Part 16 (1/2)

He could learn, though.

That was how living things survived. Learning from mistakes.

aYou havenat answered my question,a Hawk said, his voice uninflected. aWhy do you get angry when I call you Angel?a aEverybody calls me Angie. Thereas nothing special between us. Why should you call me anything but Angie?a aThe fact that you gave your virginity to me isnat special?a aIt should have been, a agreed Angel in sardonic tones that echoed his. aBut it ended up about as special as a skinned knee.a aKeep pus.h.i.+ng me. Youall find the limit,a promised Hawk, meaning every word.

Angelas eyes narrowed. She smiled a tiny, cold smile, liking the idea of finding Hawkas limit.

Of hurting him.

aSo I find your limit. So what?a Angel asked carelessly. aNever argue with someone like me, Hawk. Iave got nothing left to lose. It gives me an edge.a aWhat about Derry?a Hawk asked smoothly, watching her.

Abruptly Angel curbed the cruelty that had snaked out of her own pain. She had forgotten how easya”and how terribly satisfyinga”it could be to turn agony into cruelty and then watch the rest of the world bleed with each razor cut of her tongue.

But cruelty only bred more cruelty, maiming the people around her, corroding her soul, until cruelty became a downward spiral of self-destruction that wouldnat end short of death.

Angelas realization that she hadnat learned her lesson well enough in the past was like getting an open-handed blow across the mouth. She paled until her haunted eyes were the only color in her face.

I will try very hard not to destroy myself over Hawk. I will die rather than destroy Derry.

aAngel is the name I called myself after the accident, when I finally decided to live,a she said.

Hawk listened to the soft, controlled, emotionless words and felt a chill spreading through him.

aAn angel is something alive that once was dead. Like me,a she said. aAlive and then dead and then alive again. Angel.a Hawk fought the desire to take Angel in his arms. All that kept his hands at his side was the knowledge that she would turn on him like a cornered animal.

He didnat blame her. He had hurt her cruelly, and he had no experience in healing. He had nothing to give her but emptiness and a ravenous, soul-deep curiosity about the fragile, elusive, powerful complex of emotions known as love.

A lifetime of questions waiting to be answered.

aWould you sleep with me again, for Derry?a Hawk asked.

Angel heard curiosity rather than desire in Hawkas question.

aYou donat want me,a she said, aso the question doesnat arise.a aWhat makes you think I donat want you?a The harsh sound that came from Angelas lips could hardly be called laughter. She looked up at Hawk, her eyes as hard as jade.

aYou didnat enjoy that disaster on the boat any more than I did,a she said. aSo donat worry. I wonat trip you and beat you to the floor. No more amateur hour for either one of us. Thatas a promise.a Angel tilted her head so that she could see the face of Hawkas gold watch.

aThe tide changes in twenty minutes,a she said matter-of-factly. aWhich will it be, Hawk? Fish or cut bait.a aOh, Iall fish. Always.a Then Hawk bent down until he could feel Angelas warmth seeping through the soft cotton of her dress. Close, very close, but not touching her.

aDid you really think you loved me, Angel?a The stained gla.s.s rose Angel had held in her mind exploded into a thousand cutting shards. Suddenly she was unable to bear being close to Hawk any longer.

Angel turned and ran toward the cliff trail. Each movement brought silver cries from the bells she wore. The sweet sounds went into Hawk like tiny blows too small to dodge, tiny wounds opening, tiny hooks teaching him how to bleed.

Hawk ran after her, afraid that she would slip on the narrow trail, afraid that she would fall because her wings had been torn and she could no longer fly.

Yet even when he caught up with Angel and his hard hand held her to a more sensible pace, she ignored him, refusing in pale silence to answer his question about love.

Hawk did not ask again. He had learned that Angelas truths were as painful for her as they were for him.

17.

aLet me take that,a Hawk said.

He lifted the heavy, two-foot-square stained-gla.s.s panel from Angelas hands. She didnat object. It would have done no good, anyway. Hawkas speed and strength were superior to hers.

Angel watched as his glance skimmed indifferently over Mrs. Careyas gift. The light in the hall was dim, more twilight than day. The pieces of gla.s.s were subdued, almost dull, as ordinary as crayon colors on cheap paper.

Then Hawk walked into the sunlight pouring over the front steps. The panel in his hands leaped into radiance, colors flas.h.i.+ng and expanding in a silent explosion of beauty.

He stopped, unable to move, consumed by colors. Silence stretched into one minute, two, three, but he didnat notice. He tilted the panel first one way and then the other, wholly caught in the fantastic sensual wealth of colors pooling in his hands.

Finally he looked up and saw Angel watching him.

aThatas why I love stained gla.s.s,a she said, looking at the brilliance s.h.i.+mmering in Hawkas grasp. aItas like life. Everything depends on the light you view it in.a The words had no more than left Angelas lips that she realized that the words could be applied to Hawk. Silently she closed the door behind him, hoping that he hadnat noticed.

aAre you trying to tell me that my point of view on life is too dark?a Hawk asked.

The question told Angel that he had not only noticed, he had understood all the subtle ramifications.

I should have expected it. Hawk is the quickest, most intelligent man Iave ever met.

aNo,a Angel said. aI was merely making an observation on the nature of stained gla.s.s and light.a She walked toward her car, not looking at Hawk. In the three days since she and Hawk had talked on the beach, she had carefully avoided anything that hinted of personal topics.

aNothing personal, is that it?a Hawk asked with a black lift of his eyebrow.

aAs you say. Nothing personal.a Angel opened the trunk of her car, shook out an old quilt, and gestured for Hawk to put the panel on the quilt.

aHow much is a piece like this worth?a Hawk asked.

She watched as he handled the awkward panel with an ease she envied. Powerful, supple, hard, his body moved with a male grace that surprised her anew each time she noticed it. Like stained gla.s.s, Hawk kept changing with each angle, each moment, each s.h.i.+ft of illumination.

And like gla.s.s, he could cut her to the bone in the first instant of her carelessness.

aA small panel like this would bring between ten and twelve hundred dollars,a Angel said, wrapping the stained gla.s.s with deft motions. aMinus the gallery commission, of course, and the cost of materials. Good gla.s.s is very expensive.a She closed the trunk lid.

aHow many pieces did you have in the show in Vancouver?a persisted Hawk.

aThirty-two.a Angel opened her purse and rummaged for her keys.

aDid they sell?a Hawk asked.

She looked up, only to find herself impaled on eyes as brown and clear as crystal.

aAll but three,a she said.

aThe ones that solda”were they small?a aNo. They were quite large. Why?a Hawk ignored the question.