On Wings of Magic (8 page)

At the moment Gypsy was sprawled across the king-size bed with a fine disregard for the lovely lace bedspread, and Kendall was staring, awed, at the beautiful oils adorning the pastel walls. It was undoubtedly a woman’s suite. Ankle-deep carpet in pale gold, delicate Louis XIV furniture, floral wallpaper. The bath was huge, with a sunken tub, blue tiles, and gold fixtures. The sitting room contained a plush sofa and chairs, reading lamps.

Kendall had lived in houses with dirt floors and thatched roofs; this delicate grandeur was a bit unsettling.

But it was beautiful. So beautiful that she didn’t notice the fly in the ointment for nearly an hour. The hotel staff had packed and unpacked for her, leaving her very little to do. Since it was nearly time for dinner, Kendall took a shower—saving the sunken tub for a more leisurely moment. She was wearing her robe and heading toward the closet when she suddenly noticed something different in the room.

Gypsy was peeking out from under the bed—a sure sign that she was disturbed. And on the bed was a tiny basket filled with assorted seashells and tied with a bright red ribbon.

It hadn’t been there when she had gone in to take a shower.

Kendall was more than a little puzzled. The door was fastened from the inside with the night latch, the balcony doors also locked—from the inside. How could anyone have gotten into the room?

Thoughtfully, she examined the basket. It was not the sort of gift purchased in the hotel’s gift shop. In fact, it took her only a moment to realize that someone had simply gone out on the beach and filled a decorative basket with shells. Shells? Someone?

Her glance moved slowly around the bedroom, then she stepped to the doorway and looked into the sitting room. And found it. One door too many. Logically, this door was just where it should be—if the suite connected with another one.

Still carrying the basket, Kendall crossed the room to the door and stared at it for a moment, then tried the knob. Unlocked. And no key on her side. Opening the door showed that there was no key on the other side either. But there was definitely another suite.

If her suite was a woman’s, then this one was obviously a man’s. No delicate furniture here, but massive, solid oak. The room was lived-in. Colorful pillows were piled on the carpeted floor in front of an extensive stereo system, magazines littered the coffee table, a huge oak desk stood in one corner by the balcony doors, covered with papers.

Moving slowly through the suite, Kendall found that the color scheme of deep brown and rust was continued in the bedroom. The bed was king-size, neatly made up. She halted by the dresser and gazed down at what was obviously a man’s pocket change and wristwatch. Uh-huh. She knew that watch. Her life had taught her to be observant. And her earlier softened feelings toward the man hardened in a wave of anger. Damn him!

The sound of water splashing from the bathroom drew her attention, and Kendall headed in that direction, holding the basket in much the same way one would have hefted a hand grenade. She halted two steps into the room and stared at the deep brown sunken tub.

“I might have known.” Her voice was a peculiar mixture of anger and resignation. “Do you
mind
telling me how I happened to land in the suite next door?”

“It was the only one available,” Hawke replied innocently, leaning back in the water and surveying her taut figure. “I’m sure Rick told you—”

“He told me. And—fool that I was—I believed him.” Kendall kept her eyes fixed on his face, trying to ignore the expanse of hair-roughened, muscled chest visible from where she was standing. She held up the basket. “I presume you left this?”

“Of course.” He languidly moved a large bath sponge across his chest, drawing her eyes in spite of herself. “A … memento of last night.”

“I don’t need any reminders, thank you!” she snapped. “What I
need
is another room.”

“Sorry—none available. I don’t see why you’re so upset,” he went on in a reasonable tone. “I’ve already given you my word not to force you into anything. And that suite’s much nicer than the room you had before.”

Quite suddenly Kendall’s anger became directed at whoever had occupied that suite before her. A woman’s room, and right next door to him … “I hope no one was—dispossessed—because of me,” she said in a voice that sounded strange to her own ears.

Something very like satisfaction flickered in his gray eyes, and then was gone. “If you’re inferring—and I gather you are—that the room was occupied by my—er—paramour, you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s usually reserved for my mother when she comes to visit.”

Kendall didn’t want to believe him. But she did.

