A Woman Without Lies (2 page)

Angel.

A three-dimensional lie,
Hawk thought coldly.
But a beautiful one. Damned beautiful.

The worst ones always are.

So I’ll call her Angel, and each time I use the name, it will remind me that she’s anything but angelic.

Angel looked back at the man who was watching her from only a few feet away. She sensed with utter certainty that the man watching her was Hawk.

In the atmosphere of forced bonhomie that pervaded the Stein, Hawk was like a rocky island at sunset, darkness condensed amid color, immovable certainty anchored in an aimlessly shifting sea.

Then the front door opened again, spearing the man with light, and Angel knew why he was called Hawk. It wasn’t the blunt angles of his face or his thick, black hair and upswept eyebrows. It wasn’t his hard, lean body. It wasn’t even his predatory grace as he walked toward her.

It was his eyes, the eyes of a hawk, a crystalline brown that was clear and deep, lonely and wild.

“Hawk,” she said.

“Angel.”

His voice was deep, gritty, as essentially uncivilized as his eyes.

“People call me Angie.”

There was a moment of uncanny stillness while Hawk measured her.

“People call me Mr. Hawkins to my face,” he said. “Even friendly puppies like Derry Ramsey.”

Angel hesitated, wondering at the abrasive description of
Derry
. She knew that
Derry
thought Hawk all but walked on water. Abruptly she wanted to know more about the man who had earned
Derry
’s unqualified hero worship.

“What do people call you to your back?” Angel asked.

Hawk’s eyes narrowed.

“A lot of names that angels wouldn’t know about,” he said.

His clear, hard eyes measured her impersonally, lingering on the nimbus of light that was her hair.

“Angel. It suits your looks.”

Hawk’s tone said that her name was Angel so far as he was concerned, and Angel was what he would call her.

She bridled at his arrogance, then forced herself to relax.
Derry
needed Hawk. In any case, Hawk couldn’t know the meaning of the name Angel for her.

Something alive that once had died.

“Then I will call you Hawk,” Angel said, her voice soft, “and we both will be unhappy with our names.”

Hawk’s left eyebrow lifted, emphasizing the ruthless lines of his face. He turned away from Angel and took a step back toward his table.

As he turned, he spoke. “What do you drink, Angel?”

“Sunlight.”

Hawk turned back so suddenly that Angel couldn’t suppress a startled sound. She had never seen such quickness in a man. Yet for all his speed, his motions were smooth, utterly controlled, and as graceful as wind.

“Sunlight,” he said, gesturing to the smoky room, “is in short supply here.”

“I didn’t come here to drink, Hawk. I came because
Derry
needs me.”

Though Angel’s voice was soft, there was real determination in it. It was the same tone that had warned Bill she wasn’t prepared to be reasonable on the subject of
Derry
.

“What does
Derry
need?” Angel asked.

Hawk hadn’t missed the changed quality of Angel’s voice.

“A new leg,” he said bluntly. “He had an accident.”

The room swirled darkly around Angel, sound spinning into cries of pain, red light splintering into broken glass frosted by moonlight, the smell of raw gas choking her, fear and pain clawing in her throat.

Angel tried to say something, to ask questions, to reassure herself that Derry was all right, that this wasn’t a return to the horrible car wreck three years ago when her mother, her father, and her fiancé had died, and she had been broken almost beyond healing.

But Angel could ask nothing, do nothing, except tremble and fight for breath.

Derry
had saved her life three years ago. She could not bear to think that he was hurt, needing her, and she wasn’t there.

Even in the Stein’s dim light, Angel’s sudden loss of color was obvious. Hawk heard her harsh intake of breath, saw her sway, felt the coldness of her skin as he grabbed her, steadying her.

“D-Derry?” asked Angel, forcing the word between gritted teeth.

“It’s just a broken leg,” Hawk said harshly.

As he spoke, he shook Angel to make sure that he had her attention. Then he saw the fear and pain in the depths of her eyes and his hands instinctively gentled.

“He’s all right, Angel.”

Angel stared at him. Hawk’s voice had been gentle, reassuring, sympathetic. It was surprising in a man who looked so ruthless.

“Just a broken leg,” Hawk repeated. “
Derry
’s all right.”

“Car wreck,” Angel said hoarsely. “All that glittering broken glass and twisted metal. And screams. Oh God, the screams . . . .”

Hawk’s eyes narrowed as a chill moved over him. Angel sounded so positive that
Derry
had hurt himself in a car wreck. The certainty was there in her eyes. And the horror.

His hands tightened on Angel’s arms, drawing her attention back to him.

“Soccer, not a car wreck,” Hawk said distinctly.

“S-soc—”

The word was impossible for Angel to form.

“
Derry
and some friends were playing soccer,” Hawk said clearly. “He went up to deflect the ball, came down wrong, and broke his ankle in two places.”

For an instant Angel sagged against Hawk. Then her head came up and her spine straightened. She looked up at him with eyes that were too large and too dark for her face, wondering if he had meant to be cruel with his first, brutal words describing what was wrong with
Derry
.

He needs a new leg.

Angel searched the uncompromising lines of Hawk’s face for long moments. Finally she realized that he could have had no way of knowing the impact his words would have on her. He didn’t know about the car wreck that had shattered her life.

And her.

“Angel?”

Hawk’s fingertips found the pulse beating erratically in her throat.

“Did you hear me?” he asked deeply.

“Yes . . . .”

