Authors: Madeline Baker
Hawk stared at the telephone wondering if he should answer it. Maggie was in the bathroom and he thought maybe he’d just let it ring, but when it didn’t stop he picked up the receiver, trying to remember what Maggie said when she answered the phone. What was the word? Oh, yes.
“Hello.”
“Well, hello.” The voice was husky, female and sounded surprised. “Is Maggie there?”
“She is…uh, busy.”
“I see. Well, this is her editor, Sheila Goodman. Could you give her a message for me?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her I’m going to a conference in Sioux Falls and I’ll call her from there on Friday.”
“Friday,” Hawk repeated.
“Don’t forget.”
“I will not forget.”
“Goodbye.”
Hawk hung up the phone as Maggie wheeled into the room.
“Who was on the phone?” she asked.
“Sheila Goodman. She said to tell you she is going to Sioux Falls and will call you Friday.”
“Oh, dear,” Maggie said with a sigh. “She probably wants to know how my book’s coming along.”
She looked at Hawk, thinking that in some ways his being here had made her writing easier. He was a wonderful model for her hero and sometimes the ideas flowed like water, especially the love scenes.
And yet there were too many days when she sat in the den and didn’t accomplish anything, days when she turned away from her computer and sat at the window to watch Hawk as he worked outside, her eyes drinking in the sight of him as he brushed the horses or raked the corral, days when she sat with her elbows on the windowsill, her head cradled in her hands, admiring the way he walked, the strength in his arms as he chopped wood for the fire. Days when there were no words to describe what she was thinking, feeling, days when the computer screen stared back at her, blue and empty like a cloudless sky.
Hawk lifted one black brow, wondering why Maggie was staring at him so pensively. “Is something wrong?”
“What? Oh, no, it’s just that Sheila’s going to want to know why I’m so far behind.”
“Will she be angry?”
“Sheila? No, she never gets angry. But maybe I’d better try to get some work done before she calls.”
Friday morning Maggie was procrastinating again. Instead of working, she was sitting at her easel sketching Hawk as he exercised the black stallion.
A horse and a Sioux Indian played an important part in the novel she was working on and she wanted to make a few sketches in hopes that Sheila would use one of her ideas on the cover. So many covers featured buxom women falling out of their dresses. It was a marketing technique that Maggie had never understood. The women who read romance novels didn’t want to see voluptuous blondes poured into scanty, low-cut dresses, they wanted to see the hero.
Hawk waved at her as he slid from the stallion’s back and walked the horse down to the barn to cool it off.
Maggie waved back, then cast a critical eye at the drawing in front of her. It was good, she thought. She’d captured the latent strength of the stallion, the essence of the man.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, shook her head in disbelief as she recognized the redheaded woman sitting behind the wheel.
“Sheila.”
“Good morning, Maggie my girl,” Sheila Goodman said. Sliding out of the car, she hurried toward Maggie, stooping to kiss her soundly on the cheek. “How’s my number one author?”
“I’m fine.” Maggie felt a faint twinge of envy as she took in Sheila’s chic black silk suit, emerald-green blouse and black heels. The woman looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Well, I was so close I decided to come and see where my star author lives. My dear, I can see why you love it out here. It’s beautiful. And so was that man on the horse. Who is he?”
“He’s, uh, just someone who works here. Let’s go in the house and I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“The house is lovely,” Sheila said after giving herself a tour. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read a few pages of your manuscript while I was in the den.”
“I don’t mind. What do you think?”
“Your fans will adore it. The hero’s marvelous, and that love scene…”
“Thanks. Do you still take cream and sugar in your coffee?”
Sheila made a wry face and patted her hips. “Just black’s fine. So, tell me more about that Indian who’s working for you.”
Stalling for time, Maggie added cream and sugar to her coffee. “He’s Lakota, from Pine Ridge. Bobby’s gone to spend some time with his family and Hawk is taking his place.”
“I see.”
Maggie felt her cheeks grow warm. Sheila
did
see, she thought. In fact, she saw too much.
“How much longer until the book is finished?”
“At least another month. Maybe two.”
“But it’ll be done by the first of the year?”
Maggie nodded. “Did you see the sketch I was working on?”
“Yes, it’s very good.”
“I was hoping you might use something like it on the cover of
Midnight Hearts
.”
“It’s an idea. I’ll talk it over with Max and see what he thinks.”
“Good. I…” The words died in Maggie’s throat as she heard Hawk’s footsteps in the hall. She’d been hoping he would stay out of sight until Sheila left. How could she explain the way Hawk dressed? What if he said something about the cave?
Maggie stared at Hawk, her mouth agape, as he entered the room. He was wearing the clothes Veronica had bought him. The denim hugged his long legs like a second skin, the black T-shirt was the perfect foil for his swarthy skin and dark hair. She thought he looked sexier than Mel Gibson, Patrick Swayze and Sean Connery all rolled into one.
A glance at Sheila told Maggie that her editor was not immune to Hawk’s good looks either. Indeed, the older woman was on the verge of drooling.
“You must be Hawk,” Sheila purred, extending her hand. “I’m Sheila Goodman, Maggie’s editor.” She slid an arch glance at Maggie. “Now I know why you’ve been too busy to call me.”
Because it seemed expected, Hawk took Sheila’s hand in his. She was a pretty woman with dark brown eyes and flaming red hair the likes of which Hawk had never seen.
“Hawk, would you like some coffee?” Maggie asked. A sharp twinge of jealousy darted through her as she wondered if Sheila was ever going to release Hawk’s hand.
“Yes.” Gently but firmly, he drew his hand from Sheila’s and sat down in the chair across from Maggie.
