Night of the Hawk (LS 767)

by Victoria Leigh

  She felt his hands fall away from her shoulders, but she couldn't seem to move or even breathe very well as she stared toward the flames that glowed in pockets between the softly rising waves. "Did Hawk know about the explosion?"

  "He planned it."

  That confirmed what Angela already thought about Hawk's plan. The blanket materialized around her shoulders again, and she stood beside Peter and waited for news as the sandy beach behind them turned into a parking lot for a half-dozen vehicles.

  Angela prayed as she waited, because if Hawk didn't come back to her, she was quite sure she'd never forgive him. Being that angry with Hawk wasn't how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. She had other plans for the two of them, plans that rated ten out of ten and she couldn't wait to share them with him.

  If he just came back. If he survived. At her side, Peter continued giving orders, listened to reports, and looked through first one pair of binoculars, then the other ones that she supposed were for night vision. He was one of several men who had been waiting on the beach when she and her escort of three had surfaced from the deep, slogging in cautious silence through the knee-high surf to the sand.

  She'd been told about the men in the dinghy when she had demanded to know what they were doing about Hawk. Peter hadn't had a chance to say anything more, because the flares had gone up then and she'd been too spellbound by the show to press him.

  The first burst of gunfire had sent her heartbeat into triple time, but Peter had reassured her without taking his eyes from the field glasses he had trained on the Sea Charmer that the shots had been fired from the dinghy, that Hawk was not the target. She'd just begun to breathe again when a second burst made Peter swear and say something she didn't catch into the transmitter at his wrist. He didn't get an answer, and it seemed to Angela that he hadn't expected one. He was waiting for something, though, because for the third time since she'd begun counting, Peter checked his watch.

  Moments later, when the explosion rent the night sky and flaming pieces of the Sea Charmer fell to the burning sea, she knew it was what he'd been waiting for.

  Another dinghy was launched from the shore, this one mounted with a searchlight that swept from side to side across the waves. Peter left her for a moment, and when he came back he pressed a cup of coffee into her hand. She didn't want it, but accepted it anyway because he seemed like the kind of man who didn't take no for an answer.

  "The divers should be in the area now," he said. "The men in the first dinghy are searching the perimeter of the wreckage, but they've only got the light of the fire to see by."

  "If Hawk was still on the Sea Charmer, he's dead." Angela said it because they were searching the wreckage, not the sea around it, and that meant the worst.

  "The men in the dinghy saw him go over the side thirty, maybe forty seconds before it blew."

  She turned her head very slowly to meet Peter's gaze. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

  "The second burst of gunfire wasn't ours," he said after a moment. "We don't know if he was hit before he went into the water. The men didn't see him again."

  She blanched, then gathered her courage and the few shreds of hope she had left and stared back out across the black sea with its diamond-tipped waves. Hawk was out there, and he was alive. It wasn't just that she wanted to believe it. She had to believe it.

  The Hawk she knew wouldn't swoop into her life, change everything in it, then fly away and leave her wondering what was real and what was a dream. He wouldn't leave her to face it all alone, to sort through the web of deceit and danger he'd unwittingly dragged her into. He was too responsible to desert her now, too honorable.

  The Hawk she admired made tough decisions. He'd kissed her and made her want his loving, made her want him, then had denied them both because once would have been too much, too little, too easy. The control that drove her mad was so intrinsic to his character that she knew she'd notice the lack if it were gone—and regret it.

  The Hawk she'd come to love had taught her fear, yet what she'd felt for herself was nothing compared with what she felt now, for him. And because she knew that he'd expect it of her, that he'd be proud, she hid her fear behind a mask of hope and dignity.

  Disregarding the activity on the beach around her, Angela waited and watched and didn't even notice that the coffee she sipped had long since gone cold. She heard Peter ask if she wanted more, and almost said yes when she realized he wasn't listening, that he was concentrating on the water. Without a word, he switched on his flashlight and played the beam over the shallows, left to right and back again, deeper into the night. Then Peter held the light still, and Angela could have sworn he chuckled, but she didn't ask why because there was movement at the fringes of the light.