Angel’s voice was so soft that Hawk had to lean close to understand. His fingers slid around her throat and lost themselves in her smoothly curling hair, but his thumb remained on her pulse. Hawk pulled Angel close, cradling her against his chest, rocking her slowly. The gestures were instinctive, surprising him as much as they surprised her.

Yet what he did was natural, what he wished someone had done for him when he was young. Or even when he was not. He had seen horror-shadowed eyes before, seen broken glass and wrecked cars and death. The horror and some of the wrecks had been his, but nobody had comforted him.

Is that why I’m holding Angel now?
Hawk asked himself silently.
Or is it because she’s soft and smells like sunshine and her skin is warming beneath my touch?

When Hawk’s lips brushed Angel’s temple, her closed eyes, the sensitive corner of her mouth, he felt the sudden surge of her heartbeat beneath his thumb. She moved subtly, clinging to his comforting touch without holding him, and her breath came out in a ragged sigh.

Hawk’s expression changed, cynical again. Angel was indeed like other women he had known.

When she isn’t with the man she loves, she loves the man she’s with.

Angel sensed the sudden distance in Hawk’s touch. She looked up at him, confused. She hadn’t expected comfort from him. Nor had she expected to find herself suddenly adrift from his warmth while he watched her with eyes that were calculating and as cold as the line of his mouth.

“Save those big haunted eyes for
Derry
,” said Hawk. “He’s young enough to believe anything.”

Abruptly Angel became aware of the noisy bar, the amused glances from nearby patrons, the dense scarlet light giving a satanic cast to Hawk’s already harsh features. She didn’t know what kind of game Hawk was playing with her.

She didn’t want to know.

It was bad enough that her skin was warm everywhere he had touched her. The warmth had begun with his comforting touch and then had subtly altered into a heat that she had not felt in three years.

Angel turned and walked toward the door, leaving Hawk holding her silk shawl, all that had remained behind when his hands had tightened to prevent her from leaving.

Hawk looked at the black silk draped like broken wings in his hands. Then he swore.

The sun blinded Angel as she stepped outside. She clutched her purse and walked quickly to the street, looking for a taxi. When her vision cleared, she spotted one. She raised her arm, only to have her wrist caught by lean, brown fingers.

Angel didn’t have to turn around to know that she was in the grip of Hawk. She didn’t bother to struggle against his grasp, knowing it was futile. His fingers were like . . . talons.

Turning, she confronted Hawk with her silence and sea-green eyes.

“Going somewhere?” asked Hawk.

“To
Derry
.”

“Lucky
Derry
,” said Hawk, sarcasm making his voice bite like a whip.

For an instant Angel looked as though she had been struck. Her eyes narrowed with anger. Then her expression changed as she remembered two simple truths: Hawk was important to
Derry
’s future;
Derry
was important to her. For
Derry
’s sake she would hold her tongue and her temper.

And for my own sake. Uncontrolled emotions will destroy me. Haven’t I learned that lesson?

Hawk saw Angel change in the space of two breaths. Where there had been emotions and color, now there was nothing. She waited to be released with a stillness and controlled patience that was more infuriating than any struggle would have been.

He was holding on to her, but she was utterly removed from him.

“Nothing to say?” challenged Hawk. “No pretty-pleases and practiced sighs and enticing little struggles?”

Angel waited, controlling her anger. She had had a lot of practice at that since the wreck. The rage she had felt at her parents’ deaths, at Grant’s death, had nearly destroyed what
Derry
managed to salvage from the wreck. Angel hadn’t begun to live again until she had learned to control her savage fury at the unfairness of life and death.

Like the ability to walk again, serenity had been won at an appalling cost. She wouldn’t surrender to anger now.

Angel thought of sunlight and colors in more shades than she had words to describe. She gathered the colors in her mind like a miser hoarding gold. She stood beneath them like summer rain, colors bathing her, washing away destructive emotions.

Colors, extraordinary colors. Cerulean and ruby, topaz and citrine, sapphire and wine and jade . . . But most of all, she sought the perfection of a crimson rose climbing toward dawn, soft petals triumphant and serene in their unfolding.

Angel opened her eyes. They were clear, as deep as the sea.

“What do you want, Mr. Hawkins?”

Hawk took a swift, silent breath. In the brief time that he had been with Angel, he had seen her shocked and afraid, had seen relief and the first stirrings of passion darken her eyes, had seen her hurt and enraged. This eerie calm was unexpected.

He had seen nothing like it except in his own mirror, when he had been young enough to still feel emotions and old enough to know that he had to conceal what he felt or be destroyed.

Now he was simply controlled, utterly self-possessed.

It angered Hawk that Angel seemed so composed. She was too young to have such discipline, and too shallow to need it. She flitted from man to man and feeling to feeling like the pretty, mindless little butterfly she was.

But she’s one hell of an actress,
Hawk thought.
I’ll give her that. It was the most convincing appearance of real emotion and real control that I’ve seen in years.

“
Derry
will tell you what I want,” said Hawk curtly, not releasing Angel’s wrist.

He walked quickly toward a waiting limousine. Angel followed, because she had no choice. She got in for the same reason.

As the limousine pulled out into traffic, Hawk dumped Angel’s shawl in her lap.

“Where are we going?” Angel asked calmly.

“To your one true love,” retorted Hawk.

Angel simply looked at him, waiting.

“That’s what I thought,” said Hawk in his caustic voice. “Women like you have so many true loves that they can’t tell the players without a scoreboard.”