On Wings of Magic (19 page)

He raised his head and stared at her, a faint tinge of red creeping up his lean cheeks. “I don’t remember,” he told her flatly.

“What? Come on, now!”

“I swear.” He sighed and gestured to the tattoo on his forearm. “It happened the same night I got this. That’s all I know.”

“The night your buddies got you drunk?” When he nodded, Kendall said gravely, “So you woke up the next morning with a terrific hangover, lying on silken cushions in Madame Wong’s Whoopie Parlor?”

He gave her a startled look. “There weren’t any silken cushions,” he muttered, tacitly admitting the rest.

Biting the inside of her lip to keep from bursting out laughing again, she asked, “Wasn’t Rick one of those buddies? Can’t he tell you what happened that night?”

“Judging by the way he snickers from time to time,” Hawke said disgustedly, “I’m sure he could. But he won’t. He’s kept that damn story to himself for nearly fifteen years. I’ve tried threats, pleading, bribery—nothing works. I’ll go to my grave wondering.”

Before Kendall could respond, the phone rang
demandingly, and she reached for the receiver. “He’s coming, Rick,” she said cheerfully into the mouthpiece.

“Well, tell him to hurry, will you?” The manager sounded harassed, angry voices rising in the background. “With all due respect to your love life, we have to eat—and Jean’s packing his suitcase!”

Kendall winced as a crash of china erupted from Rick’s end, then hung up the phone with a laugh when the line went dead. “Jean’s packing,” she informed Hawke. “And somebody’s throwing dishes around. You’d better get down there.”

Hawke sighed and got to his feet. He looked down at her for a moment, and Kendall could have sworn that his face was a bit strained. Lightly, he said, “I hope you’re not planning to catch the first banana boat out of here the moment my back’s turned.”

She reached behind her head to plump up her pillow, murmuring evasively, “I promised my father that I’d wait here for him.”

Something flickered in Hawke’s eyes and then was gone. “So I have that much time.”

“To do what?” Kendall wasn’t sure she wanted an answer, but Hawke gave her one.

“Convince you to stay here. I was hoping that last night had done that, but I see I was wrong. You’re still running, aren’t you, honey?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You’re not hiding behind that dumb-blonde act anymore, but you’re still running. You’re scared stiff of committing yourself, afraid of being hurt. So you’re running from me, from yourself, and from what we feel.”

Kendall felt a flicker of resentment. He was ruining things by injecting reality into last night’s dream, and she didn’t want to think about that. “You’d better go take care of your crisis.”

He took a step closer to her side and stared down at her unreadable expression. Then, with a certain deliberation, he said casually, “Just remember—you’ve got responsibilities now.” He bent down and patted her blanket-covered belly lightly, briefly. “There may well be a little bird in the nest right now.” He turned and left the room before he could see her shock.

Kendall stared after him, his careless words bringing home to her the enormity of what she had done.

A baby?

She closed her eyes tightly, seeing in her mind the thousands of children she had met all over the world. Children she had loved—however briefly. She wanted a child of her own, a child who would never know hunger or cold. A child who would never dance laughingly over a mine in the middle of a war…

A dark-haired boy with gray eyes. Or a little girl with her father’s smile. A houseful of kids, surrounded by love and laughter.

Shoving the image fiercely from her mind, Kendall pulled herself from the bed and headed for the shower. It was highly unlikely that she could be pregnant after one night. Highly unlikely. Hawke had no right to imply that she could be, just to upset her.

But had that been his intention? Somehow, she didn’t think so. There had been a satisfied gleam in
his gray eyes, that gleam that she’d already learned to be wary of. He had left that thought in her mind deliberately.

Kendall took her shower, allowing herself to dream a bit about an unborn child that might never be. She washed her hair, then got out and dried herself with a fluffy towel before going into her bedroom to find her hair dryer.

Half an hour later she was dressed in shorts and a knit pullover and, after checking Gypsy’s food and water dishes and thinking wryly that at least her cat was sleeping late, left her suite. She needed to think, and pacing around in her room wasn’t going to help her do that. Maybe fresh air would.

