On Wings of Magic by Kay Hooper Page A

Kendall muttered to herself. Resolutely, she picked up her novel again and began to read. Half an hour later, still reading the same page, she swore softly and dropped the novel into her beachbag. And she didn’t even feel a twinge of dismay when she realized that the book had completely lost its appeal.
    She rose from the lounge, pulled on her shorts and T-shirt, and headed for the hotel, swinging the beachbag as though she wanted to throw it at someone. Unfortunately, the target she was longing for had already left.
    There was a package waiting for her at the desk. It was about five inches square, three inches deep, and wrapped in glittering silver paper. And there was a small card tucked into a snowy envelope. Kendall didn’t say a word as she accepted the package from Rick. She even resisted an impulse to tear into the envelope when she was alone in the elevator.
    Common sense told her it was from Hawke. Temper told her to drop it from her balcony. Dignity and pride commanded her to place the gift in his suite—unopened. Curiosity ate at her.
    Alone in her suite, Kendall dropped her beachbag, sank on to the sofa, and hastily opened the envelope.
This is your symbol
, he’d written on the card, the handwriting as bold and decisive as the man himself.
A creature of myth and legend, lovely and fragile
…
and just slightly unreal. Hawke
.
    Kendall was almost afraid to open the box. But she did. And a soft “Oh!” escaped her as she carefully lifted the delicate cut-glass unicorn from the tissue paper. It was absolutely beautiful.
    She wanted to cry. Half angrily, she realized that there always seemed to be a cloudburst just over the horizon these days. Oh, God, what was the man
doing
to her? He made her laugh, made her angry, made her cry. In two short days he’d literally turned her life upside down.
    Never in her life had she known a man like him. When most men wooed a woman, they sent flowers, candy, perfume. Not Hawke. He sent seashells. And carnivorous plants in expensive copper bowls. And unicorns. What had he told her? That knowing him would be an education? Damn the man—right again.
    Kendall cradled the glass creature in her hands and stared down at it. Beautiful things such as this were her weakness, but she had never gotten the chance to collect them. Living as she did, out of suitcases, it just wasn’t practical. Had he guessed?
    She wondered vaguely if he had written the note with a straight face. And knew that he had. He was a strange man, Hawke Madison. She had already noticed that his staff treated him with the utmost respect. Instinct told her that he would be formidable indeed if he were roused to temper. He’d come of agein a brutal war and, God knew, that would harden a man.
    And yet … the sensitivity was there. He loved children. He could cheerfully sweep a woman off her feet and carry her through a crowded lobby or bar. He could talk of fairy tales and myths. He could hold her gently in his arms as she cried, sharing the pain of grief and a nightmare.
    A romantic man. A
storybook
romantic man. And what woman could resist that?
    Kendall wasn’t angry with him any longer—if, indeed, she had ever been angry in the first place. And that was a bad sign. A very bad sign.
    Rick escorted her to dinner that night—something that Kendall didn’t question until they were at their table. She found Rick to be uncomplicated next to his friend and employer, and had no trouble at all in talking to him. The conversation flowed easily between them.
    Kendall’s question was calm, but she timed it so that Rick was somewhat involved with eating. “Did Hawke tell you to do this?”
    Her escort choked and hastily reached for his wineglass, then looked at her with watering, faintly accusing eyes. “Of course not,” he said stoutly.
    He was a bad liar.
    She sighed and went on with her meal, not even able to conjure up a flash of temper. And her involuntary thought of
Damn the man!
was more rueful than