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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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the ghost was banished once more.
“What do you consider a safe speed?” he asked.
“Right now?”
Angel turned slowly, measuring the sea surrounding the boat.
“There’s good visibility,” she said. “The wind is down. The tide is running but not boiling.”
Hawk looked as well, measuring her perceptions against his own knowledge of water and racing hulls and his own reflexes.
Finally Angel gestured toward the power-boat surging away from them.
“About what he’s doing,” she said.
One black eyebrow lifted, but Hawk said nothing as he brought the boat up to speed again.
“There aren’t that many deadheads,” explained Angel. “And most of them are flagged as soon as they’re found.”
“Is that what those are for?” Hawk asked.
He gestured toward a handful of meter-length rods with a sharp point on one end and a bright triangular flag on the other.
Angel nodded. “If we spot a deadhead, we flag it.”
“Then what? Notify the Canadian equivalent of the Coast Guard?”
“Nope. Usually a log scavenger will pick up the flagged stuff. With the price of lumber so high, a log is worth several hundred dollars.”
“What if no one picks it up?” Hawk asked.
“Then the flag makes the deadhead easy to spot and avoid, even at twice this speed.”
“Be nice if all of life’s little trouble spots were so neatly posted,” said Hawk, his voice sardonic.
“The flags only work if you have the sense to heed them,” Angel said, her tone as sardonic as his.
Are you listening to your own advice? she asked herself in silence. There are flags sticking out all over Hawk, but I keep seeing past them to the man beneath, hunger and intelligence, heat and strength, all that made life valuable.
And danger. I see that too. Clearly.
Angel didn’t underestimate the danger inherent in Hawk. Nor did she fear it. She respected it.
Danger always existed, as much a part of life as love. To have the one you must accept the other. Grant Ramsey had taught Angel that . . . love and death.
The learning had nearly destroyed Angel. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to risk learning again.
She knew only that she was going to find out.
7
Angel directed Hawk toward a quiet stretch of water by touching his arm and pointing to the right. During the run up the Inside Passage , neither of them had attempted to talk over the unleashed thunder of diesels.
Smoothly, Hawk brought the boat into calm water in the lee of a gray headland. He put engines in neutral and waited, testing the amount of drift. There was very little.
With an easy motion, Hawk slid out from behind the helm. When he stood up, he was so close to Angel that she could smell the clean scent of his aftershave. His eyes were a clear, crystal brown with surprising flecks of gold. His mustache was as black as the center of his eyes.
Angel wondered what it would feel like to have that mustache against her skin. She wanted to know if it would be rough or soft or a tantalizing combination of the two.
Would his mustache be cool beneath my fingertips, or would it have the same heat that the rest of Hawk’s body has, a heat that touches me even though I’m not touching him?
The intensity of Angel’s silence and speculations froze her, overriding even the need to breathe. Then she saw Hawk’s pupils dilate suddenly as he became aware of her appraisal.
Angel retreated, looking away from the hard, sensual line of Hawk’s lips. She wanted to say something, anything, because she sensed that he was looking at her as completely as she had looked at him.
No words came to her.
With downcast eyes, Angel brushed past him and sat behind the helm of the powerful boat.
Hawk bent over her and the boat’s controls, knowing from her quickly indrawn breath that his presence disturbed her. He was careful not to touch her. He had seen her retreat as clearly as he had seen the consuming sensuality of her appraisal.
Though Hawk controlled his desire to stroke
“What do you consider a safe speed?” he asked.
“Right now?”
Angel turned slowly, measuring the sea surrounding the boat.
“There’s good visibility,” she said. “The wind is down. The tide is running but not boiling.”
Hawk looked as well, measuring her perceptions against his own knowledge of water and racing hulls and his own reflexes.
Finally Angel gestured toward the power-boat surging away from them.
“About what he’s doing,” she said.
One black eyebrow lifted, but Hawk said nothing as he brought the boat up to speed again.
“There aren’t that many deadheads,” explained Angel. “And most of them are flagged as soon as they’re found.”
“Is that what those are for?” Hawk asked.
He gestured toward a handful of meter-length rods with a sharp point on one end and a bright triangular flag on the other.
Angel nodded. “If we spot a deadhead, we flag it.”
“Then what? Notify the Canadian equivalent of the Coast Guard?”
“Nope. Usually a log scavenger will pick up the flagged stuff. With the price of lumber so high, a log is worth several hundred dollars.”
“What if no one picks it up?” Hawk asked.
“Then the flag makes the deadhead easy to spot and avoid, even at twice this speed.”
“Be nice if all of life’s little trouble spots were so neatly posted,” said Hawk, his voice sardonic.
“The flags only work if you have the sense to heed them,” Angel said, her tone as sardonic as his.
Are you listening to your own advice? she asked herself in silence. There are flags sticking out all over Hawk, but I keep seeing past them to the man beneath, hunger and intelligence, heat and strength, all that made life valuable.
And danger. I see that too. Clearly.
Angel didn’t underestimate the danger inherent in Hawk. Nor did she fear it. She respected it.
Danger always existed, as much a part of life as love. To have the one you must accept the other. Grant Ramsey had taught Angel that . . . love and death.
The learning had nearly destroyed Angel. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to risk learning again.
She knew only that she was going to find out.
7
Angel directed Hawk toward a quiet stretch of water by touching his arm and pointing to the right. During the run up the Inside Passage , neither of them had attempted to talk over the unleashed thunder of diesels.
Smoothly, Hawk brought the boat into calm water in the lee of a gray headland. He put engines in neutral and waited, testing the amount of drift. There was very little.
With an easy motion, Hawk slid out from behind the helm. When he stood up, he was so close to Angel that she could smell the clean scent of his aftershave. His eyes were a clear, crystal brown with surprising flecks of gold. His mustache was as black as the center of his eyes.
Angel wondered what it would feel like to have that mustache against her skin. She wanted to know if it would be rough or soft or a tantalizing combination of the two.
Would his mustache be cool beneath my fingertips, or would it have the same heat that the rest of Hawk’s body has, a heat that touches me even though I’m not touching him?
The intensity of Angel’s silence and speculations froze her, overriding even the need to breathe. Then she saw Hawk’s pupils dilate suddenly as he became aware of her appraisal.
Angel retreated, looking away from the hard, sensual line of Hawk’s lips. She wanted to say something, anything, because she sensed that he was looking at her as completely as she had looked at him.
No words came to her.
With downcast eyes, Angel brushed past him and sat behind the helm of the powerful boat.
Hawk bent over her and the boat’s controls, knowing from her quickly indrawn breath that his presence disturbed her. He was careful not to touch her. He had seen her retreat as clearly as he had seen the consuming sensuality of her appraisal.
Though Hawk controlled his desire to stroke
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