Angel took the powerboat out of Brownas Bay and across the channel to work her way up to Deepwater Bay. She watched the ocean carefully. It was Sat.u.r.day, and the water was alive with small craft.

aHang on,a Angel said to Hawk, spotting a slick ahead.

The slickas deceptively smooth surface concealed an enormous shift in the current. Some of the slicks were upwellings of water from below, where the ocean was squeezed between invisible rocky barriers until water surged powerfully upward. Other slicks became whirlpools during the height of the tidal race. Small boats could be capsized and sucked down into the cold sea if the person at the helm was careless or inexperienced.

The helm bucked suddenly in Angelas hands. She was braced, expecting it. The stern of the boat drifted like the back end of a car on a patch of icy road.

Angel turned the bow into the watery skid, controlling the motion of the boat. Within seconds they shot off the slick and back into the normally roiled water that came with changing tides.

Sensing Hawkas eyes on her, Angel turned and smiled.

aFun, wasnat it?a she asked.

A black eyebrow lifted, rewarding Angelas smile.

aLooked like a rather nasty piece of water to me,a said Hawk.

aThat was just a baby. At some times of the year it gets rough, though.a aStorms?a Angel shrugged.

aStorms are bad any time of the year,a she said. aSo are the tides, if you donat know what to expect. The Inside Pa.s.sage isnat for amateurs. Ask him.a Angel gestured toward a towboat and barge. The towboat was straining northward up the narrowing channel. The thick, braided steel cable that connected the towboat to the heavily loaded barge was taut, humming with energy.

Despite the obvious laboring of the heavy engines, the towboat was barely making one knot forward speed.

aMissed the tide,a Angel said succinctly.

aWhat will happen to him?a aHeall spend the next few hours like that, going flat out and getting nowhere. Then the race will stop and heall pop forward like a cork out of a bottle. Until then, though, heas stuck, working like the devil just to stay even and keep the tow cable straight against corkscrew tidal rips.a aIs that the voice of experience talking?a asked Hawk.

Even as Hawk asked the question, he realized that he wouldnat be surprised if Angel had handled one of the tugboats that dotted the Inside Pa.s.sage. She was supremely at home on the water.

But apparently it wasnat something Angel wanted to talk about, for she didnat answer his question.

aHave you worked on towboats?a Hawk asked.

The silence stretched as Angel struggled with memories welling like blood from a fresh wound. The summer she and Grant had fallen in love, he had piloted towboats up the Inside Pa.s.sage. Even today the visceral, elemental pounding of diesel engines going flat out peeled away the years, leaving Angel naked and bleeding with memories.

aIave ridden on the towboats,a said Angel, her voice even and her eyes too dark.

aWith a man.a Angel didnat answer. It hadnat been a question.

aWasnat it, Angel? A man?a Hawkas persistence surprised her. She turned, only to find him very close.

aYes,a she said.

aThe salmon shaman?a aNo.a Angelas knuckles whitened as she clenched her hands around the wheel. She didnat notice, though. She was impaled on Hawkas dark glance.

aWho was it?a asked Hawk lazily, his eyes as intent as those of a bird of prey. aMaybe you could get me a ride.a aDerryas brother.a Angel caught the flash of surprise on Hawkas features. She knew what would come next. Turning away from Hawk, she prepared herself for it, calling up the dawn rose, pure color radiant with light, wholly serene; softness triumphant over the worst that bitter winter ice could do.

Hawk watched Angel intently. Her face gave away nothing. Whatever ghost had haunted her features for a moment had been chained again.

aDerry never mentioned a brother,a Hawk said. aIt should make it easier to get a ride.a aGrant Ramsey is dead.a Hawk was silent for an instant, searching Angelas face for the emotion he sensed locked away inside her.

aWhen?a he asked.

aA long time ago,a said Angel, her voice tired and calm.

aHe must have been much older than Derry.a aYes.a Angel turned her attention to the sea again. Just short of Deepwater Bay, a cloud of birds wheeled over the shifting water, gulls turning and crying like lost souls, hundreds of keening voices filling the air. Cormorants dived and gulls swooped down on them, filling their beaks with herring and then flapping off heavily as other gulls dodged and darted, trying to steal herring from the overflowing beaks of the successful gulls.

For a few minutes the water literally boiled with thousands upon thousands of herring, tiny fish hurling themselves into the air, shedding silver water drops that flashed brilliantly against the descending sun.