  She had no sooner focused on the spot than Hawk rose from the sea and surged forward until he was at the center of the beam. Waves lapped at his knees as he stood there and stared unblinking into the light, with water streaming down his face and bare chest and a vicious-looking speargun in his hand.

  He was a warrior from the deep, her warrior. If he didn't already know it, he would soon learn . . . and there was no time like the present. Angela handed her blanket and coffee to Peter and asked him to please turn out the light, then she walked into the surf until she was within touching distance of the man she loved.

  "So you made it," she said, lifting her gaze to meet his and wishing she'd not asked Peter to turn out the light. She couldn't see more than a vague outline of the features she'd come to know so well.

  "You're surprised?" The deep caress of his voice wrapped her in a cocoon of warmth and familiar pleasure.

  "Impressed, I think." A cool breeze tugged at hair that had escaped her wet braid and blew it across her face. She ignored it. "What do you do for an encore?"

  "Anything you decide, Angel. Anything you decide." He held out the hand that wasn't holding the speargun and waited. He didn't wait long.

  A breath later, a step, and her face was buried against his chest as his arm closed on her shoulders. Angela slipped her own arms around his waist and felt a tremor go through him as they stood in the surf and shared the warmth of trust, hope, and love.

  FOURTEEN

  They made love the first time in the shower.

  Hawk hadn't meant for it to happen like that, so hard and fast and without frills, but Angela had taken him at his word. Decisions, he was beginning to discover, were something she was very good at.

  He'd gotten his first inkling of her decision-making skills during the hour-long ride from the beach to the hotel. After a private debriefing with Peter while Angela repacked the contents of his sports bag into a borrowed duffel —she was, he mused, overly interested in the task—Hawk had suggested that Angela be flown immediately to Denver on the small jet Peter had left at a private airfield a short distance south. Hawk and the remainder of Blackthorne's men would then drive back to San Rafael and collect the videotape he'd left there.

  Without it, Marchand was still a formidable threat.

  Angela had not only disagreed, she'd given a handful of reasons why it was a rotten idea—beginning with the fact that Hawk was too exhausted to think, much less think ahead, and ending with the incontrovertible truth that dividing their forces would necessarily weaken them. When Hawk argued that it was doubtful Marchand would have his apartment in San Rafael under surveillance, Angela pointed out that he'd assumed they hadn't been tracked from Sammy's either, and look where that had gotten them.

  Besides, she didn't want to go to Denver, she told him, and so long as he'd left the decision making to her . . .

  Hawk surrendered, but only after Peter agreed that Angela's reasoning was sound. After a call to Blackthorne, Peter delegated responsibility for liaising with authorities regarding the Sea Charmer to his second-in-command, saying his orders were to stick with Angela until such a time as Hawk was no longer distracted by the issues surrounding Marchand.

  So it was five trucks that left the beach that dark, co
ld autumn morning. Hawk's pockmarked Chevy stayed behind with the three men who were still searching for survivors—although no one expected to find any. Hawk and Angela shared the backseat of one truck while Peter sat up front with the driver, so the kind of conversation they both yearned for was impossible. They settled for holding hands beneath the blanket and sharing the occasional tremor of reaction that went through one, then the other, as they remembered how close they'd come to losing it all.

  Dawn was shading the black landscape gray when they passed a seaside resort. Angela leaned forward to tell Peter they were going to stop there for a rest.

  He looked at her over the seat. "That's a five-star hotel. I don't think we look good enough to pass their entrance exam."

  "The only excuse I'll accept is that they haven't any vacancies, and I doubt that because the parking lot wasn't full." She sat back and resettled the blanket. "Trust me, Peter. If they have rooms, we'll get them."

  Peter picked up the cellular phone and began calling the others.

