A Woman Without Lies by Elizabeth Lowell

pressure and heat of his mouth. Her breath was wedged tightly in her throat.
    Hawk took the rod from Angel’s hands as though nothing had happened.
    “I think the hook is sharp enough now, don’t you?” he asked softly.
    “Yes,” said Angel, looking away from him.
    She walked quickly back into the cockpit and checked the sonar. They had drifted past the cliff face. Now the bottom was shelving up steeply. No more than eighty feet of water lay beneath the boat. With a quick glance at the land, she estimated where they were in relation to the rock reef that lay beneath the lower portion of the tiny bay.
    Absently Angel sucked her stinging thumb. When she realized that her skin tasted of Hawk, her pulse hesitated, then accelerated raggedly. She took several steadying breaths, recalling the tranquil rose to her mind. It was the only way she had found to gather and steel herself against the pain of learning how to walk again, how to live again.
    Frowning, Angel looked at her thumb. Until this moment she hadn’t realized that her special rose was the exact color of blood, the color of life itself.
    Angel let the understanding radiate through her like light through stained glass, bringing color to everything it touched. When she returned to the open stern of the boat, her breathing was easy, her voice and body relaxed.
    “Have you ever jigged for cod?” she asked Hawk calmly, taking the rod from his hands.
    “No. Is it difficult?”
    “For you? I doubt it. You’re very quick.”
    “Another compliment? You’ll turn my head.”
    Angel gave Hawk a cool sideways look.
    “Another fact,” she said distinctly. “And it would take a bulldozer to turn your head.”
    The left corner of Hawk’s mouth turned up.
    It was as close to a smile as Angel had seen from him.
    Maybe it’s as close to a smile as he ever gets , she thought.
    It wasn’t a comforting insight.
    “Have you used a spinning reel before?” asked Angel, turning away from the intent brown eyes watching her.
    “Yes. Then I was soundly whipped for taking it without permission.”
    Angel looked at the tall, powerful man standing so close to her.
    “That must have been when you were a lot smaller,” she said dryly. “Either that, or they ganged up on you.”
    “I was six.”
    Shadows of memory changed Hawk’s eyes. Angel watched, wondering what had caused the instant of grief and . . . rage?
    Yes, it had been rage. She was certain of it.
    Angel had felt both those emotions, knew how viciously they could tear at your soul. Suddenly she knew that Hawk’s childhood had not been a happy one.
    She wondered if he had ever laughed as a boy, and if he ever laughed now, as a man.
    “No matter how many birds’ nests you make in my line,” Angel said quietly, “I promise I won’t beat you.”
    Hawk’s dark eyes focused on her, startled by the intensity that seethed beneath her calm voice. His fingertip lightly traced the straight line of her nose.
    “Wise of you,” he murmured. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m bigger than you are. Much bigger.”
    “Harder, too,” agreed Angel, but her eyes were luminous, reflecting Hawk’s closeness. “Much harder.”
    Hawk’s eyes changed, darkening as his pupils dilated. The temptation to taste the rosy softness of Angel’s mouth was almost overwhelming. But just as he decided to accept the ripe invitation of her lips, she turned away.
    For a few moments Angel stood with her back to Hawk. When she turned around again, she was as tranquil as a flower unfolding into the dawn. In a calm, professional voice she described the theory and practice of jigging for cod.
    “We’ll be drifting over a rocky reef soon,” said Angel. “The reef is about six fathoms—thirty-six feet—down. We’re looking for black cod or ling cod, although I’m not fussy. I learned to like rock cod when I was young because Dad wouldn’t let me keep anything I wouldn’t eat.”
    Angel stepped back toward the cockpit, leaned in, and