aThe fish just gained ten pounds,a Hawk said, startled.

The rod bent in a tight, inverted U, reinforcing the truth of his words.

aThatas a cod for you,a Angel said, laughing. aHe caught a glimpse of the boat and spread his fins to make it harder for you to pull him up. Good-bye streamlining. Itas like hauling up a cement slab, isnat it?a Hawk grunted and kept reeling in until a long, surprisingly slender shape showed just beneath the surface. The lateral fins were widely flared.

Angel slid past Hawk to reach for the net that was in a rack beside the c.o.c.kpit door. She leaned over the low railing, net in hand, and deftly scooped the sullen cod out of the sea.

aHand me the cosh, would you?a she asked.

Hawk glanced just beyond Angelas reaching fingertips to what looked like a short ax handle. He pulled it out of its holder.

With a single, quick blow, Angel dispatched the fish. Her grimace told Hawk that this was one part of fishing that she didnat particularly enjoy.

aYou could just throw it in the box and let it die,a he pointed out.

aI canat stand to hear fish flopping around,a she admitted.

aSoft-hearted, Angel?a Hawk asked, his voice sardonic.

aIam no more cruel than circ.u.mstances require.a She pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers out of her hip pocket, fastened the pliers onto the codas lower lip, and extracted the cod from the net.

aTeeth,a Angel said succinctly.

A glance showed Hawk that the codas jaws were lined with needlelike teeth. The fish was indeed a predator.

Angel opened the fish box, dropped the cod in, and closed the lid. She tested the sharpness of Hawkas jig with a careful fingertip, nodded, and gestured for him to go back to fishing.

Silence returned, broken only by the soft nibbling of small waves along the boatas length. Angel caught the next fish, two pounds of fiercely ugly red rock cod. When Hawk reached for the net, she shook her head.

aNo,a Angel said, reeling in smoothly. aThis one has spines that can rip apart a net. Theyare poisonous, too. Not lethal. Just painful.a She pulled the pliers out of her hip pocket again. Leaning low over the rail, rod held high in one hand and pliers in the other, she fastened onto the shank of the hook. She gave a quick shake, freeing the fish. It swam languidly back into the green darkness, more disgruntled than frightened.

aNot good to eat?a asked Hawk.

aTheyare fine. That one was a bit small. It would fillet out into about two bites per side.a aMore trouble than itas worth.a aUnless youare hungry, yes.a As Hawk turned to resume fishing, the radio in the c.o.c.kpit crackled to life.

aa"calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Black Moon calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Over.a Eagerly Angel spun toward the sound. She reached the c.o.c.kpit in two steps, s.n.a.t.c.hed the mike off its rack, punched in the b.u.t.ton, and spoke quickly. Excitement vibrated in her voice.

aCarlson? This is Angie. Where are you?a aHeading up the pa.s.sage for ten days.a aOh.a Angelas disappointment was as clear in her voice as it was in her face. aYouare an elusive man, Carlson.a aYouare a bit hard to catch yourself. Must be those big white wings growing out of your back.a Angel smiled.

aDerryas been trying to raise you on the radio for the last hour,a Carlson said. aI figured you must be jigging behind one of the islands, so I offered to relay for him.a aHeas all right, isnat he?a Angel asked anxiously.

aHeas doing okay. Grouchy as a spring bear, but otherwise fine. Thereas a message for a Mr. Hawkins. Your client?a aYes.a Suddenly Angel was aware that Hawk was leaning against the frame of the open c.o.c.kpit door, listening.

aDerry said that Lord Something-or-other called with a counter-counteroffer.a Angel grimaced.

Carlsonas amus.e.m.e.nt was clear in the extraordinary precision of his words.

aPoor Angie,a he said. aYou always end up with the stuffiest shirts and the clumsiest white eyes ever to get a yen to go fishing.a aNot this time.a Angel smiled at the man in the doorway. aThis time Iave got a real live hawk.a Carlsonas deep laugh seemed too big for the small speaker.

aHave fun, Angie, but watch your fingers. Hawks are the meanest birds ever to fly.a aTake care of yourself, Carlson. I heard that there was a storm coming down out of the Aleutians.a aYeah, I know. Thatas why I left without waiting to see you.a aCall me when you get back.a aDonat I always?a There was a pause. aI may still be out on the twelfth.a aThatas okay,a said Angel.

Her voice was too even, too calm, belying the sudden paleness of her cheeks.

aAre you sure?a Carlson asked.

aDerry will be here. Iall be fine.a Angelas voice softened, revealing a hint of the emotion beneath. aThanks, Carlson. It meansa"a lot.a aSave your best hug for me, Angel Eyes.a The faint hiss of static filled the c.o.c.kpit.

Suddenly Angel felt very much alone. The old nickname had brought back too much of the past with it. She loved Carlson in the same way that she loved Derry, but Carlsonas voice inevitably reminded her of love and death and loss. Of Grant.

