Hawk was like a stained glass window in a black night, mystery and brooding hints of color. So much darkness, so little life. Yet when bathed in sunlight, the beauty inherent in the glass would leap into silent, overwhelming life, all the colors of love pouring forth where only darkness had been before.
Angel didn’t know if she was strong enough to be the sunlight to Hawk’s stained glass.
She only knew she had to try.
Angel looked at the clock on the boat’s control panel and swore silently. Everything seemed to conspire against getting Hawk out on the water at the best time for some decent fishing.
It was
, and they had barely cleared
Campbell River
.
For a moment Angel considered slowing and trolling along the floating rafts of logs waiting to be picked up by a towboat and hauled to
“Something wrong?” asked Hawk, his voice pitched above the sound of the engines.
His eyes raked quickly over the gauges. He saw nothing to account for Angel’s sudden frown.
“I’m tempted to fish here,” Angel said, disgusted.
“Fine with me.”
“Damn it, I was looking forward to drift fishing off Indian Head.”
A corner of Hawk’s mouth turned up slightly.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know the Honorable Mr. Yokagamo would have insomnia and decide to call me. I got rid of him as soon as I could without insulting him.”
“And then
London
called.”
“
Paris
, actually.
London
was the next call.”
“Then
Tokyo
again.”
Angel shook her head. Having to look at a globe and have a clock that kept time in every world zone before you even answered the phone struck her as an unnerving way to do business.
It seemed to come easily to Hawk, though. She could see his quick intelligence assessing every possibility and lining up arguments even as he reached for the phone. His concentration, memory, and patience were phenomenal.
He would make an excellent fisherman if she ever got him out on the water long enough to teach him anything. As it was, they were only going to get a short distance up the coast before dark.
“Well, as long as we’re late anyway, we might as well stop in at Brown’s Bay,” Angel said. “We’ll top off the tanks, catch up on the fishing gossip, and then head over to
“You don’t sound hopeful.”
“It’s early for salmon to be there, but,” Angel shrugged eloquently, “we have to get our lines wet somewhere.”
“Or you’ll go crazy.”
“That is a distinct possibility.” She gave Hawk a sideways look out of green eyes. “Have you ever considered taking a vow of silence for a few days?”
The left corner of Hawk’s mouth curled slightly.
“Tired of my phone calls?” he asked.
“You could say that. And then you could say it again.”
“I’ve been meaning to break this to you gently.”
“What?”
“I have to check in with
Tokyo
tomorrow evening.”
Hawk saw the combination of disappointment and irritation that crossed Angel’s features.
“We don’t have to go back to
Campbell River
,” Hawk added. “I can patch through on the radio.”
“Do you mind if I fish while you talk?” Angel asked crisply, exasperated by the unending demands of Hawk’s business.
“It’s not always this bad.” The corner of Hawk’s mouth lifted again. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
Angel shook her head in despair.
“Most of the time it’s better,” added Hawk.
He measured Angel’s disappointment and wished he could be sure that it was his company rather than the chance to fish that she was missing.
“The deal I’m working on is rather complex,” Hawk said. “Tomorrow’s call should be that last major hump for a few weeks.”
Angel made a neutral sound. She had heard that before. Yesterday, to be exact.
Automatically, Angel cut back the speed as she turned into Brown’s Bay. The first thing she saw was the black, long-line troller tied at the dock. Her hand tightened on the throttle.
“Carlson!” Angel said, delighted.
As she guided the boat into a berth near the fuel pumps, Hawk watched her intently. Anger turned deep inside him when he saw the clear light of pleasure erase for a moment the haunting sadness that was so much a part of Angel’s eyes.
Hawk looked away from her, raking the marina with his dark glance until he spotted the battered troller tied opposite the pleasure boats.
Black Moon
was painted on the troller’s side. Men were unloading fish from the ship’s hold into wheelbarrows and pushing them up the dock to a scale. There the fish were weighed and put into a refrigerated truck to be hauled to market.
Quickly Angel shut down the engines and left the cockpit. The manager of the station tied off the bow while Angel leaped out and tied off the stern, leaving Hawk standing in the boat.
“All the way to the top, Don,” Angel called out.
Then she sprinted up the dock, turned, and ran down an intersecting dock toward the
Black Moon
, calling Carlson’s name with every breath.
Hawk leaped lightly to the dock, following Angel with long strides. He was halfway down the intersecting dock when he saw a very big man descend from the
Black Moon
and stand waiting for Angel, his massive arms spread wide.
Angel threw herself into Carlson’s arms and was lifted and spun around and around like a leaf in a whirlwind. She laughed and held on, letting the colors of the world blur around her.
“How are you? Was the run good? When are you going back? Oh, Carlson, you look fantastic!” Angel said, questions and words tumbling out of her. “Was the storm bad? Did you get any smileys?”
Carlson’s laugh was as big as the rest of him.
“Slow down, Angie.”
Angel threw her arms around Carlson’s massive neck and hugged him with all her strength, burying her face in the rough, masculine textures of his work shirt. He smelled of sea and salmon and sweat. The combination brought a storm of memories sweeping over her.
Shaking, Angel held on to Carlson until the storm passed.
Gently Carlson let her down onto the dock, cradling her head against his chest. He knew that seeing him always brought Grant Ramsey back to her. Dead, Grant was between them as much as he had been when he was alive. Carlson accepted it as he accepted bad fishing and violent storms. Some things were not meant to be.