It was very early; none of the guests seemed to be up and about. The lobby was deserted except for Rick, who was behind the desk, on the phone, and looking as harassed as he’d sounded earlier. And from the looks of his rumpled blond hair, he’d been clutching it in despair.

Kendall leaned against the desk and watched him, unabashedly listening to his end of the conversation. Apparently, it was from the other hotel, which seemed to be having a domestic crisis of its own. Rick was trying to explain that Hawke wasn’t available at the moment, and obviously wasn’t getting through to the party on the other end of the line. He finally hung up the phone with a faint bang and glared across the desk at Kendall.

“Job getting you down?” she inquired with mock sympathy.

The glare contained a faintly desperate, despairing glitter. “Why don’t you and Hawke just feed me to the sharks and be done with it?” he demanded
irritably. “He’s ready to cut my throat with a blunt knife for disturbing you two; God only knows what he’ll do when he finds out that his other manager’s about to walk out because he can’t deal with
his
cook either. Go ahead—feed me to the sharks! I’d welcome peaceful oblivion.”

Kendall widened her eyes innocently. “Did I say anything?”

“I read minds,” he muttered. “It’s a new ability, acquired out of sheer desperation. Is it
my
fault that this just happens to be one of those days when everything goes wrong? Is it
my
fault that Jean decided to decorate the kitchen with broken china? Is it
my
fault that I can’t speak French, and didn’t understand a word he was screaming?”

“Of course not,” Kendall murmured soothingly.

Rick leaned an elbow on the desk and propped his chin in his hand. Sighing, he said wryly, “So put in a good word for me with Hawke, will you? I’ll apologize on bended knees if it’ll help.”

She looked amused. “For everything going wrong?”

“No. For disturbing you two.”

At this point Kendall was beyond being embarrassed by anything. She smiled sweetly at Rick. “I know a way you can make it up to both of us.”

“Anything. ”

“Tell me how Hawke got that scar.”

“Anything except that.” Rick grinned suddenly. “I love to watch his face when I chuckle over that story.”

“Hawke called it a snicker.”

“He would.”

Kendall sighed. “I hope he fires you. But first, we’ll boil you in oil. It’s cruel not to tell him.”

Rick looked at her with bright, laughing eyes. “Of course it is. And it was cruel of you to keep the poor guy on tenterhooks all this week. I assume everything’s settled now?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Everything?” A flush rose in her face in spite of all her efforts, and she shrugged. “There’s nothing to settle.”

His grin faded. “I’m sorry, Kendall,” he said hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that the entire hotel—myself included—has been watching the romance. I know it can’t have been easy for you, being courted in a goldfish bowl. But I was hoping things had worked out for you two.” He paused for a moment, then added softly, “Because you love him.”

Kendall stared at him for a moment, then squared her shoulders. “I need some air,” she muttered revealingly. Without another word to him she turned and left the lobby.

She moved through the deserted dining room and out to the terrace, where tables were placed for anyone who wanted to eat outside. All the tables were vacant now, and Kendall walked past them to lean against the railing absently.

Rick’s comments had shaken her oddly, particularly the last one. If he had seen how she felt, then who else had? Did Hawke know? She didn’t think so. At least, he couldn’t be sure how she felt. Just as she couldn’t be sure about his feelings.

Kendall stared blindly out toward the ocean, not seeing, now, the view she had admired so often. Vaguely, she wondered exactly what Hawke wanted from her. He wanted her to stay, she knew, but for
how long? As mistress or wife? Was he still digging for those secrets he’d seen that first day … or had his determined digging uncovered them all?

He’d said once that he wanted to take care of her, to protect her from pain. To spoil her and bring her flowers and silly presents. To surround her with beauty and romance, and make sure that she never had nightmares.

From any other man, she would have considered that a declaration of love. But from Hawke, she wasn’t sure.
Was
it all just an elaborate game to him? A determined campaign launched because of some obscure reason? Sex? No … that couldn’t be it. Unless he wanted more than one night. Because he still wanted her to stay.

