When the lines were back in the water, Angel began a slow sweep up the rugged coastline that would eventually take the boat to Deepwater Bay. For a time she let the urgencies of the moment slide like light into the sunset sea. The throttled-down murmur of the engines crept into her bones and mind, quietly freeing her.
In Angel’s mind the primal serenity of sea and forest and rock blended into radiant images crying out to be set in glass as pure as the sky.
“You awake up here?” asked Hawk.
He slid into the seat opposite Angel and faced toward the stern, where he could continue watching the rods.
“Barely.”
Angel smothered a yawn.
“Bored?” Hawk asked.
She smiled and shook her head.
“Just relaxed,” she said slowly. “I love this.”
Her hands automatically corrected the boat’s course. She looked over at Hawk.
“Are you?” she asked.
“Bored?” Hawk’s dark glance drifted over Angel’s face. “No. This is . . . soothing.”
Hawk stretched, filling the cabin with his presence. He saw Angel’s eyes following the movement of his arms, saw her look at the opening of his shirt, at his neck, at his mouth.
Suddenly,
soothing
was the last word that Hawk would apply to the moment. The ache of desire that had never been far below his surface became talons of need sinking into him, gripping him until he couldn’t breathe. In the space of a few heartbeats he was ready for her, desire expanding thickly, hotly.
Too soon. Too fast.
With a single, powerful movement, Hawk came to his feet and walked out of the cabin. He stood with his back to Angel, watching the rods and the increasing chop of the water, watching with an intensity that made his jaw ache. Motionless but for easy adjustments to the shifting deck, Hawk fought the desire that had ambushed him.
After a time he succeeded in thinking of the graceful curve of the rods instead of the inviting curve of rosy lips and of breasts arched beneath a sweater the color of the sea.
The closer the boat came to Deepwater Bay, the more small craft there were about. The
Black Moon
overtook them at a distance, heading for safe anchorage at Deepwater Bay.
Hawk heard the radio behind him, heard Angel’s soft reply, but didn’t turn around. It had been more than an hour since he had left the cabin.
Not long enough.
Too long.
Angel was a fire beneath Hawk’s skin, in his bones. He wanted her with a force that enraged him. The chase would end tonight, whether she was ready or not.
He was ready. More than ready. He would take her and when he took her the lies would come like cold rain, putting out his unreasonable fire.
Then Hawk would finally be free of Angel, free to fly again, a black shadow soaring through an empty sky.
As Angel brought the boat around the point that guarded the entrance to Deepwater Bay, she saw immediately that there were too many small boats clustered about for her take the course she usually did. Just as she began to turn the helm, she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye, a powerboat all but flying over the water toward the bay.
Some weekend fisherman was so anxious to get in every bit of fishing time he could that he was ignoring the basics of good manners and safety. He was going to force Angel to go too close to the other sport fishermen, and his wake was going to make all the other small boats bob wildly. Likely it would be enough to trip the planers and make everyone take in and let out the trolling lines all over again.
“Brace yourself!” called Angel.
She cut the forward speed to nothing in hope of reducing the drag on the planers.
The powerboat roared past them, pulling a rooster tail of churned water as tall as a man. Hawk was ready, his legs spread and his hand fastened to the door frame of the cabin. The boat rocked wildly, bucking like an unruly horse.
The other small craft were no better off. There were more than a few curses and rude gestures aimed at the disappearing powerboat.
Angel eased back up to trolling speed and set a course that would take her farther from the clustered boats. Automatically she looked back at the stern, checking the fishing gear. One rod was standing straight, unmoving. The other was bent over in a hard arc.
Before Angel could say anything, Hawk lifted the rod and pulled sharply. Nothing gave. The rod tip moved with tiny, springy motions. Line peeled off the reel while the brake made a long, high scream.
Normally that sound would signal the strike and flight of a big fish. Today it meant something a good deal less exciting.
Sixty feet away, Angel saw one of the men in a small blue boat stand and wave wildly to get her attention. His partner was struggling to reel in his line. There was so much tension on the man’s rod that he could barely hold onto it.
With a muttered word, Angel cut the throttle and put the gear into neutral.
“We’ve fouled his line,” Angel said. “Let him reel in and untangle it.”
Hawk stopped trying to bring in the line. Even without his pressure pulling, the joined lines popped above water between the two boats. In the rich sunset light the lines shone like thin silver cables, fairly humming with tension.
The current was pushing the two boats apart, but they remained held together by the slender, surprisingly strong fishing line and the two hooks snagged one through the other.
The man in the blue boat fumbled with the humming line for a moment, but it was far too tightly drawn. He tugged, trying to bring the joined hooks within reach. The current forcing the boats apart was too strong. He leaned out until he nearly fell into the water. He was inches too short.
He shrugged, pulled a knife, and cut the line just above his hook.
Horrified, Angel watched the knife descend. She knew that once the tension was released, the line would come shooting back like a released rubber band; and the deadly hook would be flying behind, a weapon aimed at Hawk, who was holding the rod.
There was no time to explain or to warn Hawk. Angel sprang out of the cockpit, took two running leaps, and threw herself at Hawk’s head, protecting his eyes from the hook that was slashing back through the water.
“What the hell!” Hawk said, automatically grabbing Angel and bracing both of them.
“The hook—” Angel began as she pulled Hawk’s face down against her breasts.
Then pain took her breath away.
Instantly Hawk realized what had happened. Angel’s hands loosened, releasing him, but he held her tightly while he looked over her shoulder.
Part of the hook’s steel curve was buried in her sweater. The rest was in her flesh, just next to her shoulder blade. As he watched, a single drop of crimson welled silently, staining the soft green sweater.