“Would you like to wash my back?” he dead-panned, holding up the sponge.

“I’d like to drown you.” She eyed him irritably.

He looked hurt. “At least thank me for the present.”

Trying not to feel ungracious, Kendall shored up her dignity. “Thank you very much. But I can’t possibly accept it, of course.”

“Why not? I picked up some shells and put them in a basket, Kendall. It’s not expensive, and certainly
not what you could call an intimate present. Coming out!”

The warning gave Kendall scant time to turn her back, but she managed the feat. Face flaming, and cursing him silently for catching her off guard, she beat a hasty retreat back to her own rooms. And she was furious with herself.

Kendall was not easily embarrassed. She had been in parts of the world where naked bodies were the rule rather than the exception, and it had never bothered her. But this man had succeeded in embarrassing her more than she liked to remember. He kept her off guard and off balance … and unnerved.

She fought another cowardly impulse to run like a thief, placed the little basket with undue care on her nightstand, and began to get ready for dinner.

As Hawke had already noted, she had very few items in her wardrobe that
weren’t
sexy. A weakness of hers—although not intended for seduction. Kendall just liked nice things. And since she rarely got the chance to wear them…

The dress was black. It was stark, unadorned by frills, and covered her from the neck to the ankles. That was, in front. The skirt was slit on one side almost to the waist, and her back was bare past the flare of her hips. It was impossible to wear anything under the dress, and the fact that she didn’t was obvious.

Her sandals were also black, high-heeled, and difficult to walk in unless she was careful. Her only jewelry was a charm bracelet made of fine silver and filled with charms from all over the world. A small black clutch purse completed the outfit.

She checked Gypsy’s food and water, sternly told
the cat not to stray from the room (she was quite adept at opening unlocked doors), and then went into the sitting room. Almost immediately a cheerful knock sounded on the connecting door.

“Ready, Cinderella?” Hawke called through the door. “It’s time we were off to the ball.”

Composure intact, Kendall opened the door and stared at him. “Which of us turns into the frog at midnight?” she asked wryly.

“Neither of us.” Resplendent in a black dinner jacket, Hawke placed a hand upon his chest and bowed mockingly. “My fairy godmother is lenient about such things. We have until dawn.”

“And then?”

“And then we make our own magic.”

Kendall sighed, trying to ignore the fact that her heart was beating alarmingly fast. “I hate to burst your bubble, but this is not a storybook romance.”

“Want to bet?”

She stared into gray eyes shot with silver and felt the hard-won composure slipping. “I’m—shouldn’t we be going?” Hastily, she turned and started for the door of her suite, then heard a choked sound behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she found that Hawke was staring at her with a peculiar expression.

“My God,” he muttered, “That thing’s lethal!”

Kendall felt a short burst of triumph that she’d finally jarred
his
composure a bit, then realized that her revealing dress was somewhat comparable to waving a red flag at a bull. Not daring to respond to his statement, she preceded him quietly out into the hall, and watched while he closed and locked her door.

He led her down the hall to the elevator, his hand
possessively cupping her elbow, and Kendall hastily squashed her momentary alarm. Surely he wouldn’t try anything in the elevator again. Twice would be a habit, for God’s sake!

Hawke was forming some very odd habits.

No sooner had the doors closed behind them than he drew her into his arms abruptly. Kendall had no chance to fend him off and, truth to tell, little strength to do so. Her traitorous body molded itself instantly to the hard length of his. But she did manage a moan of protest just before his lips covered hers.

And that, as the man said, was that. The protest was a small sop to her conscience, and left her body free to experience these delightful sensations.

His hands were hard and warm against her bare back, his lips demanding—and receiving—a response. Mindlessly, Kendall felt his tongue probing the sensitive inner surface of her lips, and a shiver of helpless desire coursed through her body. She felt one of his hands move around and begin to creep up her rib cage, and then there was a quiet swish, and someone cleared his throat.

Vaguely disappointed that his hand had not reached its destination, Kendall opened her eyes slowly to watch his head moving back. Sanity returned in a rush as he released her, and she glanced at the elevator doors to see two men smiling at her apologetically.

