The planer attached to the line took it down quickly. When enough line was out, Angel set the reel’s brake and slipped the butt of the rod into a holder along the side of the boat. For a moment she watched the tip of the rod. It moved subtly, rhythmically, responding to the boat sliding over the restless surface of the sea.

Within moments the second rod was set up on the starboard side. Angel paused, then shrugged.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I’m damn tired of not fishing.

She grabbed one of the long, limber rods, dove into the tackle box, and came up with a bucktail fly half as big as her palm. She let the bucktail out over the stern, feeding line until the big, pale fly danced over the surface about thirty feet behind the boat.

Even though it was weeks too soon for salmon to be feeding on the surface, there was such a thing as luck.

“I’ll take it now,” Angel said, coming into the cockpit.

Hawk slid out of the seat and past Angel. As they switched places, she smelled again the compound of soap and subtle aftershave, heat and man, that had come to be indelibly associated in her mind with Hawk.

When she turned to lower herself into the seat, her body brushed over Hawk’s. Though it only lasted for an instant, the contact sent shards of awareness splintering through her. Unconsciously she held her breath, freezing in place, unwilling to end the racing sensations.

“Watch the rod tips,” Angel said, her voice too low, almost husky. “Get used to their motion. Then you’ll know instantly if anything changes, if there’s weed on the herring strip or if a salmon strikes or… ”

Her voice faded as she looked up at Hawk. Her eyes were as green and restless as the sea.

“Do you understand?” Angel asked huskily.

Hawk’s mouth changed, hard lines flowing into a hint of softness, a promise of sensuality that was repeated in the hot brown depths of his eyes.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I understand.”

And he did.

It wasn’t the motion of herring strips and water that he was talking about. It was the hunger making Angel’s eyes a smoky green, and the visible race of the pulse beneath the soft skin of her neck.

The chase was almost run. Soon the last twists and turns would be over, the last frantic burst of flight would be completed, and she would lie panting and spent in his arms.

Hawk turned away and went out into the open stern of the boat to watch rod tips dance to the slow surge of the sea, the shine of the waves beneath the sun.

But it was another type of dance he was thinking about, the slow surge of flesh against flesh, the sensual sheen of passion on smooth skin, and the liquid, rhythmic waves of release.

Soon.

Braced easily against the motion of the boat, Hawk watched the rod tips against the cerulean sky.

Angel looked over her shoulder, but her eyes were on the man, not on the rods. He was the most graceful man she had ever seen. The subtle adjustments of his body to the shifting boat fascinated her. Like the bird he had taken his nickname from, Hawk was fiercely quick, incredibly fluid, stunning in his completeness.

After a time Angel forced herself to look away. She reminded herself that Hawk had done nothing to indicate he was attracted to her in the aching way that she was attracted to him, a fascination of both mind and body.

All of the tactile contact between herself and Hawk could be explained by the close quarters of the boat, or by casual affection such as any friend might give her. Never had Angel seen from Hawk anything close to the emotion with which Grant used to watch her, love and desire intertwined until there was no room left for anything else, even breath.

Deliberately Angel recalled the rose in her mind. She needed its crimson tranquillity.

Five days on a boat with Hawk would be hard enough on her. She didn’t need to make it worse, embarrassing both of them by running after Hawk like a love-struck teenager.

The rose came very grudgingly to Angel, single crimson petals joining and blurring like drops of blood, then sliding away, leaving her empty. After a time she succeeded in forming the whole rose petal by petal, its color glowing with dawn, serene in its own unfolding.

It had been years since the rose had come to Angel so slowly, or she had needed it quite so much.

Trolling quietly, checking the lures from time to time, Angel floated over the area where the sea had boiled with herring and salmon, hunted and hunter. Nothing struck the lures.

After several more sweeps, Angel had Hawk check the lines for weeds. She watched as he picked up a rod out of the holder, yanked sharply on the rod to release the planer, and reeled in. She was envious of the power that let him so easily trip the planer, a technique that she had spent days learning to do correctly, for her arms simply weren’t as strong as the normal man’s, much less a man like Hawk.