  Angela was as good as her word. In fact, once she'd had private conversation with the manager on duty, it took less time to sort out keys and room assignments than it had to stop the five-strong caravan and turn it around. She even managed to have room service agree to bring early breakfasts all around, although Hawk first had to talk her out of having it served in the restaurant. Wearing a borrowed sweater but still in his damp jeans, he told her he didn't feel up to five-star standards. And despite his personal opinion that Angela looked like a million bucks no matter what she had on, he doubted that she'd agree once she got a look at herself in the mirror. Bedraggled, he thought, was probably the nicest thing she might say about her appearance at the moment.

  So they went to their suite to await food, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, Hawk knew as he closed the door that they were truly safe. Between the man Peter had left stationed at the door and the others whose rooms bracketed Angela and Hawk's, not even Marchand could get at them.

  Turning from the door, Hawk saw a trail of blankets and damp clothing leading through the living area and past the huge pedestal bed to what he assumed was the bathroom. The sudden hiss of the shower confirmed it. He reached down to pick up one blanket, then the other one. Draping them over his arm, he took a few more steps and stared down at Angela's damp jeans and sweater.

  She'd taken them off while he'd been out in the hallway, not even waiting for the privacy of the bathroom. Blood pooled in his groin as he noticed the wisp of satin and lace peeking out from beneath her sweater, and he realized that as she'd stripped she'd known he would come through the door at any moment.

  The noise of the shower filled his ears, and when he took another step he could see that she'd left the bathroom door wide-open. He dropped the blankets and began pulling off his clothes. The jeans were molded tight to his thighs and it didn't help that his erection was hard and swollen, but he finally got everything off and went to take Angela up on her invitation.

  The shower was built on the same luxurious scale as the rest of their suite, with glass panels and marble walls defining an enclosure that was bigger than some beds. Twin brass fixtures sprayed water from opposite walls, and Angela stood in the center of it all with her eyes closed as she struggled to free her hair from its braid. Water streamed over her shoulders to spill from the dark mauve tips of her full breasts as other rivulets flowed across her belly to flatten the curls between her legs.

  She was completely feminine yet possessed a strength that was, to his mind, her greatest attraction. He wanted all of her for his own, forever. He also wanted her now.

  He stepped into the cubicle and watched her eyelids flutter open as he pulled the door shut behind him. "Need some help with that?" he asked, but moved behind her and sank his fingers into the knotted mass before she could reply. She stood passively for a moment, then tried to look at him over her shoulder. He was firm but gentle as he pushed her chin until she resumed her former position.

  "Just stand still, Angel. Let me do this for you."

  "This wasn't what I had in mind when I left the door open."

  "I know." He had half the braid sorted—the bottom part was probably the easy bit, he assumed—but half wasn't good enough, so he kept working, reminding himself that she'd sleep better with her hair free and dry. Besides, he doubted he'd have the energy to work on the mess her braid was in once he'd made love to her.

  Then the tip of his shaft brushed her buttocks, sending a shock the size of a tidal wave rolling through him. Before he could recover, Angela spun around and slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their mouths came together in a ravenous kiss that stole his sanity ... his control. He lost it all in a whirlpool of erotic sensation, in the way her mouth opened greedily to his, the soft crush of her breasts against his chest, the almost painful throbbing of his erection as it pressed into her belly.

  Backing her against the cold marble wall, he closed one hand around her thigh and lifted, pulling her upward as he hurriedly tested her readiness with the fingers of his other hand. She was hot and slick, and he needed no more encouragement. Holding tightly to her thigh and without breaking off the hot, unrestrained mating of their mouths, he guided his length to the entrance of her feminine sheath and thrust inside.

  Angela cried out, a cry of pleasure so intense that Hawk would have mistaken it for pain and withdrawn had she not raised her other leg and wrapped it around his waist, bringing him closer, deeper. He cupped her buttocks in his hands and, digging his fingers into her soft, muscled flesh, held her firmly against the wall and began to move. Slowly, steadily, he thrust into her, gritting his teeth and sweating and dying a little because it was so good, so unbelievably good to be inside her.