Sheila stared at Hawk intently for a moment, and then snapped her fingers. “Now I know why you look so familiar,” she exclaimed. “You’re the Indian in the painting over the fireplace.” Sheila looked at Maggie. “I thought you said the man in the painting was someone you saw in a dream.”
“He is,” Maggie said. She laughed nervously. “Isn’t it remarkable how much they look alike?”
“Too remarkable to be a coincidence,” Sheila replied dryly. “Tell me, Mr. Hawk, have you known Maggie long?”
Over a hundred years,
Hawk mused. Aloud he said, “Yes, I am an old friend.”
Maggie bit back a grin. Old indeed.
“I see,” Sheila said. “Will you be staying here long?”
“I do not know.”
Sheila glanced from Shadow Hawk to Maggie. She sensed an undercurrent between them, almost as if they shared a secret. What weren’t they telling her?
For the next half hour, Maggie watched Hawk charm the socks off her editor. He answered Sheila’s questions politely, offered her more coffee, lit her cigarette and walked her to her car.
“Well,” Maggie said when he returned to the kitchen. “That was the best performance I’ve ever seen. Where’d you learn to be so charming?”
Hawk shrugged, his expression sheepish. “Sometimes I stay up late and watch television,” he said.
“What have you been watching?”
“’Old movies’, you call them.”
Laughter bubbled in Maggie’s throat as she imagined Hawk sitting in front of the TV watching old Gary Grant flicks. No wonder he knew how to light a cigarette and what words to say to flatter a woman.
“Why did you change your clothes?”
“You told me Indians today dress like the white man. I did not want your editor to wonder why I dressed so strangely. And I did not want you to be embarrassed.”
“Oh, Hawk, you wouldn’t have embarrassed me,” Maggie said, touched by his thoughtfulness. And then she laughed. “But it’s probably a good thing you changed. I think Sheila might have swooned if she’d seen you in just your clout. She could hardly keep her eyes off of you as it was.”
Hawk looked at Maggie curiously. Was that jealousy he heard in her voice?
“She is very pretty,” Hawk said, watching Maggie.
“I suppose, if you like the type,” Maggie retorted, and then hated herself for being so catty. Sheila wasn’t just her editor, she was a friend.
Hawk turned away to hide his grin. She was jealous. The idea pleased him very much.
The phone rang early the next morning. Groaning, Maggie picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Maggie? Sheila. Listen, on my way back to Sioux Falls, I had a marvelous idea. I called Max and told him about your Indian and then I sort of suggested it might be fun to have Raoul get some pictures of you and your Indian, you know, with the Black Hills in the background.”
“Raoul, here? To paint us?”
“Yes! He’s here in Sioux Falls with me. The writers all love him.”
Wide awake now, Maggie sat up. “No, Sheila, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, I don’t want to be on the cover.”
“But Maggie, my girl, think of the publicity! Your fans will love it! And they’ll adore Hawk. Besides, if he’s a working man, he can probably use the money.”
Maggie grinned, thinking that money was the last thing Hawk needed.
“We’ll pay you too, of course. One hundred twenty-five dollars an hour. It’s nothing to sneeze at.”
It was the standard rate, Maggie thought, but she didn’t need the money and neither did Hawk.
“We’ll be there tomorrow morning.”
“We?”
“Well darling, I’m coming too. See you tomorrow,” Sheila said brightly and hung up before Maggie could protest further.
Maggie stared at the receiver in her hand. Sheila and Raoul were coming here to photograph her and Hawk. Raoul was one of the best romance artists in the business, and made upwards of seven thousand dollars a cover. His paintings were always in demand, some of them selling for as much as ten grand.
As she’d expected, Hawk was even less enthusiastic about the idea than she was.
“Take pictures?” he queried, frowning. “What does that mean?”
It was too hard to explain. Instead, she showed him her camera and then dragged out an old photo album and let him look through it.
Hawk studied the photographs carefully, especially the ones of Maggie. There were photos of Maggie standing between an older man and woman, photos of Maggie in various poses and places with a girl he knew must be her sister, Susie. It was strange to see Maggie standing up, walking, riding. In one picture she was wearing very short pants and he couldn’t help staring at her legs. They were long and slim and golden-brown. He slid a glance in her direction thinking he’d like very much to see her in those short pants.
Several times he looked at the pictures and then at Maggie, wondering how her spirit could be in two places at once.
“How?” he asked as he neared the end of the book. “How can you be beside me and in this picture?”
Maggie smiled indulgently, remembering that many Indians had feared to have their photographs taken, believing that the camera captured a part of their spirit.
“There’s no life in the picture, Hawk. It’s like a drawing of a winter count, or the pictures that warriors draw on the dew cloth of their lodges. Only these pictures are made with a camera instead of charcoal or paint.”
Hawk grunted softly. Surely it could not be dangerous, or Maggie would not have so many pictures of herself in the book.
Maggie looked over Hawk’s shoulder. The photos brought back so many memories. There were pictures of her mother and father, of their old two-story house in Los Angeles, of Susie, of her grandparents. There were pictures of her swimming in Bass Lake, horseback riding in Griffith Park, roller skating, riding the merry-go-round at Disneyland, playing tennis with Frank…
“Your editor wishes to take pictures of us. Why?”
“To use on the cover of my next book. We’ve used your likeness before, from drawings I made, but Sheila thinks this will be better.”
Hawk glanced at the bookrack that displayed Maggie’s books, one black brow arching upward in amusement as he pointed to the cover of
Forbidden Flame
.
“Will you dress like that?”
Maggie flushed as she glanced at the cover. The heroine was wearing a bright red dress that showed an ample amount of cleavage and a good deal of one thigh. “I don’t think so.”