A Woman Without Lies by Elizabeth Lowell

decided that Hawk’s touches were simply part of his complex nature, like his fierce eyes and unsmiling mouth. She no longer retreated when he touched her. She accepted him for what he was—if not a gentle man, at least a very controlled one.
    In the hours they had spent together Hawk had never really crowded Angel, never said or done anything out of line. And he was easy to be with, despite his moments of startling intensity. Long silences didn’t require chatter to cover the untamed murmur of wind and sea.
    Once, when they had been out on the water for several hours, relaxation had eased the harsh lines of Hawk’s face. Angel hadn’t been able to look away from him. She was fascinated by the change in him, as though peace had dissolved away his darker surface color, revealing the warmer color beneath.
    Yet sometimes Angel felt pursued.
    When she looked up and found Hawk watching her, her heart hesitated and then beat too quickly. He seemed to see right through her to the blood racing in her veins.
    Once, when he had touched her cheek with his hard fingertips, she had thought he was going to say something. Surely he had seen the rapid beat of her pulse beneath her throat.
    But he had said nothing, simply looked at her, and a feeling of longing had swept through her like sunlight through stained glass, transforming her. She found herself holding her breath, anticipating the next time his fingers would brush over her skin. Then she found herself watching him, wondering with strange urgency what it would take to make him smile.
    For Hawk had never smiled in the time they were together. Not once.
    Perhaps when he catches his first salmon, Angel thought . Perhaps then he will smile.
    No one can resist the flashing beauty of the fish, the thrilling power vibrating up through the rod, the moment of capture when the net explodes with rippling silver energy.
    The phone rang, startling Angel out of her thoughts.
    It didn’t ring a second time. Hawk had picked it up before she could do more than look at the extension in her studio.
    Angel glanced at the wall clock. Nine-thirty. A bit late for London . The call was probably from one of Hawk’s limited partners in the United States . Later in the day Hawk would usually talk to Tokyo , long calls that left him irritable, restless, liked a caged thing ready to lash out at whatever was within reach.
    But not today. Today they were going fishing if Angel had to grab Hawk and drag him to the boat.
    First, though, Angel had to take care of her own obligations. She glanced at the partially unloaded box.
    The glass can wait. Mrs. Carey can’t.
    Angel pulled off her gloves, grabbed her purse, and left the room at a half-run, eager to have everything done so that she could be out on the water. She stopped long enough to poke her head into Hawk’s suite of rooms.
    As she had expected, Hawk was on the phone. His head was resting against the back of the leather chair, his long legs sprawled across the beautiful Chinese rug. Tension and fatigue were clear on his face. Eyes closed, he was listening without speaking.
    Angel knocked lightly on the door frame. Hawk’s eyes opened. They were startlingly clear, as intense as focused sunlight.
    “Go ahead and talk,” Hawk said to Angel, his voice rough. “His damned secretary lost the last offer. They’re looking for it right now.”
    “Can I have your car keys for a minute?”
    Hawk looked surprised, then reached into his slacks for his key ring. As he shifted, the slacks pulled tightly across his lower body, revealing every masculine line of him.
    Angel closed her eyes, but it was too late. The image of Hawk was etched behind her eyelids as surely as if she had done the job herself with acid and flashed glass.
    Keys jingled in front of Angel’s face.
    “Thanks,” Angel said, her voice tight. “Your car is blocking mine. I’ll give you back the keys as soon as I move it.”
    “Don’t bother. Just take my car.”
    “What?” asked