Automatically, Angel cut the speed of the powerboat.

aSalmon,a she said.

aRather small,a Hawk said dryly.

aNot those,a Angel said, dismissing the frantic herring. aBeneath them, driving them to the surface. Salmon are feeding way down, where the sea is almost dark. The herring come up, trying to get away. Then the birds feed on them from above and the salmon from below.a aMakes me glad I wasnat born a herring.a aTo be alive is to eat,a Angel said, her shadowed eyes searching the vibrant, seething water. aAnd, sooner or later, to die. Some die sooner rather than later.a aNot a very comforting philosophy,a Hawk said, watching Angel with eyes like very dark topaz, hard and clear.

aSometimes comfort doesnat get the job done.a As Angel spoke, she remembered the people who had tried to comfort her after the accident. They had only made her more angry. Even Derry.

It had taken Carlsonas measured cruelty to shock Angel out of self-pity. Carlson, who had loved her as much as Grant had. But she hadnat known until it was too late. It would always be too late now. They would never be lovers. They were friends, though, a friendship that was as deep and enduring as the sea itself.

aWhere did they go?a Hawk asked.

aSame place they came from.a Angel stared at the sea, where the herring had vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared. All that was left of the mult.i.tude of fish was a vague, metallic glitter deep within the green water, a glitter that faded as she watched.

Abruptly Angel decided that it was time and past time to go fishing. Several hours of light remained, plus a tide change, and at least a few salmon were in the vicinity. No fisherman could ask for more.

Hawk read the decision in Angel.

aCan I help?a he asked.

aIall let you know.a Angel had already rigged trolling rods. It wasnat her favorite method of fishing but it was better than being skunked. Besides, the salmon wouldnat be feeding on the surface until well into September.

By then Hawk would be gone.

The thought went through Angel like a cutting wheel over gla.s.s. First just the thought itself, pressure and a faint trail of emotion behind it, followed by a spreading sadness. The idea that Hawk might leave Vancouver Island without catching a salmon, without knowing the islandas rugged magic, without smiling . . .

aAngel?a asked Hawk, wondering what new ghost had risen to trouble the blue-green depths of her eyes. aIs there something I can do?a Angel blinked and focused on Hawk. He saw that the lashes fringing her eyes were long, surprisingly dark, untouched by mascara. They swept down suddenly, concealing her from his probing glance.

aTake the wheel,a Angel said, her voice tight. aPoint the bow at the headland and keep us moving slowly.a When she felt the motions of the boat change, she began letting out line into the water.

aHow deep are you going?a called Hawk from the c.o.c.kpit.

aDoes the fish finder show anything?a Hesitation, then, aSomething at about four fathoms, maybe deeper. It shifts fast.a aThen Iall go down twenty-five feet on one line and about thirty-three on the other.a The planer attached to the line took it down quickly. When enough line was out, Angel set the reelas brake and slipped the b.u.t.t 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 Iam d.a.m.n 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.

aIall take it now,a Angel said, coming into the c.o.c.kpit.

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 a.s.sociated in her mind with Hawk.

When she turned to lower herself into the seat, her body brushed over Hawkas. 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.

aWatch the rod tips,a Angel said, her voice too low, almost husky. aGet used to their motion. Then youall know instantly if anything changes, if thereas weed on the herring strip or if a salmon strikes or . . . a Her voice faded as she looked up at Hawk. Her eyes were as green and restless as the sea.

aDo you understand?a Angel asked huskily.

Hawkas 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.

aYes,a he murmured. aI understand.a And he did.

It wasnat the motion of herring strips and water that he was talking about. It was the hunger making Angelas 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 pa.s.sion 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 didnat need to make it worse, embarra.s.sing 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 werenat as strong as the normal manas, 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 Angelas mind the primal serenity of sea and forest and rock blended into radiant images crying out to be set in gla.s.s as pure as the sky.

aYou awake up here?a asked Hawk.

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

aBarely.a Angel smothered a yawn.

aBored?a Hawk asked.

She smiled and shook her head.

aJust relaxed,a she said slowly. aI love this.a Her hands automatically corrected the boatas course. She looked over at Hawk.

aAre you?a she asked.

aBored?a Hawkas dark glance drifted over Angelas face. aNo. This is . . . soothing.a Hawk stretched, filling the cabin with his presence. He saw Angelas 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 couldnat breathe. In the s.p.a.ce 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 Angelas soft reply, but didnat 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 Hawkas 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.

13.