Yet Angel needed Carlson. His laughter and the memories that they shared created a bridge between the irretrievable past and the often lonely present.

aI take it that was the salmon shaman,a said Hawk.

His voice was smooth and cold. He was irritated by the transparency of Angelas ploy in dangling her deep-voiced admirer in front of him.

aThe salmon shaman? Oh.a Angel smiled slightly. aYes, that was Carlson. Did you hear the message?a Hawkas mouth made a cynical downward curve.

I heard it, all right.

And in case I didnat, youare giving me a reply with that lonely, wistful look.

Well, thatas one type of chase I wonat have any part of. If she wants to play one man off against the other, sheall find herself without a game.

When I hunt, I hunt alone.

Hawk pushed away from the c.o.c.kpit door, turning his back on Angel.

aTake me back to Eagle Head,a he said curtly. aI have some calls to make.a

9.

That was the first of many times when the demands of Hawkas business interrupted Angelas guided tour of Vancouver Island and the waters around Campbell River. Hawk had flown to Vancouver three times, where he had met with lawyers and signed papers.

When he stayed in the Ramsey house, he was often on the phone. In ten days Angel had managed to get Hawk out fishing only twice. Each time phone calls had made them miss the tide.

Not that it really mattered. The run of the silver salmon had not yet begun. Even the commercial fishermen were catching only a handful of fish for each day spent on the water.

In the end, Angel settled for giving Hawk a slow-motion tour of rocky heads and tiny bays as she showed him how to troll for salmon. To her it was the least interesting method of catching salmon. The stiff rods required for trolling masked the energy and vibrancy of the fish.

But trolling was the price of missing the tide changes, when the shifting balance of water and moon coaxed the salmon to feed closer to the surface.

Angel was determined that there would be no more missed tides. Word had come through the fishing grapevine that the first true run of summer salmon was sliding silently down the Inside Pa.s.sage. Yesterday the catch had been up at the north end of the pa.s.sage.

If the fish followed past patterns, one of Angelas favorite stretches of coastline should be hosting the salmon for a while on their run south to the countless rivers that drained the mountainous land. By boat, it would take nearly six hours to get to Needle Bay, but Hawk had finally agreed that he could take time away from the phone for a five-day trip. In order to do so, though, he had worked steadily.

Other than mealtimes Angel had seen very little of Hawk for three days.

Angel had been busy too. The used kiln she had bought and shipped up from Seattle for her summer use had finally arrived. With it had come a surprise, a large crate full of carefully packed culleta"sc.r.a.p gla.s.sa"sent by her Seattle gallery owner. The note on top of the box said only: Incredible price. Gla.s.s factory collapsed. Larger pieces sent to your Seattle studio.

The delivery men had just finished carting everything into the north wing of the Ramsey house. Under Derryas amused eyes, Angel was attacking the crate with a crowbar. He was perfectly content to lounge in an overstuffed chair and watch her handle the brilliant, incredibly sharp pieces of gla.s.s.

aSure you donat want me to do it?a Derry asked lazily.

Angel smiled across the room at him and then went back to work.

aYouad probably break every piece of gla.s.s in the crate,a she said.

aYouare just going to make it all into little pieces anyway,a Derry pointed out in a reasonable, teasing voice.

aBut thereas method in my madness. In yours thereas just muscle.a The top came off to the accompaniment of high squeals from the nails used to secure the crate. Angel set aside the crowbar and pulled on a pair of thin, supple suede gloves. Sc.r.a.p gla.s.s had edges sharper than any razor she had ever used.

aCareful,a said Derry.

Angel gave him a long-suffering look. He smiled and shrugged lightly.

Neither of them noticed that Hawk had come to stand just outside the doorway of the studio, drawn by the sound of nails screaming against green wood.

aThat stuffas lethal,a Derry persisted, eyeing the gla.s.s.

aOnly if youare careless.a aAnd who bandaged your hand the last time you slipped up?a asked Derry in a dry voice.

aI did,a Angel said without looking up from the gla.s.s. aYou were carousing in Vancouver with your friends.a aSlander!a aBald truth.a Angel set aside a mound of packing material and made a delighted sound.

aJess found me a batch of m.u.f.f!a she crowed.

Eagerly, but carefully, Angel drew out the layers of packing material and began to sort the biggest pieces of sc.r.a.p gla.s.s into the rows of cubbyholes that lined one wall of her studio.

Most of the cullet was m.u.f.f, a special kind of gla.s.s that was treasured for its flaws rather than its perfection. A single sheet of m.u.f.f had infinite variability in texture, thickness, and color. m.u.f.f added a depth to stained gla.s.s designs that never failed to excite Angel.

aThat piece looks like h.e.l.l,a said Hawk.