Heedless of the listeners, she snapped at Hawke, “Dammit! If you do this to me again …!”

“Temper, temper.” He grinned at her, apparently undisturbed by the embrace. But Kendall could see
his eyes only just losing their glazed appearance, and knew that he wasn’t quite as indifferent as he seemed.

Dutch comfort.

Vastly angry at the world in general, and the male half in particular, she stalked from the elevator, gritting her teeth silently when Hawke joined her and smoothly took her elbow.

Of course, she couldn’t stay angry at him. As at last night’s cozy table for two, he kept up a steady stream of casual, amusing conversation, surprising a giggle out of her on more than one occasion. She found herself relaxing, enjoying the meal and him.

After dinner he took her into a large room she’d never seen before, a combination bar and dance floor. It was moderately crowded, but he had no trouble in securing a small, private booth for them.

He had called out an order to the bartender as they passed, and Kendall looked suspiciously at the peculiar-looking drink placed in front of her moments later. It resembled a pineapple filled with a harmless-looking liquid and decorated with assorted fruit slices, an umbrella, and a straw. “What
is
this?”

He sat back, sipping his brandy, then answered casually, “It’s called a Purple Passion.”

She stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the drink. “It doesn’t look the least bit purple,” she said, straight-faced.

“Sorry.”

“What’s in it?”

“Fruit punch. Orange juice, grape juice, pineapple juice—and so on. Live a little,” he advised, smiling slowly.

Kendall took a cautious sip. Then a larger one. “Not bad.” It was good, in fact. And very relaxing.
Within minutes, everything Hawke said to her became terribly amusing.

When he asked her to dance about half an hour later, the drink was nearly gone and Kendall stumbled slightly in leaving the booth. It didn’t concern her. The high-heeled sandals had always been hell to walk in.

Kendall had never in her life been drunk. It was partly a matter of innate horror at the thought of losing control of herself, and partly a dislike for the taste of alcohol. In any case, she had never been even the slightest bit tipsy. So she didn’t recognize the signs.

On the dance floor she went into Hawke’s arms, her own arms slipping up around his neck instinctively. She was mildly dismayed by her desire to cling to him, but then her attention became caught by a very funny-looking man who was a member of the small band playing busily in the corner, and she giggled and forgot the dismay.

“You dance very well,” Hawke murmured softly.

Kendall rested her cheek against his chest and wondered dreamily why her feet weren’t touching the floor. “That’s what the sheikh said,” she responded vaguely.

“Sheikh?”

“Ummm. He wanted me to be number-three wife. But I told him that I couldn’t play second fiddle … much less third fiddle.” She lifted her head and stared up at Hawke with a frown. “I can’t play the fiddle at all.”

“And what did the sheikh say?” Hawke prompted, seemingly amused.

“He tried to buy me from Daddy.” She frowned again. “Daddy was terribly rude, I’m afraid.”

“I can imagine.” He pulled her a bit closer to avoid another couple dancing enthusiastically past.

Kendall clung to him happily.

Somehow, they made it through the dance, and Hawke led her back to their booth. Kendall practically fell onto the leather-covered seat, giggling softly, and watched Hawke slide in across from her.

“Kendall…” He hesitated, then went on dryly. “You don’t drink very much, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t drink at all,” she told him sunnily. “I can’t stand the taste.” She discovered, to her disappointment, that the Purple Passion was gone, and pushed the pineapple-glass across the table to Hawke. “May I have another of these, please?”

He stared at her, then looked up and signaled the bartender. “Of course,” he murmured in a peculiar voice.

Sometime later—Kendall wasn’t particularly concerned with the time—Hawke came around to drop her purse in her lap and then swing her up into his arms. Somehow. Kendall was impressed with the feat, but a little puzzled.

Linking her fingers together at the back of his neck, she asked mildly, “Why are you carrying me? You always carry me.”

“Romance,” he said, carrying her through the interested crowd in the bar.

Kendall didn’t return the crowd’s interest; hers was focused entirely on Hawke’s face. She nodded wisely. “Storybook romance.”

“That’s right. Although I have to admit, honey—
you couldn’t make it up to your room alone. Not tonight.”