For him, Angel was one of them.
“How’s it been for you, Angie?” Carlson asked.
He tugged gently on her thick French braid, remembering when her beautiful eyes had held a quality of dawning laughter rather than silent shadows.
“How’s the glass?” Carlson asked.
“The Vancouver show was good.”
“No, you’re the one who’s good.”
Angel smiled up into Carlson’s brilliant black eyes.
“I have so many new designs I want to do,” she said. “One of them is the
Black Moon
and the sea and the salmon beneath like a silent silver storm. Would you like that?”
“I’d love it, but I can’t afford it. Fishing has been real slow this year.”
Angel looked shocked. “It’s a gift!”
“Your smile is gift enough,” Carlson said quietly.
Then he glanced over the top of Angel’s head into a man’s icy brown eyes.
“You must be Hawk,” Carlson said.
Hawk nodded once.
“I’m Carlson.”
Hawk took the hand that was offered. Both men measured each other with a strong handshake that stopped well short of the adolescent knuckle squeezing that some big men indulged in.
“How’s fishing?” asked Carlson.
“It’s—” began Hawk.
“Don’t ask,” interrupted Angel. “I’m going to have to surgically disconnect Hawk from the telephone if I want to catch any salmon this summer.”
Carlson smiled, his teeth like a white half-moon against his dark face.
“You haven’t missed much yet,” Carlson said. “The run is just starting.”
When he looked down into Angel’s face, his smile faded. The lines and shadows of the past were there for him to read just beneath her smooth surface.
“I’m glad you found me,” Carlson said. “I’m heading back out tomorrow morning. Derry said you were going to be gone for five days. Will he be alone tonight?”
Angel nodded slowly. “For a while. He said he didn’t mind. He was going to have some friends over later and play cards until he couldn’t see straight.”
Hawk caught the ripple of emotion beneath Angel’s words. It irritated him, just as watching her held in Carlson’s big arms irritated him.
“Today is the twelfth, isn’t it?” Hawk asked.
Carlson nodded and said nothing.
“Is there something special about that date?” Hawk asked, his voice sardonic and his eyes piercing. “This is the second time I’ve heard it mentioned in hushed tones.”
Carlson’s eyes changed, becoming as opaque as the black rocks lining the bay. Everything about the big Indian warned Hawk that he was trespassing.
Hawk stood without flinching, waiting for his answer. He had fought big men before. And he was tired of watching Angel nestled within those thick arms.
Angel ignored Hawk, looking only at Carlson.
“If you’re going out right away,” Angel said distinctly, “the fishing must be pretty good.”
“Not bad. I set aside a smiley to smoke for you and Derry.”
“What’s a smiley?” Hawk asked. “Or is that another taboo matter?”
Carlson gave Hawk a second black look.
Hawk didn’t budge.
Grudgingly, Carlson realized that Hawk wasn’t going to be intimidated short of a brawl, and probably not even then. Under other circumstances, Carlson would have enjoyed testing Hawk. But not today, with Angel fighting memories.
Carlson suspected that Hawk was more than a little interested in the woman who was curled so trustingly against his own chest. The thought made Carlson’s lips stretch into a smile that was neither welcoming nor cruel.
“A smiley,” said Carlson, his voice so deep that it rumbled like water over rocks, “is a salmon that weighs more than thirty pounds. When you pull one of them off the long line, you smile.”
The corner of Hawk’s mouth curled up almost unwillingly. “I see.”
“You will when you catch one,” Carlson said. “Or do you ever smile?”
“I’m smiling now.”
Carlson laughed.
“Come fishing with me, Hawk,” Carlson offered. “By the end of the trip we’ll be friends—or one of us will be dead.”
For a moment Hawk simply looked at the massive man standing so confidently on the dock. Then Hawk held out his hand, liking the big Indian in spite of himself.
“I’ll hold you to that, Carlson,” Hawk said.
Carlson took the offered hand. Just before he released it, he said easily, “One other thing, Hawk. If you touch Angie, I’ll cut you into thin strips and use you for bait.”
“Carlson—!” Angel said, angry and appalled.
Hawk was neither. “What if she wants me to touch her?”
Carlson looked from Angel’s flushed face to Hawk’s fiercely impassive expression.
“Then I’d say you were the luckiest man alive.” Carlson turned and kissed Angel’s forehead. “Don’s waving for you to get that fancy boat out of the way. See you in a few days, Angie. By then,” he added, smiling, “maybe you’ll be over your mad.”
Shaking her head helplessly, Angel stood on tiptoe to kiss Carlson’s black-stubbled cheek.
“I can’t ever stay mad at you,” she said. Then she added crisply, “Though God knows I should. You might consider apologizing to Hawk.”
Carlson’s black eyes were brilliant with suppressed laughter as he looked over Angel’s head at Hawk.
“I might, but I’m not going to. You understand, don’t you, Hawk?”
“Perfectly.”
Hawk’s mouth had a tiny sardonic curl at the left corner that said he understood very well indeed.
Angel went back down the dock, hurried on her way by a friendly swat from Carlson’s big hand. She glanced sideways at Hawk, still embarrassed by Carlson’s warning. The slight upward tilt of Hawk’s mouth told Angel that he was amused rather than angered.
But then, he had shown no signs of wanting to touch her. Not really.
Not the way she wanted to be touched.