Startled, Angel turned and looked over her shoulder at Hawk, then back at the tray-sized piece of m.u.f.f she was putting away. Its purples varied from ultrapale to nearly black. Swirls, ripples, and bubbles randomly distorted the surface of the gla.s.s.

Angel pivoted gracefully, holding the piece up to the light streaming through the north window. Instantly the gla.s.s was transformed into something alive, light pooling and sliding, every tint and tone of purple the eye could see, gla.s.s haunted with radiant shadows and flashing possibilities.

aItas magnificent,a Angel said, slowly lowering the gla.s.s.

aItas flawed,a said Hawk.

aSo is life. Thatas the most complex part of its beauty.a Hawk went very still for a moment, held as much by Angelas words as by the jeweled flash of color when she turned and carefully slid the unique gla.s.s into a cubbyhole that held other shades of purple. Though Hawk said nothing, he watched her with an intensity that made his narrowed eyes glitter like shards of clear brown crystal.

Angel didnat notice. She had just seen a shaft of unusual color in the crate.

aWhatas this?a she asked, working quickly.

Packed in with the m.u.f.f were several partial sheets of flashed gla.s.s. The dominant color of the two-layer gla.s.s was an amazingly clear, rich chestnut. Beneath the thin layer of luminous brown was a layer of bronze-toned gla.s.s. When the top layer of gla.s.s was etched with acid, the bronze would show through, giving depth and highlights to the brown.

aLike sunlight on a hawkas feathers,a murmured Angel.

Or the gold lying beneath Hawkas eyes.

But Angel didnat say that aloud, for she sensed Hawk walking toward her, closer with every second. A frisson of heat went through her, a tiny shiver of response that she couldnat control.

The more Angel was around Hawk, the more she was drawn to him. She didnat know if it was the same for him. She could not read his silences.

Hawk stepped forward, drawn by the beauty of the gla.s.s and the woman holding it. When he stopped, he was so close to Angel that he could feel her hair drift across his chest when she turned to look over her shoulder at him.

aIs this gla.s.s more to your taste?a Angel asked.

She stepped slightly away from Hawk as she held the transparent, deep brown gla.s.s up to the northern light.

The gla.s.s blazed like a cinnamon diamond.

Angel looked critically at the pattern of illumination and announced, aFlawless.a Hawk simply looked at Angelas hair, shining with the same light that had transformed the gla.s.s. He was still consumed by the echoes of her earlier words about life and flaws and beauty.

Then Hawk realized that he had softly wound a tendril of Angelas hair around his finger and was bringing it toward his lips. Instantly he let go, angry at himself for revealing the obsession that Angel had become to him. He planned to purge himself of it, and her, on their five-day trip.

Abruptly Hawk turned away from Angel and the light pouring incandescently through her hair.

aI have a few more calls to make before we can leave,a he said curtly.

Angel watched Hawk walk away, her eyes dark. She had sensed a vague stirring in her hair, the warmth of Hawkas breath and his body, and then his withdrawal. She looked over at Derry and smiled crookedly.

aI seem to annoy your Mr. Hawkins,a said Angel, her voice light. aAll I have to do is breathe.a Derry, who had seen nothing but the broad line of Hawkas back as he stood near Angel, shrugged and hoisted himself onto his crutches.

aItas just his manner, Angie. Nothing personal. And whatever business deal heas working on is rough. Heas as busy as a one-legged soccer player.a aUmmm,a was all Angel said.

Derry went to the door. aIad better get back to the books. If you cut yourself, holler.a aDonat trip over Mrs. Careyas stuff. I left it in the hall.a aHawk loaded the bags in his car. He thought they were for the trip.a Angel watched Derry leave, but her mind was on Hawk. Even after ten days the man was as much of an enigma to her as he had been when they first met.

Most of the time Hawk was cool and abrasive, making her subtly uneasy with his intense, dark brown eyes, eyes that watched each movement she made, each breath. He would touch her casually, impersonally, as they moved about his powerboat or went sightseeing in his car. The touches were invariably gentle, a simple brush of fingertips over her wrist or palm or, once, her cheek.

At first Angel had been startled by Hawkas touch. She had retreated, watching him narrowly. He had done nothing, neither pursued her nor sought to make the next touch more intimate.

In time, Angel had decided that Hawkas touches were simply part of his complex nature, like his fierce eyes and unsmiling mouth. She no longer retreated when he touched her. She accepted him for what he wasa"if not a gentleman, at least a very controlled one.

In the hours they had spent together Hawk had never really crowded Angel, never said or done anything out of line. And he was easy to be with, despite his moments of startling intensity. Long silences didnat require chatter to cover the untamed murmur of wind and sea.

Once, when they had been out on the water for several hours, relaxation had eased the harsh lines of Hawkas face. Angel hadnat been able to look away from him. She was fascinated by the change in him, as though peace had dissolved away his darker surface color, revealing the warmer color beneath.

Yet sometimes Angel felt pursued.