The romantic “courtship,” the gifts and whimsical conversation, all pointed to love. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he told her that he loved her? It just didn’t make sense. He had to know that she would be wary of committing herself without some assurance from him.

Or was that the reason? Did he want her to commit herself with no certainty of his feelings? God … what a chance she’d be taking! Gambling her life on the chance that he loved her, or could learn to love her. Making herself totally and completely vulnerable to him, and leaving herself wide open to possible heartache. And if he rejected her, or tired of her at some future date … it didn’t bear thinking of.

Because Kendall knew, with a sudden hollow certainty, that she would never love another man this way. Her father had once told her that her ancestors had been known for having only one great love in
their lives. Curious, she had traced back several hundred years and found that, apparently, to be the truth. Husbands or wives had died, but there had been no second marriages. Not even for reasons common in the past: securing an heir, or a son to work the fields, or making an advantageous marriage to increase the family holdings.

And her own father had been devastated when his beloved Jenny had died. He would not remarry.

Loving was, almost by definition, taking a chance. On small things. Did he like sleeping with the window open while you froze to death? Could he bear the old movies you were addicted to? Could you bear his football games? Who would take out the garbage? Little things, generally worked out by compromise.

And then there were the big chances, the ones you had no control over. What if love died? What if he had a dangerous job, or loved racing dangerous ears as a hobby? What if you lost him?

Kendall began to realize then just how little she knew about human relationships. And about trust. In spite of her love for Hawke, she was afraid to trust him. With a single sneering word he could destroy her, and even though she didn’t believe him capable of such cruelty, the very possibility terrified her.

And what if the love she felt wasn’t love at all? On the heels of her decision to let go of her father, she had fallen in love. Or had she? Had she simply transferred her feelings from one to the other? No.

No. She loved Hawke, and she still loved her father. Two totally different kinds of love. But there was another fear eating at her.

What if her love made her cling too closely to
him? She could lose herself, she could—
No, stop it!
she scolded the Cassandra voice in her head sharply.

Kendall was a strong woman, and she knew it. She was afraid of committing herself, just as anyone would fear the unknown. But, God knew, she had faced worse fears. She hadn’t exactly been thrilled about jumping out of that plane years before, but the alternative had been more frightening. And she could distinctly remember facing a man more than twice her size, with ugliness in his eyes. She’d fought—and won—because the alternative was unthinkable.

Was that courage? She didn’t know. At the time it had been simple survival. A choice of alternatives.

And what was her alternative now? She could love Hawke, taking the chance that he wouldn’t hurt her. Swallow her fear and her pride, and accept whatever he could give her, without asking for or expecting more. Or she could leave.

Before Kendall could consider what that would mean, she heard a step behind her on the terrace. And she knew who it was. Making her voice light, she asked, “Is Jean all smoothed down?”

“God, I hope so.” Hawke slid his arms around her waist from behind, drawing her back against him. He rubbed his chin lightly in her hair. “Ummm … you smell terrific.”

“Thank you.” She smiled slightly, still gazing out to sea. “It must be the herbal shampoo.”

He laughed softly, ruefully. “You have no romance in your soul.”

“I know. It’s sad, isn’t it?”

“Extremely. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“I’m undersized too. You could throw me back.”

His arms tightened, and Kendall could have sworn she felt tension creep into his lean frame. “Does that mean I’ve caught you?” he asked lightly.

She felt her heart begin to thud, and hoped he couldn’t feel it. Or hear it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she managed to say with mocking dignity. “I’m not a fish.”

He sighed softly. “There you go again. Just when I think I’ve got you backed into a corner, you always manage to slip away. Do you like playing games?”

“Do you?” The question was out before she could halt it, and Kendall bit her lip when he remained, silent for a moment. She felt one of his hands move away, and then he was quickly, deftly placing a necklace around her neck.

“Present for you.”

She looked down for a moment, then lifted the small medallion and stared at it. It was beautiful, delicate, made of fine gold, and obviously very old. A hawk in flight.