to continue what I was doing?'

  He might have relinquished control of his body but he was some way from losing his head. Elizabeth needed his thoughts as clouded as her own had been a few mo­ments ago.