A Woman Without Lies by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

looked quickly at the sonar screen. Then she thrust the rod into Hawk’s hands and gestured for him to go to the side of the boat.
    He held most of the rod out over the water. A few inches below the wiggling tip of the rod, the lead-weighted, hula-skirted jig danced and quivered as even the smallest movement of Hawk’s body was transmitted up the flexible length of the rod.
    With a casual motion, Angel flipped aside the curved piece of metal that kept the fishing line from falling off the reel. Immediately the heavy jig plopped into the water and sank, dragging transparent line down into the blue-green sea.
    “This is the bale,” Angel said, pointing to the curved metal she had pushed aside. “Let the lure sink until it bounces off the bottom. Then reel in about six feet.”
    Hawk watched the line flip off the reel in graceful, glistening curves until the jig touched bottom. The bale clicked once in the silence as Hawk began to reel in. When he estimated that he had pulled in about six feet of line, he turned to Angel and raised one black eyebrow.
    “The idea is to make the cod think that there’s a wounded herring fluttering down to the bottom,” Angel explained.
    “How?”
    “Pull up quickly on the rod, then let go, wait a few seconds, and repeat. If a hungry cod is anywhere around, he’ll come hunting. And then,” added Angel, licking her lips delicately, “we’ll have a leg up on dinner.”
    Hawk’s dark eyes followed the tip of Angel’s tongue as it left a thin shine of moisture over her lips.
    “Sneaky,” he said, his voice deep. “What seems to be the prey turns and catches the predator.”
    Angel tipped her head to one side.
    “I never thought of it like that,” she admitted. Then she smiled slightly. “Maybe it’s only just. The cod is finally paying for a lifetime of free herring lunches.”
    The left corner of Hawk’s mouth curled up. “What about you? When do you pay?”
    With a downward sweep of her lashes, Angel concealed the stark memories that haunted her eyes.
    “I already have,” she said.
    Hawk hesitated, wanting to ask what Angel meant. He waited, but she didn’t look up. With a shrug, he decided that her words had been one more graceful, elusive twist of the prey. He turned his attention back to the fishing rod, lifting it with quick, smooth power, then letting the line go slack again.
    Angel watched for a few moments, appreciating Hawk’s deft handling of rod and line. In addition to his obvious male strength, Hawk had superb reflexes.
    “You’re a natural,” she said finally.
    Fact, not compliment, as the tone of her voice made clear.
    Hawk glanced sideways but Angel was bent over the tackle box, selecting a lead-headed jig for herself. Within moments her rod was set up. She let down the lure over the stern.
    For a time there was only silence and the occasional high vibration of fishing line stretched taut and then released.
    With no warning Hawk’s rod tip dipped deeply, quivered, then dipped sharply again.
    “You’ve got one,” Angel said, reeling in quickly and setting her rod aside. “Keep your rod tip up!”
    Silently Hawk glanced at the flexible rod. It was impossible to keep the tip up.
    As though Angel knew what he was thinking, she stepped to his side.
    “Bring your elbows in against your hips,” she ordered.
    As soon as Hawk obeyed, the rod butt came nearly parallel to his body, forcing the tip up.
    “Good,” she said. “Now keep up the pressure as you reel in. Steady and slow. That cod isn’t going anywhere but into our frying pan.”
    “Sure it’s a cod?” asked Hawk, one eyebrow raised in a question or a challenge.
    “Sure am,” she said confidently. “It isn’t fighting much.”
    Hawk looked at the lashing rod tip and felt the life of the fish quivering through his hands up to the muscles of his arms.
    “Not fighting?” he asked dryly.
    “Nope. Wait until you get a salmon on that tippy little rod,” said Angel, her voice rich with