When the lines were back in the water, Angel began a slow sweep up the rugged coastline that would eventually take the boat to Deepwater Bay. For a time she let the urgencies of the moment slide like light into the sunset sea. The throttled-down murmur of the engines crept into her bones and mind, quietly freeing her.

In Angel’s mind the primal serenity of sea and forest and rock blended into radiant images crying out to be set in glass as pure as the sky.

“You awake up here?” asked Hawk.

He slid into the seat opposite Angel and faced toward the stern, where he could continue watching the rods.

“Barely.”

Angel smothered a yawn.

“Bored?” Hawk asked.

She smiled and shook her head.

“Just relaxed,” she said slowly. “I love this.”

Her hands automatically corrected the boat’s course. She looked over at Hawk.

“Are you?” she asked.

“Bored?” Hawk’s dark glance drifted over Angel’s face. “No. This is… soothing.”

Hawk stretched, filling the cabin with his presence. He saw Angel’s eyes following the movement of his arms, saw her look at the opening of his shirt, at his neck, at his mouth.

Suddenly, soothing was the last word that Hawk would apply to the moment. The ache of desire that had never been far below his surface became talons of need sinking into him, gripping him until he couldn’t breathe. In the space of a few heartbeats he was ready for her, desire expanding thickly, hotly.

Too soon. Too fast.

With a single, powerful movement, Hawk came to his feet and walked out of the cabin. He stood with his back to Angel, watching the rods and the increasing chop of the water, watching with an intensity that made his jaw ache. Motionless but for easy adjustments to the shifting deck, Hawk fought the desire that had ambushed him.

After a time he succeeded in thinking of the graceful curve of the rods instead of the inviting curve of rosy lips and of breasts arched beneath a sweater the color of the sea.

The closer the boat came to Deepwater Bay, the more small craft there were about. The Black Moon overtook them at a distance, heading for safe anchorage at Deepwater Bay.

Hawk heard the radio behind him, heard Angel’s soft reply, but didn’t turn around. It had been more than an hour since he had left the cabin.

Not long enough.

Too long.

Angel was a fire beneath Hawk’s skin, in his bones. He wanted her with a force that enraged him. The chase would end tonight, whether she was ready or not.

He was ready. More than ready. He would take her and when he took her the lies would come like cold rain, putting out his unreasonable fire.

Then Hawk would finally be free of Angel, free to fly again, a black shadow soaring through an empty sky.

Chapter 13

As Angel brought the boat around the point that guarded the entrance to Deepwater Bay, she saw immediately that there were too many small boats clustered about for her take the course she usually did. Just as she began to turn the helm, she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye, a powerboat all but flying over the water toward the bay.

Some weekend fisherman was so anxious to get in every bit of fishing time he could that he was ignoring the basics of good manners and safety. He was going to force Angel to go too close to the other sport fishermen, and his wake was going to make all the other small boats bob wildly. Likely it would be enough to trip the planers and make everyone take in and let out the trolling lines all over again.

“Brace yourself!” called Angel.

She cut the forward speed to nothing in hope of reducing the drag on the planers.

The powerboat roared past them, pulling a rooster tail of churned water as tall as a man. Hawk was ready, his legs spread and his hand fastened to the door frame of the cabin. The boat rocked wildly, bucking like an unruly horse.

The other small craft were no better off. There were more than a few curses and rude gestures aimed at the disappearing powerboat.

Angel eased back up to trolling speed and set a course that would take her farther from the clustered boats. Automatically she looked back at the stern, checking the fishing gear. One rod was standing straight, unmoving. The other was bent over in a hard arc.

Before Angel could say anything, Hawk lifted the rod and pulled sharply. Nothing gave. The rod tip moved with tiny, springy motions. Line peeled off the reel while the brake made a long, high scream.

Normally that sound would signal the strike and flight of a big fish. Today it meant something a good deal less exciting.

Sixty feet away, Angel saw one of the men in a small blue boat stand and wave wildly to get her attention. His partner was struggling to reel in his line. There was so much tension on the man’s rod that he could barely hold onto it.