Angel, barely hearing his words.
Hawk had unbuttoned his shirt when he sat down for the round of morning calls. Tanned, powerful, with a wedge of curling midnight hair, the lines and textures of Hawk’s chest between the crisp white edges of his shirt appealed to both the woman and the artist in Angel. It was all she could do not to grab her sketch pad and go to work, capturing him.
Or to lean over and tangle her fingers in the rough silk of his hair, capturing him in a different way.
“Take my car,” said Hawk. “I won’t be needing it.”
His eyes roamed over Angel’s face, lingering on her moist, slightly parted lips. Anticipation flooded through his body in a wave of heat.
She was just within his reach.
With very little effort he could pull her between his legs, hold her against the growing ache of his arousal, the ache that came whenever he was with her for more than a moment.
Hell, Hawk admitted angrily to himself, I get hard just thinking about her soft mouth and haunted eyes, and what it will be like to hear and feel her passion.
When Hawk spoke again, his expression was impassive—and his voice a caress.
“Take it, Angel. It’s easy to handle.”
Then Hawk’s voice changed.
“No, Jennings ,” he said into the phone, “I didn’t mean you.” Hawk’s mouth curled up at the left corner. “I wouldn’t give you a saucer of warm spit, and you know it.”
Angel heard the blast of laughter that came from the phone. She took the keys from Hawk and hurried out of the room, wondering if he had noticed her staring at him.
And if he had, what he thought about it.
Angel was drawn to Hawk as surely as waves were drawn to the shore. She wanted to be with him, to touch him, to talk with him, to enjoy his quick intelligence and even his abrasive wit.
Yet she didn’t know if he was attracted to her in the same way. There was no reason he should be. There was no lack of women for Hawk.
Women wanted him. It was that simple.
Every time Hawk walked down a street or into a restaurant, women looked, and then looked again, drawn by the maleness that radiated from him as inevitably as color radiated from stained glass.
Yet Hawk didn’t look back at the women who looked at him. Either he didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.
Angel slid behind the wheel of Hawk’s black BMW. A quick study of the dashboard told her everything she needed to know. She started the engine and drove confidently, enjoying the responsiveness of the car. As Hawk had said, it was easy to handle.
She wished that the car’s owner was half so easily managed. But he wasn’t.
All Angel could be sure of was that Hawk had made no unmistakable overtures toward her as a woman. Until he did, she could only assume that he wasn’t interested.
Despite her attraction to Hawk, she would not chase him. It not only wasn’t her style, but she had a deep feeling that he had been too often chased and never caught.
Not really. Not for more than a night or two.
That wasn’t enough. Whatever Angel’s feelings were toward the enigmatic Hawk, they were too complex to be satisfied in a few nights.
10
Angel parked in front of a small house that had been built forty years before. The other houses on the street were more recent, having been built after Mr. Carey died and his widow was forced to sell the small farm in order to pay death taxes.
After Angel retrieved the two bags of groceries from the trunk, she walked carefully up the cracked sidewalk to the front porch. On either side of the walkway, once-elegant roses were going to seed.
Next time I’m here, I’ll have to have a go at the roses with the pruning shears.
Mail stuck out from the box by the doorbell. Angel pressed the button with her elbow, then braced a grocery bag against the brick house long enough to grab the mail in the box.
“Mrs. Carey?” she called out. “It’s Angie.”
“Coming,” said a faint voice from inside the house.
Angel waited without impatience,
Hawk had unbuttoned his shirt when he sat down for the round of morning calls. Tanned, powerful, with a wedge of curling midnight hair, the lines and textures of Hawk’s chest between the crisp white edges of his shirt appealed to both the woman and the artist in Angel. It was all she could do not to grab her sketch pad and go to work, capturing him.
Or to lean over and tangle her fingers in the rough silk of his hair, capturing him in a different way.
“Take my car,” said Hawk. “I won’t be needing it.”
His eyes roamed over Angel’s face, lingering on her moist, slightly parted lips. Anticipation flooded through his body in a wave of heat.
She was just within his reach.
With very little effort he could pull her between his legs, hold her against the growing ache of his arousal, the ache that came whenever he was with her for more than a moment.
Hell, Hawk admitted angrily to himself, I get hard just thinking about her soft mouth and haunted eyes, and what it will be like to hear and feel her passion.
When Hawk spoke again, his expression was impassive—and his voice a caress.
“Take it, Angel. It’s easy to handle.”
Then Hawk’s voice changed.
“No, Jennings ,” he said into the phone, “I didn’t mean you.” Hawk’s mouth curled up at the left corner. “I wouldn’t give you a saucer of warm spit, and you know it.”
Angel heard the blast of laughter that came from the phone. She took the keys from Hawk and hurried out of the room, wondering if he had noticed her staring at him.
And if he had, what he thought about it.
Angel was drawn to Hawk as surely as waves were drawn to the shore. She wanted to be with him, to touch him, to talk with him, to enjoy his quick intelligence and even his abrasive wit.
Yet she didn’t know if he was attracted to her in the same way. There was no reason he should be. There was no lack of women for Hawk.
Women wanted him. It was that simple.
Every time Hawk walked down a street or into a restaurant, women looked, and then looked again, drawn by the maleness that radiated from him as inevitably as color radiated from stained glass.
Yet Hawk didn’t look back at the women who looked at him. Either he didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.
Angel slid behind the wheel of Hawk’s black BMW. A quick study of the dashboard told her everything she needed to know. She started the engine and drove confidently, enjoying the responsiveness of the car. As Hawk had said, it was easy to handle.
She wished that the car’s owner was half so easily managed. But he wasn’t.
All Angel could be sure of was that Hawk had made no unmistakable overtures toward her as a woman. Until he did, she could only assume that he wasn’t interested.
Despite her attraction to Hawk, she would not chase him. It not only wasn’t her style, but she had a deep feeling that he had been too often chased and never caught.
Not really. Not for more than a night or two.
That wasn’t enough. Whatever Angel’s feelings were toward the enigmatic Hawk, they were too complex to be satisfied in a few nights.
10
Angel parked in front of a small house that had been built forty years before. The other houses on the street were more recent, having been built after Mr. Carey died and his widow was forced to sell the small farm in order to pay death taxes.
After Angel retrieved the two bags of groceries from the trunk, she walked carefully up the cracked sidewalk to the front porch. On either side of the walkway, once-elegant roses were going to seed.
Next time I’m here, I’ll have to have a go at the roses with the pruning shears.
Mail stuck out from the box by the doorbell. Angel pressed the button with her elbow, then braced a grocery bag against the brick house long enough to grab the mail in the box.
“Mrs. Carey?” she called out. “It’s Angie.”
“Coming,” said a faint voice from inside the house.
Angel waited without impatience,
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