  Then, suddenly, almost before he'd begun, she started to convulse around him. He stared into her eyes and was amazed by the passion, the excitement . . . the absolute surprise he discovered in them. It was stunning, the ease with which she'd reached the zenith. His own climax was forgotten in that moment as he became captivated by hers.

  She convulsed again, hard and strong, then there was a ripple of smaller contractions. Hawk thrust into her one final time and held his position deep inside as she collapsed quivering and boneless in his embrace.

  They stayed like that for a while, water pouring around and between them as he stroked her back and shoulders, their heads bowed and humble. Finally, he slid her up the wall until he was no longer buried in her, then eased her to her feet. He didn't quit his support of her until a long while later when he felt her legs begin to assume her weight.

  "I should get back to that braid before we run the entire hotel out of hot water," he said as she looked up at him.

  Her eyes were still cloudy with passion, and there was confusion in their depths. "Damn the braid, Hawk, and the water. I can't believe you just did that to me."

  "Did what?" It was hard not to laugh, but he made an effort because anger wasn't one of the emotions he wanted to deal with. "If you're referring to the way we just made love, I'll admit it was a little on the wild side. Next time I'll be more careful with you."

  "That's not what I meant!"

  "You liked it, then?"

  "Of course I liked it!" she fumed. "Couldn't you tell?"

  A rosy blush blossomed and spread downward from her cheeks to the upper curves of her breasts. Hawk was entranced. Despite his best resolve, he laughed, then put his hands on her shoulders. Before she could guess what he was about, he spun her around to face the wall. Digging his fingers into her braid, he got back to work, albeit at a somewhat feverish pace.

  "I know it wasn't what you meant, Angel. Frankly, though, I can't see what you're upset about . . . unless it's the part of me that's hard against your butt, and I can assure you it won't be like that for long." Without stilling the progress of his hands, he bent to whisper in her ear, telling her graphically what he wanted from her, what he wanted for her . . . and, perhaps most important, what he wanted for the t
wo of them together.

  He could tell by the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders that she was excited by his erotic promises. Her sexual fire, her dazzling passion, was unlike anything he'd ever known, and it fed the flames of his own desire. He kept talking as he worked, using the force of the shower to help as he untwisted the knot that seawater had made of her long, luxurious mane.

  The instant the last of the braid was sorted, Hawk dropped his hands to her shoulders, then slid them downward to cup the soft weight of her breasts. Her nipples were hard against his palms, and she gave a long, sustained moan as he rolled them in his fingers. Her hands lifted to curl around his wrists, and he pulled her back against him because he could no longer stand the distance, the wanting he felt all the way to his soul.

  Nuzzling her hair aside, he explored the soft skin on the side of her throat, found her ear with his tongue, and bit gently on the delicate skin there. Then he slid one hand downward, moving unhesitatingly past the soft, springy curls to explore the wet, hot passage they hid, taking his time to learn the feel of her with his hand, the sensitive pads of his fingers.

  She was ready for him again, though he knew her slick welcome was, in part, a result of their recent coupling. She cried out as he pushed a single finger deep inside, and tried to turn in his arms. He tightened his control of her body and slowly removed his finger.

  "Spread your legs, Angel," he murmured against her throat. "We're almost there."

  He rewarded her compliance by brushing the nub of her passion with his thumb. Her gasp of pleasure nearly broke through the remnants of his control, but he made himself try harder. It was important, these moments of preparation, and not just for her physical comfort. The ecstasy of controlled, lingering foreplay was as much a part of lovemaking as Technicolor fireworks among the stars.

  No, he didn't want to rush, but the sensation of her buttocks rubbing against his arousal was almost more than he could stand. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he entered her again, with two fingers this time, and began a rhythmic stroking.