hard a man as she had ever met. Yet beneath that hardness she sensed a yearning for beauty, for warmth, for . . . love. Without that yearning, she wouldn’t have been attracted to him.
But Angel knew there was no guarantee that she would be the one to touch Hawk’s yearning. There was no guarantee that anyone could touch it, even Hawk himself.
He was strong. He had lived a long time alone.
So had she.
Am I ready to risk my hard-won serenity for a man who might no longer believe in love?
She closed the trunk with a sharp, metallic sound that brought Hawk’s attention back from the sky. He watched as she got into the car. After a moment’s hesitation he slid behind the wheel, reluctant to break the luminous silence of the
British Columbia
dawn.
Angel said nothing during the drive, however, apparently as pleased as Hawk was by the quiet and the colors radiating through the sky.
They parked at the marina and stepped out to the keening of gulls and the smell of the sea. As one, Angel and Hawk began to carry supplies down the wooden dock to the slips.
When Angel saw Hawk’s boat, she stopped in the middle of the dock and stared. The yacht was over thirty feet long and had the sleek lines that were the hallmark of Italian powerboats. A single glance told her that the boat would handle beautifully, riding the often rough water of the Inside Passage with the ease of a hawk soaring on boiling currents of air.
“She’s beautiful,” Angel said simply, turning toward Hawk. “What’s her name?”
“I haven’t given her one.”
Angel realized that the boat was as new as it looked, polished and shining like the sun rising over the sea.
“Don’t name her too quickly,” Angel said. “A boat gets only one name. This one deserves the best.”
“Because it’s pretty?” Hawk asked casually, stepping onto the boat’s shifting deck without hesitation.
“This boat isn’t pretty,” said Angel, looking at its lines with appreciative eyes. “It’s magnificent. Form and function perfectly married. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing missing.”
Hawk turned and looked back over his shoulder at Angel. She didn’t notice. She had eyes only for the glistening white boat.
His lips curved sardonically.
“Expensive, too,” Hawk said.
Angel looked at the boat for another long moment before she sighed and answered.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. The Italians aren’t bashful about pricing their works of art.” She glanced at Hawk. “Can you, er, handle this boat?”
“I used to race powerboats.”
“I thought Derry said you raced cars.”
“I did both. There was more money in cars.”
“And more danger?” Angel asked.
Hawk’s eyes narrowed.
“Does the idea of danger turn you on?” he asked.
“No.”
“It turns on a lot of women.”
“Does it?” asked Angel. “Why?”
Hawk made a harsh sound. “Adrenaline, honey. It tells them that they’re alive.”
“Or that someone else is dead,” Angel said, her eyes too dark, too large.
Memories rose, threatening to choke her.
Hawk saw the haunted expression pass over Angel’s face. Then she shifted the bags in her arms and stepped onto the boat as though nothing had happened.
And, Hawk realized, nothing had. Whatever ghosts haunted Angel weren’t new. They were an accepted part of her life, just as his ghosts were part of his.
Or else the haunted look was simply an act, as seamless as the night.
With a mental shrug, Hawk dismissed the subject.
Act or reality, it doesn’t change what Angel is. Even animals twitch in their dreams, haunted by whatever ghosts their limited minds called up.
“I’ll show you how to handle the boat when we’re out in the strait,” said Hawk. “If you want.”
“Of course I do. Besides, that’s the only way you’ll get to fish.”
Hawk lifted one black eyebrow in silent query.
“It’s almost impossible to fish alone in a boat this size,” explained Angel. “Someone has to be at the helm, especially if you hook
But Angel knew there was no guarantee that she would be the one to touch Hawk’s yearning. There was no guarantee that anyone could touch it, even Hawk himself.
He was strong. He had lived a long time alone.
So had she.
Am I ready to risk my hard-won serenity for a man who might no longer believe in love?
She closed the trunk with a sharp, metallic sound that brought Hawk’s attention back from the sky. He watched as she got into the car. After a moment’s hesitation he slid behind the wheel, reluctant to break the luminous silence of the
British Columbia
dawn.
Angel said nothing during the drive, however, apparently as pleased as Hawk was by the quiet and the colors radiating through the sky.
They parked at the marina and stepped out to the keening of gulls and the smell of the sea. As one, Angel and Hawk began to carry supplies down the wooden dock to the slips.
When Angel saw Hawk’s boat, she stopped in the middle of the dock and stared. The yacht was over thirty feet long and had the sleek lines that were the hallmark of Italian powerboats. A single glance told her that the boat would handle beautifully, riding the often rough water of the Inside Passage with the ease of a hawk soaring on boiling currents of air.
“She’s beautiful,” Angel said simply, turning toward Hawk. “What’s her name?”
“I haven’t given her one.”
Angel realized that the boat was as new as it looked, polished and shining like the sun rising over the sea.
“Don’t name her too quickly,” Angel said. “A boat gets only one name. This one deserves the best.”
“Because it’s pretty?” Hawk asked casually, stepping onto the boat’s shifting deck without hesitation.
“This boat isn’t pretty,” said Angel, looking at its lines with appreciative eyes. “It’s magnificent. Form and function perfectly married. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing missing.”
Hawk turned and looked back over his shoulder at Angel. She didn’t notice. She had eyes only for the glistening white boat.
His lips curved sardonically.
“Expensive, too,” Hawk said.
Angel looked at the boat for another long moment before she sighed and answered.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. The Italians aren’t bashful about pricing their works of art.” She glanced at Hawk. “Can you, er, handle this boat?”
“I used to race powerboats.”
“I thought Derry said you raced cars.”
“I did both. There was more money in cars.”
“And more danger?” Angel asked.
Hawk’s eyes narrowed.
“Does the idea of danger turn you on?” he asked.
“No.”
“It turns on a lot of women.”
“Does it?” asked Angel. “Why?”
Hawk made a harsh sound. “Adrenaline, honey. It tells them that they’re alive.”
“Or that someone else is dead,” Angel said, her eyes too dark, too large.
Memories rose, threatening to choke her.
Hawk saw the haunted expression pass over Angel’s face. Then she shifted the bags in her arms and stepped onto the boat as though nothing had happened.
And, Hawk realized, nothing had. Whatever ghosts haunted Angel weren’t new. They were an accepted part of her life, just as his ghosts were part of his.
Or else the haunted look was simply an act, as seamless as the night.
With a mental shrug, Hawk dismissed the subject.
Act or reality, it doesn’t change what Angel is. Even animals twitch in their dreams, haunted by whatever ghosts their limited minds called up.
“I’ll show you how to handle the boat when we’re out in the strait,” said Hawk. “If you want.”
“Of course I do. Besides, that’s the only way you’ll get to fish.”
Hawk lifted one black eyebrow in silent query.
“It’s almost impossible to fish alone in a boat this size,” explained Angel. “Someone has to be at the helm, especially if you hook
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