With a savage curse, Hawk released Angel and pulled a jackknife from his pocket. He looped the fishing line over his fingers and cut through it without putting the least pressure on the hook embedded in Angel’s back.
As soon as Angel was free, she headed back toward the wheel.
“Don’t move,” said Hawk curtly, grabbing her arm.
“We’re drifting.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Hawk lowered Angel carefully into a seat at the stern of the boat. Then he moved with frightening speed.
Rather than take the time to reel in the two remaining lines, he cut them. An instant later he vanished into the cockpit and lifted the big boat into roaring life.
Within minutes he brought the boat into a sheltered anchorage on the northeast side of Deepwater Bay. In another man such speed would have been reckless. In Hawk, it was as controlled as the swoop of a raptor.
In a few strides he was back at the stern of the boat, lowering the anchor.
“Are you all right?” Hawk asked, looking at the lines of strain around Angel’s mouth.
She started to shrug. Her face tightened as the motion of her shoulders made the hook’s sharp point dig deeper.
“I’ll live,” she said, drawing a slow, careful breath.
Hawk muttered a vicious curse.
“It’s just pain,” said Angel, her voice low.
She closed her eyes for a moment, using her mind to draw tension from her body. She had learned that fighting pain only increased it. If you accepted pain, you could begin to control your response to it. Once Angel had learned that, she had found the courage to live without drugs and walk without a cane.
When Angel’s eyes opened, they were clear, unafraid of pain.
“Let’s see what the damage is,” she said quietly.
Hawk’s eyes narrowed.
“Unless you mind?” she asked, seeing Hawk’s reaction. “If it bothers you, I can call Carlson off the
Black Moon.
”
As Angel spoke, she looked toward the troller that was anchored a few hundred feet away.
Hawk stared at Angel’s tranquil face, hardly able to believe her calm. If he hadn’t seen blood well beneath her sweater, he wouldn’t have known from her actions that there was a hook buried in her satin flesh.
Grimly Hawk acknowledged that Angel was an actress worthy of any stage in the world.
“I’ve seen worse injuries,” Hawk said curtly.
He followed Angel into the cabin and switched on all the lights. When he turned around, Angel was sitting with her back presented to the strongest source of light.
Hawk knelt beside her. His mouth thinned to a harsh line when he saw the blood seeping through the soft green yarn of Angel’s sweater. With exquisite gentleness, he eased the sweater over the steel curve and straight shank of the hook, managing not to exert any pressure on the hook itself.
When Hawk saw beneath the sweater, he said a single, violent word under his breath. The hook was almost as long as his thumb. He could see neither the hook’s glittering tip nor the barb that was designed to sink into flesh and stay there.
“It’s in past the barb, isn’t it?” Angel asked.
Only the slightest quiver in her voice showed how much the hook hurt her.
“Yes.”
She moved as though to take off her sweater.
“Don’t, Angel. I can see enough.”
“If the entry angle isn’t too steep, you can push the barb through, cut if off, and then remove the hook,” she said. “Otherwise you’ll have to cut the skin to free the barb.”
Angel’s matter-of-fact words exactly paralleled Hawk’s thoughts.
“Either way, it will hurt like hell,” he said bluntly.
“Then you’ll get to hear your fishing guide scream and swear and otherwise make a fool of herself.”
When Hawk didn’t answer, Angel turned just enough to look into his eyes.
“It’s only pain, Hawk. It passes.”
“I could take you to a doctor.”
“Why? You have quicker hands than any doctor who ever treated me.”
“Angel . . . ”
“There are pliers and a wire cutter in the tackle box. If you don’t want to do it, call Carlson. He’s seen me scream before.”
Hawk hesitated, wanting to ask when and why Carlson had seen Angel scream with pain. But it was the wrong time for questions.
With another soft, vicious curse, Hawk went to the tackle box. He found two pairs of needle nose pliers and the wire cutter. He brought them back, doused them with alcohol, and went to where Angel waited.
“Ready?” asked Hawk, his voice flat.
“Just a moment.”
Angel closed her eyes and reached for the cascading colors. They poured through her mind, colors too beautiful to describe, too pure to be real.
“Now,” she murmured, and began naming the fantastic colors in her mind.
Using the pliers for grip and leverage on the steel shank, Hawk forced the hook to complete its shallow curve through Angel’s flesh. He cut off the barb cleanly, then pulled out what remained of the hook in a swift, smooth motion.
Angel gasped and made a low sound of pain.
Hawk dropped the bloody, broken hook into the tackle box and wrapped his hands around Angel’s arms, bracing her and looking at the twin wounds on her golden skin.
“It’s done,” Hawk said, his voice harsh.
“Thank you,” Angel said, her voice trembling.
She let out a long, ragged sigh.
“When was your last tetanus shot?” Hawk asked.
“I don’t fish with rusty hooks,” said Angel indignantly, breathing more deeply now that the hook didn’t dig into her with each breath. “Anyway, my shots are current. There’s some antibiotic salve in a kit in the tackle box. That should take care of infection.”
Hawk hesitated. “Can you move your shoulder blades, twist around a bit?”
“Why?”
“You’ve only bled about six drops. That’s not enough to clean out the deepest part of the wound.”
Angel rotated her shoulder blades slowly. Her sweater slipped down her back. She gathered the soft folds and pulled them over her head with an impatient motion.
Hawk’s breath shortened at the satin sheen and movement of Angel’s skin. She wore no more on her back than a wisp of apricot bra and two bright drops of blood, one on each wound left by the hook as it stitched through her flesh. Despite her movements, no more blood came.